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#This i crafted from gods kitchen itself
chryzure-archive · 1 year
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no fucking wonder evangeline does nothing in the books. apparently stephanie plotted the second novel from jacks’s pov. girl, you forgot your main character needs shit to do while jacks is off scheming
#memorie.txt#if i were to do this it would jst end w jacks coming home expecting chrysi sitting waiting for him#but he sees a note on the kitchen table that’s like ‘got bored. went ghost-hunting. xoxo’ HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE DOING COOL STUFF#…..also epilogue—commencement & closure is written from jacks’s pov and it’s him doing stuff for chrysi#BUT chrysi’s at home tracking azure down. the ending (that you won’t see in the fic itself) is jacks coming home to an empty house#withOUT the information he wanted—and chrysi comes home a couple days later w the knowledge of her past life bc she found out as well#something something the stars make it so the trio is all on the same page at the same time.. possibly#anyway what i’m getting at is this: whenever jacks is off doing something i don’t leave chrysi in a white void#she’s ALWAYS doing something#she can’t NOT be doing something. she’s too antsy#god. that’s not how you plot out a novel!!!!!!!!! fuck!!!!!!#i’m just so irritated by authors lately bc it’s like… no. don’t do your craft that way#like ali hazelwood confessing that her agent tells her what tropes to write and how to write them#why are you an author then??? go develop a fucking story from your own brain#and that whole lightlark thing.. fucking hell.#i’ve got strong feelings on books and writing as a whole#i should find an ask game abt books but flmdjfkhska. i have work.#hopefully i can write some more when i get home though!!
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keerysfreckles · 3 months
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cookies — luke castellan
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pairing: luke castellan x hephaestus fem!reader
summary: in which luke finds y/n, in order to tell her something he's been meaning to for the past two years
warnings: use of y/n and she/her pronouns, i think thats it ??? making out/kissing
a/n: I FINISHED TLT TODAY- idc if luke is evil (if evil why pookie)
꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱
y/n l/n thought her life at camp half-blood would've felt like a fairy tale. two years later, she was deeply misguided.
the camp experience itself wasn't bad. she loved meeting the new campers, and bonding with her cabin mates, and seeing luke from time to time.
but even when she got claimed by her father, hephaestus, y/n still felt like a square trying to fit in a triangle hole. hephaestus was the god of forge. fire. craft. creation.
when y/n first arrived to camp, she met luke. he didn't know why, but out of all the campers in hermes cabin, he felt as though he needed to protect y/n the most.
two and a half weeks after meeting luke, y/n had been claimed by her father. the boy was sad to see her leave, but glad as well, due to her being claimed to a new cabin.
as soon as y/n and chiron entered the doors of hephaestus cabin, the duo was met with seven boys. five of them were around the same age as the girl, and the other two looked no older than ten.
this made y/n feel even more out of place. yes, they all made her feel at home, and they still do. y/n just can't help but feel isolated.
less than a week after y/n was claimed, she unfortunately found out forging wasn't the exact type of creation she was skilled at. she tried pottery, metalwork, jewelry making, and even knitting. the girl was crushed when none of the activies suited her.
until one afternoon, she was in the kitchen after helping bring in dirty dishes from lunch. a few ingredients caught her eye, and she instantly started bringing them together and made something delicious. chiron soon came inside, and was both surprised and pleased y/n had found her activity. cooking.
this leads y/n to where she is right now. the camp kitchen. ever since the fateful day she discovered her gift, she rarely ever left the kitchen. y/n was considered the new cook of camp, and she enjoyed everything about it.
recently, the girl has taken baking into her small circle of talents. which explains why all day y/n has been baking cookies for tomorrow. it was percy's birthday, and annabeth asked her to make blue chocolate chip cookies for him, one of percy's favorite foods. she had to make enough for the whole camp. almost one hundred cookies were already baked and cooled, and she had one hundred more to go.
annabeth kept checking on y/n every so often, to see her progress (and to make sure she took breaks and to not overwork herself). two times the younger girl came in the kitchen, her and y/n talked for a bit. y/n kept teasing annabeth at all the staring she'd been doing towards percy lately. to be fair, it was annabeth's idea to have the cookies for percy's birthday, so y/n knew something had to be going on between the two tweens.
y/n doesn't notice the person who had entered the kitchen. she heard footsteps, so she guessed it was annabeth.
luke stood in the doorway of the kitchen. he took a moment to admire the girl in front of him. y/n stood behind the kitchen island, with a metal bowl, a baking sheet, and other multiple baking utensils layed out over the countertop. luke could smell a batch of cookies in the oven at the right of the kitchen, along with the fresh ones all placed on the counters behind y/n.
luke finally knocks on the door, making y/n look up from rolling balls of cookie dough. a smile was quick to fill her features, "hi luke."
luke walked over towards her, leaning on the island, standing across from her.
"how are percy's birthday cookies coming along?" he asks, seeing the girl still at work.
y/n nods, "they're going," she laughs, "that's for sure."
"i was looking for you earlier," luke admits, as he continues to watch y/n at work.
looking up from her blue stained hands, y/n sees a small blush covering luke's cheeks. "oh yeah?"
it's luke's turn to nod, "yeah, but the hephaestus boys said you'd be in here."
y/n chuckles, before the two sit in a comfortable silence for no less than a minute.
"did you need me for something?" y/n asks, as she takes two baking sheets to the oven. luke only laughs while watching y/n open the oven with her foot, as her hands were full.
"i just wanted to come check on you," luke moves to side of the kitchen island y/n was previously on. "you have made quite the mess in here."
both luke and y/n look at the batches of cookies, the reminants of cookie dough on the counters, empty bowls in both of the sinks, and flour on the kitchen island and floor.
"what's the real reason you wanted to see me luke?" y/n asks the boy, knowing that he had a tell when he was nervous. he always licked his lips before speaking.
"what? i can't just want to see a dear friend of mine?" he jokes.
"oh you can," y/n responds, "except, whenever you visited me you always wanted seconds, or an extra dessert."
luke doesn't repsond right away, knowing y/n had a point.
the boy licks his lips, nervous from what he's about to tell y/n.
"do you ever wonder why i might've been more protective of you over the other campers? when you first joined hermes cabin?" luke asks, catching y/n off guard.
y/n shakes her head, "no, i never really thought about it before."
luke takes a deep breath, "you seemed more special to me."
y/n's eyebrows furrowed, only making luke continue.
"you just seemed so different from the other campers i've met. special. i just had to protect you. i still feel like i have to."
"luke, i don't get what you're trying to say," y/n admits. luke's confession is only making her confused.
"then i don't have to say it," luke's voice is soft.
y/n's confusion returns, but only for mere seconds before she feels luke's lips on hers. she pulls away from the him, out of shock at what he had just done.
his eyes instantly met hers. his filled with worry as if he messed everything up the two had between them.
before luke could start to overthink everything, y/n leaned up to kiss him. his eyes closed, and his hand went to both sides of her face.
y/n's lips tasted like sugar, with a hint of salt. luke guessed it was from tasting her cookies to get them as perfect as she can for percy's birthday.
luke's lips tasted like a campfire. y/n could only assume it was from the smores hermes cabin had after winning capture the flag that day.
y/n's hands were still blue, and in order to not stain luke or his clothing, she opted to wrap her arms around his shoulders. she felt luke's hands on her waist, only pulling her closer to him.
soon enough luke's tongue pushed through y/n's lips, which caused her to giggle. luke loved her reaction.
before anything could get more heated, a timer goes off in the small kitchen. the loud shrill made luke and y/n stop their movements. y/n only looked at luke sheepishly. the girl leaned in once more and pecked the boy's lips, before retrieving the cookies out of the oven.
"do you want any help?" luke asks, watching y/n again as she started rolling out more balls of cookie dough.
she nods, "if you don't mind your hands getting blue."
luke laughs, "i'm willing to take that chance."
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tacticaldiary · 5 months
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You are so talented?? Hells bells!!! could I please request Simon Riley x Wife!Reader where Simon is “pronounced dead” for a mission and it has to seem real enough so like price shows up to your shared home and hands over dog tags? And then like months later he shows up at the house and they reunir?! Like all just very very sad and very comfort/ hurt??
please and many thanks , sugarbean
Till Death Do Us Apart
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
"Love..." He finally breathes out, and she realises that she hasn't said a word in a full minute.
The single word tears a gasp out of her throat, makes her take a small step back. The rasp of his voice, the scent of him as she breathes in...
It's him.
Death itself couldn't stop him from crawling home to her.
Masterlist
Song: I, Carrion (Hozier)
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It's funny how fragile the illusion of safety and content is.
Her life had seemed so unshakable, so sure and sturdy and promised. She'd fought for what she had with her husband, made a home with him, gone through years and bumps and ups and downs all because the chance of having him was better than giving up without ever having tried.
Truth be told, she'd never really liked the silence of their home when she was the only one living in it. Simon had asked her a couple times if she got lonely, whether it was too much. He'd asked her about it pretty much every time he packed up and left for a mission halfway across the world. Brows furrowed and voice lilted in concern late at night with his arms around her.
He's met with her smile and a reassurance that the silence was worth his arrival back home. Distance makes the heart go fonder, doesn't it?
And so Simon took it in stride, let the knowledge settle the creep of doubt in his heart beacuse this? Them?
It was more than he'd ever hoped for himself.
Never did he think he'd be the reason someone smiled at him like she did, not once did he consider himself one to want something so cliche as a home until she came around with her warmth and promises of unshakable devotion.
And God had he tried to shake her off. His indifference had only fuelled her determination to worm her way under the cracks of his armour. Once she'd reached inside and pulled out a part of himself he'd long thought was killed by 'Ghost', Simon had found himself letting go of his carefully crafted distance and crumbling under her hands. The best decision of his life.
It's why his breathing is ever so ragged as he watches Price console his hysterical wife from afar, a pair of bloody dog tags with his name engraved in them clutched in her shaking hand.
Simon Riley. Deceased.
If he didn't feel like his world was off kilter he might have made a joke about how it's the second time.
Simon barely manages to hold himself back from running to her, to their home, their bed. It's his instinct to protect, and right now seeing Price let her clutch onto him in grief, everything in Simon is telling him to go, to run and hold her, console her, assure her that he hasn't broken his promise of coming home to her.
It had been a vow whispered against her lips in the dead of night after she'd aired out her fear under the light of the moon. The fear of losing him. Of opening the door to Price instead of him.
Just a few months, he repeats in his head over and over again, because it's the only thing keeping his legs from moving. Just a few months and he can fix this, go back to how everything was. He feels like a jackass, making her go through this, but there was no other option.
And fuck if he hadn't tried to argue.
Death itself couldn't stop him from crawling home to her.
But his line of work could.
                               · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·  
Four months and it still feels like yesterday.
Nothing felt...right anymore.
She felt guilty sitting at the kitchen table where the use to eat together, the sheets on their...her. On her bed had long since lost the subtle scent of him. The living room where she'd curl up in his lap, snicker at him complaining about her choice of movie even when the bastard was just as enraptured and into it and she was.
Everything felt off.
She sets down the half eaten plate of food in the fridge and swallows down the lingering emotion.
When she'd opened the door that day, she very nearly slammed it back shut.
It seemed surreal. Her Simon, her untouchable husband gone in the line of fire. An accident, Price had phrased it as.
She missed him so much it fucking hurt.
Taking a deep breath, she grabs the shopping list she'd scrawled last week onto the fridge and tucks it in her pocket. The dog tags clink against each other around her neck, tucked into her sweater as she moves.
It had taken weeks for her to even look at them.
The doorbell cuts the search for her car keys short.
It's been a while since she's seen anybody, really. Her friends come over every now and then to keep her company, bring her homemade foods and gifts to cheer her up and it does work, but only for a few hours. She appreciates it, she really does, but the small periods of relief are only followed by the guilt of trying to forget and the pain of remembering all over again.
She'd tell them to come back later, she decides. Today was worse a day than usual and she's not in the mood-
Simon.
Simon...?
Her knuckles pale with the grip she has on the doorknob, it's all she can do to stare up at the figure that she only held in her dreams nowadays.
He's so familiar, with that hair she loved to rake her hands through, the slight downturn of his lips, the scars that scatter across his face that she loves to trace in the dark. He's looking down at her with brown eyes so tortured and serious, and...and a little anxious?
This is a cruel joke.
Here he is, bare faced in front of her just like how she'd dreamed about for all those weeks. How often had she cried at night, hoped that this was all a joke and she'd pull open the door to him one more time?
But he wasn't here, was he? No, there was no way. Her fingers touch cool metal and distantly she realises she's clutching onto the piece of himself he left behind, looped around her neck.
"Love..." He finally breathes out, and she realises that she hasn't said a word in a full minute.
The single word tears a gasp out of her throat, makes her take a small step back. The rasp of his voice, the scent of him as she breathes in...
It's him.
It's him.
Something akin to a sob tears its way out of her throat as she lunges towards him, tangles her hands in the fabric of his uniform. She only cries harder when his arms circle around her just as tightly, crushing her to his chest.
"You...you're home?" She manages to push out between stuttered intakes of breaths and sobs. "No, you're...you were-"
"I'm here." He hooks his chin over her head, sways her a little from side to side. If she hadn't been trembling she would have noticed the slight shake of his hands. "Said I'd always come back to you, didn't I?" He walks them backwards, shuts the door with his foots.
"You died!" She exclaims, choking on the words as she pulls back, not far but enough to meet his own red eyes. "You died, I thought you died-"
"Mission," He rushes out, "For a mission, yeah? Wouldn't ever leave you alone-"
"You did!" She suddenly pulls away from him barely out of his grasp and it takes everything in Simon's willpower not to pulls her back in.
Beneath the worry and the grief and the sadness, there's a hint of running anger.
"Four months, I thought you were...were dead." She wipes away her tears, still crying but angry. "And you show up now? Just like that? What the fuck, Simon I thought I was a widow!"
"I'm sorry." It's all he can say. It's pathetic and desperate and he feels frustrated and angry at everyone and himself but it's all he can say to her and he'll repeat it as many times as possible.
They stare at each other for a second, grieving and angry and crushed and hopeful...
And she falls back into him with the promise of an explanation later on, a tangle of limbs, muttered apologies and kisses.
Not because she forgives him. Not because she's willing to brush past it and move on, but because this crushing wave of relief feels better than the last four months of suffering. Because they'll always find their way back to each other.
Because she has her husband back, in one piece, and for the first time in months...
Something in her life clicks back into place.
Reblog, Like and Comment!
(20/10/2023)
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windvexer · 2 months
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Spirit Vessel Theory & Practical DIY (Traditional Witchcraft Flavored)
(Written in response to an Anon whom I think is probably involved in spirit conjure community, which is where conjurers put spirits inside of a vessel for you and ship them to you. Anon requested to know tips on how to transfer a spirit to a new vessel)
✨big heckin UPG ALERT ahead for the ENTIRE POST✨
In this post, a spirit vessel is any object, including a container filled with objects, which serves as a spirit's physical foothold into our present reality.
Three Varieties of Spirit Vessels: Telephone, Body, House
Please note the particular absence of trap or prison: there is no need for any practitioner to trap or seal a spirit inside of a vessel. This is what we do to unwanted spirits to relocate them to a second location, and it's not how we treat our friends.
My categorization of spirit vessels relates to how the spirit is intended to engage with the vessel.
Telephone Vessel: This is the kind I've most commonly seen and heard of in the conjure community. The spirit lives/exists Elsewhere, but the practitioner has given them a link of communication to this physical object.
The practitioner then works over the object to "call" the spirit and ask it to arrive in their location, or visit it Elsewhere, or just talk while they are in separate locations.
In my opinion, the "telephone" vessel is the least impactful type for the purposes of allowing spirits into our lives, but it's great at what it does: serving as a telephone line. However, as I hope this post will go on to show, it's also the easiest to make because the vessel requires the least amount of preparation and care.
Body Vessel: This is when the spirit vessel is meant to be the body of the spirit as it dwells on Earth. When a vessel is consecrated and dedicated to a spirit, it's understood to be the spirit itself. The form that the vessel takes influences the spirit's ability to work in our reality.
Body vessels may end up looking like little figurine versions of the spirit in question, but they can also be containers specially prepared with decorations and objects heavily linked to the spirit's essence.
Direct examples in witchcraft and folk magic include house and kitchen dollies that are meant to help lighten the load of chores or stop food from burning. Such dolls may be equipped with little brooms, multiple hands, and so forth, to assist with chores.
Another example of a body vessel is the Decaying River God. To create this vessel, I made a deal with the river and then embodied a spirit into this intuitively crafted form. Now, that physical object has become the sacred body of a spirit.
Just as the kitchen doll may be given a broom to assist with sweeping, a spirit's body may be equipped with tools to grant them additional influence and abilities in our world. A related example in witchcraft is to put the feet of small, scurrying Earthen animals (such as a rat or mole) into charm bags, so that the spell can scamper to its destination.
Just because the spirit has a body vessel does not mean they are permanently bound inside of that vessel. Accidentally breaking or losing the vessel isn't like harming the spirit (although obviously it's to be avoided).
Spirits which were born Elsewhere are perhaps more likely to come and go from body vessels, but even beings born with the creation of their body may still leave that physical space and return to it as desired.
House Vessel: This is the same thing as a spirit house or shrine, just a step to the left. We might equip the body vessel with objects that grant the spirit additional powers and capabilities, but in the house vessel, I tend to organize things to be a pleasant and enjoyable respite for the spirit, almost like a custom bedroom.
There may be no object or representation that's intended to be the body of the spirit at all. Nonetheless, the space is still one where the spirit may be fully invited and present, and gives them a strong foothold in our world.
The only real difference I draw between a house vessel and a shrine or spirit house is the intent. A shrine may be to venerate, and a spirit house may be a kind act of providing shelter. But the house vessel's intent is to create a space that makes it easier for a spirit to fully Show Up to our present reality.
Which Variety is Best?
This depends on your needs. For the purposes of witchcraft, spirits are often best given bodies that reflect their nature and empower them to carry out your purpose. I also hold this to be true for spells and any other variety of guy.
Spirits whom we're getting to know, but aren't quite sure of yet, may be best limited to "telephone" status.
House vessels - I haven't got a lot to say, except bringing up the point of them.
You can have multiple telephone lines and house vessels, yet intuition advises that really only one Body should do for the average spirit.
Vessels Themselves Can Suck So It's Worthwhile to Put Some Thought Into It
I believe that the more a spirit vessel is the embodiment of the spirit themselves, the easier it is for the spirit to use that vessel to interact with us and our present reality.
An extreme example can help demonstrate this point.
Imagine you've gotten to know a water spirit. A mermaid, let's say, from an ocean world of pure, opalescent waters, where coral reefs are cities and pet jellyfish are decorated with pearls.
Imagine that the vessel for this mermaid is a jar painted red and decorated with symbols of fire, then further charged with fiery energy. Within the jar is rusty nails, polluted water from the side of the highway, and a heaping spoonful of chili flakes.
I would hazard a guess that you couldn't even agree to get that mermaid to use such a vessel as a telephone line, much less use it as their physical body.
It's not that the spirit is snooty - it's that you're asking him to come into contact with things that irritate and burn him. Not only would it require a huge amount of energy to overcome these differences, but the vessel would nonetheless cause him discomfort.
Intuition may even advise that a simple bowl of water would create a vastly improved "house" vessel for this spirit.
But if it's true that a vessel can be incompatible with a spirit, then it's reasonable to assume that a vessel can be made more and more compatible with a spirit, until it is highly compatible and therefore very easy for the spirit to link to it and use it.
To really improve our mermaid vessel, we might embroider the outside of a bag with a representation of a coral reef, place jellyfish charms and imitation pearls inside of it, and often soak the entire bag in cool, pure water.
This may be the perfect vessel for our mermaid, but totally unsuitable to the pollution monster, who wants to live inside of the rusty nails jar.
This is the primary reason why I find simple unmodified single-object vessels to be not that great. (Examples of this would be, a crystal ring or antique object purchased and used without modifying it to the tastes of the spirit)
While a spirit may select such an object from a lineup and request it's use as a vessel, that doesn't mean that it's going to be an effective vessel.
Especially combined with beliefs in witchcraft about the magical impact of modifying vessels to encapsulate the power of a spell or spirit,
I believe that an unmodified object for use as a spirit vessel is like casting a candle spell with a plain candle to which no herbs or energies are added, and all you do is imprint your raw intent and light the candle.
It'll maybe work, but not nearly as well as it could.
Therefore I believe the form of the vessel matters beyond whether or not the spirit personally likes it, and extends into the realm of sorcerous technique - spirit manifestation is affected depending on if the spirit vessel is made well or made poorly, and especially how much it is physically personalized to the spirit.
Creation of a Useful Vessel
In all cases: Modify the object(s) of the vessel as much as possible to reflect the nature and known qualities of the spirit. As much as possible, work with the spirit to choose modifications, or, work with known lore or with the assistance of spirit workers or diviners.
In the case where a single object (such as a stone) must be used:
Tie the object up in a net where each knot represents a foothold for the spirit to cling on to, or, where each knot ties up a bundle of energy of the sort of thing the spirit likes. (Can be then worn as necklace)
Paint or carve the object, even in a hidden area.
Add additional decorations and embellishments to reflect either the nature of the spirit, or to represent useful tools that the spirit can use to access the object.
Carve out the middle and add bits of paper (with name and permissions written on), and stuff with relevant herbs.
Sight-unseen, I wouldn't recommend single object vessels if you can't heavily/permanently modify them.
In the case where a container vessel (such as a bag, box, or bottle) may be used:
Decorate the exterior, and if space permits the interior, of the container to best reflect an environment enjoyable to the spirit. Consider various techniques: painting, embroidery, carving, burning, and so forth.
Selectively include objects which reflect the spirit's nature, including dried plants, stones, feathers, seeds, bones, and various objects from nature; also charms, trinkets, and tokens (factory-made is fine); also prayers or poems, or drawings or artwork, all of these things symbolic of the spirit and attempting to demonstrate its nature and totality
Include a written sigil or signature of the spirit, and it's name or known names, and epithets. Often best done in fancy magical ink if any is on hand. (I use Sharpies; no need to over-think it)
Charms, amulets, plants, prepared powders or oils, or otherwise, for the purpose of facilitating spirit manifestation and ease of travel between worlds; examples may include specially prepared threads to symbolize links and roads, special spirit-calling powder, magnets to "draw towards," symbols of the Crossroads or of safe and easy travel, and so forth.
In the case where the spirit is likened to an earthly animal, bones or preserved body parts are a very good addition.
In the case where the vessel is itself in the form of a body, such as a figurine or doll:
Hand-craft or heavily modify the creation to represent the vibes as much as possible
Dress, accessorize, ornament, and decorate the figure to represent the spirit or it's known attributes and purposes.
As handicrafters known more about their trade than I do, I don't want to over-comment. Make them a little body. Yes.
Inviting the Spirit to Utilize the Vessel
Unfortunately I will decline to try and provide a specific step-by-step ritual, mostly because I work more intuitively and don't actually have one written up.
But I'll do my best to explain how you can go about it, and some things to consider.
Basically, you'll want to conceptualize four steps:
Final magical preparations
Consecration
Dedication
Invitation
I'll try to explain the reasoning behind including these things, and of course, you'll want to modify or change all of them according to your preferences and needs.
In all cases: Use your magic to make the vessel lovely and filled with spiritual virtues that resonate deeply with the nature of the spirit. This is necessarily vague; a troubleshooting primer for energy work is beyond the scope of this post.
The timing of this work is very well done on special days where the spirit-roads are open, on full moons, or on Mondays.
In cases where the spirit already has a vessel and you want to give them a new one, there is no difference in operation. Make profane and reclaim the old vessel afterwords according to your desires.
Fill the vessel with two types of energy: The first being dense caloric energies from foods, especially oil, nuts, seeds, eggs, and fatty meat. This can be done by placing a food offering next to the vessel and dedicating the food to the spirit.
The second being ethereal and subtle energies, such as produced from blessed incense or energy work. This can be done by blessing and offering incense as you normally do, or channeling your personal energy into the vessel.
Consecrate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which delineates an object as being sacred and separate from the everyday, and turns the object into a Spirit Vessel. (Add'l details below)
Dedicate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which functions to formally gift-give an object to a god or a spirit.
Sometimes, a consecration and a dedication are done in the same ritual, especially when a god is concerned. E.g., "Witchfather, by your name this wand is made holy (consecration). I give this wand to you; it is yours, and when I use it, your hand guides it (dedication)."
The most simplest format of this is something like, "by [the powers I believe allow me to make thing sacred], I make this object sacred [and perhaps I sprinkle some saltwater or whatever formula I believe is necessary to help me make things sacred]. This object is now the vessel for a spirit. Now, it is a Spirit Vessel."
The above being the idea of a consecration; the dedication then being something like,
"[Spirit Name], I invite you into my world and my life. I give you Permission to dwell in this Spirit Vessel and make it your body and your home. I give you Permission to walk in this world through the conduit of this Spirit Vessel. It belongs to you, it is you."
(The above dedication perhaps also revealing something about why "telephone lines" may be a safer bet, the dedication for those being something like, "[Spirit Name], I invite you to observe this vessel and place your fingerprint upon it, so that when I work over it I call out to you, and you can hear me easily no matter how far apart we are.")
Anyway, put some real thought into exactly how much you want this spirit to manifest in your life, because spirit experiences - even when desired and invited - can be very intense and scary, especially if up to that point your experiences with spirits has been limited.
Invite the spirit into the vessel: If not included in your dedication, also formally invite the spirit.
"[Spirit Name], I've prepared this special Vessel for you, and given it to you. I have prepared the way with earthly and aethereal energies, so you may be well-fed and have the power to move within our world. [That's the offering bit innit]. Come now at this time and here in this place, and claim this Vessel as your own."
Etc., something like that.
At this time, the ritual is over with and you can commune with the spirit as desired or close the ritual down in your normal techniques.
Again, if there is an additional/old spirit vessel you no longer want to use, try talking with the spirit about what to do with it; but you can just let it "run dry" and then carefully undo the magic on it. After that, do with it as you please.
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bruciemilf · 2 years
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I so desperately crave a fic where Bruce forgets all about an interview he scheduled with Clark, specifically, with our boys in this portrayal
He's swallowed up by that ginormous red hoodie Jason always forgets at the manor. It's got a soft undertone of beer and pizza clinging to it, and knowing Jay, the chances of that changing are close to none.
It's Bruce's favourite thing to wear.
Below that, Dick's sweatpants have to be snaked tight around his waist. He's wearing Tim's ridiculously soft socks, Batman themed as well, a flock of bats starting from his calf and gathering into his famous cowl on top of his foot.
On his hands, he's sporting two bracelets that Damian and Cassandra asked him to help craft. He accepted, of course, because his little Damian looked astray, eyebrows down and eyes worried, scared of rejection.
They were both terrible at it. Cassandra had a great time. And Bruce's dark green and sunshine gold bracelets pleased Damian greatly.
But he had no time to shower that morning; His ribs were moaning still, every step he took feeling like Bane's brutal, sledgehammer punches, hitting him right in the gut.
And Dick stole all his conditioner, and Steph smuggled his skincare products, exfoliants, bath salts, and everything she could get her grabby little hands on, and gone she was. Tiny fingers, big damage.
But that was fine; He didn't expect anyone today. He'll just scarf some blueberries and yoghurt and gulp down four espressos before burying his nose in Jim's earliest case.
That's what he thought
Before modern day Adonis suddenly emerged I his living room.
This man, he's...He's... he's beauty. That's all Bruce can muster in his flustered mind, brain itself blushing, cheeks hot and soaring with a fierce flush. Which was impossible to miss with his paleness. God.
There you are! Got me scared for a moment there," oh no. He makes deep voices sound cute. Those pearly whites had no mercy on Bruce, neither did that boyish grin, glowing silver and warm. " Thought I'd fall through a secret door and straight into a shark tank. "
Say something. Say something funny, come on, he's joking with you.
" ... Why are you In my house?"
Fuck.
"This man, - Clark, Bruce knows who he is. Out of all the bad things that had to happen today, being surprised by his favorite journalist just had to be one of them, - blinks, some grin cut down, and Bruce curses in his mind.
"Um. Your father let me in. Did you forget,-"
" I forgot you were coming. I, uh. I," he stuttered; He hasn't stuttered since he was 16, and had to pitch that board meeting to a mile long table of greedy, silver artefacts in suits who wanted to snatch his company. " I, - Coffee. You want...Coffee?"
"...Sure. I'd love some."
Was it just Bruce, or did this report carry a note of amusement in those words? Bruce scrambled for the first cupboard he could see, " NO!"
Clark jumped on his feet, making a dash for him behind the kitchen island. Bruce almost choked, because up close, he could notice the buttons and seams on that baby blue plaid shirt fight for their lives. " What's wrong?!"
" We're out of coffee," he hissed, muttering a ' damn it, Tim, I TOLD you to replace it' but no matter. He had to find Clark something else. " Uh... Water? Juice? Do you like orange juice?"
He could see it, the corners of Clark's lips tugging upwards, " Orange juice is my favourite drink. But it's fine, really. I'm here to unbury your deepest darkest secrets, not have lunch," he smiled, then, most likely noticing Bruce simply froze in place, he added, " That was a joke!"
Bruce forced a laugh, " Of course. Why would I have something to hide? I have nothing to hide," Very well, that sounded entirely too suspicious. " I mean, not anything illegal. Just... Secrets. The normal amount."
Clark nodded, endlessly patient, this saint of a man, " I've had my share of that. Don't worry, Mr. Wayne."
" Oh, just Bruce. That's my name."
The taller man smiled, " I'm just going to ask you about your involvement in renovating Arkham and maybe Mr. Grayson's podcast, but that's all. I won't try to fish for information. I don't believe in peer pressure and bullying."
" I know," his mouth spoke without him, " I, uh, I know you. Your journalism, I mean! My youngest enjoys your online interviews. We watch you together. I'm a fan of your writing, thought. It's magnificent. "
Even if Clark blushed to be polite and thanked him quietly, Bruce wanted to dive off a building without a grappling hook.
" Uh... Bruce? You're murdering your orange."
True enough. The fruit was entirely empty in his clenched fist, spilling over his hand and pooling on the floor. Bruce cursed. Slamming the sad, deflated remaining on the counter, he simply said, " I'll cut this now."
" Okay." Nodded Clark, clear, perfect blue eyes fixed on Bruce and his hands. Bruce only prays his fingers won't tremble like his heart is.
He stabs the orange.
It squirts all over his hoodie, and Bruce offers no reaction. It's almost worth it, this pit of mortification slowly, tortuously devouring his body, to see Clark's impressive frame shake with laughter behind his giant hands, goofy glasses crooked on his nose.
" I'm sorry," he sounds as dead as he feels. " The orange has retaliated." That did it; Clark was full on laughing now. Humiliation burned like liquid fire over Bruce's face.
If Dick were here, or Alfred, he'd hide his face into their chests like a shameful child. But neither are there, so all he can do is slowly place the knife on top of marble, and stand there like a statue.
Coming off his high, Clark watches him closely, a speckle of mirth shining on blue. " You know, you're nothing like I thought you'd be. As much as I enjoy this, you should change."
" I'll try. I don't want to be like this, either."
Clark grinned. " I meant your clothes, Bruce."
" ... Yes. I should. I have a large collection of clean clothes. Because I do my laundry regularly. I know how to do laundry."
Why are you still talking?
Then, gone was that angelic, fond grin from Clark's Greek statue of a face. He smiled hotly, almost...Sultry? At Bruce now. Something saucy. Sweat was sticking to his skin. " Do you want me to pick something for you?"
"... Please?" He squeaked.
Twin steps went inside his bedroom, and they didn't come out for a long time.
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bomberqueen17 · 3 months
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progress etc
god it's less than a week to christmas. ok cool. yeah. great. all right.
i am. what have i been doing??? i don't know. I've sewn several things-- most notably a pair of leggings-- and the house renovations have progressed to the point that we're getting final measurements for counters tomorrow. I'll put pictures behind the cut. We painted the ceiling ourselves, as paint isn't included in the remodel.
I don't remember what I last posted pictures of. IDK there's a floor now, I didn't take pictures of that yet.
ok i was wrong i do have one photo of the floor but it's in-progress, max is in the background wedging it in between the cabinets.
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[image description: an awkward angle looking down standing in the side door entryway, with the blue-washed gray side of a new cabinet facing me, some of the plywood subfloor exposed coated in glue, mottled gray fake stone tiles laid out and the hunched form of a man in a gray sweatshirt kneeling on the floor in the background with his head hidden behind the cabinet. Listen I wasn't trying to be creepy.]
it's fake stone vinyl tiles. i know, not normally my aesthetic, and it's probably the thing that'll look most dated in a little bit, but there was no point trying to do anything wooden or wood-look because the rest of the house has original hardwood from 1950 and anything new wouldn't match. (the hardwood badly needs refinishing, let's not contemplate that right at this juncture...)
Max is from Elmira, btw, and only moved to Buffalo a year ago-- just in time for the blizzard to absolutely destroy his first apartment here and wreck most of his stuff. It was a bit of a harsh welcome to the city. He's soft-spoken and extremely polite and doesn't really know how to talk to me, not the way Jim the installer (fiftysomething and very experienced) does. He did gently laugh at me when I left yesterday and then immediately had to come back to get my keys, which I had locked inside the house (but of course as he was still there the other door was still unlocked). "I grew up in the kind of place where you don't bother locking doors," I said, and he was like "lol same".
(I know Elmira because Middle-Little went to college there. It's a sort of dire little place in the Southern Tier-ish region of NY, a couple hours away. The region is fairly economically devastated, alternating crushing rural poverty with Tourism Dollars; Elmira itself boasts a college, a prison, and precious little else.)
Anyway-- painting the ceiling over the weekend, I discovered that the real life hack for painting a ceiling is for at least one member of your party to be six feet three inches.
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[image description: my dude, a tall thin white man in an uncharacteristic ball cap he's only wearing to avoid paint splatter (it is embroidered with the HTML tags <head> on the front and </head> on the back, and was a gift to him in like 2002) is standing on the cardboard-and-sheet-draped floor of the kitchen using a paint roller on the ceiling, which he can reach easily; in front of him the cabinets are all draped in old sheets as well and there's a random light bulb sticking out because the installer wired that in for us to use as a work light since the electricians haven't installed the ceiling lights yet which was why it was an ideal time for us to paint said ceiling.]
Anyway it's going great. The counters won't go in until January sometime, but early January. The electricians plan to come the day after Christmas and I won't be there until the afternoon so I'm going to check in with Jim today about what they'll need.
Meanwhile, I remembered that I hadn't set myself the goal of crafting anything for Christmas except I bought a bunch of scarf blanks from Dharma Trading to dye as gift wraps and gift components and my basement is all torn apart and I don't dare make that kind of mess in my mother-out-law's basement so I need to work out how to get that done so I'm really kind of slogging through that, a bit.
OH i just went to look at what the last pictures I posted of the kitchen were and the answer is LIKE NONE so omg sorry here's before we painted the ceiling, where you can see what it's gonna look like!
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[image description: This is View A, from the side door toward the front of the house. Along the left of the photo is a line of cabinets, a set on the ground and then another mounted up on the wall; in the middle of that will be the sink, and then farther down a dishwasher (!!!) and beyond that the stove, all along that north wall of the house. The middle of the photo is the big bay window we had installed, and there are cabinets along the front of it: the countertop will extend out from those, and will form a seating area. To the right of the window, the front door is now visible, that little wall having been removed and now being a wide-open space into the entryway. The right of the photo is the interior wall of the kitchen, now transformed into a built-in pantry space with a fridge hole in the middle, where the extra flooring tiles are currently stacked.]
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[image description: this is View B, from the front door into the kitchen. The foreground is the big open space where the wall was removed; the bay window is just out of frame to the right, and the far wall shows the empty space (now containing buckets of floor glue and a roll of cardboard) where the stove will be, and above it will be an extractor hood (no more Everything Smells Like Salmon!!), and the empty space (now filled with a rolling garbage can the contractors are using) for the dishwasher, and then the little window right above the sink-- this is a detail we've kept from the old kitchen, that's where the sink was and that's where the window, but the window seems bigger because the cabinets aren't packed so tightly around it now-- and you can see the side door there, and then the left of the photo shows the edge of the pantry unit where the fridge will go.]
It's a much more open space, both of us can be in there, someone doing dishes while you cook is no longer the world-ending inconvenience it historically has been, and also now you can talk to someone in the living room while you're in the kitchen without needing to holler.
Yeah the gray cabinets are-- well they're pale wood washed with dilute blue, is what they are, and all the hard fixtures are in neutral shades like that, grays and gray-blues, and the countertops will be white with tiny sparkles, and the idea is that the big wall to the west and the little bits of wall around the windows will be painted some bold color we'll match with like throw rugs and hot mats and other changeable fixtures, so the kitchen can get "redecorated" with a new coat of paint and not clash with the hard fixtures. This job cost five figures, we're not re-redoing it during our lifetimes.
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elminx · 7 months
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Foraging 101: Foraging Safety
Note: if you've followed along for a while, you'll have noticed that I generally abhor telling other people what to do. So take this as a suggestion that can save your life. This post is brought to you by the letter "I" for identification. Know your identification apps and their shortcomings, and, for the love of all of the gods, don't blindly trust AI.
If you are going to forage AT ALL, there is one rule that you absolutely cannot forget: YOU ARE THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU EAT OR PUT ON YOUR BODY.
Not the books, not the websites you visit, not an AI identification app - YOU. And yes, I do think that means double-checking and triple-checking your work from completely different sources.
This is a really big deal because eating the wrong thing can make you really sick or kill you. I'm not kidding. (You should already know this but...)
And it's not just inherently poisonous foods that can make you sick - a lot of plants uptake and accumulate heavy metals and other toxins from the soil. That means eating foods from the wrong area can make you very, very sick even if the food itself wasn't poison.
So, in order to safely wild harvest, you need to not only get a proper plant identification but also to know where you are harvesting from. Is it close to a major roadway? Is it downhill from a cemetery? Is it near a polluted waterway? Is it close to any major industry that may have dumped or leached chemicals into the environment? Does somebody nearby spray with dangerous pesticides?
If the answer is "yes" to any of these questions, skip eating it. You can still harvest it for other craft purposes, of course.
I m aware that for some of you who live in unlucky areas means you might not be able to wild harvest (to eat) at all. That sucks and I'm sorry, but trust me, ifs for your best good. It's vitally important. Wild harvesting can be fun and incredibly rewarding, but it is not worth your health or your life.
Sidenote: if you have harvested safe-to-eat and not safe-to-eat botanicals, make sure that you have a system for keeping track of which is which. What I do is keep my safe to eat stuff in my kitchen and my not safe to eat stuff in my office.
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prettyboybuckley · 1 year
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For the Valentine’s Day prompts, #4 “There are flowers on the doorstep.” [“Who from?” “I think that you have a secret admirer.”]?
Hi!! Thank you for the prompt! 💞 Decided that this was the perfect opportunity for some Diaz father-son feels, I hope you like it! ca. 950 words, continues under the cut
If it weren't for the incessant ads and banners and everything else that pops up in early January, Eddie could probably forget Valentine's Day was even a thing. 
Don't get him wrong, he can appreciate a bit of romance. He likes the idea of wining and dining someone—maybe the fact that there was never the urge to do that with Ana should have tipped him off much earlier on—and isn't all that opposed to things like candlelight and chocolates.
But Valentine's Day is cheesy and a way for companies to con you out of more money, so he doesn't usually pay much attention to it. Shannon never bought into it either, telling him every year that he shouldn't bother getting her anything, and Eddie gladly obliged. 
Of course, now that he's a firefighter, there is also a fair share of grand gestures or preparation thereof gone wrong in the week leading up to Valentine's Day, and it's hard to ignore that it's a thing. 
Still, he doesn't have any plans for the holiday of love, especially not considering it's a school night, and he has a shift in the morning himself. Maybe he'll let Chris stay up a little longer for a movie, make it a father-son night. 
(continues under the cut)
Christopher brings home a card on the day itself, made during arts and crafts time at school, full of glittery pink and red hearts. 
"Didn't you want to make one for a friend or something?" Eddie asks, stressing the 'friend' in a way that makes Christopher groan and hide his face.
Eddie grins as he tucks the card under a magnet on the fridge, turning back to the stove where he'd been making dinner. Secretly, he's kind of glad that even at eleven, his kid hasn't seemingly shown any interest in girls—or boys—and dating. If it can even be called dating at that age. 
"Can't you just say thank you?" Christopher grumbles, though Eddie isn't sure if he's more embarrassed about Eddie's teasing or that he made a card for his dad in the first place.
"Well, I love it very much, kiddo, and I'm happy to be your Valentine." 
He ruffles Christopher's hair as he passes behind him on his way to get something from the fridge, and his son beams brightly. God, he wishes the kid would never grow up.
Eddie's got his hands full when the doorbell rings, stirring in the pot and unable to step away. 
"I'll get it," Christopher declares right away, without Eddie even having to ask, and he's out of the kitchen before Eddie can react. 
He can hear the front door open, but there are no voices, and Eddie pauses his stirring, wondering what is up. A moment later, Christopher shuffles back into the kitchen with wide, excited eyes.
"There are flowers on the doorstep."
Eddie frowns. Flowers?
“Who from?” he asks, racking his brain trying to think of who would buy him flowers in the first place, let alone leave them on his porch. 
Chris bounces a little on his heels, clearly giddy about the whole ordeal, as he replies: “I think that you have a secret admirer.”
For a moment Eddie wonders how his son even knows about something like secret admirers—and yes, he knows that Chris is eleven, not five, he shouldn't underestimate him—before he realizes that it's definitely something out of the telenovela's the kid watches with Abuela.
Eddie pulls the pot off the stove, sighing as he follows Christopher out of the kitchen to the front door.
"Not sure what there is to admire," he mutters under his breath, putting on an innocent expression when Chris looks over his shoulder with a slightly suspicious look on his face. It wouldn't be the first time Eddie gets scolded about negative self-talk by a pre-teen. He's not sure if he's ready for what that kid will be like when he's an actual teenager. 
Sure enough, there is a flower arrangement sitting on the porch. A nice one, too, because while Eddie doesn't know much about flowers, he can see that these are expensive. 
There is a small card sticking only with one corner from the flowers, and Eddie plucks it out of there with two fingers, flipping it open. There, in red ink, is a somehow both neat and chaotic but above all familiar scribble. 
Dear Eddie, 
Forgive me for choosing to do this the easy way, but it's the only way I'll ever dare to take this chance. You've had my back ever since the day we met, and I'm hoping you'll let me have yours in every way possible in the future, because I want to have and do everything with you. 
So I guess this is me asking, Eddie Diaz, if you will be my Valentine?
Love, Buck
Eddie is pretty sure his heart rate doubles as he reads the card, and he hopes that he's not blushing, though Christopher's scrutinizing gaze suggests that something must be visible. 
Buck is asking him out. No, Buck bought an expensive arrangement of flowers and put it on Eddie's doorstep with a card asking him out because apparently he was scared that Eddie would say no. As if Eddie would ever say no. 
 "Who sent it?" Christopher asks, putting his hand on Eddie's shoulder so he can lean in closer to get a peek at the card. 
"You were right, it's a secret admirer," Eddie replies, closing the card quickly before his son can see Buck's name, and he gets up, picking up the flowers and giving Christopher a subtle nudge to herd him back inside. 
It seems that he's got a very important call to make. He doesn't want to keep Buck waiting, after all. 
From the Valentine's Day prompts list
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pinespittinink · 1 year
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<insert obligatory blog intro here>
Goooood evening folks, i figured i would Get With the Times and make a legit blog intro to steal the throne of pinned post. i may add to and prune this post as time goes on, but i will be constantly updating it with wip pages and masterposts as they go up. have you seen me on your dash before? perhaps! i’m the weirdo behind the oc tea piccrew game and the deify yourself piccrew game, as well as the reblog your own stuff post and the read books if you want to write books post.
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💫 the necessities, fast and loose edition 💫 
catherine/cat ~ she/her (indifferent they/them) ~ capricorn ~ pansexual ~ 28 ~ 18+ only ➡  about page ⬅ follows from main blog @shireduchess​ ​
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🌿 the necessities, slowcooker edition 🌿
what to expect from me: a bit of everything in the writeblr kitchen sink. refs, prompts, wip and general inspo, memes, ask/tag games (i am friendly to both, but put priority on asks as i get a lot of tags nowadays!). i dig good aesthetics and vivid, sensory writing with emphasis on description and emotional content. i unabashedly write nsfw content, and do not follow anyone under 18. 
at the end of the day, i love writing about love. every story i write has some variant of a love story in it somewhere. that said, i am not a romance genre writer. i have made my bed with fantasy, and to fantasy i will always return, yada yada. my dad read The Hobbit to me when i was four and set me up for life. 
secondary world high fantasy is my specialty, but i also love space fantasy, fairytale and myth retellings, and cosmic horror. my wip Star White, about a man who spends a billion years searching for his lost lover when he is abducted by sentient dark matter, is a blend of all three. 
what a nice segway into MY WIPS <insert Will Smith showing off his wife meme>
you may know me from my 1920s-inspired theater with an interdimensional portal in the belly of the stage wip, The Great Glavenisean Theater, or my very strange giant tree wip, In The Deep of the Trees featuring Titus and Sabine. if you’re an oldie (circa 2018-2020), you might recall Bloodlines, a romantic high fantasy featuring original species, the Gelkins and the skin-changers. my other wips include the aforementioned space fairytale, Star White, a queer fucked up found family epic with trans wizards and missing gods called Solene’s Verse, and a very experimental novella about the worst walking roadtrip known to mankind (i accidentally blow up your village and kill your girlfriend, you get an existential crisis about the nature of reality), aka The Wasteland. 
i will continue to spruce up this space with wip intros as i refurbish everything, but my main focus right now is finishing the first draft of The Great Glavenisean Theater. i do aspire toward traditional publishing, and have had an eye on this industry for twelve years (i was actively querying at fourteen, we’re in this writing shit for life)
[ Romantic and indulgent prose full of filigree, worlds full of whimsy, mystery and a hint of danger, a core of tenderness rooted at the heart of every story. Your writing is always penned in the manner of a love letter not just to the craft or even as an ode to romance but to the subject of love in itself. ] -- @aninkwellofnectar​ 🌹
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🖋 a pinespittinink vintage 🖋
the great glavenisean theater 🎭 {wip intro} {general tag} in the deep of the trees 🍃 {wip intro} {general tag} star white 🌟 {wip intro} {general tag} my writing 📚 my edits  📚 my poetry 📚
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🎐 a quick guide to strange tags🎐
sap spill 🌸 {your one-stop shopping destination for all my thoughts and og text posts} uwu romance 🌸 {catch all tag for everything love and romance related} trope talk🌸 {umbrella tag for all things tropey. overlaps often with uwu romance} character work🌸 {what it says on the tin: non-specific character-related posts} compilations🌸 {don’t we all have a term for these? web weaving and such} i live here🌸 {stuff i jive with on a molecular level}
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🍋 your average writeblr food & fare 🍋
writing references 🌊  writing memes 🌊 worldbuilding 🌊 quotes 🌊 poetry 🌊 prompts 🌊
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“for whom / and to whom all this love, / all this light falling.” 
--@ragewrites, Film Still, for pinespittinink. 
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pinetreeshack · 1 year
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do you have any thoughts on fiddleford and ciphord interacting because I fucking love that shit. its always SO tense
oh boy do i!! lots of words under the cut
fiddleford is VERY standoffish and realises the cue when bill possesses ford almost immediately. at first, of course, ciphord tended to roam around in private. fiddleford being blissfully unaware of anything, until a lot of his triangle memorabilia started to find itself as common decor in their living room and kitchen. fords obsession with it was.. weird, at first, but fiddleford knew what he signed up for when he agreed to help him. he knew what it was like to want to find something in a higher being, and respected fords beliefs diligently, until ford started bringing his posessions and ramblings outside of his worship room.
i would even go so far as to say fiddleford was probably the first other human being bill came into contact with when he started posessing ford. its uncomfortable, and awkward, and fiddleford doesn't get it, but who is he to deny someone of their god? he'll try to distance himself from ciphord, but ultimately fail, because that is his partner, demon or not. even though he knows bill wouldn't purposely bring physical harm to fords body (at least while building the portal, anyway. anything after would've probably been free game considering it would've been the end times. thats fun to think about. weirdmageddon in the 80s. has anyone explored this idea? probably. anyway) instead he resorts to a sort of 'helicopter-parent' like state. he's hyper-aware, ciphord is scary, and even fiddleford catches himself scoffing at how silly it is to be afraid of a literal triangle (putting his own beliefs behind him for a minute to instead try and understand another. but it is no longer a belief. it's a parasite.), but there are risks on the line when it comes to his friend.
at first bill tried to play it off. maybe he wont notice this guys shockingly yellow scleras or the way his pupils keep shifting shapes from time to time. (wouldnt be surprised if he wore shaded glasses. ford did keep multiple spares, who's to say he didn't have special possession ones). as i said in the tags of a previous post, bill can sort of manipulate peoples perceptions of him, meaning you will most likely never see him unless you want to see him.
that's where i think a lot of their interaction comes from. fiddleford can't help but see ford, therefore he has no choice but to interact with bill, no matter how much ford denies the possession or this other wordly being, and no matter how much religious belief or superstition gets in fiddlefords way, he has no choice but to accept the facts as he sees them (even if sometimes, what he's seeing isn't real.) maybe he thinks acknowledging bills existence will further push him into madness.
perhaps we shouldn't give all the credit to fiddlefords genius when we were told the speed at which fiddleford crafted the memory gun. (which is kind of ironic, when you think about it)
rambling a bit more here, but this also brings me onto a fun topic that i've thought about before: ciphord (bill) using the memory gun on fiddleford to erase his memories of witnessing countless possessions and lost mental battles between ford and bill. it stops after a while, because bill realises just how fragile and frying it is to constantly take over someones body. he still thinks the memory gun is a neat little toy, though.
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pleathewrites · 8 days
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i am no mother, i am no bride
rating: T fandom: my hero academia relationships: todoroki rei/todoroki enji, todoroki rei & todoroki touya themes: domestic violence & implied/referenced child abuse, todoroki rei becoming a badass mofo, quirk evolution read on ao3
We argue in the kitchen about whether to have children
We come out of the womb hungry. 
We kick and cry and scream for our mother’s milk — for a feeding spoon, for our father’s gentle smile, for a hand in our own and a home to keep warm. 
We come out of the womb hungry for love, and so many of us die starved. 
Todoroki Enji was a man built for warmth. He was a man with the kind of smile Himura Rei spent her entire life craving from her own flesh and blood. He was a man who seemed ready to feed her stomach full of everything she’d spent her life without.  
His wedding proposal is fattened by an antique vase  from the Meiji period, hand-crafted and meticulously detailed with the indigo brushstrokes of a rising phoenix, filled to the brim with bright and blue rindou flowers, “I was told these are your favorite.” 
Just the sight of Todoroki Enji’s big hands engulfing the ceramic piece worth more than the entire Himura estate awakens the ravenous beast in Rie’s stomach — claws out and ready to gorge on every vow that drips so deliciously from stern lips.
“They match the color of your eyes,” Rei accepts and bats her lashes — the way her mother said thin women must do should they seek to be nourished by plentiful men. 
Stern lips pull into a pleased smile, “Then let us hope our children have my eyes and your elegant taste.”
Oh, how famine makes us so desperate. 
The very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most
Sometimes, Rei wonders about a life where her husband is not a hero.
Would his shoulders relax? Would he smile wider? Would he touch her more? Would he still have the insatiable need to be the very best and would he still feel absolute devastation when he is proven, yet again, that someone else has already taken that place?
Would this marriage be the same? Would he be the same? 
Would he still slam the front door in the dead silence of their enormous home to announce his presence? Would he still kick his shoes halfway across the living room and shove his coat into Rei’s arms with nothing more than a curt,  “What’s for dinner?” and would Rei still find the site of his retreating back more familiar than the warm smile he had gifted her on the day of his proposal? 
Is there a world where Todoroki Enji is able to enjoy the life he already has? 
They eat in a silence that Rei has learned to find a belly-aching comfort in. 
“This is good, thank you,” Enji’s comment surprises Rei, and the corners of her lips are already ticking upwards.
“Thank you,” She feeds herself a spoonful. 
“You haven’t made this in a long time.”
Rei laughs as she lays her hand over her protruding belly, “This little one has been making me crave the randomest cuisine,” She hopes her first-born looks like her. 
Enji smiles, and for a second, Rei’s heart sings full with it. 
“He’ll be a strong hero with an appetite like that.”
Her smile falters, “Our child will be strong in whatever they pursue.” 
Enji stops eating. 
‘Gods,’ Is there a world where Todoroki Rei’s shame over her gluttonous heart will ever swallow itself whole into the gratitude her mother demanded up till her dying breath?
Enji puts his fork down. His eyes are angry, and the base of Rei’s spine straightens automatically — in preparation for what, she hasn’t figured out yet. 
“Do you not want our son to become a hero?”
If Todoroki Enji was not a hero, would he still twist every single thing that comes out of Rei’s mouth?
He calls their child ‘son,’ as if he’s already laid out their entire life. Rei wants to protest — ‘What if our child does not feel like our son? What if our child is not born with the same hunger as their father?’ — but she holds her tongue. 
Women who protest are often left to starve.
You need your rotten heart, your dazzling pain like diamond rings
In all the ways Rei could not have imagined, it is the call of her first-born that quenches her parched heart.  
Touya’s soft and giggly, ‘Mama,’ fills every single one of her husband’s empty promises. She holds his tiny feet in her palms and stretches out his fat thighs in rotation as she sings the radio tunes that have been filling the silence her husband leaves behind when he goes to work. With every passing day, she feeds her son until her sore breasts are empty and he no longer needs her help to waddle toward where she cooks his next meal. She pours all the light and love she never received into Touya’s bright blue eyes until they bloom just as beautifully as the rindou flowers she starts to buy herself.
For three whole years, her happiness is not tied to the efforts of a bountiful man, but to those of her own two hands. Her first-born inherited the fiery red hair and resolved blue eyes of his father, but for all intents and purposes, Touya is Rei’s child. 
Unfortunately, after Touya’s third birthday, it comes to light that her first-born had also inherited his father’s flames. 
It happens during a tantrum. Rei is out of ingredients for cold soba, and Touya is crying — “But-but! Mama always makes cold soba when I’m s-sick!” — and Enji is slamming his newspaper on their dining table, about to reprimand his son when the room flashes with heat and the smell of Enji’s burning newspaper fills Rei’s nose with smoke while her husband's astonished smile fills her heart with dread. 
“Enji, please tell me that was you…” 
Enji shakes his head, “It was not.”
“I-I — wha — that wasn’t! M-Mama…?” Her first-born looks so scared, “I-I didn’t mean to!” Touya begs, rivers of fresh and frightened tears running down his chubby cheeks. 
Just as she’s about to comfort her son, Enji’s booming laughter drowns out her first-born’s fear and makes both mother and son jolt in surprise as Enji swings their child upon his shoulders, “My boy!”
Touya’s breath hitches and he scrambles to catch his balance on his father’s broad shoulders, tiny hands gripping the perfect crop of auburn hair. A questioning whimper escapes Touya’s throat, and Rei’s heart breaks. 
It is the first time his father has held Touya since his birth. The first time her husband has laughed in all the time Rei has known him. The first time Enji has shown a pride that has nothing to do with his competition’s failures.
“You’re going to be the best hero in the whole world, Touya!”
Her son sniffles, “O-Okay.”
It is the moment Touya stops being Rei’s child, and instead Enji’s successor. 
You need to go to war to find material to sing
“Gods, he’s not even in fucking Japan, and he’s still the Number One Hero!”
Every day is like this — ‘All Might this, All Might that, are the people blind? What more do I have to do? These quirkless idiots don’t know a worthy hero when it’s staring them in their fucking faces!’
“Touya, hurry and finish your food. It’s almost training time.”
Rei hardly has an appetite these days, “You need to let him rest after eating, Enji. He’ll get sick.”
There’s ice flowing through her veins but nothing freezes her blood like when her husband gives her that look — the one where brilliant blue eyes demand her to remember her place.
“Nuh-uh! I’m strong, Mama!”
Rei takes a deep breath and tries to remember that she is a person, not a placeholder. “I know you are, Touya,” She smiles at her first-born, “But your food needs to digest before any activity. You got sick last night, didn’t you?”
A thoughtful look passes through her son’s undeniably young face and he turns to his father, “That’s true…” 
The large fists on the dining table clench, and the sparse auburn hair dusting over Enji’s knuckles stands out against the whitened skin that’s been cut off from its regular blood flow.
“That is why we pay for those doctors to stay with us,” Her husband cajoles through gritted teeth, “They gave you medicine, didn’t they, son?”
Touya’s small spine straightens, “Uhm, y-yeah, that’s true! I’ll be fine, Mama — Dad will make sure I’m okay!”
Rei misses when Touya’s trusting smile was directed towards her, towards the one person in this house who would never push their first-born to the point of needing medicine intravenously. For all his claims of being a traditional man, her husband berated her one night for grinding up the roots of her rindou flowers into the bitter tonic her mother used to pour into her upset stomach — “Please, in this day and age, really, Rei? It’s ridiculous, an utter waste, to ruin your flowers for something that will only work half as well as what the doctors I pay will clear up in an hour. Silly woman, let the flowers do what they’re meant to and keep our home looking elegant. That’s why they’re your favorite, hm? There’s no need to overcompensate.”
For a Top Hero, her husband can be quite thick. Back then and now.
Enji’s training schedule has ripped her first-born from the right to his childhood. When her husband leaves for work, Touya is to practice his form and meditate in the training room, while Rei is to leave his lunch at the door like a prison guard. When her husband returns from work, their family dinners are allotted a measly thirty minutes before Touya is to spend the rest of the evening training with a man six times his age and experience. All the while Rei is to sit outside, listen to her child’s pained cries and heaving gags, and zip her lips shut lest her husband finds out that his refined and thinly disguised torture is not as secret as he thinks it is.
Rei has not spent time with her child in so long and with every passing day, the voracious beast in her heart screams at the starvation of it
*
“Touya needs a sibling.”
Shock moves through Rei’s body, “I… I was thinking the same thing, actually.”
Could Todoroki Enji actually be paying attention to the loneliness that harrows their first-born’s beautiful blue eyes? 
In the rare moments Rei manages to wheedle Touya into a sit-down breakfast and play a movie before starting his training, Touya tilts his head in wonder at the portrayal of siblings. They often have to watch these movies in increments — half one day, the other half the next — and the method gives Touya the eager excitement of hope for the new day, something to look forward to.  They often pause the movie in the middle of its climax. 
“Mama, Mama! That guy’s sister isn’t gonna actually die, right?”
“I guess we’ll have to see, baby.”
“I like it when you braid my hair, but it’s funny when her sister does it like that — all messy and with the clips!”
“I guess her little hands need more practice, hm?”
“I’d be the best older brother — like him! No, wait, better than him! I wouldn’t make ‘em cry like he does — that’s mean!”
There are times Touya will be immersed in the plot, but the conversation he always brings up with his mother surrounds the concept of siblings — family his age to exchange embarrassing secrets with, to play around in the pristine Todoroki backyard, to take care of and be taken care of by small hearts and juvenile hands that will grow wrinkled and frail together. 
The hope for her husband’s humanity dies with his next sentence, “It will be good to have a motivator. Competition makes the best of us.”
The cold that wraps around her heart has nothing to do with the dazed look in her husband’s foolish eyes, “Enji?”
But he does not hear her concern. “I had hoped Touya would inherit both our quirks, but perhaps that was naive,” He turns to look at Rei, “I ensure Touya will come out a truly worthy hero, but we must keep trying for a dual-quirked child. Perhaps, that child will even strengthen our son, push him to overcome his weaknesses! Ah, Rei, I promise you — the Todoroki name will go down in history, and no one will even remember All Might.”  
*
The night of Touya’s conception was the closest semblance of something like love Rei has ever felt in her life. On the night of their wedding, Enji was gentle and attentive. His large hands had wrapped around Rei’s waist as if she was an entity to be savored. His warm lips traced over the lines of her untouched skin as if he were sending a prayer into her very bones. His husky voice had spent the night checking in with everything that made Rei soar to the skies and stop short at anything less.
So when her husband had declared he was ready for more children, against her gut instinct, Rei’s heart had cracked open at the wish to feel that reverent touch again.
The fates laughed at Rei’s inability to understand that broken dreams are the only thing they have in store for her.
The conception of Todoroki Fuyumi was a horribly clinical affair. Gone were the soft hands and devout lips, the gentle check-ins and the concern for Rei’s pleasure. Todoroki Rei had never felt so used in her life, and it’s a feeling she’ll never forget. 
Thus, when her first daughter was born, Rei manifested her children’s embrace would erase whatever craving she had for a husband’s touch. As she rested on the delivery table, she pushed her slick bangs from her forehead and watched with tired eyes as her first-born marveled over the small bundle of his wish-come-true. 
“I’m gonna protect you from everything, Fuyumi-Yumi-chan. Dad says I was born to be the best, so I’m gonna be the best older brother ever!”
But alas, the fates do not favor the Todoroki family.
Her husband is quick to cast Fuyumi aside, and there is nothing her older brother can do to protect her denied heart. Rei is all too familiar with fatherly famine, and in her remedy to feed Fuyumi with everything she has, Rei forgets that starvation takes form in many different ways.
Her first-born is barely seven years old when his parents find out that he did, in fact, inherit both of his parents' quirks — in the worst way possible.
The whole family reaps the consequences.
Natsou’s conception is when Rei finally learns that her no’s do not matter. It is the turning point where she experiences to the fullest extent exactly how her husband will always get what he wants.
*
“I know how we can ensure this child is perfect, Rei. There’s this new technology, in vitro fertilization — it is specifically for quirks. Genius! To think, we could have done this from the start… Oh, how our efforts would not have been wasted.”
*
“I have told you time and time again, he is your responsibility! Why haven’t you stopped this nonsense? Are you really so useless? Gods, it is because of you that Touya is acting like this — you poisoned him with your weak constitution, and it is that same constitution that weakens you as his mother! If it is up to me to train that out of him, then it is only fair that you receive the same treatment!” 
*
“What have you done… What have you done to my perfect son!”
But a woman is a changeling, always shifting shape.
The blinding white light makes Rei’s head pound. 
“... oki-san. Todoroki-san, are you with us?”
Rei hums. She tried to nod but her neck had never felt so limp.
“The medicine we gave you is starting to wear off.”
“M-Medicine?” Rei’s throat feels like sandpaper. 
“Yes, Todoroki-san. Do you know where you are?”
She wills the strength to shake her head once. It makes her stomach roll.
“You’ve been admitted to the Musutafu Behavioral and Wellness Hospital by your husband. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands now.” 
She vomits all over her hospital gown before everything goes black once again.
*
Rei can’t quite pinpoint the moment she started to fill the void of her aching belly with alcohol. She thinks it may have started after her eldest son attacked his newborn brother.
A glass of red wine paired with her dinner quickly escalated into one that accompanied every meal of the day, then an extra for a midnight snack, then a glass for every hour in between to punish herself for the silence of all her children ignoring her poisonous presence. And when Enji caught on, like the vigilant hero he is, he quickly banned her from the one thing that numbed the gnawing beast she was born with down to nothing but a silent phantom — acknowledged by the chilling tension in the air, but no longer a physical commodity to be felt or heard.
But Todoroki Enji is a hero, and heroes are rarely home. 
Rei turned to the solution of sneaky teens under orthodox households who found that clear spirits poured into water bottles are enough to ward off the attention from authority figures that care more about frivolous things like reputation and image over the human that supposedly lives inside their genetic possessions. And just like those sneaky teens, Rei found that the harder the alcohol, the easier it is to live under a dictatorship. 
Gin, vodka, tequila — they all take away the burden of caring.  
So Rei’s body doesn’t belong to her — so what? It never did. So her children despise her — so what? She hates herself, too. So her husband doesn’t touch her — so fucking what? She hasn’t craved the heavy grab of his thick hands for years. 
So her fourth and last child is her husband’s prized possession — so what? It’s better to be the luxurious watch on a businessman’s wrist than to be tossed away like the dirty tissue paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe, like the rest of the Todoroki family. 
During one of these blissfully blurry nights, Rei makes the fascinating diagnosis that she is fireproof. 
How? Well, under the haze of whatever she poured into her last cup of coffee, she’d accidentally switched the wrong setting of her iron to Enji’s new silk dress-shirt for his upcoming Hero Gala and burnt a hole straight through it. She was so out of it, she didn’t even flinch at the flaming grip coming to engulf her tiny arm — ‘when did I lose so much weight?’ — and when nothing happened, when she felt absolutely nothing beyond the bruising pressure of his grip, when Enji’s azure eyes widened at her lack of agony, she laughed.
“Huh, would you look at that?” She snorted, “If only I had poisoned Touya the right way!”
Unfortunately, she was not immune to the crack against her face. However, the alcohol helped with that, too. 
Caught in the wonder of her nonflammable skin, it seems she must have tested her theory about whether or not, this time, she poisoned her youngest son the right way. 
*
When the doctors tell her what she did to Shouto, Rei cries for three days straight. 
*
It took one horrible, drunken mistake to completely eradicate twelve years of carefully constructed motherhood. It’s hard for Rei to come to terms with how her husband’s deliberate actions will never erase his entitlement to her children — his children, now.
The doctors don’t care for her sober pleas. They don’t take her fears seriously, they don’t allow her to mourn what she’s lost, and they most certainly do not let her forget precisely why this abandonment can only be the fault of her own. 
When she raises her fists, they trap her in unmovable fabric so tight it’s hard to breathe — so she does not fight.
When she raises her voice, they drug her to the point that she wakes up to a new month — so she does not scream. 
When she declines to eat, they strap her down and inject her with liquid that only churns the ache in her belly to something sick — so she does not refuse.
She does not fight, she does not scream, she does not refuse — it’s almost like she never left home. 
What strange claws are these scratching at my skin? I never knew my killer would be coming from within
There’s a television in Rei’s room that the doctors almost never let her turn on. It’s symbolically there for incentive. For when Rei takes the medicine that lulls her to a dreamless sleep, attends the group activities for anger issues she does not identify with, and eats the food that does nothing to sate the lifelong hunger that brought her into this mess. 
A privilege — ‘not a right!’ — for when she is a very good girl.
Only — it’s on now. 
Rei doesn’t know much about the outside world. The son she disfigured grew up into someone who has found it within himself to visit her semi-regularly this past year, but he treats her frustratingly delicate — like a shattered cup hastily glued back together, pouring the tiniest bouts of information into her decade-empty cavern with the expectation the contents will leak through and splatter the floor of these hideous off-white tiles. 
He’d said nothing of the faceless zombie who sits in the 20-inch box of her unearned privilege. 
“My name…” The zombie’s head lifts up to reveal his very-much-alive eyes, “is Todoroki Touya.”
Her whole body freezes over. 
“The Number One Hero is my father.”
She starts to sweat. 
Is this a trick? Has she finally lost her mind?
But she knows those tired eyes. Grotesque and patched up, surrounded by unhealed burns stapled to the pale skin she used to rub the pads of her fingers over and over again to wipe away heartbroken tears, mottled bruises, and training-induced vomit. 
“Yes, the so-called ‘villain’ in front of you is Endeavor’s eldest son.”
Villain? Please, Rei has long stopped labeling people as villains when she realized she was legally tied to one. The way he says it, though… He must be infamous. He announces his name like it’s some grand secret, and the beast within Rei wails, ‘How did no one recognize my long-lost first-born son?’ 
Who else could hold such brilliantly blue eyes, carry the petite nose of his mother, and above all else, his scars — proof of a body poisoned by his mother’s weak constitution and the blazing azure of the too-hot fire his father was never meant to pass down?
“I’ve killed more than 30 innocent people.”
Rei wonders if anyone is truly innocent. 
Before hospitalization, before marriage, and before the development of her first-born’s quirk, Rei remembers how people used to speak so highly of doctors. They are portrayed as saviors, empathetic do-gooders ready to ease and eradicate the pains of their patients. And yet, it was those very doctors who witnessed firsthand the source of her first-born’s anguish and decided to lock that secret in a steel box and swallow the key for stacks of yen that once brought stars to Himura Rei’s eyes. The same batch of falsely altruistic doctors she’s spent a decade under the fictitious care of, who kept Rei away from the funeral of the very child who now declares the consequences of his ignored agony through the television of her lavish jail cell. 
Despite all of Touya’s physical damage, she can’t help but think her first-born looks… free.  
Was murder the price Touya had to pay for his independence? … Is murder the only way to buy her own? 
A sharp prick at the curve of her palm, right under her thumb, stuns Rei out of her thoughts. With furrowed brows, she looks down at her clasped hands and gasps. 
Embedded in the skin of her knuckles glitters the ticket to the very thing her first-born has found outside the clutches of Enji’s selfish grasp. 
She rips her hands apart with a wet squelch and holds them up to the light. Translucent blue-gray crystals embed the tips of her fingers into sharp points, dipped with the fresh blood of her punctured hands.
Ice claws.
Today, the fates welcome Rei to laugh alongside them. 
Hurried steps thud outside her assigned door and she jumps to action, shoving her metal chair under the doorknob and hurrying to the window. The frantic jiggling of the doctors trying to invade her room drowns out the horrible screech of her evolved quirk cutting a neat circle into the glass just above the window’s lock. She pushes out the carved circle and jams her hand through the opening to unlock the window from the outside. A loud bang invades her ears and the clatter of the wedged chair falling to the ground makes her move faster, opening the window and getting one leg over the ledge before she’s violently pulled back. 
The doctor who managed to barge inside is a burly man, the one who’s not afraid to stuff bread down her throat and call her all the synonyms of ‘mentally deranged’ under the sun. He grips her arm unbearably tight while another doctor holds a familiar syringe that will knock her out to next week. 
Cold fury floods her chest — she will no longer let others take control of the body she has been starved of. 
She swipes her free hand in a grand arch, snagging both doctors’ throats. She feels their light leave their eyes through the lifelong beast that’s finally incarnated and come out to play.
One moment, she’s watching the two doctors wetly choke out their last breath, and the next, she’s jumping out the second-story window of her husband’s expensive dungeon and willing ice around her ankles to break her fall. 
And despite the hot blood coating her gifted claws, they do not melt. Her ice is as fireproof as her. 
I need my golden crown of sorrow, my bloody sword to swing, I need my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology
Rei waits in her old closet of the bedroom she once shared with her husband. 
The moon hangs full in the sky and illuminates just how much her husband has burned away every single aspect of her presence from their once-shared home. It’s amazing, really, how thoroughly an entire person can be wiped from existence. When Rei had crept through the living room window, she almost didn’t recognize the very place where she spent so much time watching heartfelt movies with her first-born, breastfeeding her only daughter, counting Natsou’s first steps, and drinking herself into a soothing oblivion that drowned out her last and final son’s cries. 
When her husband tiredly walks into their — his, really — bedroom and changes out of his tattered hero uniform, Rei is silent like the ghost he molded her to be. She waits as patience had been her first lesson in the matters of famine. There is a time and place you are fed without consequence — too early and you’ll be scorned, too late and you’ll upset your stomach.
Through the wooden slats of her wardrobe, the one that hasn’t been touched since the day she was sent away, she spies her husband rubbing his weary eyes. He sits at the foot of the bed with his heavy head cradled by his meaty hands. Rei finds no pity, no sympathy, and no love to nourish the beast she was born with — there is only one thing it wishes to feast on.
She watches as her husband finally gets up to leave their bedroom and walks in the direction of where Rei had left behind her heart and the last bits of her sanity.
When the faint click of her first-born’s closed door echoes through the stillness of midnight, she abandons her hiding spot and keeps her feet light. She makes a quick pass to her daughter’s room before freezing the lock — she will not tolerate any interruptions to the one and only gift of freedom she will bestow her children tonight.
For the first time in this wretched place she once called home, the sober calm of an ocean’s summer breeze washes over her. 
A smile creeps at her lips as she stands at her first-born’s door. 
It’s time.
She opens the door and slips inside.
The look of her husband’s gaping bewilderment animates the rapacious beast inside her, clawing at her belly with the same manic glee it had when the doctors’ blood had dripped down her iced talons. She freezes the door locked, snickering as she traps husband and wife in the room of the boy they had murdered so slowly. 
Her husband’s speed had always been one of the major talking points of his hero career, but velocity will always equal zero when an object is at a stand-still. The second he shifted to make a move towards her from where he kneeled, she froze his body in place with a swiftness that the Hero Billboard Chart would marvel at.
“Ah, ah, ah,” She tsks.
Those brilliant blue eyes widen in horror when he realizes he cannot melt his wife’s shackles.
“Oh, Enji,” She pouts, her head lazily dangling to the side, “Don’t tell me you forgot the sole reason you married me.”
“Wha — how…?”  
“What is it your favorite hero would say?” She hums and taps the claw of her index to her lips, “‘Plus Ultra’?”
Now, Rei never got the chance to become a scientist but biology was always her favorite subject in school. She still remembers the lesson of homeostasis and she’s pretty sure her husband’s body is entering the fight for its life. Too bad it’s a losing battle — what good is fire to the incombustible?
The chatter of her husband's teeth is so satisfying against his quivering blue lips, “W-what a-are y-y-you doing h-here?” 
“I think that’s obvious,” She steps towards him and squats down to his level, resting her elbows on her knees, “I have a better question — what are you doing here?” and lazily gestures to the picture of their first-born’s shrine before folding her hands under her chin.
Her husband’s blue eyes glaze over and his thick auburn brows twitch momentarily before he looks down with something a little like the shame Rei has carried her entire life. 
“T-Touya, he — ”
The beast rages. 
The resounding crack of Rei’s palm against her husband’s face thunders in the quiet storm of her first-born’s chambers. 
She sneers at the scratched lines that bead bright red on her husband’s stern cheek and points the bloodied tip of her index at his face, “Do not say his name.”
Enji bristles, “H-he is m-my s-son — ”
“No!” She clutches her husband’s throat, “He is my son, and you are only the monster who took him away from me.”
It’s almost exhilarating, the fear in her husband’s eyes. The way such brilliant blue is unable to look at anything but her, the undivided attention she yearned for so long literally within her grasp, and his realization of the undeniable power Rei finally wields over Enji in the very house her husband spent years denying her of. The hungry savage of her born companion begs to glut on this feeling until it bursts.
“H-he’s,” her husband rasps, “a-alive.”
Rei grins and lets go of his throat, “I know.”
Enji sucks in a gasp, “Y-You d-d-don’t u-unders-stand,” he coughs, the deep sound utterly grating to Rei’s ears, “H-he’s a v-vi —  villain.”
Rei sighed and opened a palm to rest against her husband’s bloodied cheek, “Then, perhaps, that is the only capacity of what he inherited from you.”
Enji scoffs and his eyes narrow, “C-Coming f-from t-the w-w-woman who m-mut-tilated h-her y-y-youngest’s f-fa– face.” 
And there it is — that familiar sick satisfaction gleaming in her husband’s bright azure orbs at the opportunity to tear into his wife’s heart and turn her beastly companion on her. Except —
“Don’t you understand, yet? Your words don’t mean shit to me anymore, Enji,” Rei can see the exact moment when Enji finally registers the reality of his impending doom. 
Her husband sucks in a quivered breath and opens his mouth to scream for help but the chance is cut off with a flick of Rei’s wrist as she calls on her quirk to freeze her husband’s tongue and shatters it in his mouth. 
“Sorry,” She chimes over the sound of her husband’s pained gurgles, “But I’ve had enough of your voice to last a lifetime, dear husband.”
Though the idea of her husband suffocating on the chunks of his own venomous tongue is an end Rei would find darkly humorous, there is a theory she’s been wanting to test since breaking out of the hospital forty-eight hours ago. She knows her ice is fireproof and that she is, too. Thus, when her ice engulfs an object, it is swallowed down to become irrefutably hers. Rei wants to know, if she is able to move her ice freely from thin air in order to freeze something, whether or not she can telepathically move whatever object her ice consumes.
She spent half a decade eavesdropping on her first-born’s lessons with the Number Two Hero, so she’s picked up a thing or two. She focuses first on feeling the ice of her talons, drowning out the slowly quieting sounds of her weakened husband’s suffering. When she has a full grasp of every crystalized centimeter that weaponized her hands, she focuses on the frozen form of her husband’s kneeling statue and absolutely delights when she touches the beat of his heart. She can feel every working organ in her husband’s body, the way each pump of his aorta grows more sluggish than the last with hypothermia. Finally, the bits and pieces of Enji’s shattered tongue start to materialize as if they’re already in her hand. She calls upon them to slither out of her husband’s throat and float into the air. 
Sheer dread takes over her husband’s face as Rei juggles the congealed pieces of tongue. 
“Oh, Gods!” She cackles, “I’m unstoppable!” 
Rei cannot believe she ever got married. How, once upon a time, she wholeheartedly thought a man would be the only thing to protect her from this vicious world and spoon down her throat the slew of what she’d been neglected her whole life while her presumably incapable hands sat firm in her lap.
From now on, with these very hands the whole world convinced her were utterly useless, she will feed herself. 
“You know,” Rei tosses the chunks of her husband’s tongue in the wastebin near Touya’s shrine and wonders what her first-born would have thought about that — the epitome of tossing his old man’s fallacies in the garbage, “I was planning to gouge your eyes and tear out your heart with these,” She waves her twinkling talons in Enji’s face. 
Her husband lets out a stunted whimper when the tip of her middle talon brushes the auburn lashes of his left eye. 
“Shh,” She croons and pulls back, “There’s no need for that anymore. You’re a disgusting excuse of a man, but maybe if you had kept your lessons strictly verbal, you would’ve made a half-decent teacher.”  
She slowly frosts over her husband’s vile heart from within his body, and it’s as if both ventricles caress the skin of her palms directly, “Maybe, now, you will finally feel what I felt all those years when you would put your hands on me.” Her nerves stimulate with every declining pulse of his atriums until the organ finally atrophies.
The frightened light fades from her husband’s brilliant blue eyes, and the insatiable beast that endlessly razed her soul is finally at peace. 
And I was never as good as I always thought I was, but I knew how to dress it up
After Rei had moved Enji’s chilled corpse back to his bedroom, removed the ice from his body, and tucked him into bed, she sat at the dining room table and wrote her final goodbye. 
My Dear Children, You have all grown so wonderfully, despite the hand you’ve been given for having me as your mother. I am so sorry for all the ways I’ve failed you. It is foolish of me to assume you’ll find comfort in the fact that my motherly shortcomings will haunt me for the rest of my life. For most of your lives, I’ve been nothing but a ghost. The woman I wanted to be before marrying your father was one who would protect you with every fiber in her being, but somewhere along the way, that woman was murdered just like the man you were forced to call Father.  There are many regrets I have in my life, starting with accepting Enji’s proposal and ending with abandoning you three all those years ago, but I cannot find it within myself to regret bringing you all into this world. I am immensely proud of the paths you’ve chosen for yourselves. Fuyumi, my best and cherished daughter, for becoming a teacher — you have always had the astounding ability to see the light in every dark, and that is because you are the moon in this pitch-black world. You generously offer so much of yourself, and I hope you remember that while it is a beautifully noble thing to dedicate yourself to the next generation, you are not obligated to give the whole of yourself to anyone. You belong to yourself, first and foremost.  Natsou, my bold and righteous son, for becoming a doctor — you have always been incredibly bright and incredibly kind, and with everything I have, I believe you will be one of the few doctors who will utilize your empathy for your patients in the many ways our family was denied. And on the days you feel yourself running out, remember to let yourself rest and enjoy the one and only life you have because you belong to yourself, first and foremost. Shouto, my little miracle, for becoming a hero — you are not a miracle due to your genetic material, but to the lovingly open heart you’ve approached this life with, approached me with, despite having hurt you so deeply. Your truly heroic resolve will take you far, and while I am excited to see the change you will bring to the world, I want you to know that should you decide to leave the hero-life, you are still worthy of every single breath you take because you belong to yourself, first and foremost. I want you all to squeeze out the very best of this cruel life. You three have chosen to lead your lives with morality, and I cannot belong to the honorable world you’ve chosen. And so, I will only ask you three for one incredibly hard favor.  Please, let me go and continue onwards with the wonderful lives you’re building for yourselves. Love always albeit imperfectly, Mama 
With a bittersweet smile on her face, Rei unfreezes Fuyumi’s bedroom lock and thanks the funny fates for her daughter’s uncanny ability to sleep so deeply.
*
As it turns out, villains are extremely forthcoming when desperate to thaw their blood. They eagerly spill details about a man who calls himself The Doctor who has a direct connection to the League of Villains. Apparently, word travels fast amongst evil mouths because one minute, Rei is turning a street corner to track down another lead, and the next, she’s gagging out thick gray sludge and opening her teary eyes to a dark laboratory lined with neon incubators encasing monsters. 
“Todoroki Rei!” A smarmy voice exclaims behind her. 
She whips around to find a portly man with giant goggles and a funny little creature held in his arms. 
She coughs and spits out a wad of that disgusting sludge, “The Doctor, I presume?”
“I heard you’ve been looking for me.”
She feigns looking around, calling upon her quirk to wrap a microscopic frost around The Doctor’s heart, so light that his body temperature only changes a quarter of a degree. Just enough to feel his organs in the palms of her hands without him suspecting a thing. 
“If you know my name, I’m sure you can guess what it is I want.”
Interrogating villains had the dual advantage of training her quirk. She didn’t have a particularly strong desire to kill anyone — in fact, it only took two pedophiles freezing to death for Rei to master the levels of frost necessary to own her prey. 
She also knows the importance of stealth. Leaving behind a trail of dead bodies is a surefire way to attract a hero, and mystery is key. The less her foes know about her, the more they believe she’s a wild animal with no control and visible ice, the closer her freedom is. 
The Doctor chuckles and Rei looks back at him, even though she really doesn’t need to. He’s in her grasp now, she felt his leering smile before her eyes caught it.
“Everyone in Japan knows your name now, Todoroki-san. You’ve left quite a gruesome impression — taking down the Number One Hero is no small feat.”
Rei gives the man a smile of her own, “I’m a widow now, Doctor-san. Please, call me Himura.”
The Doctor laughs, and through the spike in his heart rate and the sweat beading under his white coat, Rei knows it’s a tactic to cover up his anxiety, “The Paranormal Liberation Front thanks you for your service, Himura-san. Though, I’m not sure if your son will extend that gratitude.”
“Well,” Rei wiggles her icy talons in false threat, “Why don’t we call him over and find out?”
The Doctor takes a serious moment to think, petting his little monster on the glass encasing its exposed brain, “Would you indulge my curiosity in return?”
Rei raises an eyebrow, “Meaning?”
“Oh, nothing bad!” The Doctor assures, though his heart picks up with adrenaline, “I’m a scientist, as you may have gathered. I simply would just like to know more about your quirk, specifically how you were able to hold your own against Endeavor. Fire and ice — seems obvious which one should have won. And yet…”
“And yet,” Rei confirms. She shrugs, “Fine, bring Touya here, unharmed, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” 
The Doctor nods and looks at his beastly pet, “You heard Himura-san, Johnny. Let’s bring about this little family reunion, shall we?”
That same gray sludge starts to seep from the creature’s — Johnny’s — smiling mouth, and it clicks for Rei that the teleportation is a quirk not of The Doctor, but of his experiment.  
Rei is so sick of men and their power-hungry creations. 
On her right, gray sludge starts to form on the floor’s ceramic tiles and build upwards to reveal white boots and billowing white pants lined with staples, followed by a scarred torso wrapped in a white coat with burnt arms and pale hands peeking out the sleeves, until finally the sludge disappears and uncovers a face Rei has only seen trapped in a little black box. 
“Ugh, you fuckin’ creep,” Blue fire engulfs her son’s hands, “What the hell do you — ”
“ — Please put your fire away, Dabi, we have a guest.”
“The fuck?” Her son looks to his right, and then to his left, tired blue eyes widening, “What the fuck.”
Rei smiles, “Hi, Touya.” 
She feels The Doctor move and take hold of something, clearly trying to take advantage of her son’s shock while thinking Rei isn’t paying attention because she’s not doing something as primal as looking.
She freezes The Doctor’s body in place while also using her frost to keep Johnny’s mouth shut, “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she tsks, “Just where did you think you were going?”
Her first-born shakes himself out of his stupor and whips his head towards The Doctor’s paralyzed figure, “You fuckin’ shithead!” His staples snag at the scars of his cheek with the downwards twist of his mouth as he recognizes the object stuck to The Doctor’s hand, “You thought you were gonna tranq us and put us inside your fuckin’ Nomus?!”  
Rei giggles and the snarl on her son’s face softens to a wary frown. 
“So that’s what you meant by wanting to study my quirk,” Rei turns away from her son and walks up to The Doctor and peers into his panicked eyes, magnified by his goggles, “Aren’t you curious how I killed my husband?” 
It’s a rhetorical question, given how she’s frozen The Doctor all the way up to his mouth. She’s not entirely sure how much sound needs to escape his mouth for his little monster to obey a command — better safe than sorry.
She bends down to trail a crystalized claw down The Doctor’s hardened throat, reveling in the clink clink clink to his chest, right around his — “Y’know, his heart was beating really fast, too. I could feel it, just like I can yours — slowing down as the hypothermia kicks in,” She whispers, well aware her son is hanging onto her every word with only the whitenoise of faint bubbling from whatever substance the nomus reside in filtering the silence. 
Rei hums, “You’re a bit like him. You steal away children in hopes of engineering the perfect quirk for a selfish ambition that means absolutely nothing,” She commands her quirk to encase the struggling pumps of The Doctor’s cold heart, “It’s fitting you should die the same way,” and squeezes.
And this time, Rei doesn’t care much about stealth when she shatters The Doctor’s heart in his chest. As if filming a video, her frost captures the way each shard of aorta, ventricle, and atrium explode and pierce into their neighboring organs in mute catastrophe.
She rises and turns around to meet her first-born’s slackened jaw. Her heart catches in her throat as she finally takes in the damage up close, “Touya…”
In his broadcast, Rei remembers her son having more unmarred skin on his face than he does now. The blackened and purple burns that cut his cheekbones now connect to the scars below his eyes. His stress-induced white hair covers most of his forehead, but Rei knows if she were to smooth it back like she would when he was half her height and braiding his only sister’s hair, the pads of her fingers would find the rough leather of her husband’s inability to love his children the way a father is supposed to.
Her first-born’s face tightens in the same anger it had all those years ago when he had realized his birthright was as flimsy as his mother’s appetite, “What the fuck’re you doin’ here?”
She flicks off her icy claws to clatter to the ground, “The monster is gone,” and hopes the silent ‘I come in peace,’ is read between the lines.
Her first-born grips his hair the same way he used to when his father would ignore his hunger for acknowledgment and turn the other way, “He was mine to get rid of!” 
“I’m sorry, Touya,” Rei sighs, her heart aching at having denied her first-born the very thing that has kept him alive this past decade, “But Enji was my responsibility to deal with long before he was yours.”
Rei does not flinch at the tragic cackle that leaves her first-born’s cadaverous mouth to bounce off the walls and echo his despair. 
“Oh yeah?” Her son storms up to her, smoke seeping through his seams and stinging their identically delicate noses, “What about you, huh?” Flames of cremation engulf his hands once more, “You gonna pay the price your precious husband was supposed to? Make it up to me?”
Brilliant blue eyes glow with the phenomena of her first-born’s raw power.
Still, “I’m fireproof, Touya,” She gently reminds him, “If you want to take your revenge out on me, you’ll have to do it another way,” for she cannot even feel the azure blaze that cowers this society’s useless heroes.
His fire snuffs out, and with a speed to rival his father’s, Touya snags a dagger from his boot and holds it to his mother’s throat.
“I didn’t get this far just relyin’ on my cursed-as-fuck quirk.” 
Rei closes her eyes and her smile never falters, “Do what you must. I understand, Touya. It’s okay, if it’s you,” because, really, she just wanted to see her son one last time. She, of all people, knows that freedom is not eternal. When she had asked her children to let her go, she very well knew the many forms of what that could mean. Death is no longer something she fears because now, she knows, that when she enters Hell or Purgatory or whatever resting place the penance of her racked-up sins entails, her husband will be right there with her. If and when she must leave this Earth, she won’t be leaving the Devil behind in her place. 
The dagger shakes against her throat and cuts the skin — but still, she does not wince. She won’t feed guilt into the many things that already eat at her son. 
“You… You dunno what it’s like, to deal with the fact that you should’ve been there,” Touya’s voice cracks at the last two words with the lifelong misery of yearning for a mother who should have done more.
The beast inside her weeps, “I’m so sorry, Touya.” 
She stuffs her tongue to the roof of her mouth and swallows around the thick building of all her sorrows pushing up her throat. She will not cry, she will not let her emotions overtake those of her first-born any longer
“Fuck,” Touya rasps, his trembling voice matching that of his unsteady hand, “Fuck!” 
Suddenly, the pressure is gone from her throat, and at the loud rattle of Touya’s knife being thrown against the wall, Rei opens her eyes and gasps.
Her first-born cries tears of blood. 
Her towers over today, having gone through a growth spurt that Rei was denied witnessing, but at this moment, he looks every bit like the little boy that filled her rumbling belly with all the things she was promised and never given. His broad shoulders hunch over the strong chest branded with all the ways in which he’s been left empty. 
There’s a famished beast inside her eldest son, too, one he was born with. And just like his mother, Touya was tossed aside and abandoned to the fate of nourishing it himself with the meager means of his own two hands — hands that are held together by crude staples that dig into the bleeding tears spawned by all of Rei’s desperate mistakes. 
She wraps her cool hands around his steaming wrists, “I’m sorry for giving up all those years ago,” She pleads, gently pulling Touya’s hands from his face so that he will look at her and sanction her promise, “But I’m here now, and I am never giving up again. On you or myself.” 
“I’ve killed people,” He whispers as if that will change her mind.
Rei cheekily tilts her head towards the glacier of The Doctor’s corpse, “So have I.”
“I’ve killed many people,” He insists. 
Rei shrugs, “How do you think I got here?” 
Her son lets out a frustrated, “Innocent people.”   
“Innocence isn’t real,” Rei tightens her hold on his wrists with her conviction, “Not in this world.”
Touya strains his neck to the ceiling and shakes his mother’s hands off him. “It’s too late,” He growls, “I don’t need a mother.”
Rei only smiles — her first-born has always been so stubborn. She’ll miss being called ‘Mama’.
“Then I won’t be your mother — I was never very good at it in the first place,” and that actually pulls a soft snort from her son. It’s not a proper laugh, not the belly-gripping squeal he’d let out when Rei would tickle his sides or chase him around the living room, but it’s a start and she’ll greedily take whatever her first-born is willing to offer for the slightest chance of their freedom, “Instead, I will be your comrade, if you’ll have me. And maybe one day, your friend.”
Some of the anguish finally leaves her first-born’s brilliant blue eyes and his shoulders begin to sag. He takes a long moment to think before, “We can’t go back to the League. Handjob’s gonna be pissed you killed that creep.”
The beast inside of Rei is singing with glee, “Then we won’t go to the League, if that is what you truly want.”
“Tch,” Touya looks around the lab, “Never really liked the guy anyway. He was just a means to a shitty end,” before he narrows his eyes at his mother, “That you stole from me.”
Rei laughs, “Sorry for stealing your thunder.”
“Yeah, well,” Touya huffs, “Dunno what m’supposed to do now. Wasn’t really plannin’ on stickin’ around after killin’ the old man — thought we’d both, y’know,” and makes a silly bkshoo! sound with his mouth, using his hands to mimic an explosion. 
“Well, in that case, I’m no longer sorry,” Rei deadpans. 
Her first-born rolls his eyes but the smile that pulls at the corner of his lips is too noticeable to the both of them.
Excitement wells up in Rei’s chest and she slowly offers her hand, palm out and welcoming, “So…?” 
“… Okay,” Touya tentatively accepts, long fingers wrapping over his mother’s, and a printless thumb grazes the back of her knuckles, “Fair warning, this is probably gonna suck. We’ll be on the run for the rest of our shitty lives.”
Rei shrugs, “The hospital kept me fit. No exercise, no food.”
“Bastards,” Touya scoffs, before a mischievous smile takes over his lurid face, “Say, before we go, how would you feel ‘bout a lil’ arson? Feels like a waste t’leave the job half-done.”
“I like the way you think,” Rei scans the suspended creatures carrying the poor souls of The Doctor’s sick objective before turning back to her son and taking in his scars, “Oh! That reminds me, I have a theory.”
“Mm?” Touya prompts.
Rei lifts Touya’s arm while untangling their fingers, supporting his elbow with her hand, “So, your body is built to handle cold, and my ice is fireproof. From what I remember, this area,” She uses her index finger to trace the middle of Touya’s palm to the tips of his fingers, “is the only place your fire doesn’t burn you, right?”
He nods, catching onto his mother’s idea, “You’re saying you wanna try icing my body so I don’t burn when I use my quirk.”
Rei grins, “Worth a shot. You’re gonna do it anyway, maybe this is how we protect you.”
“Protect me?” Touya raises a thin brow, “I barely feel anything these days.”
“Which is even more dangerous,” Rei’s smile falls into a stern frown, “Pain tells our body what our limits are. Being numb won’t keep you alive, it’ll just kill you more slowly.”
Touya rolls his eyes, “Alright, fine, whatever.”
And as the laboratory blazes in the glory of blue fire and sets every lost soul free to eternal rest, mother and son confirm Rei’s hypothesis with the lunatic laughter of mad scientists and genius success. Hand-in-hand, they flee with only the stars of Japan hot on their heels and little Johnny tucked away in the large pocket of Touya’s white trench coat.   
I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king
Himura Rei came out of the womb hungry.
She stuffed herself full with the violent scraps of her husband’s carnage, the trivial crumbs of her father’s greed, the cloying handfuls of her mother’s self-sacrifice, and the bountiful chunks of her first-born’s resolve. 
We are what we eat. 
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theresawritesstuff · 10 months
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Ms. Holloway at the Gaslight
Part 1
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"So what was so important that you needed me to sneak you in here in the middle of the afternoon?"
Susie eyed her cautiously as she unlocked the door to the Gaslight.
Midge fidgeted with her gloves as she brushed her way inside their old haunt, looking around the place through a whole new lense.
"I saw my aunt today," she admitted quietly.
"Which side of the family are we talking?" her manager wondered.
Midge smiled absently at Susie's wary tone.
"Papa's. She's Papa's sister."
"Okay… So why the sudden need to come here?"
Midge considered her answer as she made her way towards the back.
"Have you ever heard of Bertie Holloway? She sang here back in the twenties?"
"Of course I've heard of Bertie Holloway," Susie scoffed before catching her meaning. "Wait, are you saying your aunt is Bertie Holloway? The Bertie Holloway?"
"She is," Midge nodded. "...And I didn't know. I mean, I knew that was her name I just didn't realize that…"
She found herself sitting down on the edge of the stage, trying to gather what it was she was feeling into something coherent.
Susie stepped over, sitting beside her as she quietly put a hand on her arm. 
"Hey… you okay? Did something happen with her today?"
"No," Midge laughed, sniffling. "No she's– she was great. We talked a little bit during Boise's interview. She was really great."
She took a shaky breath, closing her eyes as she let it sink in. "Susie, she's like me."
Their talk at the theater had been so refreshing. And yet there was a part of her that couldn't help but feel a little devastated.
To hear her aunt making jokes about her life and her family in a way that was both loving and a little irreverent. Much the same way she crafted her own sets.
The way her aunt laughed at herself for always running a little late or for not having any family photos in her purse but somehow still managing to find three different kinds of hard candy, a bottle opener, and a dog-eared book about songbirds rattling around.
Lester had a few pictures tucked in his wallet that she commandeered to properly brag about her grandchildren, joking that she secretly only carried a purse for the things he refused to keep in his own pockets.
She had a beautiful family. 
They'd built a beautiful life. Not one without its challenges. But beautiful nonetheless.
And Midge couldn't help but think it felt so much more honest and heartfelt than the life she'd been living up until she started doing stand up.
She let out a sigh, shaking her head. 
"All this time I've felt like my career was something completely foreign to my parents. That they just… I don't know. I guess I'd just come to accept that they'd never understand that part of me. That maybe no one in my family would," she explained. "But Aunt Bertha. Bertie…" 
It had mostly been Mama who called her Bertha, she realized.
"I remember her being this whirlwind of a person when I was a kid. She'd blow in from Canada and shake things up, turn our kitchen upside down making a huge dinner with my grandfather butting in every five minutes, singing and laughing and just encouraging me and my brother to be as loud as we wanted. She could never stay long but she always brought so much excitement with her. I'm realizing now that my mother must have hated it."
Susie nodded, smirking slightly in agreement. "Sounds like quite the broad."
"We didn't see her as much during the war. She'd write. Send us presents and cards periodically but…" Midge exhaled. "God I just… I wish I'd known more. I wish I'd known her! Really known her growing up. I wish I'd realized I wasn't alone. That I could have had someone in my family who I could talk to about all this when I was starting out."
She held out a hand adding quickly, "I know I've had you and you've been wonderful. But…"
"I get it," Susie assured her. "So you wanted to see where your family history repeated itself? Find some answers."
Midge nodded. "Kinda."
"Yeah okay." The older woman got to her feet, motioning for her to follow. "Basement's this way."
She got up, following Susie past the bar, into the storage room and to a second door.
Susie paused, her hand on the handle.
"This might not be pretty. I don't know if Jackie ever cleaned down here," she warned.
Midge smirked. "I'll keep my dry cleaner on standby."
Susie gave her a nod, grabbing a flashlight from a shelf as they swung the old wood door open.
There was a light switch at the bottom of the stairs, which to both their surprise still worked.
"Wow…" Midge breathed, taking in the poster plastered walls and dusty assortment of old bar furniture.
Susie stared at the space that had lived just under her feet all those years working here. "Jesus Christ. How is this both filthy and somehow more sanitary than the bathrooms in this joint?"
Midge cracked a genuine smile as she ventured in further.
She let her hand trace along the faded show bills and snapshots of an era gone by.
"Look at these pictures."
"Look at this hooch!" Susie held up a bottle of moonshine from under the makeshift bar excitedly.
Midge paused at the little upright piano tucked along the wall near the makeshift stage, her fingertips finding their way to the keys as she plunked out a clumsy minimalist rendition of The Entertainer.
A little out of tune but not terrible, all things considered.
"You play?" Susie wondered, stunned.
Midge shook her head, remembering herself. "No, not really. Certainly not enough for Papa's standards to qualify. I remember middle c. That's about it."
She blinked at the instrument, realizing her father had likely played it when he was about her age.
Midge tucked her hands around herself, stepping back to look at the old photographs.
She smiled as she found one of Aunt Bertie looking playfully flippant.
"You know Aunt Bertie told me she brought me here once as a kid," she said. "I don't really remember it. I was probably Esther's age at the time. My parents had some sort of school event for Noah and she was in town so she offered to watch me. Anyway, I guess a friend called last minute and asked if she could meet up for a quick coffee. Apparently in the two seconds she turned her back to order me a hot chocolate I'd wandered up and butt in on the poet's stage time to do a rough set on the itsy bitsy spider and little miss muffet."
Susie snorted a laugh. "How'd that go over?"
"Please, I was adorable. She said I brought the house down," Midge retorted.
The older woman looked at her skeptically.
"Okay they probably humored me is more likely the case but she did say they thought I was cute. I'll take the win."
"Comforting to know at least you have always been like this," her manager snarked good-naturedly.
Midge's smile turned thoughtful as she sat on the piano bench. "I remember walking home with her. It must have been that day. She just looked at me like I could be something. Like she was proud of me…"
 Susie came to join her, handing her a second bottle of moonshine she'd found. "Here's to Bertie."
"And to whirlwind aunts everywhere," Midge agreed, clinking their dust covered bottles in toast. "You're not actually going to drink that are you?"
"Thinking about it."
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I dunno what you're going through, but allow me to gift you a fic! ❤
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*ehem*
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You've never been good at cooking. Well, it's not like you make the kitchen explode or manage to bring a dead fish back to life, but sometimes the soup would gain a mouth and the fried chicken (which you decided to fry whole instead of cutting it into pieces... Why...) would try and fight you back via fist fight.
There are also times when the lemonade you make would turn purple instead of pink, and wouldn't taste like lemonade but fucking strawberries and you just have to wonder how that even happens.
Where were you going with this?
Oh, yeah. You can't cook.
And it's not your fault. The instincts of being a witch is hard to let go, especially if this is how you've been since birth.
But then you've gotten memories of a past life. You've suddenly remembered a man with reddish-brown eyes and small smiles. Warm hands and soft lips. Arms wrapped around perfectly around your body. Waking up felt cold and lonely, and suddenly you've gotten a craving from a past life that you can't recreate because your new life instilled all necessary skills to survive.
Craving for the man.
And then craving for the food. Because food is number one in comforting a person.
But, well...
Witches are still not accepted, and should people find out about you, you'll be burned at the stake.
But, maybe you're gonna be found out sooner than later because you're losing against that motherfucking fried chicken. You should be winning because of your knife and your make-shift shield that's the cover of the pot, but the fried chicken is also somehow a master of martial arts and bitch slapped your weapons away before you could even attempt to stab it.
"What kind of witch-craft did I even--"
You looked towards the recipe book.
And found out that it wasn't a recipe book but your Witch's Tome 101 for Dummies.
You cursed and uncursed your past self. And then, you undid the curse on the chicken.
Well, you tried.
Because now the chicken decided you weren't worth the trouble anymore and opened the locks of your window. THE CHICKEN DIDN'T EVEN HAVE FINGERS HOW THE FUCK DID IT EVEN--
You tried to stop it, tried to grab it before it could happily jump into freedom, but it jumped and will now be seen by hundreds of people.
This is it. This is how you'll die.
The fried chicken is running loose in the city all because you had a dream of a past life and craved for food from it.
(Actually, you craved the hot man in it, so the next best thing was the food.)
Ha.
Hahaha.
You're so dead...
A knock on the door has you hitching your breath. Your forehead is somehow beaded with sweat, and you have to wonder if the people are now out to get you.
It hadn't even been minutes since the fried chicken decided it wanted a life for itself outside the four walls of your home.
With shaking hands, you unlocked your door, and slightly opened it to see who's at the other side.
A man... A beautiful man, mind you, was standing at the other side of the door with a scary swordsman behind him.
And... Shiiiiiiiiit...
The scary swordsman has the fried chicken wrapped up in thick rope. Serves that chicken right! BUT ALSO--
"Miss? I think you should let us inside."
You gulped.
You suddenly remembered who this beautiful man is.
Cale Henituse. The man. The myth. The legend himself was standing at your doorstep, probably ready to slay you if you say even the wrong thing.
And so, accepting your fate, you decided death via beautiful man wouldn't be so bad.
Stupid craving for beautiful men and fried chicken. Haaaaaaa....
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Annnnd that's it! Witch!Reader and some very innaccurate witch craft finding her connection to her past lover via enchanted fried chicken! I hope you like it! ❤
OH MY GOD🥺🥺🥺
THIS IS SO CUTE ??? THANK YOU SO MUCH YOURE AMAZING AT THIS!!!
i was having pretty tiring day lately and this definitely lifted my mood🥺💗
also,
🥺🥺 you're making me wanna write thisISJSBWK i could write a witch!reader x cale but it probabily would end up making no sense since the only kinda witchy thing i do is tarot and im not even good at it😭😵‍💫
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Persona 4 Fic (It will eventually feature OCs. I know people hate them but it's something I do as a writer so...)
Even though he had returned to the city the next spring after his adventure first began in Yasoinaba, the quaint little town out in the middle of the countryside, he returned time and time again. Why? Everything he held dear was there. His uncle, his cousin, his friends, all of the people he formed genuine bonds with were there. Even though he graduated back in his home city, he felt empty because he didn’t have his friends by his side. He felt hollow. He kept visiting the city over every break, even when he went to a good university, he kept coming back.
He risked his very life to save this town. He obtained the power of Persona given to him by the goddess Izanami without him knowing it. He helped his friends overcome their dark sides and obtain control over their own personas, he defeated and brought a cop he trusted once to do it, he even defeated a god to do it. It wouldn’t be possible without the help of the very friends he helped to rescue.
Once he graduated, he got hired easily at the same school that he attended all those years ago, Yasogami High School. He’s the teacher all the girls drool over. Every year, every girl entering third year hoped to be in his homeroom class. He’s tall, handsome, long legs, a body you wouldn’t mind wrapping your arms around. His voice matured into one that could provide sexy ASMR. Even the staff can’t help but stare at him. He makes every woman weak in the knees…and a good portion of men too.
When he first came to the town, he was 17 years old, and now, he’s 23 years old. How fast time passes. He still visits his uncle often and they usually end up drinking until they pass out at the kitchen table, leaving the now 12 year old Nanako to clean up and look after them. Kanji is still in Inaba, and has inherited his family’s Textile Shop at the age of 22. His handmade dolls became such a big part of the shop when he took over that the business was renamed Tatsumi Textiles and Crafts. He even teaches sewing classes to the neighborhood kids, and the adults who are interested in learning. Yu and Kanji speak regularly.
Yosuke worked under his father as manager for a long time, and he took school seriously enough to try to become an entrepreneur. The only problem is that it didn’t work out at all so he stayed working at Junes just to make ends meet for a while. His actual skills grew exponentially to the point where he was offered the manager position when his father decided to move along with managing another company. Of course, Yu and Yosuke speak daily and get together as often as possible. His new position helped to make Teddie the official Junes mascot. Teddie still lives with Yosuke as usual.
Yukiko inherited the inn and is busier than ever, Chie is the Kung-Fu Cop people speak of all over the place even in the city, Naoto is a detective in the neighboring city of Okina, she and Yu still share a very special relationship (I ship Naoto and Yu, don’t @ me), it’s why she works nearby instead of working in the bigger cities or joining the Shadow Operatives. Marie is still changing the weather for him but also the good of the environment. Rise went from idol to acclaimed actress an even as busy as she is, she finds a way to go back to Inaba. Even as adults with different lives, somehow, they’ve never stopped being friends like a lot of others have. The connection never seems to fray. Then again, when you have real friends, there’s nothing that can break it apart.
Essentially, nothing has changed but responsibilities and time itself. Narukami tucks himself away into the corner of Junes’ food court, just like back when the Investigation Team was still around to solve the case, but today, he’s grading papers. He spends a few hours buried in the writings of his students looking for errors and areas that need to be improved. The ladies patronizing Junes often buy food to eat at the food court just to stare at him. They swoon when he runs his fingers through his hair, or runs his tongue around his adorable little pout in concentration, and even when he stretched his back and neck after a long time staring downwards.
His smartphone buzzes with messages beside him.
Yosuke is leaving work soon and the night manager is taking over so they can go for drinks together like they do every Saturday. Kanji is closing up shop at that time so he can join them. Teddie, who spends a bit of time checking on the TV world while living full time in Inaba with Yosuke still, has also decided to join them. The more time Teddie has spent learning about human body functions by reading books, the more his body has continued to change.
He's grown taller, his face and body have matured, and his insides that were once grayed out in X-Rays have filled with every single organ that any human needs to function. Teddie, like Yu, is a special case. Powerful intervention caused a shadow that awakened to human emotions to be able to have an ego of its own, and thus, be able to slowly change as they continue to connect to the human world. He has own identity fully, and he’s now essentially the same as any human. Especially in one sense.
Teddie loves the ladies, and he has an ability to charm a woman that rivals Yu for sure, especially since he’s learned finesse. When he gained real sexual function…oh boy. He’s had a few ladies under his belt so far, much to the chagrin of Yosuke who still hasn’t grown into a man that has much game. Kanji doesn’t fare much better, but he’s gotten better with his self-esteem. He’s embraced himself fully as a man and is an inspiration to young boys who struggle with having “feminine” interests. They really look up to him, and as a result of gaining that respect women have started to notice him a little.
As he gets up to go meet his friends, Yu has everyone watching him like a fashion model on a runway. When he eventually meets up with his three friends as the sun goes down, and the food and drinks are flowing, the stares never seem to end for him. The patron of this Izakaya they go to, a lovely woman wearing a kimono and her cooks always make things extra special for him and his friends just to show off their culinary skills to him, and when Teddie throws on his charms, the women nearly implode.
They continue drinking into the night, unaware that another harrowing experience is coming towards them. Their personas still inside of them all, they just may need to use them once more.
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bruciemilf · 2 years
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I so desperately crave a fic where Bruce forgot all about the interview he scheduled with Clark. With this portrayal specifically
He's swallowed up by that ginormous red hoodie Jason always forgets at the manor.
It's got a soft undertone of beer and pizza clinging to it, and knowing Jay, the chances of that changing are close to none. It's Bruce's favourite thing to wear.
Below that, Dick's sweatpants have to be snaked tight around his waist. He's wearing Tim's ridiculously soft socks, Batman themed as well, a flock of bats starting from his calf and gathering into his famous cowl on top of his foot.
On his hands, he's sporting two bracelets that Damian and Cassandra asked him to help craft. He accepted, of course, because his little Damian looked astray, his eyebrows down and eyes worried.
They were both terrible at it. Cassandra had a great time. And Bruce's dark green and sunshine gold bracelets pleased Damian greatly.
But he had no time to shower that morning; His ribs were moaning still, every step he took feeling like Bane's brutal, sledgehammer punches, hitting him right in the gut.
And Dick stole all his conditioner, and Steph smuggled his skincare products, exfoliants, bath salts, and everything she could get her grabby little hands on, and gone she was. Tiny fingers, big damage.
But that was fine; He didn't expect anyone today. He'll just scarf some blueberries and yoghurt and gulp down four espressos before burying his nose in Jim's earliest case.
That's what he thought
Before modern day Adonis suddenly emerged I his living room.
This man, he's...He's... he's beauty. That's all Bruce can muster in his flustered mind, brain itself blushing, cheeks hot and soaring with a fierce flush. Which was impossible to miss with his paleness. God.
There you are! Got me scared for a moment there," oh no. He makes deep voices sound cute. Those pearly whites had no mercy on Bruce, neither did that boyish grin, glowing silver and warm. " Thought I'd fall through a secret door and straight to a shark tank. "
Say something. Say something funny, come on, he's joking with you.
" ... Why are you In my house?"
Fuck.
This man, - Clark, Bruce knows who he is. Out of all the bad things that had to happen today, being surprised by his favorite journalist just had to be one of them, - blinks, some grin cut down, and Bruce curses in his mind.
"Um. Your father let me in. Did you forget,-"
" I forgot you were coming. I, uh. I," he stuttered; He hasn't stuttered since he was 16, and had to pitch that board meeting to a mile long table of greedy, silver artefacts in suits who wanted to snatch his company. " I, - Coffee. You want...Coffee?"
"...Sure. I'd love some."
Was it just Bruce, or did this report carry a note of amusement in those words? Bruce scrambled for the first cupboard he could see, " NO!"
Clark jumped on his feet, making a dash for him behind the kitchen island. Bruce almost choked, because up close, he could notice the buttons and seams on that baby blue plaid shirt fight for their lives. " What's wrong?!"
" We're out of coffee," he hissed, muttering a ' damn it, Tim, I TOLD you to replace it' but no matter. He had to find Clark something else. " Uh... Water? Juice? Do you like orange juice?"
He could see it, the corners of Clark's lips tugging upwards,
" Orange juice is my favourite drink. But it's fine, really. I'm here to unbury your deepest darkest secrets, not have lunch," he smiled, then, most likely noticing Bruce simply froze in place, he added, " That was a joke!"
Bruce forced a laugh, " Of course. Why would I have something to hide? I have nothing to hide," Very well, that sounded entirely too suspicious. " I mean, not anything illegal. Just... Secrets. The normal amount."
Clark nodded, endlessly patient, this saint of a man, " I've had my share of that. Don't worry, Mr. Wayne."
" Oh, just Bruce. Mr. Wayne was my father...And my grandfather too."
The taller man smiled, " I'm just going to ask you about your involvement in renovating Arkham and maybe Mr. Grayson's podcast, but that's all. I won't try to fish for information. I don't believe in peer pressure and bullying."
" I know," his mouth spoke without him, " I, uh, I know you. Your journalism, I mean! My youngest enjoys your online interviews. We watch you together. I'm a fan of your writing, thought. It's magnificent. "
Even if Clark blushed to be polite and thanked him quietly, Bruce wanted to dive off a building without a grappling hook.
" Uh... Bruce? You're murdering your orange."
True enough. The fruit was entirely empty in his clenched fist, spilling over his hand and pooling on the floor. Bruce cursed. Slamming the sad, deflated remaining on the counter, he simply said, " I'll cut this now."
" Okay." Nodded Clark, clear, perfect blue eyes fixed on Bruce and his hands. Bruce only prays his fingers won't tremble like his heart is.
He stabs the orange.
It squirts all over his hoodie, and Bruce offers no reaction.
It's almost worth it, this pit of mortification slowly, tortuously devouring his body, to see Clark's impressive frame shake with laughter behind his giant hands, goofy glasses crooked on his nose.
" I'm sorry," he sounds as dead as he feels. " The orange has retaliated."
That did it; Clark was full on laughing now. Humiliation burned like liquid fire over Bruce's face.If Dick were here, or Alfred, he'd hide his face into their chests like a shameful child.
But neither are there, so all he can do is slowly place the knife on top of marble, and stand there like a statue.
Coming off his high, Clark watches him closely, a speckle of mirth shining on blue. " You know, you're nothing like I thought you'd be. As much as I enjoy this, you should change."
" I'll try. I don't want to be like this, either."
Clark grinned. " I meant your clothes, Bruce."
" ... Yes. I should. I have a large collection of clean clothes. Because I do my laundry regularly. I know how to do laundry."
Why are you still talking?
Then, gone was that angelic, fond grin from Clark's Greek statue of a face. He smiled hotly, almost...Sultry? At Bruce now. Something saucy. Sweat was sticking to his skin. " Do you want me to pick something for you?"
"... Please?" He squeaked.
Twin steps went inside his bedroom, and they didn't come out for a long time.
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late-nite-scholar · 1 year
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TES Shiptober- Day 1-3: First Meeting (Part 2!)
And we’re back with post #2 for the first prompt of the month (courtesy of @hombrediablo​)! For the second of our ‘first meetings’, here is my Breton, Orielle, and Vilkas. In my proper reckoning of things, Orielle is not the LDB, but shows up post-Purity when Besharat is Harbinger. (In the timeline where Orielle is Dragonborn, Besharat gets there first but Orielle becomes Harbinger) This story follows my ‘canon’ timeline of Orielle coming to Jorrvaskr post-Purity. I hope that all made sense. Either way, it’s pure fluff.  
Warnings- none
Length- 1.2k
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(I actually got a picture of their first meeting!)
***
Vilkas did not believe in love at first sight. It was a ridiculous notion; the idea you could instantly love someone upon meeting them, before knowing the first thing about them! Before even knowing their name! It was a thing for romance tales only, a concept to make maidens sigh and blush at the thought, but never something that actually happened. 
But the gods have a sense of humor. 
He had been discussing some new jobs with the Harbinger that afternoon. What had once been Kodlak's study was now an office where the Circle often met to sort out the day-to-day running of the Companions, everything from jobs coming in and out, to pay for the kitchen staff, to upkeep of the hall itself. Many of Kodlak's belongings remained around, but new items had found their way into the office, things reflecting its new owner. The most obvious was the small statuette of a smiling, four-armed woman that watched the room from her spot on the Harbinger's desk. He doubted a Yokudan goddess had ever graced Jorrvaskr before, but she seemed right at home here.  
A knock on the door interrupted them, and it opened to admit a woman probably around their own age. She was short enough for him to guess her as a Breton, and she stood proudly and confidently in finely crafted armor. She even wore the platinum braids of her hair like a crown on top of her head. When her gaze swept over him, he saw her eyes were an unusual purple color. She was also the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he found himself frozen, unable to look anywhere else but at her. 
"My name is Orielle Themond, and I seek Harbinger Besharat Earth-Breaker." Her delicately accented voice was filled with authority. 
Across the table from Vilkas, Besharat smiled. "I am she. What can I do for you?" 
"I am here because I wish to join the Companions. I have not found what I wanted in my homeland, and stories of this place and this group have brought me here instead." 
Something in Vilkas' heart leapt. She wanted to join! 
"Ah, but of course. If you prove yourself able, we'd be more than happy to have you." Besharat was looking her over now, appraising her closely. "Your weapons and armor are of fine make, but I'd like to see what you're capable of." 
"I am a spell-sword, trained with some of the finest in all of High Rock. What would you have me do to prove myself?" 
"Nothing too dramatic, I'm afraid. A quick spar only. The real Trial comes later once you’ve shown you have promise. Right now, we just want to see how you fight. This is my Master at Arms, Vilkas. He will test your abilities before we go any further." 
Hearing his name pulled Vilkas out of his trance. Spar her? But of course, that was part of his job. No different than when he'd done the same at Kodlak's request for the woman he now called Harbinger. Who was now looking at him expectantly. 
"Of course. Let's see what you can do." He stood, giving Orielle a smile. She graced him with one in return, turning nearly every bone in his body to jelly. Despite this, he was able to traverse the hallway and up the stairs behind her. He then took the lead outside to the training yard. Besharat grabbed a chair and sat as he and Orielle descended the stairs.
Now they were facing one another. Orielle had a fine, elegantly crafted sword in one hand. She held nothing in the other, but held it ready in a way he’d seen Besharat do when she had no shield or needed to rely on her magic instead. He almost wasn’t sure if he should use his own shield. Would that be unfair? Ah, but she was here to prove herself to the Companions, so she must know what she was about. He fitted his shield to his arm, and drew his sword.
“Now then, just take a few swings at me, so I can see what you can do,” he instructed. And so she did. They danced back and forth, neither giving an inch. Orielle was quick, and used her smaller size to get in close, far closer than many opponents would’ve been able to. It kept him on his toes, and impressed him greatly. Though she didn’t cast any spells to aid her, she was skilled enough with just her sword that she didn’t need to.
Vilkas lost track of time, too consumed in the match. And his opponent. Gods, she was magnificent. But this time, as their blades clashed, each seemed to have the same idea. Blades locked, and then flew to the side as they disarmed the other. Vilkas held his shield ready, dropping into a defensive stance. Orielle did the same, casting her first spell of the match; a shield much like his, but made of magicka. They stood like this, staring the other down for a long moment. 
He broke the tension with a laugh. “Shall we call it a draw, my lady? I have seen all that I need to.”
“That would depend on your decision, my good sir,” she replied, without missing a beat. 
Vilkas turned to where Besharat watched. They exchanged a nod, and he faced his opponent again, but this time with a smile. Lowering his shield, he ducked his head in a quick bow. 
“Welcome to the Companions, Orielle Themond.”
Her shield of magicka dissipated, and he could see tears filling her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I am honored beyond words.”
He scooped up her sword and held it out to her. “It is well-earned. Why don’t I show you around? We can find you a bed, and a place for your things. Then maybe we could go up to the Skyforge?”
“That sounds wonderful.” 
As they made their way back inside, Vilkas started telling her about the history of the Companions. She eagerly joined in as they walked, her face bright with enthusiasm. She was well-studied, and asked deeper questions than most new recruits would. He found himself enamoured by her wit and intelligence; she was as quick with her words as with her sword. As they moved through the hall, she greeted every new face with a joy that was infectious. Vilkas felt its glow as well, a warmth that spread through every fiber of his being. It got only stronger when her arm slipped through his as they walked side-by-side. And suddenly, he understood. 
This was how his brother had felt when Besharat had joined. Oh, how ironic that he would fall so effortlessly in love after warning his brother against this very thing! That he would do just as Farkas had done and thrown caution to the wind, letting this utter bliss take him over instead. But as he looked down and met Orielle’s smile, he knew he couldn’t do anything else. And given the choice, he would choose her, over and over again. 
Vilkas hadn’t believed in love at first sight. But the gods have a sense of humor.    
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