#the wicked cycle is fascinating to me

[redrobin-detective]

Iruma-kun, the Six Fingers and Humanity

I have been mulling over this idea for days as I devoured the Iruma-kun anime then manga and am still struggling to articulate it. The best I can boil down to is the whole goal of the Six Fingers and the return to origins is, unbeknownst to them, a desire to become more human.

I can understand, in a way, their frustration. Demons used to be merciless killers, where the strong surpassed the weak and magic, aggression and power won the day. Now we see they have idol concerts and theme parks and silly games to help demons safely purge their “wickedness” which is, in reality just another part of their nature. The majority of modern day demons deny a large part of themselves. The whole idea of a wicked cycle is endlessly fascinating to me, like this species has compartmentalized themselves so much that their pent up darker impulses periodically spring out and require them to be handled gently or hidden away. I can see how this practice is insulting and incredibly restrictive of what a demon is.

Now, right from the start, Iruma has stood out in the demon world for a few reasons. First and most obviously, he lacks any practical or cultural knowledge of demonic society. We see Iruma ignorantly stride past social norms and boundaries he didn’t even know existed. If it weren’t for his upbeat, people pleasing attitude he’d be written off as a delinquent but instead he helps foster an environment of change in a bunch of slackers and misguided students. And change is a radical concept in a society that hasn’t replaced the demon king in centuries since the old one disappeared. The effect of Iruma’s very presence, his enthusiasm and attitude and cooperative abilities can be seen so strongly on the Misfit class that its no wonder he’s become such a stand out student.

So I had heard of Irumean when I first started the series and had high expectations of him being a full on bastard. And he simply wasn’t. He was arrogant, reckless, rude at the worst but even those around him commented that his innate, unnatural kindness was still there. I argue because Irumean was never a true wicked cycle. It was Ali-san’s attempt to induce a demonic ritual onto him. But humans aren’t like demons, Iruma is a good, kind, patient boy due to his trauma and strength of character. At any point he could lash out in the most horrific fashion and leave everyone stunned because he is not bound such such strict rules of personality and conduct. His humanity is as much a strength as it is a weakness.

So according to recent chapters, Iruma has traces of Delkira’s energy. My first thought was that it was emanating from Ali-san, which is a distinct possibility but why was the ring attracted to Iruma in the first place? My next theory is that Delkira had some connection to humans as well. Either he’s a hafling or a demonized human or spent a significant amount of time in the human world. Either way, this human perspective is what made him so powerful, such an irreplaceable leader that his throne has remained empty for so long. One could even argue that the energy that the Six Fingers identify as ‘Delkira’ is actually just ‘human’ since the King’s energy is familiar while a human’s is not.

My whole round about point I’m doing a very poor job of explaining essentially boils down to, demons want to return to their origins to have more control over their baser instincts. Instincts and free will that humans, such as Iruma, possess naturally. But while Iruma has the capability for great evil, unrestrained by a set cycle, he also has such an overflowing well of love in him. Delkira, what little we’ve seen of him comes across as brash, fickle and cruel. You may note those are human traits as well. But Iruma also leads with kindness, dedication and teamwork. He will make a marvelous King because the humanity he brings to the table will help all of demonkind.

I do believe as the manga progresses we will see Iruma’s humanity become a  game changer in the battle against the Six Fingers. How he sees the world (both human and demon), how he interacts and inspires others, how he fights. Reaching a point where not only does Iruma stand up for himself but he is forced to cause harm (and by consequence addressing his people pleasing trauma) and behave in a manner not seen by demons outside of their wicked cycle. When he does, years down the road, become King, I believe he will address the concerns of factions like the Six Fingers. Demons are not meant to be fully contained but cannot be allowed to run rampant. With his feet in both worlds, I believe he will be able to balance both opposing views and ‘heal’ the underworld as the prophecy states. Not just from the instability of the Six Fingers but from this bizarre evolutionary cycle demons have fallen into over the centuries.

#mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #iruma kun spoilers #not sure how to tag this?? #the wicked cycle is fascinating to me #so youre saying i can compile all my bitchy evil energy into a few day cycle?? #its absolutely insane if you think about it #and Yes wtds is a lovely lighthearted series that I adore but sometimes I think 'gosh this is tame for hell' #and i argue that its not supposed to be like this! #how they got stuck in this cycle is up for debate if it pre or post dates Delkira #the point remains that Iruma can and absolutely should go feral at some point #bc he is a human and his personality and actions are managed only by himself #I want all his people pleasing meek adorableness to backfire on him and we see a hint of the rage beneath #I want him to maim even kill in a rage bc the indignities done to him have been simmering for years and now someone is threatening his new h #*home #The six fingers want him bc of delkira yeah but also his ability to transcend the limits of being a modern demon #something something humans are the true demons the latter having managed themselves so tightly they no longer resemble demons of old #that Iruma even as good and pure as he is is still more alike Delkira than any modern demon #Ive kind of lost the bubble on this but things Ive been thinking about #Im all caught up and I feel Extreme Stress over the Diverticulum #i cant wait!

[ransomnote]

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 25 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

“Surrender to me. I will eat this sweet pussy every morning for breakfast. I will be your slave.”

You don’t believe him, of course, but there is a growing desperation in his pleas that fills you with warning. He’s been patient with you, but you wonder if someday this man will not snap.

He has you tied up again.

You’d watched him produce the red ropes earlier with resignation, but surprisingly, no fear. You realize that you have arrived at a place of relative numb, where you have accepted he will not satisfy you without your submission, but you trust him not to really hurt you.

Drive you absolutely batshit insane, maybe. But not hurt you.

You’ve had time to think about it, and you know there are so many things he could have done by now to really win your compliance. He could have beat you. Starved you. Drugged you. All the usual dirty tricks men have used to keep independent women in line over the millennia.

He has not so much as spanked you, really, except for that once the other day, and even you know that had been child’s play.

More and more, you have come to understand that this man has been through it. He’s told you more about his brutal past, curled up with his head in your lap, spilling his soul to you while you stroked his dark hair. You have discovered that once he feels safe, the taciturn Mr. Wick actually has a lot to say.

If you hadn’t been sleeping beside him, the signs of PTSD might have escaped your notice. But after over a week in his non-stop company, you have woken beside him when he’s riddled with night terrors, his strong hands gripping your body hard enough to leave bruises. Sometimes he zones out, and you know he's not really seeing the room you're in. 

After hearing about his training (as a fucking child soldier!) and the things he had to do to survive over the years working for the Bratva, trapped in a cycle of violence he had little power to escape or control, you honestly think it’s a miracle that he’s come out of it as intact as he has—and goddamn if there isn’t a part of you that wonders if you cannot bring him back.

You should know better by now, than to think you can fix a man with your love. It’s a mistake you’ve made before, in your younger years, and you should know that nothing lies down that path but disappointment and heartbreak. But…what else do you have to do with your time?

Take up knitting?

You had watched him with a distant fascination, as he looped your wrists in the cord, securing them with beautiful knots before affixing your spread arms to the metal headboard. You had thought the curled iron design of the bed to be very pretty, but now you understand the form of it is perfect for knotting ropes in various positions.

You’re not sure how long he’s been torturing you with his tongue, bringing you right to the edge licking your clit with his fingers buried inside you, before withdrawing right at the last moment. He always fucking knows, even when you do your best to remain still as a stone. You have been going through your days in a constant state of low-burning arousal, perpetually wet with slick and uncomfortably swollen. You feel where his body has been every time you sit down, keenly aware of what he’s done, and what he hasn’t allowed you.  

“My poor darling,” he continues to taunt you, taking a break to nip at the inside of your thigh, your soft flesh already riddled with little bruises. “Why do this to yourself, when with three little words I could set you free?”

You cannot hold in your ragged sigh. “It’s kind of nostalgic really, just like my first boyfriend in high-school. Getting fucked constantly with no real hope of satisfaction…”

Wick responds to this with a snarl, the way you knew he would. Jesus Christ but his teeth are sharp. Suddenly he sucks at your clit with a vengeance, making you squirm and cry out in surprise. Of course he stops before you even have the chance to make use of the friction.

“I do not want to hear about the other men you’ve had in your life,” he cautions you. “I’m the only one who counts now.”

“Could have fooled me.”

When he gets on his knees with a dark look, you do feel some satisfaction. You’ve learned if you piss him off enough, he’ll try to punish you by taking his pleasure and leaving you hanging. At this point, you’re just relieved that it’s over.

“That smart mouth needs filling,” he growls, guiding his tip to your lips, and you let him fuck your face, sucking his glans messily with a swirl of your tongue the way you’ve learned drives him mad. The only time he catches a hint of teeth is not your fault, but his, in his enthusiasm for trying to shove his cock down your throat. It’s not long before he cums, spilling hot seed across your tongue. Some of it dribbles down your chin, and he wipes it across your lips with narrowed eyes, daring you to spit it out.

You’re foolhardy, but you’re not stupid. You lap it from his finger like a good girl, watching the post-orgasm glaze take over his midnight dark eyes.

The monster will be sated, for a little while.

You’ve bought yourself time, but no real relief.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

[pennyserenade]

PEDRO PASCAL MASTERLIST.

( spotify playlist ) 

one shots:

woman taken by the wind ( e )

desire is a delicious thing.

foreigner’s god ( e )

screaming the name of a foreigner’s god, the purest expression of grief - hozier

( spotify playlist )

one shots:

take me where your heart is  ( e )

even in a big world, there’s not much else to do but be fascinated with one another.

flesh & blood ( e )

javier peña has never been the best at deciding what’s good for anyone but sometimes, just sometimes, he can figure it out for himself

i remember you well ( e )

there are memories that haunt and there are memories that merely linger; what they were that one summer is the latter to Javier.

life could be a dream ( e )

to outrun being human is not sensible. its their constant state of being and something that they are reminded with frequency. so, they’ve stopped trying at that. instead, javier and this woman have decided to embrace the pain of being human together. its a wicked game, sure, but no worse than realizing separately that they are one lonely drop in a big ocean.

series: 

scenes from a marriage ( finished ) ( e )

javier peña is a dea agent naively navigating his way through life in colombia. as if life is not complicated or risky enough while he partakes in the search for the infamous pablo escobar, javier has decidedly fallen in love. these are the scenes from his marriage, full of trials and tribulations, set in colombia, circa 1979–1993. anthology series, but definitely better if read in order.

fade into you ( on-going ) ( e )

like all great things in laredo, they began as whispers. javier has been back from colombia for a couple months and he is beginning to readjust back into a life he had fled. life is an endless cycle of restless nights, nameless hands to shake, and the unshakeable feeling that he is an outsider in his own hometown. mariella and her family have been in laredo since a little after javier left it, running from their own pasts and making it home. her life is an endless cycle of working, feeling too known, and the unshakeable feeling that she is never going to be a person that belongs anywhere. now that their stays in the town are overlapping, javier and this woman find themselves gravitating towards each other. being cut from much of the same cloth, she and javi are made to tackle long overdue life lessons through one another. whether they learn from them or not is something everyone in laredo is curious to find out 

drabbles:

time of the season ask ( m )

( spotify playlist )

one shots:

ungodly hour ( m )

‘til the cows come home ( e )

jack daniels is the sort of man lucky enough to happen upon beautiful women’s windows, and she is the sort of woman unfortunate to want men who do that. it’s been working beautifully ever since he did.

series:

his girl friday ( on-going ) ( e )

when agent jack daniels discovers that his partner alicia fitzgerald (better known as pinkie to jack, because of her preference for pink champagne) is to be married, he decides he must do his very best to save her from the life of the mundane. 

( spotify playlist )

series:

goodbye, baby ( on-going ) ( e )

for as long as she could remember, ada perez has wanted desperately to be a writer of worth. she’s sworn time & time again that nothing can or will stand between her & that million dollar article she knows she’s got in her. when she sided with dave york, who was notorious amongst the elite of new york’s ugly underbelly, she really began to believe herself. he introduced her to a world of lies, deceit, and doing anything to stay at the top. he let her rub elbows with the prominent people he’d know for years, letting her see him promise them dirty deeds in exchange for protection & status. then he let her write articles about the very same class of people, outlining their various sins, just because they didn’t deliver the way he thought they should have just once. she learned quick that the name dave york was synonymous with god in this world of theirs, & she clung to him. now, many loyal years later, ada is being pushed to understand what it means to truly sacrifice for your maker. will she be confronted by the fact that in her still beats the heart she denies she’s got, or will she be rewarded manna from heaven for her good behavior? 

( spotify playlist )

series:

losing dogs ( on-going ) ( e )

frankie morales knows he isn’t the most perfect man, but he’s found someone who cares for him despite it. a friend. a lover. this is a collection of one shots about the same couple, but they can all be read separately.

( spotify playlist )

one shots:

it’s never over ( m )

dieter asks you to go to the opening night of his play and you do. for this he rewards you handsomely.

only backwards ( e )

it has been 6 months since you last heard from dieter bravo. this time he comes back to you with a black eye and he asks for too much. it is just like always.

you can(t) always get what you want ( e )

your relationship with dieter (albeit the very loose definition of the term) has finally landed you in the tabloids. he attempts to make it up to you 

three’s company ( e ) 

the world is slowly descending into madness all around you, so you decide to give in and go with dieter to his latest poor decision: a franchise movie filming in england. one night while there, you both sweep another into this odd half-hearted, life-long tryst you've got.

the hollywood hedonist method ( e )\

dieter's movie is bad and he looks to you for a quick fix to a long problem.

#pedro pascal x reader #javier pena x reader #javier peña x reader #dieter bravo x reader #frankie morales x reader #dave york x reader #oberyn martell x reader #javier peña #pedro pascal #dave york #dieter bravo #frankie morales #javier pena #oberyn martell #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels #pedro pascal masterlist.

[captain-mj]

Are we gonna get a part four for love potion pretty please I‘m eating drywall right now

Of course!!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Soap went into the woods that night with Ghost to search for the beast. Well, that’s why Ghost invited him. He was collecting some of the ingredients for Roach. And then he did it the next night. And the next. Eventually, it had been two full cycles of the moon. 

Ghost had become slightly more lax around him. Not much, but if his armor exposed some of his skin or he just didn’t know what to say, he let Soap know. He joked with Soap. Soap was pretty sure he smiled at him. He swore he heard it in his voice. 

Right now, Ghost casually took off his mask. This far away from his beloveds, his eyes were normal. His hair had been cut a bit shorter since they had last talked. Soap wanted to draw him. Or kiss his freckles. Or both. “Hungry?” 

If he had less of a filter, he would’ve said yes, for him. The time together did not do him any favors. Instead of finding flaws with him, something to convince him that his crush is stupid. All it did was make him want him more and more. Sometimes all he wanted was to press his face against Ghost’s neck. 

If he was honest, with all of his spare time being used for Roach as well, he had a similar feeling. He wanted to press against him, kiss him breathless.

It was a good thing neither wanted him as it would impossible to ever choose. 

Soap nodded. “I could eat.” He pulled his bag out and sat down to lean against a tree. He expected Ghost to pick a different tree to sit at but instead, he sat right next to Soap, thighs almost pressed together. “We do this for how long, sir? Won’t Lord Roba miss you?”

“He’s found his time with me.” Ghost sighed. “Always does.” He stole a piece of the goat cheese Soap had and popped it in his mouth. 

Soap watched him, fascinated with how his teeth chewed through things. He took a piece of the fruit Ghost had and ate it quietly. 

Memories faded. That was part of the passage of time. But that night had been sealed into his brain. Ghost in the throes of pleasure, head tilted back, mouth open. Soap knew he could do better than them. With no spell, he was sure he could do better by Ghost. 

Maybe it was a bit of a wicked thought.. Especially with what he knew Ghost went through. But God that did not help his feelings for him. He wanted to kiss him desperately. To touch him. Run his fingers through his hair. Press against him. 

“Finds time?”

“In the morning. Today he decided to get my time before I left.” 

Soap glanced at him, biting his jealous back. Now that he pointed it out, Soap could see the bites right at the edge of his collar. “Hmm. And when do you sleep?”

Ghost laughed. “I don’t sleep.”

“Elf thing?”

“Ghost thing. Never slept well. Especially not now a days.” Ghost closed his eyes. 

“Did they do something that hurts?”

Ghost paused and glanced at him. “Why do you care?”

“I want to know if you’re hurt.” Soap answered honestly. 

He seemed to accept that answer as he nodded and looked away again. “Some cuts on my thighs. I can move just fine. My fault?”

“How was it your fault?”

Ghost finished his food and sighed. He glanced at him. “Haven’t found the thing yet. They’re punishing me until I find it.” 

Soap nodded. “We’ll find it.” Or he’d die trying. He hated the idea of Ghost being punished for the crime of not being able to track a creature that might not even exist. 

Ghost sighed. “I hope we don’t. I can take it. It’s just a creature following it’s nature. Doesn’t deserve to die for that. I’m used to being hurt.”

“You joked about eating it.”

“I’ll make the most of it if we do. I won’t hesitate to kill it. But… I don’t want to. I stopped wanting to hurt anyone a long time ago.” Ghost smiled and closed his eyes. 

Soap swallowed and chose to sit in silence with that. He looked at him, wanting to kiss him. 

Simon looked at him. Soap could feel the difference. Something changed from one second to another. “Johnny.”

“Simon, do you think if we were miles away, things would be different?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we were somewhere else, miles removed from everything, what would you do?” 

Ghost thought about it for a minute. “I’d go home to Roba and Pilar as soon as I could.” 

Soap felt his heart break. “Ah. I see. Let’s keep going.” 

Ghost nodded and got up, pulling his mask back on. 

The two of them ventured further out and Soap looked for the last two ingredients on his list. Something from Ghost and foxgloves. They had something to do with deception and the breaking of it. 

Soap had no clue how he was going to get something from Ghost. He did tell Ghost he was looking for foxglove. When asked why he’d need foxglove, he fumbled before just awkwardly explaining they were his favorite.

Ghost had stared at him for a minute before they continued through the night. As the moon started to set, Soap realized it was another night without the plant he needed and another day where Ghost would be punished for not finding this fucking thing. 

Soap sighed as they circled the entire town. “Guess we’ll have to call it a night, Simon.” He turned around and paused. 

Ghost had a bundle of foxglove out. “Here. I passed some earlier.” 

Soap swallowed and took it slowly. “Thank you.” 

Ghost nodded and left him alone there. Soap looked at the flowers in his hand and swallowed thickly. His hand came up slowly to touch the buds. 

It took him a long time to walk away from that spot as his head spun. But eventually he did. He went straight to Roach. 

Roach who beamed when he saw him. Roach who always let him stay longer than he needed to. 

Roach who took the foxglove and noticed an important detail. 

Ghost had used his handkerchief to hold the stems together. 

“Everything I need.”

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare ii #cod mw2 #ghostsoap #cod #soapghost #ghoap

[jpitha]

Between the Black and Gray 30

First / Previous / Next

Fen could only describe the next few days as odd. Around her extended family Zhe started to change. Her language became more gruff and she carried two soar-knives. They were thin, razor sharp leaf shaped blades connected to her wrists with a reel of monofilament wire. She showed Fen how they're used. She can toss them lightly or with force and they fly from her hands and soar across a room. If they don't find a target, she can swing her arms and cause the monofilament to fly around, causing mayhem where they touch. They were originally developed by the Gren who never really developed traditional throwing weapons, but their bladed weapons were bar none. Fen thought it odd that they made the soar knife one that could be thrown, but Zhe explained that it was developed after the Gren made it to space, so it was probably an accommodation for microgravity.

Regardless of why it was developed, it was a wicked weapon and Zhe was a master in its use. Fen started carrying around her battle rifle as well, slung to her back. It wasn't out of place, most of the pirates were armed on the Heap. Fen offered Northern a pistol to carry, but she turned her nose up at the weapon. "The day I need a gun to defend myself is a sad day Fen." She refused to elaborate.

Everyone onboard was friendly, but standoffish. Fen was willing to chalk that up to them being new on the Heap, but Zhe was worried. "Sure, they're careful about visitors, but I'm family for Ancestors sake. Once I vouch for you, it should be songs and drinking time. Instead they're... polite." Zhe's ears twitched, irritated. "Something is going on."

"Like what? Do you think Hemmi is causing trouble?" They were back onboard the Frigate. Northern wasn't connected, so it was just some rooms and a kitchen for them. The airlock was sealed though.

"Or in trouble. If he was here, I'd have a better handle on everyone. Hemmi has been in charge for cycles. He's practically an institution."

Northern glanced at Fen who tried not to make a face.

"What?" While they were with the pirates, Zhe also seemed to become more aware. It was fascinating to Fen. She was practically developing into another person - or her real personality was starting to surface.

"I wonder if we arrived at a bad time, Zhe. It feels like leadership on the Heap is changing."

Zhe's tail started to flick back and forth. "You're thinking a coup? Hemmi wouldn't stand for it, he'd space everyone he could find that was planning to oust him. It's not like he's never done it before."

Fen blinked, "He... spaced people?"

"Sure, how else are you going to send a message that insubordination won't be tolerated. Hemmi is in charge, what Hemmi says goes."

Fen leaned forward, fascinated. "Hemmi is like your father, right?"

"Like? Hemmi is my father." Zhe smiled.

"K'laxi don't normally care about that sort of thing. At least my famililal line didn't. There were the adults, there were the kids and there were the elders. Who came from whom was never discussed."

"Hemmi was not into that whole thing. He cared about the kids he sired and where they came from. Moms thought it was silly, but he always ran paternity tests. I was Hemmi's kid and he was raising me to lead after him." Zhe turned away from them. "Then, I left to go straight and I know it broke Hemmi's heart. I hope he's all right. I want to see him."

While Zhe was brooding in the kitchenette, there was a repeating tone over the speakers. Northern looked up and made a face. "Fen, that's a radio beacon. We're being hailed."

Fen unfolded her pad and tapped and slid until she found ship controls, and then tapped and slid again until she found the radio. The signal was scratchy and weak, from far across the system. "-dentified frigate, unidentified frigate, this is Hemmi Navarren and I'm hoping you're here to lend me a hand." His voice sounded out of breath and tired.

Zhe's ears pricked and she shouted. "Daddy! It's Zhe, what's wrong?"

There was a pause on the line. Fen had thought it was cut, but then there was a shuddering sigh. "You came back sunbeam. You came back. Ancestors, it's good to hear your voice." As soon as he heard Zhe's voice he sounded stronger, as if he was given a burst of energy. "Listen sunbeam, there's trouble. Rev knows about it, but he has declared himself to be neutral. Have you been aboard the Heap?"

"Yes Daddy, everyone seems standoffish, but they were polite enough."

"That's because they knew what was happening, and didn't want you to know. I imagine they were hoping you would come, and then leave right away."

"Wait wait wait, everyone was treading on eggshells because they didn't want Zhe to know? Why?"

Even through the weak radio signal, everyone could hear Hammi's grin. "Because Zhe is merciless. Once I turn her loose, It will be like a hull breach. It will be like a hurricane." He pronounced the human word oddly, like he wasn't used to speaking Colonic. "Zhe hon. They tried to kill me. They nearly succeeded. I beat them back and spaced the rest, but my runabout is damaged. I'm printing some parts to fix the wormhole generator, but I won't be able to link to the Heap until tomorrow. Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything Daddy." Zhe's voice was a tight whisper, and her furred hands were already gripping the soar-knives.

"Go take care of them. Leave Rev, leave Elmar, and leave Xiian."

"See you soon Daddy."

"See you soon, sunbeam."

The line was cut. Fen listened to the backround of radiation of space for two beats before she looked over at Zhe. She was already making her way towards the airlock. "Zhe! Wait!"

Zhe turned and whipped her face around to Fen, her mouth a snarl, and her ears vibrating. "Fen, either come help or lock yourself in the frigate until I'm done. I've got work to do."

Fen spun her rifle to the front and racked a fresh round. "You're not doing this alone. If you're sure this is what you need to do, I'm with you all the way."

For just an instant, Zhe's face registered something Fen was surprised to see. She saw, anger. Anger at Fen coming along? Fen found it odd, she was having an easier time reading body language. She was always decent at it, but now it was like nobody had any secrets for her. She then softened. "It will be dangerous Fen."

"The way everyone here is frightened of you? The way Hemmi said you were like a hurricane?" Fen winked. "I'll come along. I need to make sure you survive to meet Hemmi at the dock."

Zhe turned to Northern. "And you?"

Northern held up both her hands. "And ruin my clothes? These are the latest from Hyacinth. No, I'll go become the ship again and keep an eye out for people trying to make a getaway, and waiting to hear from your Dad."

"Thanks Northern, thanks Fen." Zhe pushed the cycle button on the airlock. "Let's go make sure my Dad has a place to come home to."

As they stepped into the Heap, there was a K'laxi that Fen didn't recognize standing around. His gun - a human pistol modified for K'laxi use - was in its holster around his chest, and his tail was limp and his years droopy. He was clearly bored. Zhe flicked the soar knife at him and took his head off before he even registered their presence.

With a twist of her wrist, the soar knife reeled itself back to her hand, the blood flying off as it returned. "This way Fen." She pointed towards one of the doors over to the side. Striding up to it, the door slid open automatically.

"Oh Hey, Fe-" Another K'laxi's head removed before they could even finish their sentence. As they continued down the hall, Fen would see someone, kill them, and continue on. Fen followed mute, wondering what was going on. Surely there would be an alarm by now? Wasn't there some kind of central administration? Was the Heap really just a pile of ships loosely tied together?

They reached a bar or cantina or something. There were a few dozen people inside eating, drinking, playing games, nothing special, nothing specific. Zhe walked in and scanned the crowd. She gestured for Fen to stand back. As they did the bartender looked up and said, "Hey Zhe, are you here-" As their head was removed.

Zhe flicked both soar knives out and spun. This time, there was enough people that the screams could be heard. Fen would stand and gesture with her arms as the nearly invisible monofilament wire careened about the room. Tables, chairs, lights, flesh, nothing stopped it. People would stand up to reach for their gun and their top half would slide off their bottom half. They'd drop to the floor and try and shimmy away, and the blade of the knife would find the back of their neck. All Fen could do was watch and see if anyone got away.

None did.

Eventually, the screams turned to gurgles and whimpers, and then stopped. Zhe reeled the knives back to her hands and turned. In the corner was Rev, who was standing still as a statue, his hand still holding his drink, halfway to his mouth.

She was next to him in a flash, one of the knives in her hand millimeters from his eye. "Hemmi says you live." She looked down at his arm. "But living is a spectrum, isn't it?" She twisted her wrist awkwardly and the hand holding the drink popped off like it was a toy. To his credit, Rev didn't scream, but Fen could see the color run from his skin under his fur. Zhe reached into a pocket and slapped a portable med over the stump. "If I find that you reattached it, I'll take another and cauterize the stump with a laser." All he could do was nod.

"We're not done yet, Fen." Zhe didn't even look back as she left the bar.

They continued on, and there was a sound like thunder, distant and rumbling" Northern's firing the slug throwers." Zhe's answer was distant, distracted.

"Sorry ladies, had a ship try and make a break from the Heap. Zhe, do you want it destroyed or just disabled?"

"Disable it. No sense in wasting scrap. We'll take care of the crew and strip it for parts later. If nothing else, it'll have a wormhole generator." She stopped and thought. "Actually Northern, can you hole it? We can patch a hole, and that saves us the effort of boarding."

"If I couldn't do that, I'd have no right piloting a frigate, Zhe." They heard a sound like a single loud muffled thump, like someone dropped a dictionary in the next room. "They're holed. I can see them venting atmo. Should be gone by the time you're done with your massacre."

"Thanks Northern" Zhe continued on. "That ship probably held Xiian, daddly will be sad he died, but he'll understand."

"Who is Xiian?" Fen had decided a while back her only job was to follow along and give Zhe someone to talk to when she needed it.

"He's the one who tried to usurp daddy last time. He kept him alive as a warning."

"A warning about what?"

"A warning to others about what happens when you cross Hemmi Navarren. The idea was that anyone who got ideas would speak to Xiian and he'd set them straight. Worked for a few years, until it didn't." Almost as an afterthought, an alarm sounded throughout the Heap. Zhe looked up and frowned. "That'll be Elmar. She thinks that I won't kill her."

"Why would she think that?"

"She's one of my moms."

"Oh." K'laxi mating practices are... chaotic. Part of the reason that they didn't tend to place a lot of emphasis on who came from who was the fact that that nobody was ever really sure. Hemmi was unusual that he would run paternity tests to find 'his' kids, but apparently he never did that to find out which one of the females birthed them.

Zhe broke into a run and she took off down a hall. Fen ran to catch up. "Zhe, it seems like there's not a lot of people here?"

"Yeah, I think most of them left when word of the coup got out. People either loyal to Daddy but who didn't want to get involved, or people who wanted to just wait for it all to blow over. Makes our job easier at least. Hey Northern!" Zhe had toggled her comm. "Anyone else try to leave?"

"No Zhe, not yet. Though, I think I see your dad's runabout. I just caught a glimpse of a ship linking in nearby. They're a good distance out though, and keeping station."

"Yeah, that'll be dad. He's giving me a chance to finish the job."

"You have an odd family, Zhe."

"Oh, they're fine once you get to know them Northern. We'll have a reunion soon."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #humans and aliens #jpitha #writing #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #humans are space australians #Between the black and gray

[animentality]

Dark Urge lives rent free in the walls of my skull because I am possibly frothing at the delicious angst of being unable to get close to anyone because your father will kill other people through you, as a punishment.

Like in a redeemed dark urge run, you are fascinated by murder and death, but your heart resists. You don't want to hurt and kill and maim. You know it's wrong.

When you refuse to kill isobel, Bhaal tries to force you to kill the person you love most.

That's disgusting and soooo compellingly wicked.

You have been poisoned by Bhaal's influence.

Before you lost your memories, you killed your foster family.

I highly doubt that the dark urge was happy about this.

They then wandered the earth and eventually joined up with a Bhaal cult, to be properly indoctrinated, but what a lonely life.

Killing for a god whose only intent is for you to kill and then be killed, in his honor.

If we pretend baldur's gate is realistic and nuanced and intelligent, there must've been something buried deep within dark urge that knew.

They are not loved. They are not cared for. They are being controlled. They are a tool, and they are being used.

But what else can they do?

How else could they fight back?

They were totally and utterly alone.

Baldur's Gate 3 has a common theme of how the cycle of abuse works, is perpetuated, and can be broken.

Dark urge is such a fascinating character to me because their story is less blatantly obvious as the other origins, like say Astarion and Shadowheart and Wyll, but still has the exact same undercurrent.

Redeemed dark urge is killed by their father for their defiance...but they come back free of his influence.

And I find that beautiful.

And sexy.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #dark urge

[childotkw]

Wait. Wait. Stop everything. You have a Pirates of the Caribbean wip?? A Female!Jack Sparrow AU??? WHAT?!

I- I... I.

You really are a gift that keeps on giving aren't you? *wipes away a tear*

I DO AND IT'S EATING MY BRAIN 😂😂😂😂

I have so many thoughts and EMOTIONS about this story. I've always found Jack to be a fascinating character and exploring the similarities and differences a female Jack would have throughout things was too intriguing for me to ignore.

I also found out that there's apparently books about baby Jack's adventures so now I'm trying to figure out how much of those events I wanna pull into the story haha

----------------(Here's another section taken from discord)

In regards to Tia Dalma and Jack, I was thinking about how cool it would be if Jack’s hair was a recurring theme in their relationship.

For instance, when Jack first met Tia Dalma her hair was free flowing; thick and wavy and tangled. But at a certain point, before she defeated Salazar and became the captain of the Wicked Wench, Jack went to her and asked for Tia Dalma to do her hair - which is how she got her iconic dreadlocks.

But sometime after that, perhaps just before Jack got roped into working for Beckett, she went back and got her dreadlocks undone. And it took ages, of course, but Tia Dalma was slow and patient and used warmed water and oils, and combed through each lock piece by piece, and then tidied it up for her. Because Jack was special to Tia Dalma, and she enjoyed having the girl stay with her for the time it took to work through her hair.

And so, whenever Jack's world turned on its head, whenever some big upheaval happened in her life, Jack would return to either get her dreadlocks redone or undone. It was a repeating cycle, sometimes with years in between visits, and became a ritual to them - something they don't necessarily talk about but so deeply ingrained in them and their affection for each other.

Jack would just appear on Tia Dalma's doorstep without warning, that splintered look in her eyes, and Tia Dalma would usher her in and do or undo her hair depending on its current state.

Jack would sit at Tia Dalma's feet, silent and stiff, as the older woman began the process - humming that same haunting melody as her locket played in the background.

It would take hours but under those steady, small hands, the tension unwound from her spine until she slumped into Tia Dalma's legs and her whirling mind just went quiet.

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

I just really love the implications that could exist in their relationship with each other 😭

#anonymous #PotC #embrace the wild (face your fears) #female jack sparrow

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 2: The Welcome

Spoiler alert: I forgot to discuss chapter icons last time. It's terrible, breaking such a successful streak. I have toh. If you don't know what that is, be aware, because I'm perfectly happy to spoil everything about this whole damn series if you're not careful. Look away if that bothers you.

Anyway, chapter icons. Last time was another wheel and serpent, which probably reflects both how Rand is being pulled by the Pattern to stay put despite his desires and how the Dark One's touch is beginning to corrupt it more blatantly with the proto-bubble. This time we get the Flame of Tar Valon, because the Amyrlin Seat is visiting.

“Ho, southlander! The Amyrlin’s here. Come for you and your friends, I suppose. Peace, what honor for you! She seldom leaves Tar Valon, and she’s never come to the Borderlands in my memory.”

A) This and several other bits of dialogue is a delightful way for the denizens of the fortress to be tormenting Rand about the trap that he's found himself caught in without realizing it (one of my favorite kinds of dialogue).

B) I can't help but feel that this is another bit of failure on the part of the Tower. An Amyrlin who tours the continent regularly and brings a retinue with her would be yet another way to be building positive relations with the populace, helping them and encouraging them not to see the Aes Sedai as wicked witches. Hopefully it's something they pick up on as the Fourth Age goes on.

The women barely glanced at him, and went right on clearing his clothes—and Mat’s and Perrin’s—out of the wardrobe and replacing them with new. Anything found in the pockets was put atop the chests, and the old clothes were bundled up carelessly, like rags.

I don't know if this is Moiraine's outright shittiest act as mentor, but damn if it's not up there. You know who else pulls this crap in this series? Tylin, because it's abusive as all hell. Moiraine had a fucking month to get the boys fancier clothes in less coercive ways and if she'd done it shortly after the Eye it wouldn't have even been a hard sell because Rand and Perrin would have been happy to wear comfy new clothes after the hell month they went through (Mat would have been an easy sell regardless once he saw something with lace; would have been harder to get him not to empty Moiraine's purse at that point).

It could be a scullion or the Lady Amalisa, Lord Agelmar’s sister herself—the baths were one place in Shienar where there was no rank—expecting him to scrub her back in return for the same favor, asking him why his face was so red, had he taken too much sun? They had soon learned to recognize his blushes for what they were, and not a woman in the keep but seemed fascinated by them.

We're supposed to laugh at the provincial bumpkin for not understanding how awesome it is that he's getting to bathe with regulation hotties, but really between this and the maids expecting him to change out of his underwear in front of him (and making a point to look) is just way too skeevy.

His boots, at least, were certainly still good, made by Alwyn al’Van, the cobbler back in Emond’s Field, and well broken in and comfortable. But if giving up his boots would make the shatayan leave him alone so he could go, he would give her the boots, and anything else she wanted. He had no time.

It is way too early in these books for me to feel this bad for Rand.

Light help me! Was it Amalisa had this made, or Moiraine? How many saw it? How many know what it is, what it means? Even one is too many. Burn me, she’s trying to get me killed. Bloody Moiraine won’t even talk to me, but now she’s given me bloody fine new clothes to die in!

It's absolutely incredible how badly Moiraine is handling this. Is she just conceptualizing this as being the same as how she had to wear novice robes as a girl? Did Elaida's personal tutoring before Moiraine's becoming an Aes Sedai get a nice cycle of abuse going for her to perpetuate?

Muttering under his breath, he dressed hurriedly. He would not put it past any of them to find some excuse to come bulling in anyway.

Just like Donald Trump.

He had seen women picking out embroidery when they had made a mistake or changed their mind on the pattern, and it did not look very hard.

Rand, you spent your entire childhood including your most significant growth spurts living in the backwoods of the ass end of nowhere with no one except your dad. I can understand embroidery not being your thing because it's not utilitarian, but you should damn well know that there's a difference between fixing your work before it's done and ripping out embroidery after the fact.

Thom Merrilin had taught him to play that flute, before the gleeman died. Rand could never touch it without remembering Thom, with his sharp blue eyes and his long white mustaches, shoving the bundled cloak into his hands and shouting for him to run. And then Thom had run himself, knives appearing magically in his hands as if he were performing, to face the Myrddraal that was coming to kill them.

Dammit Rand, Moiraine told you that the odds of Thom being dead were literally zero in infinity, stop thinking he's dead.

His unstrung bow stood propped in the corner with Mat’s and Perrin’s, the stave two hands taller than he was. He had made it himself since coming to Fal Dara, and besides him, only Lan and Perrin could draw it. Stuffing his blanketroll and his new cloak through the loops on his bundles, he slung the pair from his left shoulder, tossed his saddlebags atop the cords, and grabbed the bow. Leave the sword-arm free, he thought. Make them think I’m dangerous. Maybe somebody will.

The funny part is, Rand actually does look dangerous now. Lan told him that bullies would leave him alone. He never believes anything anyone tells him, it's no wonder no one tries to communicate with him later on.

He would never see legendary Tar Valon—he could not afford that risk, now or ever—but he might catch a glimpse of the Amyrlin Seat before he left. That would be as much as seeing a queen.

Rand's getting pulled around by the Pattern again, since he's already met a queen in person and you'd think he'd have learned his lesson from that.

He could easily see over the heads of most of them, enough to make out clearly what was going on in the courtyard. Just inside the main gate, a line of men stood beside their horses, fourteen of them. ... A dozen paces in front of the Warders, a row of women stood by their horses’ heads, the cowls of their cloaks thrown back. He could count them, now. Fourteen. Fourteen Aes Sedai.

Funny that there's an equal number of Warders to Aes Sedai, since that isn't a guarantee. We don't know all the Aes Sedai among the ranks, but we do know that at least two (Liandrin and Carlinya) didn't have Warders, possibly three (Serafelle's never clarified either way). Alanna is the only green we know about and she has two Warders, which covers for one of the gaps. Possibly Siuan's Warder is in the ranks here as well, which covers the other gap for certain. Also note that Leane is not one of these fourteen Aes Sedai, which means that sixteen came altogether counting her and Siuan. Regardless, I'm not tagging anyone except those mentioned individually.

Suddenly Ronan rapped his staff loudly three times on the broad paving stones, calling into the silence, “Who comes here? Who comes here? Who comes here?” The woman beside the palanquin tapped her staff three times in reply. “The Watcher of the Seals. The Flame of Tar Valon. The Amyrlin Seat.” “Why should we watch?” Ronan demanded. “For the hope of humankind,” the tall woman replied. “Against what do we guard?” “The shadow at noon.” “How long shall we guard?” “From rising sun to rising sun, so long as the Wheel of Time turns.”

We see so little of pomp and circumstance in these books despite humanity's love of silly rituals that I gotta quote in full the stuff that does show up. Also note how the ritual emphasizes the shadow as something wrong and fundamentally against the natural order. It's understandable why Rand came to the conclusion he had to kill the Dark One.

The tall woman drew back the curtain of the palanquin, and the Amyrlin Seat stepped out. Dark-haired, ageless as all Aes Sedai were ageless, she ran her eyes over the assembled watchers as she straightened. Rand flinched when her gaze crossed him; he felt as if he had been touched. But her eyes passed on and came to rest on Lord Agelmar.

Rand honey, you're the only Aielman in two hundred miles and you're the tallest man in the room. Of course she saw you.

He did not want to think of what would have happened if she knew who he was, what he was. What would happen when she finally found out. He wondered if she had had anything to do with the wind atop the tower; Aes Sedai could do things like that.

Rand is so completely wrong about Siuan on every level that it wraps around from stupid to adorable to stupid again. No Rand, the Amyrlin Seat didn't try to assassinate you from a distance through her magic scrying mirror. That's not even a thing.

It was his name that caused the problem, and a similarity. Rand al’Thor. Al’Lan Mandragoran. For Lan, according to the custom of Malkier, the royal “al” named him King, though he never used it himself. For Rand, “al” was just a part of his name, though he had heard that once, long ago, before the Two Rivers was called the Two Rivers, it had meant “son of.” Some of the servants in Fal Dara keep, though, had taken it to mean he was a king, too, or at least a prince.

No doubt in Manetheren "al" did mean royalty and only transferred to "son of" once the interbreeding led to it being so common a name.

“Yes, my Lord. The order came down only a short time ago. Only moments.” Tema’s voice picked up strength. “All the gates are closed as well, my Lord. None may enter or leave without permission. Not even the city patrol, so Tema has been told.”

Poor Rand, if he'd only controlled himself he would have arrived before the order and could have escaped. What a horribly unlikely coincidence!

Rand broke into a run. He just had time to see the surprise on Tema’s face, and then he was gone. He did not care what Tema thought. She will be sending for me now.

Rand, you know what would really make Tema think you were normal, unremarkable, and definitely not the Dragon Reborn? If you spent some time muttering to yourself or maybe burst into tears for no reason. Not a single male channeler in the world does that.

Ah well. Next time, we'll watch Rand try and fail to escape his date with destiny.

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #leane sharif #agelmar jagad #siuan sanche

[ashyronfire]

Red Sky at Morning || Chapter 29: Tell Me No More Stories

Title: Chapter 29 - Tell Me No More Stories Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Grimm Troupe (including OCs), The Radiance

Warnings: Introspect-Heavy, Found Family, Pre-Canon, Time Travel Fix-It Adjacent, Grey-and-Grey Morality, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Dismemberment, Graphic Depictions of Violence, The Author Likes Gore

Summary:

“Atlas says you’ve improved.” She looked at Pyre, then turned back to say, “Greatly. He keeps talking about wanting to fight you in the Nightmare. He says he feels like you are crippled here, even with your magic.”

Author’s Notes: In the interest of making this available to more people after AO3 crashed, I'm gonna put the chapter itself under a cut as well. Right now AO3 is up and probably fine -- but just in case. :>

CURRENT CHAPTER || READ FROM THE BEGINNING

The Second Cycle - Mulake

Grimm shared in the child’s memories.

There was more to it than just seeing. While he did look through its eyes, he could not describe it as simply viewing. Whenever Pyre brought the child back to the camp, its experiences came flooding back to him like a tidal wave. Every little scratch, every touch, the whispered words, the affection. The spell that bound the child to the charm also bound the charm to Pyre.

Their lives were woven together, kindling to flame and the ash that remained in their wake. He was terribly attached to the hybrid already. Sparring with him was going to be… an experience.

And they had an audience.

Pyre did not seem to mind. He looked very calm as he stepped into the makeshift arena. It was a particularly large grassy field that the Troupe had helped clear out the night before at Grimm’s suggestion, so that the grass was shorn short for ease of viewing and any rocks lingering around were removed to avoid unintentional injury. Pyre had shed his usual cloak in favor of bracers that protected his arms and legs, and a chestplate in crimson that matched Grimm’s own natural coloration. He’d brought with him an elegant nail inlaid with a webbed pattern that brought to mind a damselfly’s wings; the engravings ran from the pommel all the way to the tip, giving the optional illusion of angles to the shape. It was a curved longtail; that, it seemed, was Pyre’s weapon of choice. Grimm did not fight with one at all. He was not that kind of fighter. He was a magician. But Atlas was trying to teach him to fight without the use of his flames.

Against Atlas, that was going terribly. Pyre, he hoped, would prove to be another story.

“Are you sure you do not want to arm yourself?” Nightshade asked him. She had a new set of daggers in sheaths at her side; she held one out for him to look at. “Atlas is adept at forging; he’s been –”

“He is?” Grimm asked, puzzled.

“Yeah,” the moth answered. “He’s been making weapons for all of us. He made Marra the most wicked scythe I’ve ever seen. Alula has a long nail, Atlas has his axe – that thing’s heavier than I am, by the way – and he even gave Reed some daggers like mine. He’s been teaching Mist to use a staff, too. Mist doesn’t really like blades.”

Making weapons for everyone but him, it seemed. He’d known Atlas used an axe, although he’d never bothered with weapons when fighting Grimm. He rarely needed to. He had the physical advantage.

He handed the dagger back. He had a staff, made elegantly by Marra, but he considered it to be more of a show piece than something for actual use. He’d be devastated if it was damaged in combat. All he actually used when sparring was his claws. Maybe he should learn to do more, but it was a rather redundant thought right before a sparring match.

“He never told me he was a smith,” Grimm observed; he glanced into the group assembling around them. Every Troupe member was present, but what fascinated him the most was that Mist was perched near Fae and ignoring everyone else entirely. And he had something over his head: a piece of filmy fabric held in place by woven bands around his mask. “When did our butterfly become so fond of the flashier twin?”

“Fae’s been teaching him about butterfly culture, actually,” the moth hummed. “Pyre gave him that veil. Apparently, there is a lot about butterflies we did not know.”

Did not remember, more like.

He knew, instantly, that veils had significance. The memory came flooding back, unbidden: wearing veils was a social symbol among their kind. Different colors denoted different things. Black was, traditionally, mourning, but adorning it with gems meant that the wearer was of considerable status. The twins did not wear veils, despite being half-butterfly, but clearly, they knew the importance of them.

He did not often think about such things. Who they were before the Troupe was of no great consequence to Grimm. They were his people and he was fond of them as they were. It should have occurred to him, though, that Mist would want to know more about where he came from. Especially since they were both the very last butterflies left in the world of that particular tribe.

Grimm would speak with him after the fight. Not just because he wanted to know what Fae was teaching him, but he also wanted Mist to know what memories he had from Luster. That had felt like a forbidden topic for so long, considering how young the butterfly was when he’d joined them, but…

Not anymore.

Mist was not young in truth now, and he would never be old, either.

“I like his veil,” Nightshade continued. “He’s very fond of it. It belonged to their mother, the twins. Pyre seemed to like that it was going to someone who would take good care of it. That it would be worn for eternity.”

That fit. Pyre was a sentimental creature.

“Speaking of him,” the moth continued. “He brought back the little one. It’s mean of you to send the baby away. Do you not realize how cute little-you is?”

He knew. He even agreed, strange though it might have been for him to admit.

“It is better,” Grimm told her.

“How is it better? You are a part of this family, you jerk. You need to remember that.”

It was better because he wanted to be more than he was. He wanted to be a thing apart. He wanted to learn from others, to take in their experiences, to –

To what?

To fix the holes in his heart, ever glowing like his eyes? To fix who he was, in hopes that he would become someone more worthy of the love that people offered him? Perhaps. Or maybe he was projecting. Maybe he just wanted to look into the mirror and like the person looking back at him.

(Time. Time would give him that.)

“Root for me,” Grimm asked of Nightshade; he twitched his tail and smiled behind his mask. “Your husband beats me up often enough. I need something to assure me that I am not totally hopeless.”

“Atlas says you’ve improved.” She looked at Pyre, then turned back to say, “Greatly. He keeps talking about wanting to fight you in the Nightmare. He says he feels like you are crippled here, even with your magic.”

That was eerily close to how Cross had once described him and, inadvertently, it dug deep into an old wound. There was a time when those words would have paralyzed him. He did not think Cross would ever be a wound that fully healed. He saw the snail in everything. But Grimm was surprised to find that while it did feel a little like being slapped, the sharp ache to his heart faded. Atlas was not Cross, and Atlas meant it as a compliment, in his own way.

(And Atlas hadn’t given up on him, either. Stubborn moth.)

“If I manage to win, I will grant your husband’s wish,” he told her. “I will let him find out what it is like to fight the real me.”

“Can I watch?”

His tail playfully undulated to the side. “Perhaps.” But likely not. He did not like disrupting dreams, but he would make an exception to challenge Atlas in the Nightmare. He wanted to let him see exactly how right he was… because he was correct: in the real world, he was crippled, bound by mortal laws, tied to a physical form. He was not physical in his own world. He wasn’t anywhere close to crippled there.

He'd enjoy that fight immensely. But only if he managed to win. Only if he managed to prove that he could. Otherwise, what was the point? To lose to Atlas, as he had so many times before? No, thank you.

Grimm turned and crossed the field. The clearing was good enough for a normal spar. Pyre met him in the middle of it, and the child left the hybrid’s shoulder to fly over to him. He held one hand up and stroked its wings before sending it to settle on Nightshade’s lap (Complain less, moth).

“Are you sure that you are up to this?” Pyre asked him. “Iris told me you’ve been taking her venom. If you are not well…”

How sweet.

“I assure you that I am fine. Do you intend to use magic?” Grimm hummed, turning his head to the side. At Pyre’s nod, he said, “Then I will, too.”

“I would hope so.”

“Are you ready, my friend?” Grimm asked, with Pyre nodding again, and then he offered a flourishing bow, one wing spread at his side. “Then dance with me,” he purred. The lilt in his voice was impossible to miss. Musical.

He did so like to put on a show.

Pyre did not bow back, though he did hesitate (as though considering doing so – perhaps he’d never seen anyone bow in combat, considering that he had so little experience in it in a less life-or-death situation?). He launched forward with a slash, and Grimm teleported away with a soft ‘pop’ – which was perhaps not the most charitable response, but he was not about to be hit while he was being polite.

Rude, Pyre. Very rude.

He reappeared on the other side of the hybrid, who had whirled to meet him. Pyre raised his nail to parry Grimm’s clawed slash and then struck downward. Grimm danced out of the way of it and swiped again, and –

There was a tempo to it, wasn’t there? He’d called it a dance, and fighting was a dance. One-two step.

(Did practicing with Atlas have a similar flow? You slice, I slash. You back up, I step forward. I retreat and you close distance. Was it always like that?)

The sound of metal hitting his claws was loud. They reverberated and felt numb to him. He needed to get better protectors for them if he was going to use them in physical combat, he realized.

Slice. Parry. Scratch.

Rhythm. There was a melody to each movement and he hummed quietly to himself to match it. Pyre no doubt heard him but did not question what he was doing – which was kind of him, as Grimm did not know.

What he did know was that Pyre failed to dodge one of his attacks, and his claws ripped through his shoulder nastily.

Lost the tempo. Fell out of step. The next two hits landed soundly: one-two scratch.

(Give him a minute to get up.

Would a real opponent? No. But it wasn’t a real fight.

He’d drawn hemolymph first.

But he wanted to win. He wanted to win.

He wanted to win fairly. Give him a minute.)

Grimm scurried backwards, giving Pyre more space. The hybrid leapt back to his feet and then –

Threw his nail across the field. That was unexpected. Grimm dodged out of the way of it, only to be sliced on its return as magic propelled it back to its owner. He felt the wound gape in his side over tender scar tissue.

One-two slice.

He dodged. He parried. He moved like he owned the ground, and Grimm was surprised to find that he felt like he did. There was something incredibly satisfying about keeping the tempo, keeping to the melody, like – like –

Left. Right.

One-two scratch.

(You slice, I back up. I fill the distance with my own claws.)

He landed more blows than he took, but Pyre’s nail managed to nick his wings in several places, and at least once on his arm. It was good practice, even as his fingers started to numb from using the length of his claws to block attacks.

(They were going to be so, so sore.)

Every time one of them fell out of the tempo, they took a hit, he noticed. There was synergy between the two of them, and as long as he continued to hum along to it, he… didn’t falter.

Dirt kicked up under scuffling feet as Pyre dashed at him, both hands clenched on the hilt to swing the blade down, and the reaction was instant. Grimm jumped and landed, squarely, on the edge of the blade. He perched, crouched, fingers on one end and feet under him; his claws came up, then, to catch the hybrid’s face; Pyre’s grip on the blade faltered under his weight, the nail hitting the ground, but Grimm himself did not fall, levitating in the air.

Fire danced from his fingertips and flared, blindingly bright, right in Pyre’s eyes.

“Live up to your name. Burn for me.”

As he spoke, Pyre hissed and half-screamed, stumbling back and clutching his face. That was almost enough to make him feel guilty.

Almost.

Grimm skittered backwards, essence spirals trailing in his wake and he stopped far enough away to avoid a counterattack.

He could end it now. He could –

That thought was interrupted by fire igniting underneath him. Unlike his own flames, which were undeniably scarlet, Pyre’s were a rich orange that seared up like a vortex. If he was anyone else, he would have been screaming as his wings shriveled in the heat.

Instead, he called magic into them. His intention was to use them to wrap up Pyre, to disable him, but that was not what happened. No, as if of their own accord, his wings shot into the ground, burrowing serpentine beneath it. Flames rolled down his back, trailed over the extended lengths, and exploded out of the ground directly in front of Pyre, sending him careening into the air.

…when had he learned—

In the middle of a fight was not the best time to think about the fact that his wings seemed to have taken on a mind of their own; he could analyze it later.

He teleported, then, and when the still-blind hybrid hit the ground, Grimm landed on top of him, claws wrapping around his throat, piercing shell a little.

Pyre coughed. His throat spasmed between Grimm’s fingers. “You’re fast,” he panted. “And your fire is nasty. I relent. I need – I need –”

“Alula will have a salve for your eyes,” Grimm answered, releasing his throat. “You seared my wings.”

“You started with the fire.” Pyre coughed and brought his hands up to his eyes, his nail falling to his side. “Going for the eyes. That is a bit dishonorable—”

“It’s fucking brilliant, actually,” came the brusque correction. Grimm looked up to see Atlas approaching, one hand held out to the fallen twin. “Where the fuck is that when you fight me, princess? Where is this jumping on blades and dodging by a hair’s breadth instead of getting punched in the guts like you like it? Where the hell is any of this coming from? I’ve never seen you do most of that.”

One-two slash.

Pyre took Atlas’s hand and sat up. “Brilliant or not, my eyes –”

“You’ll be fine.” Atlas did not sound sympathetic at all. Grimm had thought that he and Pyre were friends. Or… at least friendly? “Alula will fix you right up.”

Pyre looked incredibly unhappy.

(Pyre was a bad patient, Grimm realized. As bad a patient as Grimm himself was. Even if he was fond of Alula – and he clearly was – he was not relishing the idea of being doted on. Grimm felt some sympathy for that. Good luck.)

The child rose from Nightshade’s lap and flew over to daintily land on Pyre’s shoulder. It mrrr’d quietly, bumping its head into his chin, and the annoyance on the twin’s face dissolved away immediately.

“Your father is a bit mean,” Pyre told the child, to Grimm’s quiet laughter. The hybrid leaned down conspiratorially. “I forgive him, though. Even if you and I are more alike right now than usual. Both of us blinded.”

“It can see,” Grimm corrected. “Through my eyes.”

The little buzz of wings told him that Pyre was aware and did not care. Dissociating the two of them, father, and child, seemed to be preferable. Easier for him to process, perhaps.

Pyre patted the child’s back and looked sideways at Grimm. “Next time, you will not get a chance to use such underhanded tricks. Think of something more clever.”

He was very hung up on it being ‘underhanded.’ Grimm was of the opinion that winning was more important than honor, to some degree.

He would ask Atlas if he was wrong about. But it did not sound like he was.

A real enemy would not ask permission before wounding someone, after all.

-

“I want to keep records.”

Grimm lifted his head to look over his shoulder. Mist stood in the entrance to the tent, arms folded, the short veil that Pyre gave him covering his face, and his wings were twitching slightly at his lower back. Usually when they moved, it meant that he was agitated. His voice alone gave that away, though. Mist sounded positively distressed.

Grimm had meant to talk to him, he had – he’d just… put it off, in part because of dread, in part because of being busy.

“Fae has been teaching me,” Mist continued.

“Has he?” Grimm hummed. He’d noticed the two of them together while he was dueling with Pyre; he’d retreated to his tent after the fight to let the hybrid and Alula have some alone time, for his own injuries were superficial by comparison. He did not ask where Fae went after the fight. The older twin was still something of a mystery. He’d taken to Mist immediately, but not to Grimm.

“Yes. About butterflies. About my culture.” Mist sat on the end of the table, pulling his knees up to his chest.  “I didn’t know that our people have an oral tradition of storytelling, or that – that some of them keep complex recordings of every culture they visit. Nomadic. Like we are.” He took a long, shaky breath. “We are bad at being butterflies.”

Perhaps.

“So you want to keep records of the kingdoms we’ve visited, then?” Grimm asked, his tail coming up to undulate behind him. He was fiddling with the enchantments on a hilt not unlike the one he’d made for Iris. “What is stopping you?”

“I want you to, too.”

Ah?

He’d been keeping records for a long time. Ever since his first life. He’d started keeping them after Cross – at an off-hand suggestion from Nightshade. They were wrapped scrolls and bound into shellwood or silks to form books. No one in the Troupe had ever seen them. He did not intend to speak of their existence, either.

“Have you seen my handwriting?” Grimm teased. “It is barely legi—”

“You carry on my brother’s legacy. You owe him this.”

Oh, Mist was pulling no punches, was he?

Grimm turned his head to the side and then exhaled. This was bound to come up eventually, he thought. He’d learned of butterfly culture from Luster’s memories. Though it had been so long (how long? Centuries?) he could recall the events of his first body’s life with absolute clarity. In many ways, it was almost as though he and Luster had become one. The others did not remember him – including Mist. Mist knew of him, but could not recall Luster’s face, Luster’s voice, anything about him. All that he knew was what Grimm deigned to tell him.

He'd thought that kinder, once, but –

Maybe it was not.

Butterflies, as a culture, had oral traditions: they told stories around their campfires every night, for their children and for their adults. Legends. Myths. Some were invented on the spot and some were passed down. They performed music for one another, too, and he could not help but wonder if his fondness for it was at least in part fueled by Luster’s. They’d invented string instruments (was that why he’d picked one?). They existed in small packs and traveled. They never stayed anywhere too long. And they kept intricate, highly detailed chronicles, scrolls and books.

Mist was right. Butterflies were nomadic the same way that the Troupe was. Were they really all that different? But the tribe that he and Luster hailed from was different, because they’d settled in one place. They’d devoted their existence to the worship of the void at the shores of the great swell of darkness. Their people adopted Alula and Nightshade’s family and the others that had come with them. When they died, they threw themselves into the void sea as an offering, to return to the nothingness from whence they came. And when they became adults, they partook of it, ingesting it to forever be dying.

Luster’s past was poisoning him, slowly. The void did not give back what it took.

“ – please, I know, but—”

Speaking. Ah. He’d – he’d missed part of that.

“Come again?” he asked. Mist gave him a funny look. “I was thinking about what you asked.”

“I was reiterating that… bad handwriting or not. You’re the last of my people. Other butterflies exist, but you’re the last of my kind. Our kind, really, you’re one of us, but –”

“No, you had the right of it,” Grimm corrected. “Your people. I am a thing apart and I am not the god that they worshipped.”

He’d been thinking the same, though, that while he’d long abandoned Luster’s body, he had a responsibility to uphold his memory. In many regards, he considered himself a living tribute to a people long deceased: the last will and testament of a culture long gone. With that in mind, did Grimm not think that it was a good idea to preserve all that he knew, in case he himself forgot? In case he, himself, faded?

(He, who could not die?)

But…

He was not sure that ripping open that scar was the best of ideas. Mist did have a right to know. He did have a right to learn about the culture that he’d come from, the people he’d left behind. Alula and Nightshade would want to know what they’d lost, too. The problem was that poking a festering wound risked letting them remember it, and they’d given their memories up willingly to him in order to escape them.

(They are not the same people that they were that day on the banks of the void sea. They have grown. They are not alone anymore. No longer are Alula and Nightshade barely adults who’ve lost everything that they’ve ever loved. No longer do they have nothing left in the world but each other. They have you. They have Marra, Atlas, Mist, Reed. They may even have Iris, Fae, and Pyre. They are not alone. Will it hurt them, truly, if they should get those memories back?

Do you want to risk it?)

“You would have me record your people’s history, as Luster knew it, then?” he asked Mist; he let his tail flick to the side. “You may remember things that you would rather forget. Reading it could bring back the memories you gave to me. I cannot promise they are lost forever. If you stare too far into the dark, you cannot be surprised when eyes meet your own. Is that a risk you would be willing to take, my friend?”

Mist may have looked like a child but treating him like one would be disrespectful. Even if it felt kinder to hide from him the things that Grimm knew would hurt. And they would hurt.

Those were not memories that he would enjoy having.

That culture was dead, but they’d suffered in their dying. They were hurt, tormented, purged like a sickness from the earth by his sister. She’d burnt them away with fire. In their dying moments, they prayed to a god that did not answer and might not have even existed.

The void did not feel. It was a vast reservoir of power, yes, an endless fount. And it felt nothing at all for their problems. What care had it, when in the end all would return to it eventually?

The butterflies of that tribe worked hand-in-hand with the snails who worshipped the void’s magic, who were fixated with understanding its very nature. Cross was one such snail, and Grimm – Grimm had his memories, too. They’d intrinsically understood the nature of the void, of Soul, and of the beast that slumbered near that sea, whose blood flowed cerulean and could heal any wound.

Where there is death, there must also be life. All things in balance.

“I need to know my history. I need to know where I came from,” Mist told him, his head bowing. “I want to be a butterfly in truth. Right now I’m just… a strange moth at best.”

“The Moth Tribe has a very similar outlook on history. They do not tell stories as much, but they do keep records. Butterflies and moths have ever been two sides of the same coin. One flies in the day and the other under the cover of moonlight, but you are not that different of creatures.”

Mist fluttered his wings, agitated. Grimm lifted one hand to brush his fingers over the butterfly’s mask. “You know your history. You know your past. You are yourself. You have ever been. What you remember is your truth. What came before is what you left behind.”

That got him a slanted look, a slight glare, and Grimm smiled, a squint of scarlet behind the mask, and then he said, “But I have given you warning enough. I will grant your request. If your heart breaks at the history that you learn – for it is not the most pleasant story to tell, why else would you have given it up? – that is not something I will be held accountable for. Do you agree?”

He could deny Mist nothing.

He’d promised Luster, once upon a time, to look after his brother. Keep him safe, happy, give him the life that he deserved. He might not have always succeeded at that, but he was trying to get better, and if nothing else, he deserved acknowledgment for the effort.

Grimm was trying.

Mist shook his head. “I… I agree. I won’t blame you. But you can’t protect me forever. Not from everything.”

So sayeth he. That would not stop Grimm from trying.

-

Alula’s tent smelled heavily of medicine: a little bitter, with the heavy stench of alcohol only barely disguised by floral notes found in the soaps and cleaning agents. She combatted that scent with candles and her sister’s herb sticks, but there really was no way of ‘fixing’ it. She cleaned wounds. She kept the majority of her tent sterile. She was always soaking utensils. If she was in the process of taking care of someone or had recently, it would always be particularly pungent.

He found it comforting.

It was the dead of night, well after the sun had set. Pyre had retreated to one of the empty tents, with Fae and presumably Iris, and strangely, Marra was not with Alula. She was by herself.

He found her wiping down one of the chairs. Probably where she’d sat the hybrid down when she treated his eyes. Grimm had waited a few hours to give her plenty of time quite intentionally, but –

“The eyes were a vicious move,” the moth scolded. “In a real fight, the right choice. We really must teach you the difference between that and a spar, though.”

“He will heal, will he not?” Grimm asked curiously. Alula leveled him a disapproving stare from behind her mask as he crossed the threshold to sit on her table. He perched like he owned it. She always looked annoyed when he did that – which was, of course, why he did it. “And it gave you an excuse to give him medical treatment. Should you not be thanking me?”

“He’s as awful a patient as you are. Barely sat still once his sight returned. Kept insisting that he had things to do. And do you know, I considered pinning his wings to the floor.” She sounded so exasperated; he was deeply amused.

Grimm pulled his legs up and crossed them underneath him. “I might have been a little mean on purpose. I might be… still upset on behalf of Marra.”

That declaration earned him the most withering look. She pulled her mask off, stepped over in front of him, and yanked him down by his horns to meet his gaze. “Then you should be dropping firebombs in Marra’s eyes as well, because they are as much in the wrong as –”

“Lulu, I am on your side on this. I told them to talk to you,” he interrupted. “Do not berate me so.”

“Stay out of it then.” Her tone was sharp. Disapproving. And exhausted. He immediately felt guilty.

No. It was not his business or his place to tell Alula what to do with her relationships, and never would he presume to do so. She deserved to be happy, whatever it took, and if that meant being with Pyre instead of Marra… he would try to understand. He was attached to the dragonfly, she knew that, but he was also becoming very fond of Pyre. It was a complicated situation.

And she was right. It had nothing to do with him. He was not at all in a position to tell her what to do with her life. But…

He brought his hands up to catch her face and pulled her closer to press his forehead to hers.

“I want to see you happy, mama.” She was not his real mother but she was close enough that he was willing to fake it for her. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise that I will not say anything to Pyre, nor will I try to sway any of your decisions or Marra’s. I simply told them to talk to you. To make choices with you, instead of excluding you. That making them on their own without you involved was an injustice to you.”

The moth sighed and brought one hand up to scratch his horns. The shell was a little loose there, over the ridges where they tapered, and her claws gently dislodged some of the shedding bits. It chased away the itch, so he leaned his head into the touch instinctively.

“They did talk to me,” she told him. “For all the good that it did. It is Pyre that they need to talk to. But you stay out of it. And stop bullying Pyre because you’ve got a favorite. Marra would not want you doing that, either.”

She was right, he knew.

He laid his head against hers, closing his eyes slowly.

“I want them all three to stay with us,” Grimm told the moth and Alula laughed. “Oh, stop. It is not because of the twins at all. They are… an added bonus. For you and for Iris. But she is the reason I want them to stay. She is, not them.”

That made her somber up a little.

“She reminds you of your hurts.” At his nod, Alula continued, “And what you’ve overcome. What you have survived. That’s a poor reason to want to keep someone, though. You shouldn’t offer unless you have a better one than that. Iris deserves to be more than just a monument to your pain. She’s a living, thinking person, with feelings and hurts of her own. You’re not the only one who has suffered.”

He knew that. He did. She was right, though, to say it. Just because he was aware did not mean that he was consciously thinking about it at all.

“And you.” Alula’s words drew him sharply out of his thoughts. “Mister chronically single, wants no relationships, needs no one else, happy-by-myself. When you are in a committed relationship, then and only then do you get to start trying to give me or anyone else advice on that matter. Do you understand me?”

He laughed. She was right. He did not want any kind of relationship of that nature. He was not exactly ‘happy,’ but he did not want to give his broken and damaged heart to anyone else.

Better that he be alone than ever subject someone else to the storm that was his entire being. His was a soul on fire, burning forever. No one else needed to sear.

“Yes, mother.”

#ashe writes #red sky #rs chapter #hollow knight #hk fanfic #hollow knight fanfic

[tigersandheroes]

i want to know ALL the things, but i shall restrain myself. let's have some Speak of the Devil, please

(i resisted the temptation to ask for YOU DID NOT SEE THAT!)

Thanks so much for the ask, friend! Speak of the Devil came from my desire to write another supernatural fic after Blood Lust, and after tossing around a bunch of ideas, I eventually settled on Otabek as a jaded incubus and Yuri as a lonely part-angel with schizophrenia. Take a peek at their first meeting:

Otabek looks out over the silent expanse of the moonlit countryside from his hilltop perch, the emptiness of the landscape echoing in his chest. His veins course with the energy of his latest victim, but hollowness gnaws its way through his satiety. 

He has enough nourishment to survive another day, but for what? To seduce another sleeping stranger, draining the sustenance from their soul so he can continue this endless cycle?

Desperation drives his feet forward until he finds himself wandering among the graves in an overgrown cemetery adjacent to a tiny church made of crumbling stone. Unholy creatures like Otabek instinctively shy away from consecrated ground, but the lure of destruction calls siren-strong to his heavy heart.   

As he approaches the building, the smell of angel blood tickles his nose, and he knows that his immortality will end here. Within the walls of this sacred place, the righteous sword of heaven waits to plunge into his flesh and burn his wretched life away. 

His pulse pounding, he scuttles up the outer wall of the church to peer down through the peak of the pointed arch of one of the windows. Even beings of darkness know that heaven’s messengers are beautiful, but Otabek doesn’t expect the sight of one to tear the air from his lungs. 

The angelic man’s lithe body is perched elegantly on a stool in front of a small desk, his graceful fingers dancing over the keys of an old-fashioned typewriter. In the moonlight, his bare torso and delicate face glow like they’re carved from alabaster, and his long hair gleams like fine gold silk.  

Utterly entranced, Otabek creeps along the stone surface to the next window, his neck craning forward to bring the object of his fascination back into view. The movement blocks the moonlight, casting a sudden shadow over the desk, and the ethereal man lifts his head to look straight at Otabek.

Otabek reflexively retreats from the window, every muscle tense as he waits for a blast of heavenly fire to incinerate his wicked form from the side of the church. When it doesn’t come, his stunted sense of self-preservation screams at him to flee, but it’s no match for his curiosity.

He peeks through the glass again, only to find two bright green eyes staring at him from a few centimeters away. Startled, Otabek loses his grip on the wall and falls into the grass below the window, flat on his back.

As he lies gasping in pain on the ground, the window bursts open above him. The scent of angel blood washes over him, and a lovely face ringed in a gold mane pokes out to gaze at him.

“Are you okay?” the beautiful man asks, his voice soft and his expression concerned as he extends his hand. “Let me help you.”

#ask game #otayuri #otayuri fanfiction

[sanguine-salvation]

♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye

[FEEL FREE TO INFLICT HARM. Context blurb chilling out below like Tess still thinks Victor is Stranger Danger]

“Al d'ateft atfu'kh,” she breathed, the language rough on her tongue as she reached out, seizing the Alley Pervert's chin between thumb and forefinger, “v'sof m'tifaikh ytufun.”

A knot of repressed energy twisted within her, pulled tight as if to snap--

"Aramaic." Rabbi Hillel. Pirkei Avot. "From a story about a skull on the water." Gray rippled beneath one razor sharp cheekbone, pupils dilating, but she was still, still, still. "'Because you have drowned others, you were drowned. And in the end--"

Their eyes were bright and blue as she remembered; her own were blown wide and dark and cold. "In the end..." Her fingers tightened about his jaw, nails sinking into dirty skin as old, familiar words become intonation, ''those who drowned you will be drowned.'"

Oh, the drama.

( Manhandling symbol starters - ACCEPTING )

“Unf—!”

She was very much stronger than Viktor gave her credit for. And her touch was like nettles on their skin.

The unexpected touch of someone unallowed made goosebumps prickle over them and their eyes go wide as they were wrangled by the jaw, their muscles leaping and tight as they were made to look the pretty zombie in her cold, empty eyes being swallowed up in darkness as the ring of color grew smaller. Her hold on their chin commanded their attention, the hiss of her voice was more akin to steam burning them from a kettle’s mouth.

The words wrapped around their ears as she continued her half-told story in a language pretty but indecipherable to them. Their brain flickered to focusing on the twists of sounds, half out of pure fascination and half to distract themself from the insult to their flesh. Itch, itch, itch, heart pounds, the rotting touch, breath hitched in their throat as they bared their teeth in a wild-eyed, half-snarl of surprise. Their hood slipped back just a bit, exposing only a sliver of the scars and scarlet ink on the shorn sides of their scalp.

But as her grip on them grew tighter and her eyes colder, and the winding trail of her story veered into English, their bright wide eyes focused on her again rather than staring through her, and they raised their hand to wrap their fingers around her wrist. If she commanded them, they would command her right back, and they pressed their nails on her skin in response to hers digging into their face. Two hunters with their teeth around the other, but neither one yet crushing bone and blood and flesh. Not yet.

Then, they smiled. This awful, manic, toothy grin met her as they looked up. “And then they who drowned will be drowned, and then those who drowned them, and—” the grin faltered for a second against a wince. There was a giggle in their tone that teetered back and forth from frantic to calm, lilting in dreamy sing-song, “That’s all it is, isn’t it? A never ending cycle of condemned and condemners, dirtied hands are still dirtied, righteous or wicked.” Their eyes bubbled over with too many flavors of adrenaline. Fear, excitement, giddiness, yearning? “Are... you here to drown me?” They ran their tongue over their teeth, then leaned daringly into her hand even against the pain of her nails.

A glimmer of metal in their mouth, a glint in their eye. “Make sure my head is underwater first.” They raked their nails into her wrist, and body-warm steel slipped from their other sleeve, lunging out at her torso like a claw to force her away, take her filthy zombie hand from their aching skin, draw her blood, thrash against her waters.

#idle amusements || memes #dance with || fiddlingonthetympanic #|| dance with me on the blade of a knife || #tw knife #tw violence #// OOHH tess fiery #// I love this omgs #// always half a drabble half a starter with my dumb ass jahgjdfgfh #// vik I don't think that was entirely the point of the story

[sidewalkchemistry]

Notes on the Lotus (Nelumbo nucifera) and the corresponding flower essence:

The flowers are given as a sacred offering in many Eastern temples and the dried pods are used extensively for decoration and flower arrangements. A thread is made from the leaf stalks is used for making wicks for oil lamps in temples. Cloth woven from this yarn is believed to cure many ailments. I have a mala (string of prayer beads) made of Lotus seeds, which I began to wear when working on this project.

I found references to the flower essence being given to animals to encourage them to reach their hightest potential. It is said to have one of the highest vibrations of any flower. Thus, animals who are victims of abuse or trauma, or those transitioning can benefit from the gentle action of Lotus, rising out of the mud and transforming into Spirit.

The fascinating part of this for me was seeing the Lotus as so valuable in the physical world for medicine and sustenance, while also maintaining the sacred and revered connotations for feeding the spirit. Thus, the Lotus lives in both worlds, the physical and spiritual, and represents the ultimate ability to be of service on all planes of existence.

LOTUS—“To facilitate the balanced development of the crown chakra, opening the soul to the consciousness of higher worlds, but also helping the soul to see the false spiritual ego, inflation, or illusion of grandeur.”

Lotus flower essence is helping me to be in the world, open my heart to the world, and not drown in the soup. The essence has a very earthly quality to me, while balancing the desire to be “up there.”

Embodies the four elements. Progression from earth/mud, through the water/life, within its cycles the fire of transformation/leaves and flowers unfurl, always reaching upwards towards the sky and sun into the air/ether of the spiritual kingdom

“Nothing dies,” her Mother whispers. “We only slumber to awaken and live again.”

#txt #herbarium #dream garden #energetic herbalism #flower essences #lotus #Nelumbo nucifera #herbalism #holistic healing #holistic health

[iiyah]

enigma.

what sets apart the painter from the one who wields the brush? what marks the distinction between the singer and the voice that simply sings? and how does one proudly declare themselves a lover, while another merely cherishes the act of love? it's a woeful journey of illusions and convoluted paths, spinning cycles of uncertainty, leaving one ultimately empty-handed if these words permeate the mind.

within the cynical and grand scheme that envelops me, the rhetoric that ensnared my existence for years reveals itself as a foolish and nameless narrative, a fabrication of who i am, who i was. to attain mastery over hues and rhythms seemed forever out of reach, concealed amidst the dust and cracks that marred those exquisite facades—an ephemeral illusion concocted to please myself, maybe, all. with lips murmuring flattering words, i find hollow consonants entangled in a web of false hope.

i am an enchanted mirror, my majestic balcony bathed in regal hues of royal purple, standing defiantly on a mountainous plateau. echoing screams and yearning cries that i fail to fathom reside within crumpled sheets confined to this fragile vessel. yet, within the misery-filled cavern, where the wicked amygdala dwells within the temple of my cerebrum, lies an oddly fascinating entity.

lost on sidetracked rails, neutral blows cloak the windows of my eyes, leaving only the relentless winds to consume me day after day. i carry a weighty bag, filled to the brim with darkness and light, a paradox of haunting beauty and repulsive horror. perhaps, the power it holds is a terrifying force i dare not confront.

there exists a painter, pitifully splashing pools of paint onto a tainted canvas, releasing torrents and cascades of suppressed emotions onto a blissfully ignorant thing. yet, there sits another, calmly and unaware, meticulously stroking the paper in parallel directions, devoid of passion or spark in their gaze. the observer can only perceive stupidity, a pitiable foolishness. but perhaps it is the envy that devours them, as they do not bear the same weight when engaging in such trivial pursuits—one consumed by fiery red wrath, the other touched by the pale aqua blue, painting indifference.

the same analogy applies to the sentimental singer and the joyful soul who sings without care. then there is the tender lover, seeking fulfillment and unwavering commitment, contrasting with the empty vessel that knows only how to love. what defines these disparities, setting them apart? i cannot discern. is it passion? anger? hatred? it remains a bewildering notion, how something so captivating and addictive can intoxicate us in the long run. passion and hatred were never meant to intertwine within the same sentence.

alas, i am well-versed in love alone, not the embodiment of a lover. i approach all endeavors with fervor and anticipation, cherishing every passing second, every resounding tick of the clock. yet, mastery over such craft eludes me. now, i am left with a bittersweet afterglow, where the treasures hidden within me remain true to themselves—concealed, locked away, with no means of escape, hidden.

perhaps, it has always been this way.

#121403

[crypticcryptocryptids]

i have homework i should be doing but all i can think about is the world building and the plot and the ending of disco elysium

i've only played through it the one time but the entire thing makes me go kind of nuts? all of it. everything. (warning for spoilers past this point so like. yeah)

you wake up in a haze and you have to walk yourself through talking to people like a person and meeting kim and making a lot of assertions based on very little information, throwing you into the deep end of things from the get go. you are given next to no information on anything and you have to balance finding out what you can and revealing this vulnerability, your lack of certainty in anything. and that's without, like, getting into the whole fucking bucket of worms that comes with playing as an established character.

slowly, slowly you gather information about the world. where you are, what things are, pieces of history and information on politics. it's slow, but fascinating, as it introduces you to an entirely new present and past.

and then! and then you learn about the pale. something that left me reeling, feeling the need to put it down and process it all for a minute. the pale, some you get snippets and allusions to (the map wall, for example) but is only explained in full when joyce talks about it.

you are told about this impossible thing, something that your entire people barely understands and can only just twist into something they can cross. you are told about this horrifying, terrifying and perhaps most importantly utterly unimaginable thing that is slowly encroaching further and further into the world, this thing that will one day swallow everything you know and care for and have ever been into a fathomless void of nothing.

perhaps, really, the pale is just entropy, given form. but there is something about how casually this fact is accepted that made me pause. you are told this, and there is nothing you can do about it. disco elysium is not about this. it is about something as mundane as man who was killed for reasons, that are, in the end, mundane. it is about how you, harry, either or both cannot change the world. just pieces.

i don't know what it is about. cycles of violence, maybe. how humanity has lived through dozens of political and socioeconomic stylings, how none of them have stuck and none of them will but we will still be here regardless.

i think the thing i keep coming back to, other than the pale and the commentary, is the mundanity of it all. even when things that are bizarre, that seem like earth shattering revelations take place, they are... mundane. or at least, there is nothing you can do with them, and the only option left is to go on.

you wake up after what must have been one of the worst nights of your life, and you get dressed. you check yourself in the mirror, and then you go to work. there is a hole in the world, 2 millimeters in size. you must go on. you are shot, wake up two days later, and then get back to work. there is no rest for the wicked, after all.

you dream of a saint, of your ex, of a dead man. you take what you can from these and move on. there is nothing else you can do.

there is an insect, and it is kind and beautiful and at the same time terrifying. it is, indirectly, the cause for the violence and heartbreak that brought you here. it is, indirectly, the reason you can choose to begin healing.

it tells you about how humanity is unknowingly bringing about its own destruction.

you must go on.

and in the end, all you come away with is memories like swiss cheese, another case to tick off on a list, and perhaps the knowledge that however you could, you affected a tiny piece of the world.

disco elysium is a good game, i think.

#disco elysium #disco elysium spoilers #cryptic cawing #nhg. i have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this game #probably no one will bother reading this and i didn't proof read it very well but. yeah. thoughts

[thosewickedlovelies]

An Ode To Marcus Moreno’s Arms

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x GN!Reader

Rating: Mature

Summary: You’re a training specialist in swordsmanship at Heroics Headquarters, so you see a lot of Marcus Moreno.

Tags: Reader has a vivid (sexual) imagination, but there’s only a few brief sections.

Word Count: 2,272

A/N: This started out as an ode to his arms, but his arms are connected to the rest of him, so. Alternative title: In Appreciation of Marcus Moreno

My assumption/headcanon of his powers are telekinesis, plus general exceptional physical prowess and weapons skills? Idk, we weren’t given much, but those feel like solid abilities for someone implied to be the super among super heroes. Idk what this is but I regret nothing.

More content/worldbuilding set in this universe 💗

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Marcus Moreno’s arms were capable of many things.

You knew this because you saw them on an almost-daily basis. You were one of the training specialists at Heroics Headquarters, one of a large, ever-expanding staff of instructors who were experts in their respective fields of combat or weapons. Your job, essentially, was to be a superhero minus the powers- and use your abilities to keep the Heroics in top form.

Your expertise was swordsmanship, which meant you spent more time with Marcus than any of the other heroes. All of the physical trainers and specialists sparred with the Heroics in mock villain showdowns, but you also helped them hone specific skills. You were here because your skillset and abilities matched Marcus’s.

So you’ve had plenty of opportunity to behold his arms at work.

One would think that they’d be most enticing mid-action, but it was a cosmically ironic fact that there was never really a wrong moment to ogle. How that man could make merely unsheathing his swords so erotic was beyond you.

But by now you’d seen it from every angle. You were as familiar with Marcus’s technique as you were with your own, and knew well the cycle of muscle contractions which rippled up his whole body. It started with his legs: setting his stance, primed and poised on the balls of his feet. Then every muscle in his torso, his clinging t-shirts sliding over taut flesh as they rode up with the lifting of his arms- his arms. Biceps suddenly incredibly present and visibly straining past barely-existent sleeves, tendons flexing rigid and obvious, a tangle of pathways you wanted to map with your tongue.

This show was best when he had started his day with tactical theory sessions, because then his expressive face got involved. Oh yes, it wasn’t enough for him just to be built the way he was, his face had to go and be attractive as well.

Tedious strategy debates with Miracle Guy during these sessions never failed to get under his skin- you could always tell how much steam Marcus had to let off based on the clench of his jaw. Or the way he’d drag his bottom lip over his teeth, nostrils flaring in an almost-snarl. When that happened you knew he gripped the hilts of his swords a little tighter, because you’d see the ridges in his wrist dip and pull like piano strings perpendicular to the line of his gloves. The blades would sing little sharper on those days, his arms freeing them in a jerk rather than their usual smooth, deliberate slide.

It was amazing you ever made it beyond unsheathing your weapons.

But oh, were you glad you did, because watching Marcus Moreno fight was truly a treat. The control he had over his body was remarkable; even when his limbs flung and stretched, they were to ready to contract again at a second’s notice. “Fight” was really too limited of a term for it- Marcus manipulated his body in an incredible harmony of mind and muscle, using his weapons- including his telekinesis- as extensions of himself.

You wondered sometimes how fine his control over his telekinesis was- if he could use it on himself. If he did use it somehow to give his blows that devastating extra speed and strength.

It was easy to understand, after witnessing him, why battle is often described as a dance.

On particularly ruthless training days, his tan skin would gleam with sweat. It would bead and trickle along the pulsing veins in his arms, drawing your attention even more, and salacious scenes would flash behind your eyelids: those same glistening forearms visible in your peripherals as they box you against a wall, that same intent glitter in his dark eyes as they come closer and closer, breathless, his chest heaving into yours-

You never let on to any of this though. You were a master of the blade, and had trained too thoroughly to let the appearance of an opponent get to you. Besides that fact, you would never do anything to risk your place with the Heroics. Although you were an authority figure, they were still superheroes, and thus unlike anyone else you’d worked with- it made for a challenging, stimulating dynamic in which you were constantly both instructor and student.

Even outside of the training arena, Marcus’s arms were a sight.

Holding data pads or writing utensils as he led the Heroics in discussions of group tactics, deftly manipulating characters onscreen or scribbling things on a whiteboard. Sometimes he would go to these sessions straight from physical training, and the cooling sweat on his skin would raise goosebumps all along the smooth flesh.

You observed how gently his arms could move in yet other circumstances.

Training specialists often joined in when the Heroics were given new gadgets to play with. And although these days tended to be slower, they still made you sweat. Watching the caution with which Marcus handled the gear at first, the slow care he reserved for things with which he was still becoming familiar. The precision and that control he always kept- even when his frustration slipped out in the form of snarky remarks, he was always conscious of his movements. As he gained confidence, the surety would return to his motions, his shoulders squaring in quiet triumph- his broad, broad shoulders, which you had imagined far too many times propping up your thighs while his hands and mouth were otherwise engaged between them.

You wondered if Marcus would treat your body like something new he had to master. If his hands would probe and caress with the same thoroughness. If the same wicked delight would steal over his features as he learned how best to coax you toward his desired goals; if his fascinated smirk would change after the thousandth time he had taken you apart.

It didn’t help that these sessions highlighted that he was a kind, competent teacher. His teammates exasperated him sometimes, but Marcus was the first to step in when one of them was struggling. A light touch to rearrange their stance, an encouraging word or smile. If you hadn’t personally felt the power thrumming under his skin, you would have never guessed that such a soft man was capable of his immense abilities.

Occasionally you had to remind yourself not to get all dopey-eyed when he was instructing the kids. If you thought he was patient with the adult Heroics, it was nothing compared to how he interacted with their younger counterparts. Equally firm and joking in turn, he taught them every trick he knew while desperately hoping they would never have to use the knowledge.

Some days were easier for him than others- the times they practiced with weapons could have unexpectedly diverting consequences. Marcus let Guppy hold his katanas, once- she was fully capable with her shark strength, but the vision of the diminutive girl brandishing swords that were taller than she was, her face aglow with a ferocious grin, had all the others in fits.

You swore he was suppressing laughter himself as he carefully took them away from her. His hands, already distracting enough, looked comically vast compared to hers as he delicately maneuvered them to pluck the swords from her grasp. Something about the sight of his thick fingers, resettling themselves around the hilts with reflexive ease, made your mouth dry.

His fingers squeezed other things, too, and it made flames leap low in your belly every time.

Lime wedges, on the rare occasions he indulged in drinks stronger than wine at the Headquarters bar. His friends’s shoulders, in affection and farewell, after relaxing with them at said bar following hard days. You longed to be one of those who Marcus slung an arm around in jest, a laugh shaking his shoulders and sparkling in his eyes. Would his skin be as warm as it was while swinging a weapon? What would his body feel like softened in mirth, instead of vibrating with focus?

You didn’t blame him for his more formal attitude during work hours. His days were busy, and you rarely saw him off the training mats. You had shared a few evenings with him on nights when the bar was quieter, though. He was perfectly friendly, treating you just like anyone else he was getting to know.

Tonight was one of those quieter nights, but you didn’t do more than cast a quick glance at the small group sitting in the corner before slumping to the bar. You were worn out today, and just wanted something strong and solitary before going home.

You sighed into the numbing wash of your drink, your eyes drifting shut. Nobody would bother you this evening; it wasn’t that kind of atmosphere.

Except- the barstool next to yours scraped against the floor.

You inhaled deeply, preparing to politely rip into whatever idiot was assuming you needed company- only to have the words struck off your lips by the apprehensive brown eyes of Marcus Moreno.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you. You can tell me to march right back to my table if you like, but uh, I just wanted to see if you were all right. After today.”

You could see that he genuinely meant it- he was perched only partially on the barstool, ready to take off again if you said the word. But his gaze was curious, concerned.

You brow furrowed. “After today?” you echoed, too caught off-guard to think of anything else. What could he mean? Nothing special had happened today. He’d disarmed you, sure, but it wasn’t the first time that had occurred in the eight months you’d been working with him.

Marcus shifted uncertainly. “You just seemed...tired. Reflexes slower than usual,” he noted wryly. “And, well. We have matching bags.” He pointed to his face, where dark shadows were visible beneath his eyes. He offered a self-deprecating, tentative smile, conscious that he was treading in new territory.

It takes you a minute to process. In all the time you’ve spent observing his fighting techniques to perfection, you’d never considered that he could have been using those same opportunities to observe you. It provokes a funny feeling in your chest, twisting your breath up in your lungs like tangled ribbon.

“Oh,” you murmur, surprised but unoffended by his mention of the bags under your eyes. “Well...I am tired today, I guess.” You took a sip of your drink, gauging his interest, hesitating before continuing. “My sister broke her hip, so she just moved in with me for while she heals. It’s been...a stressful transition,” you admitted.

He angles himself toward you, attention fully committed and eyes widening in sympathy. “Oh gosh, that’s terrible. Do you need some time off? I can clear it with the boss for you, work with Santino for however long you need.” He seemed to straighten up, as if ready to spring away and take care of it the moment you answered.

“No, please,” you chuckled in appreciation of his earnestness. “I might need a few shorter days, but neither of us need me fussing over her 24/7.” Both you and your sister were strongly independent. It meant that you had often been at odds when you were younger, but you were all each other had now, and had made efforts to improve your relationship.

Marcus nodded in understanding, settling again. He seemed at a loss for if he should leave or say something else, so you made the choice for him.

“Tired of getting your ass kicked in my lessons, Moreno? You know Santino doesn’t work you as hard.” Your fellow swordsmanship instructor was slightly younger, a newer hire who was still a little bit in awe of the Heroics.

You didn’t usually speak so flippantly to him, but his eyebrows arced high at the challenge, a smile tugging on his lips. “Sounds like somebody needs a reminder of who kicked whose ass today, ma’am.” Rolling right along with your apparent newfound playfulness.

You pinpointed, suddenly, what was different about him tonight, why this interaction felt different compared to your others. There’d always been an air of deference about him before, as if even outside of the arena he considered you a superior. But tonight he was just treating you like a peer, a regular person. Maybe it had taken your excessively dragging day for him to come to terms with the fact that you were a regular person, but the ice finally felt like it had broken between you and you just...talked, after that. For longer than both of you probably intended.

“Shoot, I have to go get Missy,” Marcus realized, catching sight of his watch. “But you- you’ll be here again? I mean, I see you here a lot.” He stumbled over his words.

Did he? It was true that you were often at the bar at the same time, but for him to acknowledge that meant that he actually noticed you. Remembered your presence.

“Yeah, I’m here pretty regularly,” you confirmed, cautiously hopeful.

“Good. I mean, I’ll see you, then- next time.” His voice rasped low, but there was a nervousness in his expression. He twisted his jacket between his large hands.

He wanted to see you again. “Yes.” You smiled at him, surprise and pleasure shining through. “I’ll see you next time,” you said with conviction.

His eyes crinkled in answer, and your breath caught. Your ordered yourself not to watch him leave the room.

You drove home with a quiet grin on your face.

#we can be heroes #wcbh #wcbh fic #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #NOBODY LOOK AT ME