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keouil · 4 months

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grow in the wild of changing things

"if you seriously propose that i sit on your lap," maki warns. "i will kill you." 1k. yuuta/maki. fluff. also on ao3.

The mission goes horribly wrong so horribly fast.

It starts with Yuuta forgetting the whetstone to sharpen his katana with that morning.

In a rush to leave—because evidently Gojo didn't believe in informing his students a day ahead of an out-of-city mission until literally hours before—he only had his emergency bag and Maki screaming at him to hurry up as his rather unpleasant morning call. It was an overnight mission somewhere in Higashiyama, and the mindless grinding of the sandpaper against steel was usually comforting to do just before he slept. When he looked at Maki who sat next to him on the shinkansen, so perfectly poised with her entire luggage accounted for, it just served as another reminder of how out of his depth with this whole jujutsu thing he still was.

Then there was the actual mission: an actual dragon-like thing spawned from one of the cultural centers in a suburban highschool. It was a measly Grade 2 level at most. But it was huge and breathed fire. And there were only two of them. Sometimes Yuuta wonders if Gojo purposefully misassigns them missions to test their abilities and/or force them to adapt to the times. It wouldn't be the first time he played mind games on them like that, recalling his first ever mission with Inumaki that left them both bedridden for an entire week.

Now as Yuuta stares into the belly of the beast, talons biting into every available surface, there was only one thing in his mind: He really shouldn't have answered the damn phone.

"Maki-san!" Yuuta yells out, running with lightning at his feet. The dragon was pulling its head back, a tell-tale sign it was getting ready to spew fire into the gymnasium. His clothes are singed from the edges and half his lungs are filled with smoke. "Can you lead it away from the school?"

"I'm already on it!" Maki is making a beeline for the gap between the trees, taunting the dragon into following her tail.

It takes them five hours to cut just one of its arms alone, and another three for the tail. Maki worked tirelessly to keep a close offensive stance against the beastly thing, her spears blunting themselves over and over again but still pulling through. Yuuta's katana serves its purpose despite the steel not being its sharpest peak, and it's Yuuta who delivers the final blow: cutting through the flesh of the dragon’s neck and watching satisfactorily as its head breaks into two.

"Fucking finally," Maki yells out somewhere under him. "As expected of you, Okkotsu!"

Yuuta blushes, wiping away some of the blood from his forehead. Maki gave out compliments so easily like that sometimes that Yuuta has to reign it in and remember she's just being nice.

"Ah, well," Yuuta smiles down, sheepish. "It was a joint effort!"

Maki just smiles wider. "Whatever you say!"

Ijichi isn't picking up and Maki is starting to panic.

They had a good stay in the hostel, far better lodgings than any accommodation Yuuta has at least been privy to. It had an in-house onsen that both of them took turns taking full advantage of, washing the day away and feeling the warmth seep into the marrow of their bones. The rooms were nice and spacious. The silk sheets even more so. But he guesses that was to be expected, it was Kyoto after all.

Now it is sometime past 9 am, and Ijichi is almost never late. The winds were suddenly picking up and neither of them were dressed for cold travel.

"Try him again," Maki gestures to his phone hurriedly. "I'll try Gojo-sensei."

Yuuta picks up his phone and dials the familiar number, waiting exactly three rings before the call cancels itself automatically. He tries two more times after that before giving up entirely, at the same time Maki manages to get a hold of Gojo.

They were talking in a hushed tone, Maki nodding along apprehensively, until sometime after that she starts shaking her head and repeats no, no absolutely not all over again in rapid succession. She was growing more distressed by the minute. Yuuta can't make out any of the words, walking closer and gesturing, Everything okay? Maki shakes her head. Yuuta waits for her to end the call before asking anything.

"What happened?"

"Ijichi got sent on an emergency mission in Sendai," Maki says annoyed. "There's no other assistant available to drive us back."

"I see," Yuuta says calmly. "So we're staying another night then?"

Maki seemed to grow even more distressed again. "No," she bites out, not meeting his eye. "He—ah—he arranged a different transportation for us."

It's then Yuuta finally realizes the sudden wind change, now so violently thrashing against them they had to hold on to their luggages more firmly. The ground was shaking from beneath them, and belatedly Yuuta could hear what he thinks are wings flapping in the distance. From the sound of it, something big was coming their way. And it's not until Maki looks out to the sky and swears under her breath, that Yuuta spots it.

Another fucking dragon.

"What if—" Yuuta starts.

"If you seriously propose that I sit on your lap," Maki warns. "I will kill you."

Gojo's brilliant, totally ingenious idea had been: renting out Getou's cursed spirit. It wasn't the Rainbow Dragon that routinely patrolled the school on a nightly basis, but the one he preferred to pull out when he had to demo a curse technique in class and needed a low-stakes output of cursed energy. He travelled with it sometimes. But that was the catch: the thing wasn't built for two people.

"Maki, really," Yuuta's hands are itching to reach out. She was too near the edge. "You're falling."

"I'm not," Maki insists, adjusting her hold on the dragon horn again. "I'm just — it's slippery."

"Then come here," Yuuta gestures to where he was positioned more securely against the dragon's tailbone. "Or at least hold my hand."

Maki scoffs. "Hanging out with Todo too much, have you?"

Yuuta fought a grin. "Maybe," he says, enjoying the wind kissing his skin. "But maybe I just want to make sure you don't fall sixty feet to your death, too."

"I won't fall," Maki stubbornly insists. Yuuta sees her briefly glancing down for a second and notes the sharp intake of her breath. "Dragon won't let me fall. Won't you, Dragon?"

The dragon groans in response. Not very comforting.

Maki curses again. "This dragon has been out to get me the moment I accidentally stepped on its tail that one time.." she mumbles under her breath.

Yuuta looks amused. "Dragons can't hate people."

"Shut up, Okkotsu!" yells Maki, breathlessly, because they were gaining speed and her hold on the horn really didn't look secure. "You can say that because every one of Getou-sensei's curses love you! They—"

Maki is interrupted by a pair of strong arms reaching out to circle around her waist, pushing her back against a solid chest. Yuuta's arms peek out from under her elbows, grasping firmly into the dragon's cordeo and steering them down into calmer winds. Maki shut her eyes the moment she felt herself being moved, unable to so much as breathe against the sudden change of position. She can feel Yuuta laughing lowly behind her, his deep chuckles vibrating against the length of her spine.

"You were saying?"

"Shut up, Okkotsu," Maki hisses, eyes still wired shut. The wind was brutal against her cheeks and she's positive her hair was flying all over the place. She nervously feels around for Yuuta's arms and circles the fabric around his uniform sleeves. "Just shut up and don’t let go."

This only caused Yuuta to howl, so gleefully, his voice so open against the morning sun and clean air. He sounded so free then. "I won’t. Now open your eyes, Maki."

Maki shakes her head profusely. "No."

"Just do it," Yuuta nudges at her from the side, voice baked in amusement. "I'm not gonna let you fall."

Maki takes a shallow breath, and then two more. She can hear Yuuta humming impassively behind her, so patient and calm against all the warring in her head. She tries channelling some of that, his zen, and braves enough to crack open an eye.

The hitch in her voice, this time, was for an entirely different reason.

Maki takes it all in: the clouds shifting and changing from right beneath their feet, the vast expanse of atmosphere that all at once seemed all-consuming and like she couldn't drink it in fast enough. It's golden up here, not blue; not like what all those books say.

"Beautiful, right?" she hears Yuuta say, somewhere not so far behind her, somewhere suddenly so close to her ear. She turns to her side and sees: the halo of the sun shining down on him, his cheeks marooned from adrenaline rush, and a smile so golden the sun herself paled in comparison. "The view really is better from up here."

#yuutamaki #yutamaki #okkotsu yuuta #maki zenin #jujutsu kaisen #fic

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brazilsign8 · 2 years

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Dental Veneers and each Thing Over it

https://www.peruemb.org/dental-veneers-and-every-thing-about-it/

A dental veneer is a thin layer of products which can be the identical shade as tooth enamel. This thin layer restores the shape and method of the enamel by getting put on pure enamel. Quite simply, if the patient has a damaged tooth with an unpleasant smile and visual appearance, he can easily right it by experiencing these cosmetic dental treatment plans. Remarkably, dental veneers are called golden dental treatments due to the fact they could modify qualities like form and coloration, sizing and duration of the tooth after they adhere to your entrance on the tooth. Of course, it ought to be noted that according to a professional dentist delivering dental veneers in downtown Vancouver, the use of dental veneers is not really advised for Individuals who have problematic tooth bites or practices like gritted tooth. Since the veneer breaks following a while below additional pressure. For anyone who is amongst those getting fascinated extra in these beauty dental procedures, proceed looking through this article. What Dental Difficulties Are Treated with These Beauty Dental Solutions? Normally, if you'd like to have Continuous enamel whitening in lieu of enamel bleaching restore of cracks and fillings of enamel appropriate your tooth deformity appropriate your tooth have on and shortening close the Room concerning the enamel Use a slight correction of teeth, you can opt for this beauty dental cure and really feel sure about The end result. Their Differing kinds You'll find different types of those cosmetic dental procedures, together with composite kinds and porcelain (ceramic) types. Each and every style has its own advantages and disadvantages which have been advised for a specific variety of individuals with special dental flaws. A porcelain veneer is best proof against discoloration and stains than a composite veneer, and its gentle reflection assets is a lot more much like normal enamel. A porcelain veneer is also referred to as ceramic veneer. Porcelain veneers are made after the molding method and sending the molds to your laboratory. Still, a dentist can make composite veneers during the office, which differs with regards to design time and use. An additional difference between a composite veneer and also a porcelain veneer is that the dentist isn't going to need to have considerable tooth chopping to position the composite veneer. Only a slight surface abrasion is done around the enamel and will not harm the enamel to the surface of healthful tooth. Even though applying porcelain veneer, it is necessary to chop the teeth so it stays healthier Together with the tooth in the initial approach. If they've got a pale edge or fracture under higher strain, Will probably be possible to mend their tooth simply, like organic enamel. Composite veneer’s condition and form are normal making sure that others hardly notice the difference between organic tooth and composite veneer enamel. But porcelain veneers are more transparent. Drawbacks Occasionally, the life span of composites is brief, and just after 10 to 12 years, it is necessary to replace them with new levels. Aside from, the gloss of such composites is under the gloss of ceramic laminates, but there are several methods to increase their gloss and glow. A further destructive position would be that the client need to notice a lot more hygiene just after composite.

#Dental Veneers

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buckyownsmylife · 4 years

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Fast and Slow - Harry Styles smut

The one where your dom lent you to Harry and he’s very eager to have you.

Warnings: smut, oral sex (m), p in v, overstimulation, sex bench, sex fluids, cursing, bdsm, restraints, sharing kink?, Harry is a soft dom and calls you “little one” a lot.

A/N: Day 12 of kinktober and the prompts were being lent to another dom and “say my name + louder”. I’m actually really proud of this one because I managed to incorporate another prompt that I never thought I’d be able to use on my fics, so I guess this idea of doing kinktober to explore some kinks is really working for me. As always (for kinktober fics), unrevised because I literally just finished it and I’m already dead inside.

Harry’s P.O.V.

I did my best to close the door behind me making as little noise as possible. Still, I noticed by the way her muscles tensed up that she’d heard me approach, and the anticipation was visibly affecting her.

Clicking my tongue, I allowed myself this first moment to explore her naked body with my eyes as she remained knelt by the foot of the bed, her head lowered to avoid meeting my gaze. She’d followed my orders perfectly, as I’d come to expect by what her dom explained of her, and I could feel my cock already hardening on my pants, the only piece of clothing I still wore.

There was nothing I appreciated more than a good, obedient little girl. I already knew she’d be perfect for me. But I’d known that long before, the first time I laid my eyes on her, even. It was an immediate attraction, one that I couldn’t act on simply because she already belonged to someone else.

So when her dom announced that they were up to experiment with sharing, I was quick to jump on the opportunity to have her, at least for one night. “You really are beautiful, aren’t you?” I asked, running a single finger under her chin so I could raise her eyes to meet mine, and I lost my breath at that simple connection.

She just had this thing about her, such sensuality seemed to lie just beneath the surface of her gaze. I felt it deep in my bones every time we were out for drinks and I had the hardest time trying to keep my hands to myself, trying to remember that she was with my friend.

And as much as the outings proved difficult to me, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. Not when my friendship with her dom meant that I got to see her at least once a week. Not when it allowed me the chance of being here with her, in this situation.

Well, first things first, I knew we had communicated pretty extensively prior to this session, but I felt like I should run over the most basic rule once more. Even though all I wanted to do was to jam my cock in her pretty little throat.

“What’s your safe word?” I asked, still holding her jaw so she’d look me in the eyes and see just how seriously I actually took this. I thought I saw the shadow of a smile pass over her face, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and she was back to the picture perfect submissive front.

“Red for stopping, yellow for slowing down and three taps when I need to stop and can’t speak.” I did smile at her answer, satisfied at how thorough she’d been. It was clear too, by the way she ran over her words and the glint in her eye, that she was just as eager as I was to get this started.

I wouldn’t keep her waiting much longer. We did have only one night, after all. “Good job, little one.” I acknowledged as I straightened up, keeping my crotch on her eye level before nodding to her. “Take me off my trousers.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she worked on my belt before going for the zipper, but it was clear by the way she bit on her lower lip that it was from excitement. I licked my lips at the prospect of the night that we had ahead of us, knowing she was right in getting anxious for it. I had a lot planned for us.

I watched with clear amusement as her breath bitched at the sight of my cock, almost hard already, and it was obvious that she was entranced by it. “Go ahead,” I signaled, once again nodding towards her. “Lick it. Give it a taste.”

She looked up at me with those bright, wide eyes and I had to bite on my inner cheek to contain a groan of desire that threatened to make its way into our one-person conversation. But then, she stuck out her tongue, running it over the length of my member and I was a goner, a loud moan escaping my lips.

I’d always been a vocal person in bed.

“Okay, stop. Hands behind your back. Open your mouth for me.” Her mouth fell open to obey my request easily, her tongue sticking out once more like she couldn’t get enough of my taste already. It was hard to keep the smile off my face, and I could see that she appreciated the sight of my dimples as she couldn’t take her eyes off of it.

Once, she’d been wine drunk in one of our friendly outings, and she admitted she thought they were extremely cute. I’d started to smile even more around her after that, always keeping an attentive eye to watch her fascination with my dimples whenever they appeared.

“‘M gonna fuck your face now, okay, love?” She nodded, mouth still open, eyes connected to mine. I had to chuckle at the pure image of compliant enthusiasm that she portrayed. I, too, couldn’t wait to have her mouth wrapped around my cock.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

His hand curled around my nape and he pulled me to meet his member by it, the other one coming to cradle my cheek as he slowly penetrated my open mouth. The hiss he let out as he fed me inch by inch of his beautiful cock was like music to my ears.

God, he was beautiful. I couldn’t believe he actually wanted to dom me and now here I was, with his cock halfway down my throat. I felt so unbelievably lucky, and even more incredibly horny. How could it be that he didn’t have a sub anymore? I would drop to my knees instantly, any time he asked me to.

I knew I should feel bad about thinking like that when it was only a loan - I was with another dom, I wouldn’t be with Harry again after tonight. But I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t how I felt.

Specially when he threw his head back after I managed to swallow his entire length, his curls bouncing from the action and the sweetest little moans escaping from his beautiful pink lips. God, he was beautiful.

“Fuck, you’re precious,” he complimented, suddenly looking down at me with those incredible green eyes. A shiver ran down my spine at the connection, and the most predatory smirk painted his lips, making me whine around the cock on my lips. “Ready?” He asked, running his thumb over my cheekbones, his hands making my already hot face feel even warmer. When I managed to slightly nod, he did too, immediately pulling almost completely out of my mouth before thrusting back in.

The instinctive reaction to gag was undeniable, but despite the tears that immediately appeared on my eyes, I forced myself to breathe deeply through my nose and focus on the symphony that Harry was creating, with his moans and gasps and the wet sounds of gurgling and spit from his thrusts.

“You’re a little cockslut, aren’t you, sweetheart? So eager to please, I could see it in your eyes just how much you wanted my cock, huh?” I moaned around his member at the dirty words he so effortlessly threw around. I’d never thought Harry would be this vocal during sex, but god if it didn’t make me horny. In fact, I was so fucking wet that it was dripping down onto the floor of his bedroom, running down my thighs and ankles.

It was so damn filthy, and I loved every second of it. He pulled me by my hair so I could lick his balls while I gathered my breath, and I immediately put one in my mouth, rolling it before doing the same with the other. By the way he whined, I could see he loved it.

“Come back here, I wanna cum down your throat.” The prospect was one that I very much ached for, since my pussy was throbbing at the perspective. I didn’t even feel any hurt from the way he forcefully thrusted into my mouth before he started to roughly facefuck me, I was just too ecstatic about bringing him this much pleasure.

“I’m gonna cum, love. I’m cumming.” I loved that he kept the same nickname that he usually called me in social situations. It had always made me feel tingly, but when he was filling my mouth with his warm liquid, it was a different experience entirely.

Harry’s P.O.V.

It took a lot of strength and control not to fall down on my knees after cumming on her lips. She made me weak, it was ridiculous and dangerous but I was already addicted to the feeling.

I took some minutes to catch my breath before offering my hand to help her up, and when she accepted it, I couldn’t help but to trail my eyes down her body, appreciating each inch of skin available for my gaze to explore. But there was another way in which I wanted to survey her body.

“Come here, little one.” I took her to the edge of the room where I’d prepared the sex bench, observing her reactions to see how she would take it. She didn’t look like she recognized it, but she also didn’t seem repelled by it, which I took as a win.

“I take it you haven’t used this before.” She nodded, glancing at me before averting her eyes. “You can look at me when I’m talking to you, sweetheart.” The look of surprise she gave me left me with an unpleasant feeling. I knew it was common in bdsm, especially with more stricter doms, to train their subs so that they’re always visibly submissive. But the idea of someone missing the chance of having her beautiful eyes on them left me in despair. It left me feeling like she wasn’t properly appreciated, and that didn’t sit well with me at all.

“Are you comfortable with exploring this with me?” When she immediately nodded, an easy smile appeared on my lips, and I allowed her to see it flourish. “Then hop on it, sweetheart. I can’t wait to see you spread open for my viewing pleasure.”

She bit her lip at my admission, and I helped her settle on the bench before strapping the restraints over her ankles and arms. Then, after a quick caress of her cheek, I assumed my position behind her, biting my own lip at the sight that welcomed me.

Her wetness was already dripping over her pussy lips, and I instinctively raised my hand to open her for me, checking her weeping hole before quickly plunging two fingers inside of her, making her gasp.

“You’re drenched, love.” She agreed with me, albeit a little breathlessly, and I chuckled before wrapping my lips around the two fingers that had been inside of her, tasting her wetness. She was so sweet, it tasted heavenly in my mouth.

Humming in appreciation, I collected some more of her juices before sticking my fingers inside of her again, this time in search of her sweet spot. When I heard her gasp again, I knew I’d reached my goal.

“Does it feel good when I touch you like this?” I asked, thrusting my fingers in and out of her, making sure to hit that special spongy place every time my digits were deep within her pussy.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

I cried out at the feeling of Harry’s fingers inside of me, after spending so long with this burning arousal inside of me, taking care of him without being touched. He fucked me so furiously, it barely seemed like he retreated his fingers at all, and soon enough, I was cumming with his digits pressing inside that spot that had my eyes rolling to the back of my head, my legs spasming as I felt the urge to close them, stop him from continuing to stimulate me, but I couldn’t. Not when I was tied to this bench, vulnerable to whatever wish he wanted to express with my body.

I finally understood the reason for the chair.

When he didn’t stop thrusting his fingers in and out of me, another orgasm quickly rolled in, making me spasm against the leather seat, begging him for something - to keep fucking me or to stop, I couldn’t say.

Still, it seemed like he knew just what I wanted to say, or at the very least, what I needed in that moment, because even though he didn’t remove his fingers - or even stopped moving whatsoever - he drastically slowed down the movement, opting to insert them in me at a snail’s pace.

“You like it here, don’t you?” He asked, clearly laughing at my agony, and if I could, I would have laughed too. “You know, I like having you here, like this, too. It’s been so long since I had a sub, I didn’t remember how much I missed it until I saw you knelt down by my bed.”

I was trying very hard to focus on what he was saying, but it was getting harder by the second, since despite the brutality of the last two orgasms he collected from me, the calm pace with which he kept on fucking me with my fingers was very quickly reigniting the fire of desire within me.

“Of course, it could just be you. You know, I had no idea you were into this kind of thing, when we met. If I’d known…” He didn’t continue, but I understood what he wanted to say nonetheless. If we’d known about this aspect of our personalities, perhaps I’d be his sub now.

The idea of being Harry’s, of having this every single day paired with the feeling of his digits still pressing against my sweet spot incited another release from me, and now I could hear just how wet I’d become.

“Feeling a tad overstimulated, love?” He teased, finally pulling his fingers from me and granting me some relief. I heard a sucking sound that brought shivers down my spine at the realisation that he had sucked my wetness from his digits, but before I could focus too much on that, I felt the blunt head of his cock against my hole, just slightly rubbing it in.

“Think you can handle just one more orgasm? Wanna feel you clench around my cock, sweetheart. Think you can do this for me?” I don’t think I’d ever nodded as quickly for anything in my entire life, but I felt plenty compensated for my enthusiasm when I felt him pushing inside of me, stretching me open to accept his long cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned when he finally bottomed out, the position I was in due to the sex bench assuring that he was perfectly nested against my sweet spot and I think the sensation was overwhelming for him too, by the way he inadvertently jerked his hips, hitting my g-spot after he was finally completely in.

I didn’t think I could feel better than I felt in that moment, impaled on his cock, but that was before he started thrusting in and out of me. The overstimulation had my nerves on fire, every single one of my cells screaming out for me, as I was too, and then his voice pierced through my senses, begging me to say his name, scream his name, until I did just so, exactly when I felt that warm pit of arousal explode inside of me.

“Louder,” he ordered, his fingers burying themselves on the flesh of my ass, and I couldn’t disobey him. All I knew was his name, all I could do was to scream it from the top of my lungs, desperate to release some of the astounding sensations I felt travel through me.

Harry moaned my name when he came, too. It was the first thing I remember focusing on when I stopped hearing the beat of my own heart on my ears, followed suit by the feeling of his warm cum dripping from my abused pussy lips and running down my legs.

He scooped some of it up, careful not to overwhelm me, before feeding it to me, and I was more than glad to wrap my lips around his fingers and suck them just how I’d done to his cock.

“You know…” He started after he’d released me and helped me put on a robe, and was now massaging some lotion on my wrists. He looked nervous, almost unsure of himself, and the idea made me curious. “Call me crazy all you want, we can pretend I never even asked it after you get out of here.”

He took a deep breath before continuing and I felt my heartbeat pick up as I realised what he could be about to ask. “Would you consider becoming mine? My sub, I mean? We can talk to…”

I interrupted him by throwing myself at him, wrapping my arms around his shoulder as I buried my face on his neck. “I’d love to, Harry.” He didn’t immediately react, but then, I felt him reciprocate my hug before feeling his warm hands rubbing over my back.

“I’d love to too, sweetheart.”

#harry styles #smut #harry styles smut #kinktober #kinktober 2020 #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles wrinting #harry styles writings #harry styles dom

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pokemon-inspiration · 3 years

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“Invasive” Grass-types

Invasive species have been touched on in the world of Pokemon, namely in the Alola region, but I feel like invasive plants have yet to be properly covered. So, I decided to toy around with the following variants of Grass-type Pokemon, inspired by real life invasive plants.

“Eurasian watermilfoil” Tangela and Tangrowth

Type: Grass/Water

This variant of the Vine Pokemon tends to prefer lakes, streams, and deltas over the dense jungles of the Kantonian version. The vines Tangela and Tangrowth are wrapped in are pinkish in hue and covered in delicate, feather-like leaves that collapse immediately when held out of water. Both of these variants love to let their vines (in Tangrowth’s case, including its arms) grow up to the surface, forming dense mats that block sunlight from reaching plants below. This turns the lake into a forest of swaying vines and little else. While individually these vines are weak and easily breakable, they grow in such quantities that any who would try to prey on these Vine Pokemon, or just remove them from the lakes they infest, quickly find themselves swamped by piles of heavy, wet vines. When fragments of these Pokemon break off, even tiny ones, they will quickly form roots and eventually become entirely new Tangela.

“Buckthorn” Sawsbuck

Type: Grass/Dark

This “invasive” Pokemon is one of the few variants that does not include its pre-evolution. These Season Pokemon begin as normal Deerling, until they come into contact with the tiny seeds of a vicious, unpleasant type of woody plant. These seeds quickly grow into the Deerling’s skin, irritating it to the point of causing uncharacteristic rampages. Once the Deerling evolves, the characteristic antlers Sawsbuck is known for are replaced with wide, bushy, thorny branches. The plant that now has completely bonded with the Pokemon pays no heed to seasons, only dropping its leaves in the absolute coldest part of winter. Armed with these new weapons, this Sawsbuck variant will seek out fights wherever it can, goring its opponent with its massive sharpened antlers. The only time it is not fighting is when the plant becomes laden with berries, making the antlers so heavy the Sawsbuck can’t lift its head. At that point it hunkers down in the undergrowth, leaving bird Pokemon to feed on the berries, thus spreading the influence of the dastardly plant even more.

"Salt Cedar" Snover and Abomasnow

Type: Grass/Rock

Unlike their polar and alpine relatives, this variant of Snover and Abomasnow make their homes in dry, arid, rocky areas of the world. They retain their snowy white appearance at first glance, but on closer inspection their pale complexion is due to a buildup of salt crystals on the outside of their dense wooden bodies. If left to their own devices, these Frost Tree Pokemon will send their roots deep into the earth, plumbing hidden pockets of mineral rich water to sustain themselves under a scorching sun. While they retain the water from their search, any dissolved salts will first coat them, then spill out onto the ground, turning the soil barren and preventing anything else from growing, Pokemon or otherwise. Removal of these Pokemon can be tricky, as not only can they utilize their long roots as whips, they can break off pieces of their jagged salty exterior and launch them like sling bullets.

"Water hyacinth" Bulbasaur, Ivysaur, and Venusaur

Type: Grass/Water

Hailing from the rivers and oxbow lakes of a tropical land, these Seed Pokemon spend very little time outside of the water. In fact, unless the rivers and lakes they live in completely dry up, they never really take root either. Instead of the characteristic bulb planted on the backs of normal Bulbasaur, a plant full of inflated herbaceous tissue is attached, allowing the line to gently float on the surface from the moment they’re born. As the Bulbasaur evolves to Ivysaur and then to Venusaur, the bloated plant sends up stalks that eventually bloom into brilliant purple flowers. The legs of these Pokemon have developed into broad paddle-like flippers, better suited to subtle adjustments than sustained swimming. What goodness they can’t get from the sun they can draw directly from the water, using small roots that grow from their bellies. Originally bred as living decorations, these Pokemon have gotten out of hand in the areas they’ve been introduced to. Each gas-filled branch that breaks off can become a new Pokemon, and since they never need to take root, they can often entirely cover the surface of even massive inland seas. What these Pokemon may lack in offensive power they more than make up for in tenacity and stubbornness, so complete removal is extremely difficult.

“Kudzu” Turtwig, Grotle, and Torterra

Type: Grass

One of the more infamous examples of invasive Grass-types, these Pokemon begin life as a Turtwig, a Tiny Leaf Pokemon, with a growth that looks like a tangle of shaggy vines more than the usual sapling. While this affords a small amount of protection, it also obscures the Turtwig’s vision, causing it to bump into trees and rocks, tangling its long vines into the surrounding landscape. Once it is nearly immobilized by its tangled vines and evolves to Grotle, the vines spread along every solid surface around it, engulfing anything standing still in a blanket of leaves. The immense amount of power that gets generated by its leaf carpet allows it to evolve to Torterra, normally a walking mountain, whose shell is entirely composed of tangled and compacted vines. Having mastered control over its plant growth, it is able to move from forest to forest, spreading its influence and gaining more power with every square meter it consumes. While the Turtwig and Grotle variants can usually be contained more easily, a fully grown Kudzu Torterra is a biome-level threat, towering over its less invasive cousin, requiring coordinated effort and no small amount of caution, as it is in full control over every vine that extends from its body. An unsuspecting human or Pokemon can quickly find themselves hung upside down by their feet when trying to push back an infestation, or completely blanketed by new growth.

#Pokemon #Pokemon Variants #Grass-type #Invasive Species #Tangela #Tangrowth #Sawsbuck #Snover #Abomasnow #Bulbasaur #Ivysaur #Venusaur #Turtwig #Grotle #Torterra #Gotta channel my frustrations as an ecologist somewhere #inspired by #prof-peach

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wildlyglittering · 3 years

Text

The Journey Begins with a Smile

So ages ago (and I do mean ages) I asked people to give me some Nessian prompts and I had four requests. Not many so that’s completely doable I thought.

Since my request, things didn’t go so well for my personal life and then, on a global scale, a pandemic hit. Both those things meant I wasn’t writing or even reading much.

BUT I was determined to fill those requests - even if the requesters had forgotten or no longer cared! Luckily I have managed to get my groove back so am trying to ride the writing train for as long as it will carry me!

@ekaterinakostrova requested something where Cassian made Nesta smile for the first time. I’ve taken some liberties to fill the prompt but here it is. Finally.

I hope you enjoy!

***

The multi-level gardens of the Day Court stretched outwards like a labyrinth.

Unlike the Night Court, whose gardens were sensibly flat, Day’s held winding staircases which lead to a plethora of mezzanines, stacked one after another. Each offered a new delight; pools of water swimming with gold and white fish, pagodas draped with ever blossoming honeysuckle or fountains carved with the curved forms of caressing lovers.

Some paths appeared to lead to dead ends, but the experienced visitor long learnt appearances were deceiving. As long as the explorer had the foresight to move thickets of ivy and trailing roses aside, they would find smaller paths twisting towards secret grottos.

Aside from the romantic allure of mystery, the garden’s contained an energy which reverberated through Cassian’s bones. Although the deep calm of the Night Court lands was his preference, Cassian found staying in Day was never an unpleasant experience.

Wandering the gardens would have been its usual satisfying activity if not for the frustration simmering in Cassian’s veins. Not an hour before he’d bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the copper of his blood before storming from the bedroom suites, leaving the other occupant behind.

His anger, and hers, were twins to each other. When the subject matter at hand arose, rational discussion dissipated like smoke in a storm and, as they were both apt to lose their tempers, that’s exactly what they did. After those times, it was best they stayed apart.

Being away from the Night Court brought up the familiar argument.

Cassian scrubbed a hand over his face, they were in Day on Rhys’ orders otherwise they wouldn’t have been there at all.

The knowledge of who Lucien was to Helion, and who the Lady of Autumn had been, was now widely known. Now, the painful possibility of civil war loomed over the Courts, brought on by the betrayal of an unwritten code of conduct. Helion was thinking ahead, reaching out to all potential allies in the hopes if he gained enough, Autumn would be dissuaded to start conflict.

There was no question Rhys would pledge to Helion.

It didn’t hurt though, Rhys said, to pay Day a visit.

Rhys spoke about contingency planning and counter-measure tactics but Cassian had known Rhys long enough to understand the guise. Under everything lay the ripple of the question of Spring’s allegiance and the inevitable shift of power towards the next generation of High Lords, including those Rhys was unable to befriend.

Custom dictated High Lords, and now High Lady, were the only ones to be allowed in the sanctum to speak politics. However, Rhys requested the attendance of his Inner Circle - where Rhys went, his most trusted followed.

What was less clear was the rationale behind Rhys’ request that those connected to the Inner Circle also attend. It was, Cassian believed, Rhys’ attempt to keep his friends compliant and a way to curry favour from others - namely Lucien who always hungered for time with Elain.

This secondary request was the one which opened the festering wound close to the surface of Nesta’s skin.

In an effort to find some calm, Cassian took to walking the gardens, like he had many times before. Like those times before, his steps took him a familiar route. Maybe, in the depths of his subconscious mind, he sought out what would bring him solace no matter how measly a sliver.

He ventured down a staircase, overflowing with floating lilacs, and onto a terrace which was surprisingly spacious for such a narrow-arched entrance.

This particular mezzanine was paved with sand coloured stone and framed by apple trees, their branches reaching towards each other like fingers. The waist high balcony overlooked the next level down – the glass domed ceiling of the sunken library.

This terrace, tucked away in the constructed gardens, housed the collection of seven statues who all faced inwards, into their circle, for eternity.

Like all statues in Day, the figures had been carved from marble run through with thick veins of gold and silver. Unlike the other statues, Cassian held an interest for these and these alone.

Whichever sculptor Helion found, he found one with talent. Despite the fact they were rock the sculptures contained something so painfully real. They were motionless yet their bodies held motion, they were emotionless yet their faces held emotion. When Cassian reached out to touch them, he swore there was bone beneath their stone skin.

Day was never more glorious then how she was now, in the full swing of her namesake and the wide blue sky called to Cassian to dance. Though his muscles ached to obey and his wings quivered in anticipation, he wouldn’t fly. Day was filled with sharp, ornate spires and he’d navigated a similar path unsuccessfully before.

But being trapped on the ground did nothing to help his mood; his legs shook, his eyes stung. Cassian was tired of the burning sun, tired of being apart from his friends, tired of the endless political deliberations of the other High Lords.

When he was unable to fly, Cassian needed to find other ways to curb his energy. One of those ways often involved his willing mate.

Except, at this current time she was not quite so willing. The blush pink rooms they were guests in were uncomfortably close to the rooms of others so Nesta didn’t want to make love to him here. She was even less likely to be inclined towards Cassian’s persuasions following their argument.

This was a radical departure from how they were in the isolation of their mountain cabin, especially in those final days. Time had turned into hourglasses and the sand of their lives trickled through their fingers fast then they breathed.

They couldn’t move to each other quick enough then, couldn’t remove their clothes fast enough, couldn’t press their bodies close enough.

Since their return to Velaris it was as though Nesta was turning into stone as cold and hard as the material of the statues Cassian now stared at.

Cassian sighed, drawing a deep breath of the lilac scented air into his lungs and walked towards one statue in particular. The one he thought of as his twin.

The stone fae stood high on the ends of its toes, as if it couldn’t bear to have any part of itself touching the ground. The arms stretched over its head, fingers straining upwards, begging for the sky to claim it. The figure didn’t have wings but Cassian imagined them, stretched out behind, broad and strong.

Cassian’s own wings, tangible flesh and bone, twitched as a breeze drifted past.

The circle existed for centuries but grew in number over the years. The first ones, the original ones, hadn’t changed but the way Cassian looked at them had. Once a carefree nature danced about them but, like all things weightless, that had floated away.

The invisible weight on them now was hard and heavy. Even the figure for the sky had something buried under the surface that hadn’t existed before.

Cassian was no fool – he recognised his own transference. What he saw; fatigue, anger, sorrow – these were his own burdens and in turn he projected them onto the poor stone creature in front of him willing it to absorb what he didn’t want.

Cassian ran his hand once more over his face. He wanted his effigy to take Nesta’s words which today were sharper than usual with insults flung towards his family with flippant ease. He reminded her that when she spoke with venom against them, she spoke venom against him.

Take your antidote then, she’d sneered, beg your friends to draw it all out if you think I’m such poison.

Nesta hadn’t been fully happy in the mountains but she’d been as close to peace as he’d ever seen. Finally, a part of Nesta was at rest, and the female Cassian loved was in a place he loved. All had been right for a time, their hearts in full growth, only to shrink into themselves when they were summoned back to Velaris.

Cassian would be misguided to think their arrival in Day was what agitated Nesta to begin the fight that morning. He could pretend she picked up on his restlessness or that she didn’t care much for the Court however the latter was a lie.

During her lengthy rehabilitation Nesta had visited Day on numerous occasions, sometimes with Cassian but often without. On the instances he visited her he was forced to choke down his jealousy at seeing Nesta and Hellion walking arm in arm, understanding that the High Lord of Day was playing a significant part in helping her heal.

Nesta would spend every minute in this place if Helion asked her to.

No, everything triggered from Rhys’ request that Nesta come to Day.

In Nesta’s eyes, Rhys’ request was a command; a command which served only to appease Rhys’ ego and prove he would always be able to demand the lives of those around him bend to his will.

Rhys wanted Cassian to be in Day and Rhys wanted Nesta to provide a pleasant distraction for Cassian’s restless nature. There was no other purpose.

The bitterness bled into Nesta at the fact Rhys demanded her attendance in a place she adored and would visit without complaint. Rhys had smirked it was the ‘without complaint’ he’d wanted from her for once.

She came only because Cassian had pleaded.

The heavy honeysuckle cloyed at Cassian’s nose and he decided to leave the gardens before he drowned in the scent of flowers. He’d find Az, a permanently sympathetic ear, who would patiently listen to Cassian’s complaints about how suffocated he was in a place he longer wished to be.

As he turned, a flash of marble hidden in the trees caught his eye.

Cassian hadn’t noticed anything else on this mezzanine before but it was no surprise, the white figure among the deep green leaves was set apart from the circle and tucked out of sight.

Drawing closer he saw the statue stood with its back to the rest, head titled downwards. The marble designed to be the hair splayed outwards as though caught in a tumultuous wind. Something about the statue, something about her, hollowed out Cassian’s chest.

“Why didn’t Helion put you with the others?”

“Because she doesn’t belong with the others.”

A voice, smoky and deep, carried across the space and Helion appeared from behind a wall of ivy onto the terrace next to him.

Cassian quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that secret passage.”

“That’s the whole point of it being a secret,” Helion said with a wistful sigh. “Now I’ll have to move it.”

“Don’t on my account.”

“And have you get here quicker to start your sulking? I don’t think so.”

Cassian opened his mouth to refute Helion’s words but the High Lord spoke over him.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said with a nod to the statue. “Out of all them, this one’s my favourite.” Helion turned to Cassian, dark skin glowing from the light within, mischief in his eyes.

Cassian bit his teeth together.

She was beautiful though, curves and angles, and the strength of stone. But who were they speaking of? The statue or Nesta herself?

“Why is she over here and not with the rest?”

The smugness slid from Helion’s face, his dark eyes scanning Cassian’s face, categorising every imperfection and scar as though he searched for something. Perhaps he wasn’t able to find what he wanted and a sad smile crept onto his face. “I told you – she doesn’t belong with the others. If I put her in the circle where would she gaze? At the ground? I won’t have that for her.”

Cassian’s mouth twisted, “She’s already looking at the ground.”

Helion cocked his head to the side, like one of the curious dogs in the mortal realm who sensed an invisible Cassian without truly perceiving him.

“Interesting how we can view something so differently. Tell me,” Helion said, “what are you seeing?”

They stood, arm length apart, one a High Lord and one a General. One draped in white and gold silks and the other clad in black leather. Winged and grounded.

Centuries existed between them with decades of Helion’s decadent parties where his fingertips would trail across the skin of Cassian’s muscled forearm, his mouth curled into a sensual smile. They’d not gone to bed with each other but shared at least one female over the years.

Here they stood in the sun; no lustful invitations, no pulling of rank. They were two males, competing in a game with stakes Cassian didn’t care for.

Still, he described her. Head downward, eyes downcast, eyelids. No sculptor would ever be able to create something so fine but Cassian swore there were delicate, long eyelashes casting a shadow against the sharp sculptured cheekbones. The graceful neck curved into a collarbone and clavicle with strands of stone hair caught in a storm of her own making.

Head and eyes down. This is what Cassian relayed to Helion. “Are you satisfied?” he growled, “I’m tired of playing.”

Cassian had jested over the years that Helion had a way of undressing him with his eyes, of looking beyond the armour and siphons to the male underneath. Helion had roared with delight and asked Cassian if he wanted to put that feeling into action.

Now, with the High Lord’s dark eyes on him, Cassian believed Helion was witnessing something deeper, that he was now staring beyond bone and blood.

“I know when you’re upset,” Helion said, glancing away, “and where you go when you are. You’ve walked this pathway numerous times and besides, these are my gardens, they tell me everything.” Helion’s eyes flickered back to Cassian, “You’re not as prone to idiocy as Rhys would have you be. Look again and try and do it properly.”

I have, Cassian wanted to tell him but he hadn’t.

Her stone feet were planted on solid ground, the stone hands down by her sides with the palms facing upwards. Her head was still down as were her eyes.

The figure seemed to change the longer he looked, one expression melting into another, completely different from before; disinterest, anger, peace. Cassian followed the line of her eyes to the gold domes roof of the sunken library glinting in the sunlight on the mezzanine below.

The statues full lips were tilted upwards into a smile, small but there.

“You don’t love Day,” Helion said to him, his deep voice breaking through the storm of Cassian’s thoughts.

“I enjoy it.”

“But Day will never be home.” Helion raised a robed arm towards the sky, long dark fingers stretching out, the light greedily swimming around his skin. “You seek freedom and you can’t find that here. So, my question to you oh miserable one, where do you find freedom?”

Cassian shrugged; this was an easy question and though Helion already had the answer, Cassian would play a little longer. “Velaris. The mountains.”

“And who are you free with?”

Helion’s tone was sly and conspiratorial as though he was inviting Cassian into a darkened room and asking him to share all his secrets, whispering across velvet pillows or through draped curtains. It was like honey dripped from Helion’s mouth.

Cassian’s fists clenched, tendons sliding over bones as he flexed his fingers.

Helion was skilled at drawing out confidences that most fae wanted to keep hidden. He emitted some strange magic which made Cassian want to dash to the nearest scribe and spill everything he had. Names and faces swam into Cassian’s mind, seemingly at Helion’s bidding, the most prominent being the one who spent her morning scowling at him.

Her name took shape at the end of Cassian’s tongue.

“You know who,” Cassian choked the words out in lieu of the ones that was forming, “don’t play your games.”

Helion stepped closer to the statue with a sigh and trailed a graceful finger across the carved lifeline on her upturned left palm. The line cut off not long after it started before beginning again, half a nail width away. It matched the real version perfectly.

Helion pouted and peered over the ledge. “It’s no fun if you don’t want to play but let’s not then, let me share with you a truth which your own truth speaker doesn’t care to bring to you. Nesta isn’t free in Velaris, but then you do know this.” Helion’s eyes glanced from the sun glinted library roof to Cassian’s face.

“She’s free here though. My statues, my darling beauties, represent the hearts of my most welcomed guests and while you are quick to immediately assume that Nesta spends her time staring at the ground, I see she is simply seeking her own peace.” Helion shrugged, gold and white silk sliding over smooth dark skin. “Freedom looks different for everyone.”

“I know that,” Cassian snarled, teeth bared, “I don’t need some heavy-handed lecture.”

The air began to pulse as an energy reverberated around the stone of the terrace. The tree branches shook and the leaves rustled. One growl of power to a disobeying dog. A warning; never bear your canines at a High Lord in the very Court his blood runs through.

Cassian uncurled his fists, splaying his fingers in Helion’s eyeline. Acquiescence. Cassian was guilty of foolish behaviour but he was no fool.

Helion’s tone had bite. “I’ll forgive your misjudgement on account of your poorly developed emotional response mechanism but only this once. You get away with burying your head when in the Night Court but I won’t have it here. Let me speak plain - this statue is an everlasting part of my garden but it’s rock, expensive rock, but rock. I would happily welcome the originator of its visage to become a permanent member of my Court. I think she’d accept, don’t you?”

Although the power of Helion still sang its presence, Cassian restrained the urge to turn feral. He didn’t, wouldn’t, because despite what others thought, Cassian was no animal. Besides, some part of Helion’s words wormed their way through Cassian’s brain.

Perhaps Helion discerned the calm Cassian was desperately trying to maintain because his voice was soft when he next spoke. “You have two options my handsome friend; go together to a place where you are both equally as free or find your freedom apart. Sacrifices have to be made and they shouldn’t all be hers.”

The sweet scent of roses and lilacs drifted through the mezzanine and Cassian looked down at the statue’s open palm.

“You can spend your time out here staring at an exquisitely carved piece of stone or you can reach for something real,” Helion said. “Your choice.”

Cassian thought of the circle of statues at his back, most especially the one on its toes spending centuries reaching for something that never came.

The squeeze on Cassian’s shoulder was gentle. “You’ll find her in the library,” Helion told him, “but then, you already knew that.”

Cassian sighed and closed his eyes and when he’d opened them, Helion had gone. Only the hanging ivy swaying by the wall was any indication of where he’d gone. Cassian looked back at the statue’s calm and serene face before trailing a fingertip onto the other open palm, half expecting her hand to curl around his, finding that he wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I knew.”

Cassian wanted everything; Nesta, the Inner Circle, Velaris. He wanted his freedom; long fought for and hard won. He could have all those things if he pushed hard enough - but only for a time. His desires co-existing side by side would have lasted as long as a breath in the span of his lifetime.

There will be cost and Cassian understood the price.

He left the mezzanine and its sculptured delights behind. They were just statues, fixed to stand forever. Living things were meant to move.

The library was cooler than outside, filled with white marble columns and an expansive white marble floor making the space larger and lighter. Ivy weaved its way up the columns while the golden domed roof provided a welcoming warmth, counterbalancing the coolness of the stone.

Nesta was exactly where Cassian knew to find her, tucked away in her favourite loveseat under an arch in the romance section.

In the mountains Nesta told him how she spent her days in the Day Court; meals with Helion, walks with Helion, talks with Helion.

They all made Cassian’s stomach twist.

Nesta also told him she learnt to be alone with her thoughts. In those moments she went to the library, one of the few places she found comforting. There hadn’t been many safe spaces on offer to her in Prythian.

Cassian stood a small distance away behind one of the larger columns, folding his wings in as tight as he was able.

Nesta would always be one of the most beautiful females he’d ever seen. As she was now, with her head bent to her pages, she matched the statue above their heads; watchful and waiting.

Her face, smooth and still, could have been carved from stone, a testament to how expressionless she could be. If Cassian hadn’t experienced the passion, the sadness and the rage which existed underneath he would have believed she felt nothing at all.

Her cool voice carried across to him.

“Are you going to spend all your time lurking in the shadows?”

“I don’t lurk.”

Nesta looked over briefly, a delicate eyebrow raised, her pink lips downturned. Those blue-grey bore into him. She wasn’t in the mood for playing.

Cassian sighed and walked toward her. At least, he thought, Nesta shifted on the loveseat to make room for him. After their argument he thought she would be more inclined to try and beat him with the book she’d turned back to read.

They sat in strained silence. Nesta’s soft breaths out of sync with Cassian’s. She inhaled on his exhale. Everything was out of sync with them, even down to the core.

Cassian let out another sigh. Maybe he could fix this, re-set where they were going wrong. He shifted, his leg brushing against hers, so he could see her while he spoke.

“I was speaking with Helion,” he said.

Nesta kept her face to her book but raised an eyebrow again, “Oh.”

“Yes, in the garden.”

“Hmm,” she murmured and turned a page.

“He found me through one of his secret passageways.”

Nesta’s lips quirked into a small smile, “Now he’ll have to change it, so you don’t find it.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“He has many that he’s always changing. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

The silence fell over them again like a fog. They’d reduced themselves to small talk between strangers, Cassian at a loss for what to say and Nesta with no desire to help him find his words.

“He found me in the statue circle.”

She was about to turn another page, although she hadn’t really been reading since he sat down, but her fingers stumbled and she dropped the book which landed with a thud.

Cassian picked it up, the gold embossed words on a cover of rich green telling a story of love. Nesta reached out and as she did, Cassian used his other hand to grasp her wrist, “Nes...”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Let me go.”

It was a weak command, her voice shaking as she spoke but Cassian would always obey her will and he released her wrist. Nesta snatched at her book.

She didn’t open the cover, abandoning her pretence of reading and instead placed the volume on her lap, staring upwards towards the ceiling.

“I hate those statues,” she said.

“I know.”

“You have to visit them every time you’re here.”

“Not every time,” he replied but she turned, looking him in the eye.

“Yes, every time. I’ve seen you and I’ve felt you through the bond.” She looked away and started to trail the lettering on the cover with a fingernail. “Besides, Helion tells me you visit them a lot.”

Well, Helion is a spy and a snitch, Cassian wanted to say but bit those words down. This was Helion’s court and those were his garden’s, his statue’s. He went where he pleased and talked to whomever he pleased, and that, unfortunately, included Nesta.

“After our argument this morning I knew you would go there instead of coming to see me,” Nesta continued, “you and that damned circle.” Her voice cracked and she bent forward, placing her face in her hands so Cassian couldn’t see. Strands of hair fell from her crown braid over her forehead.

“Nesta,” he said, and Cassian took her wrists in his hands, gently pulling them away from her face.

Her face had blanched a stark white and the rims of her eyes were tinged pink. Despite the sheen of tears in them, Cassian knew she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Nesta always found a way of shoving everything into a box in her soul.

“You all get to spend eternity gawping at each other in every Court in every form, don’t you?” She snatched her hands away, smoothing down the frayed hairs away from her face, wiping at her eyes.

“They’re just statues,” he said.

“I know,” she hissed, “Don’t be belligerent Cassian, we both know you’re too smart for that.”

“I’m not being-” but he stopped speaking and sat back against the marble wall, his wings hitting them with a bang.

Cassian closed his eyes, trying to think of what to say to make any of this better. He thought back to their argument in the bedroom, mere hours ago which felt like days, surrounded by excessive amounts of silk in various shades of pink.

“There’s a statue of you,” he said, envisaging it like some lost old memory and not something he had been staring at less than hour ago. The image was clear in his mind; the windswept hair, the upturned palms, that lovely but sad face with its hopeful, delicate smile.

“I know.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“It’s set apart from the others.”

Cassian heard the rustling of her dress as Nesta shifted. “Helion told me he wanted it separate from the rest because it didn’t suit the others.”

Cassian’s heart picked up its pace, “What do you think about that?”

“I agreed. The statue should be away from the rest. It doesn’t fit with the others.” Nesta let out a gentle sigh. “I don’t fit with the others.”

Cassian opened his eyes and stared into the distance.

The gardens were a labyrinth and the sunken library even more so, rows of white bookcases lined with vibrant colours, pastels or even shimmering golds stretched outwards until they stopped short of the central atrium, right underneath the top of the dome. The light shone through in beams and specks of dust danced amongst them.

They both sat rigid and unmoving with muscles locked into place and stared ahead, not at the rows of books but at the future in front of them, at decisions that would take them away or bring towards.

“Would that suit you?” Cassian asked, his voice thick. “Being apart from us? Elain? Amren? Me?”

Nesta’s fingers twitched on her lap, digging deep into the material of her skirts. “I don’t need to consider Amren in my plans and she knows this. Elain will understand in time; besides she has her own life now and gets to live the way she wishes so I don’t understand why I cannot.”

She paused. “Feyre will be irritated but she’ll come around in time. She’ll have to.”

“And me?”

The seconds of silence lasted longer than Cassian liked. There was no definitive answer, no immediate outpouring of emotion. His breath rasped in his ears and now he could hear Nesta’s, finally in time with his own. Her voice was quiet, travelling from a universe away.

“You can’t seem to understand why I don’t love the Night Court as much as you do so I don’t know whether you’ll come around in time.” Nesta picked at a loose thread on her dress. The more she pulled, the more it seemed she unravelled the sinews in his heart. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait until you do, if you do. I don’t heal in the Night Court; I can’t heal among those who hate me.”

Cassian wanted to reassure her; to say he would understand why she couldn’t love the Night Court, that eventually she would heal amongst the copper roof tops of Velaris and she was never amongst those who hated her. The words stuck in his throat and burned.

His love for the place he called home was built in his bones, constructed as part of him as he had wings on his back. Without his home he wouldn’t be Cassian of the Night Court, he wouldn’t be anyone.

“Helion has offered me a home here,” she continued.

Cassian nodded, his head bobbing on a neck that now felt too thin. Cassian understood Helion wanted to offer Nesta a home in Day, he wasn’t aware he already had. “Would you be happy here?”

“I think so.” Nesta let out a mirthless laugh, “Day is the opposite of Night and so the Court would suit me just fine.”

Something burnt inside his chest. His overworked, overwrought centuries old heart was now in flames and this was the beginning of it turning to ash.

“I can’t live in Day,” he said. “The Court is fine enough but this place would become to me what Night is to you. It wouldn’t sustain me.”

“We’re at an impasse then. The road ahead of us is splitting.” Nesta spoke the words with cold, impassive authority, the kind of tone she used for others which led them to assume she was a heartless creature.

But Cassian could feel her as he always had. A crack across her heart ran deeper than anything before. She’d been through hell and come out the other side carrying what pieces of herself remained within her clenched fists. This couldn’t be the event which broke her, he couldn’t be the fae that broke her.

Sacrifices, Helion told him less than an hour ago, needed to be made. But not all sacrifices needed to be a bad thing. Sacrificing something didn’t mean you would always lose; it may mean winning something more valuable.

“Yes,” he said, voice soft, “if you think the road only has two paths to choose from.”

Nesta took in his words, and Cassian could sense the moment they landed in her mind, how she sounded out their meanings. A strand of wavering hope rose between them.

“Oh,” she said but her voice held a tremor, the edge of anticipation she was clinging to and the thread wound itself tighter round her finger until her flesh turned white.

“I believe this morning an angry female hissed at me about retreating back to the mountains and staying in the cabin forever.”

Nesta pursed her lips. “Well, I believe the female had a right to be angry as I believe said female was being abandoned by her mate.”

“He would never.”

“Hmm.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I don’t want to leave them,” he said.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged and her hope dissipated from her like smoke. “I know,” she said, “I just-”

“However,” he interrupted, “that doesn’t mean I won’t leave them. At least on a semi-permanent basis.”

Nesta took a deep breath in.

“I can’t live here,” he gestured outwards to the marble pillars and trailing ivy and streams of violently bright light. “Day isn’t for me but Night isn’t for you. My life is in Velaris and I have responsibilities that I can’t leave and friends I want to see, but as long as I’m somewhere near, somewhere I can fly to them I think that will be fine.”

Nesta released her breath and Cassian carried on. “I can’t lose them Nesta but I won’t lose you. I’ve waited a long time for you even before I understood what I was waiting for. If Velaris will destroy you then at some point the city will destroy me too.”

He continued to stare ahead but Nesta’s arm brushed against his as she moved, her slight frame against his broad one. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pale face gazing at him and if he turned to her, he would see her hope anew.

“The cabin needs more work to make it habitable all year round and the winters are hard and isolating. I’ll need to fly to Velaris more often than you would want and you’re still going to have to visit your sisters. Honestly, I’d hate to make Elain angry.”

There was a soft sob next to him. “I’d hate to make Elain angry too,” but she smiled through her tears.

“We’ll have to think of a way to transport all your books. I’m not flying them to the cabin, not if you’re bringing that twelve book saga you’re into with the-”

Nesta grasped his chin in her slender fingers and turned his face to hers. Shining in those blue-grey eyes through the misty layer of tears was pure delight.

“Thank you,” she whispered and brought her mouth to his. The kiss was sweet on his lips, soft and slow and filled with the promise she would always love him. Cassian deepened the kiss, sliding his hands over her waist before trailing upwards on her back to tangle in her hair.

They stayed like that for a while, his tongue seeking out and sliding against hers; wet, luxurious kiss after kiss. Cassian groaned and gripped Nesta’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh beneath her dress and he swung her up and over onto his lap.

She pulled her mouth away and gasped, “No! Not here, not in front of the books!”

“The gardens then?” he joked and received a flick to his chin for his trouble.

“Helion will be disappointed.”

“That’s perverse.”

“No,” Nesta crinkled her nose, “that I won’t be making my home here.”

Cassian trailed his hands up Nesta’s back to her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers, looking forward to when he could make it took as disordered as her glorious statue’s. “Make this place your holiday destination. I’m sure you’ll frequent Day every time I’m in Velaris.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“And when we’re done appeasing the world we’ll be together again, at home.”

Nesta’s eyes scanned his face, the way Helion’s had done earlier, but instead of an assessment that had left Cassian found wanting, her eyes were soft and the blue-grey was the colour of the sky in the Night Court just after a storm.

“Yes,” she said, “at home.” She leaned in to kiss him again and before Cassian closed his eyes he soaked in the image, letting it burn forever into his mind. A perfect picture of Nesta in the flesh; her fluttering eyelashes, freckled nose and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

#nessian #fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron x cassian #nesta #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosaf #acosf #helion #i wrote something #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nessian fan fiction #nessianfic #nessian fan fic

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bonjour-rainycity · 3 years

Text

Double Heart | Chapter Seven ~ Haldir

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2738

Warnings: Canon-level violence, injury, blood

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour_rainycity” if you prefer!**

A/n Happy Monday! I’m so thankful for each and every one of you <3

We rise with the first rays of the sun. As much as I hate to admit it, I feel refreshed after a full rest. I slept soundly, trusting my brothers to do their job well. They did spend the whole night awake though, so I make a note to ensure that they sleep tonight, even if they will need to get up for second watch. As helpful as it would be to have two others on the watch rotation, I can’t risk putting the humans to the job—their senses are so inferior. I’ve snuck up on them nearly ten times by now, all without meaning to.

Rumil brings Roch into line behind Faervel. Farther on Roch’s back sits Cosima, her arms wrapped around my brother’s middle. She��s much more comfortable on the horse now, and if the mountains weren’t so rocky and full of steep drop-offs, I would suggest that she lead the horse—the experience is important. Alexander has expressed zero interest in learning how to care for or ride a horse, or learn anything about Arda, really. I will allow him the journey to adjust, but if he decides to return with us to Lothlórien, he will have to acquire skills to become more self-sufficient. Though, I have a feeling Alexander will attempt to leave this realm, or, at the very least, seek out a human settlement. I just don’t know if Cosima will go with him. She seems to have accepted our world and has taken steps towards making it her own, but she is tied to her human friend. The hold he has over her concerns me, though I do understand it. They’re each other’s only tie to the world they left behind. It would be hard to break that bond.

The sun rises above one of the higher peaks, blinding me for the brief second it takes for my eyes to adjust. Looking up, I see the morning sky is decorated with thick stripes of pale pink and brilliant gold. I take a second, and only a second, to enjoy it, then return to scanning my surroundings. This level of vigilance used to exhaust me, but by now, it’s as natural as breathing. Even when I am off duty, taking my leave in Caras Galadon or vacationing in Imladris or elsewhere, I never fully relax my surveillance. It is better to be prepared. Advanced warning can mean everything.

I hear the sound of a canteen rattling and Cosima clears her throat. “Hey, Haldir?”

“Yes?”

“When did you say we would reach that stream?”

I stretch my eyesight as far I can. It’s difficult in the mountains, where boulders and peaks and valleys hinder a proper line of sight, but I make out a slight glimmer on a rock far ahead of us—sun glinting off the surface of water and casting light on the boulder. “By tomorrow morning, I’d wager.” Then, the pieces click together. I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

I can hear the forced nonchalance in her voice. “No reason.”

I sigh. She really should have been more careful with her rationing. “Rumil and I will share water with you.”

Rumil protests at the same time Cosima calls out her thanks. I leave them to their good-natured bickering and return my full focus to guiding my horse and my company.

A slight movement registers in the corner of my eye. “Draw arms!”

I unsheathe my sword and swing it to the right just in time to stop the arrow finishing its flight to my youngest brother. I block another one aimed at my neck. I hear Orophin and Baranor free the swords at their hips, as well as Rumil hurriedly instructing Cosima to take the reins. She protests, likely not yet fully registering the attack, and I cover them as they argue. “Cosima, do as he says,” I call back. I need Rumil and his bow to take out the attackers on the hillside to our right. Orcs, likely.

My suspicions are confirmed when twelve of them descend from the peaks to our left and right, converging on us in the middle. Rumil has evidently persuaded Cosima to take control of Roch and has put his bow to good use, killing the orc that focused its fire on us from above. Sharp clangs and the shouts of battle create a chaotic cacophony that is all too familiar. I urge Faervel forward, cutting through the middle of an orc as I go. One chances a blow to my leg but before it can carry out the act, I sever its head from its neck. By my count, ten more to go.

Arrows rain from above, this time coming from our left. Alexander shouts, and I risk turning around to see if he’s been hit. Thankfully, he hasn’t — an arrow had only come relatively close to him. I have to remind myself how frightening this must be for humans who have never experienced an orc ambush, or even an orc. While unpleasant, an attack like this is part of the job for myself and my wardens — even Baranor, who frequently heals others on the battlefield. With that in mind, I cut down another orc and bring Cosima into view. She grips Roch’s reins with an intensity that turns her knuckles white and whips her head around, trying to keep all the beasts in her line of sight. It pleases me to see that she’s attempting to be observant, even if her already weak senses are untrained and thus dilute her efforts.

While Rumil focuses fire on the orcs attempting to fell us with arrows, an orc in the infantry rushes Roch. Cosima jerks the reins to the right, spurring him into movement. The motion catches Rumil’s attention, and, with deadly accuracy, he hits the orc in the eye. He turns his attention back to the skies, attempting to locate those that still assail us with arrows.

Concussions sound to my left — the beasts have dislodged a pile of rocks, trying to crush us. Faervel is an intelligent steed and dodges the boulders skillfully, allowing me to keep my attention on beheading one of the orcs who jabs towards my middle. As I kill another, the arrows cease falling from above—Rumil’s done his job, then.

Six orcs left.

Those remaining attempt to surround us. Can’t have that. I guide Faervel past the furthest beasts and then turn, swinging my sword, forcing them to fall back. From the rear of our line, Orophin follows my lead, blocking an orc’s blow and returning it with a fatal one. Baranor rears his horse to narrowly avoid being knocked off by an axe. I tighten my jaw. It is risky forcing the orcs into the middle when four of our company must share that space with them. I shake my head, firm in my original decision. It is less risky than allowing the orcs to encircle us.

Alex yelps and directs Baranor to an orc approaching them from behind, having snuck past Orophin. They keep coming. They must be hiding in the rocks. My youngest brother recognizes the urgency building at the back of our line and concentrates his close-range fire on those that attack there. He has also noticed the threat hiding in the rocks and kills the beasts as quickly as he can identify them.

The noises of battle are loud, but any experienced warrior knows it’s the quieter sounds—the ones out of place—that are the most important. A boot scuffs against stone and I raise my sword just in time to meet the massive orc that throws himself from the rock above me. We collide, falling to the ground. The impact knocks the breath from me and the colossal weight on my chest definitely doesn’t help. With my left hand, I retrieve my dagger, slicing towards the beast’s neck. He stops me with his sword, pressing the blade to my own throat. He’s strong, but I’m stronger. I push against him, using the leverage from my movement to flip us over and, before he can register the change, I plunge my blade into his gut.

A fiery sting shoots up my leg and I kick my uninjured foot, knocking the newcomer in the head. He falls to the ground, stunned by the blow, and I draw myself to full height. His rotting flesh squelches when I stab him in the chest. In the second I have before another beast attacks me, I check the weapon that sliced my leg. Not poisoned. Good.

A scream pierces the air.

Cosima.

I whip around, locating her quickly. She gasps, gripping below her left shoulder, staring at the blood between her fingers in shock. I switch my dagger to my dominant hand and throw it forward. Within a second, it is buried to the hilt in her assailant’s chest, and he falls to the ground with a thud.

A blow from behind sends me sprawling, and I catch myself just before my face collides with the dirt. Coughing violently, I twist, jabbing my sword under the orc’s chest plate and in between his ribs — a fatal strike. Mentally, I reprimand myself for getting so distracted, and let my eyes wander around our surroundings, checking for any enemies we have yet to eliminate. Only one remains, and Orophin ends its life with a deliberate slice to the gut. Everyone is alive and accounted for, thank the Valar. I run to them.

Cosima’s face contorts in pain — she’s gone sickly pale. Panic I didn’t feel during the attack sears through my chest. How much blood can humans lose before it is fatal? “How badly are you hurt?”

“It’s just her arm,” Rumil answers for her, looking quite distressed himself. “It’s deep. I do not think the sword was poisoned, though.”

“You don’t think or you know? How sure are you?” My voice is harsh—harsher than it needs to be, probably, and I try to de-escalate. I’m likely still fired up from battle.

Rumil sets me with an even gaze, nothing but honesty in his eyes. “I know. The sword was not poisoned.”

I nod, feeling my breathing begin to slow. “Good.”

Alexander calls worriedly from the edge of the group. “What happened? Is she okay? Cosima!”

“I’m fine,” she grits back. Her voice is scratchy, strained, so obviously speaking through the pain that it makes my stomach hurt.

But the pain will pass, I remind myself. But for now, I can’t say for sure if the threat has. And I need to be sure.

“Baranor,” I gesture to my friend. “Bind her wound so it is secure for travel. Orophin—search back and make sure we are not being followed. I’ll scout ahead.”

Before turning to leave, my eyes seek Cosima’s of their own accord. Hers are tight, squinted against the pain I’m sure she’s not used to feeling. In them I see so much fear—terror, even—and I feel resolve settle within me. An attacker won’t get an opportunity like that again.

I pull my gaze away. There’s still work to do.

{***}

Thankfully, no orcs hide ahead. Though I am reluctant to leave the group for long, I spend a handful of moments retracing the trail our attackers took. It leads to a shallow, empty cave and an abandoned fire pit. Just to be safe, I stomp the pit under Faervel’s hooves. That will discourage other orcs from sheltering here.

In this rare moment of privacy, I roll up the edge of my right legging, assessing the injury to my leg. It’s shallow, just a slice, really, and the sting is minor enough that I’ve nearly forgotten about it. Satisfied that it’s not serious, I decide to wait to have Baranor look at it until we’re settled for the night. Right now, my top priorities are Cosima’s wound and getting moving again. Now that we’ve encountered a pack of orcs, I am even more eager to reach the safety of Imladris.

I ride back to where I left the others, arriving not long after Orophin. No orcs on his end, either. Good. I dismount, leaving Faervel in Rumil’s care and join Baranor where he crouches on the ground next to Cosima. Behind her, Alexander paces anxiously.

Baranor smoothes a salve over the torn skin. It seems he’s already cut away the excess cloth of her tunic sleeve and cleaned her wound. Part of me is grateful I was gone for it—by the haggard look on Cosima’s face, it can’t have been a pleasant experience. Like Rumil said, the wound is deep. Orcs don’t typically use well-crafted weapons, and this one was no different—a jagged blade had been used to injure Cosima, possibly an old knife or a scrap piece of metal fashioned into a rudimentary sword.

I raise my eyes to hers and find her already looking at me, watching my expression intently. Looking for signs that she should be worried, probably. I say a quick prayer of thanks to the Valar for my natural stoicism that gives nothing away and for our safety. Then, I address my obviously shaken friend. “Baranor is one of the best healers in Lothlórien. The cut looks frightening and hurts, but it will heal.”

She nods, keeping her jaw tightly clenched.

My heart aches. I look to Baranor, at a loss. His bedside manner comes much more naturally, and he gives an easy smile as he wraps a clean bandage around Cosima’s upper arm. “There, that will do the trick until we reach Imladris. I want to redress it tonight though, and again in the morning. I’ve used some of my power to aid the healing process begun by the salve—we’ll see where it’s at tonight. Don’t you worry my dear friend.”

Cosima bobs her head again, murmuring her thanks to our healer. The look on her face—stricken, fearful, pained—both hurts me and draws attention to the steadily growing guilt. I should have been faster. I should have looked out better. I should have—

I jerk my head to the side, trying to free myself from these thoughts. As leader of the group, all faults are mine. But dwelling on that now won’t keep us safe, so, for the time being, I stand, gesturing for the others to do the same. “We should get going. I don’t want to lose more time.”

Rumil nods and hands me Faervel’s reins, reaching down to help Cosima stand. I hear him whisper a heartfelt apology to her, sounding as if he feels just as much guilt as I do.

She waves it off, wincing when she moves her injured arm. “It’s not your fault. I’m okay.”

But her voice sounds fragile, devoid of the liveliness that characterized it this morning. Rumil also notices the change in our friend and is extra gentle when he grips her foot to lift her onto Roch’s back.

Something pricks at the edges of my mind, bothering me. “No.” I hear my voice ring out over the silence. I’m met with five pairs of questioning eyes. I clear my throat, hastening to gather my thoughts. “Rumil, I want you to guard the back with your bow. I’ll take Cosima on Faervel so you can focus on shooting if there’s another attack.”

Seeing the logic in this, Rumil nods, releasing Cosima and mounting Roch alone, leading the horse to the back of our company. As Alexander passes to join Baranor, he takes Cosima’s hand in his, squeezing. She gives him a tired-looking smile then walks to join me at the front of the group.

Automatically, I kneel, locking my hands together as I wait for her foot.

She hesitates. “No orcs in Imladris?”

I hold her gaze, wanting her to see the honesty in my eyes. “No orcs in Imladris.”

She swallows and places her boot in my hands. “Good. Let’s get going, then.”

I help her up, taking the opportunity to assess her face. The fear remains, but it is now eclipsed by a hardness, a determination. She’s putting up a wall. I know. I’ve been there.

But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’re still in the orc-infested mountains and we need to reach safety. So, I grip Faervel’s mane and pull myself in front of Cosima. I give the order and we continue our journey.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are the best :) Let me know if you would like a tag! And if you’re having trouble being tagged, try subscribing on Ao3. That will notify you automatically when I post there!

|next part|

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pi-cat000 · 3 years

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 42)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25 Lewis POV 3, Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5, Mystery POV 2, Lewis POV 6, Vivi POV 5, Lewis POV 7 Vivi POV 6 Vivi POV 7

Part 43: here

...

(ARTHUR POV)

“Maybe, if you’d been even half of what he was, you wouldn’t have been possessed so damn easily. I mean, this kid put up more of a fight, and he’s pretty much a walking collection of neurosis,” the demon taunts.

“I said shut up!”

The demon, and by default, Arthur, narrows their eyes. Micky’s sudden appearance has thrown a wrench into its plans, drawing its full and undivided attention. Irritation curls around Arthur, replacing the previous sensations of smug satisfaction and amusement. The emotion is unpleasant, making Arthur’s mind crawl but it’s better than the sadistic joy he had been forced to endure as it was stabbing Lewis. For the first time since that disastrous meeting in the hospital’s car-park, Arthur finds himself completely free of surveillance. The demon’s attention is focused solely on Micky and the gun. The shift is so sudden and is Arthur so panicked, that he almost doesn’t recognise the opportunity.

Luckily-the only luck he’s had in a long while-he does recognise his opening. His one chance to make things right.

A desperate calm settles over him. Lightning flashes, illuminating the faint blue and purple of Vivi and Lewis’s clothes. Mystery glows ever brighter, casting a red tint on the concrete around him. Everything else is darker shades of grey, fading into black.

In his new state of calm, Arthur can envision how the next few seconds would play out. Micky would shoot. The demon would dodge. Even now, he can feel how his body is tensing, preparing to duck to the side. The demon is hyper-focus on the gun, watching Micky’s every muscle twitch. To dodge, the demon would have to already be moving even before the gun went off. It would need precise control and a split-second warning just before the shot. After the gun fired, Vivi would run forward to ‘save’ him, putting herself in danger. Then, Mystery would be forced to transform and save her. In the commotion, the demon would make their escape.

“Did you even go back to bury him, or did you just leave him there? What happened to all the ritual, funeral nonsense to send his soul on its merry way? How disrespectful.” The demon’s voice is full of malice, coloured with amusement, aiming to both harm and insult.

The gun clicks in Micky’s hand. Already, Arthur can feel himself tensing, preparing to move fast.

“Stop!” Vivi lurches upright and Mystery blocks her from jumping between them. “If you shoot, you’ll kill Arthur!”

This is okay. Arthur has already accepted that he might never see his friends again. The demon would run, take him away, and they would be safe. Mystery would pass along his apology and it would be fine. The only one to really suffer would be him and he thinks he can live with that. Is that true though?

“That fucking brat sent us to our deaths. He’s just as guilty.”

It wasn’t just him that would suffer was it? This thing would keep on killing. It would use his body to kill other people and maybe, one day, it would go after Lewis or Vivi again. The creature wanted Arthur specifically and he is aware enough to know that the demon has got some sort of plan involving his messed-up soul.

The body snatcher sniggers, “I’m sure Dan would be very unimpressed with how you're threatening this poor innocent human. I mean, if he weren’t a shish-kebab at the bottom of a cave.”

Micky yells, loud, animalistic, full of pain and rage. Arthur feels a pang of empathy for the man who had had the misfortune of running into him and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like Darrel.

In that fraction of a second before the gun goes off, his body, under the direction of the demon, lunches to the right. Everything slows, time crawling by. Arthur can already see Mystery leaping, his dog form rapidly expanding. Vivi is also running towards him, face white with fear.

His way out was suddenly blindingly clear.

With all his remaining will power, throws himself to the left. He slams into the mental barrier separating him from his body. Similar to when he’d first tried this in the van, the demon falters ever so briefly, its attention refocusing onto him and away from Micky. For a fraction of a second, in between heartbeats, the demon’s movements slow. Unlike when he had tried this before, there is no time for the demon to react.

“ARTHUR!”

The shout rings in his ears alongside the loud CRACK of a shotgun discharging.

A sudden weight smacks him in the chest and he stumbles back. This time, Arthur’s sense of fear is mixed in with his own cold vindication. In a moment of role reversal, it is Arthur feeling spiteful and the demon experiencing surprise.

“You little shit,” He feels himself spit the words out, angry, even as new wetness clogs his throat and the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth. Time accelerates again. Arthur hits the pavement and doesn’t even care that his head cracks on the hard surface. All bodily sensation is fuzzy now. Any pain one would expect to feel after getting shot is dulled. Surprise quickly turns to anger. The demon is almost brittle with furry, its full attention bearing down on him from all angles, pressing in. Suffocating.

“Shit. Shit. Shit…Bleeding…that’s a lot of blood. Need to control the bleeding.” Arthur focuses on Vivi’s face which materialises above him. For the first time since his possession, Arthur managers to move of his own violation, taking a hash breath. The process is an immense struggle and he’s not sure if it’s because of the demon or blood loss.

“Vi…” His tong feels heavy and foreign, the words he tries to say are garbled by the blood coming up through his throat. He doesn’t get more than a syllable out before the control is wrestled away.

‘You think this is over?’ The voice echoes in his head, low and threatening.

“Shh. Don’t speak. Everything will be okay. I don’t think its hit anything important. Just lie still.” Her expression is a mix of horror and worry. Regret quickly roles over his vindication because the last thing he wants is for Vivi to have to watch her friend bleed out and die.

His vision blurs. A purple outline appears alongside Vivi. It’s Lewis, equally, if not more panic-stricken. He can feel to demon’s attention re-centre, staring Lewis right in the eye.

“What’s…up. You…goin…watch him die …with me?” The demon jerks, trying to grab a hold of Lewis’s bear unprotected hands.

‘You can’t have Lewis.’

Arthur slams his full mental weight into malicious presence, pushing it to one side, cutting it off mid-sentence. As his body weakens so does its control. They’re both weak now.

‘Sharing is caring.’ Is sneered. A wave of malicious intent chips away at his control, paralysing rational thought with uncontained fear. Arthur feels his hand lift under the demon’s renewed power, reaching weakly for Lewis, beckoning.

“Lew…is.” Arthur tries to speak and warn his friend off.

‘Don’t do it.’ He can’t get the words out, his control failing. It is like being back in the cave, unable to stop the unimaginably terrible from happening. His vision distorts, made worse by the night around them. He can barely see the conflict waring across his friend’s face. His arm is numb. He and Lewis are standing on a ledge overlooking a steep drop…green is pooling at the edges of his vision. It doesn’t matter that they are both weak, the demon’s got him beat in the willpower department. Too many past mistakes occupy his thoughts, distracting him.

Lewis’s hand hovers then closes around his, drawing his focus. The hand is warm almost comforting.

NO.

He claws at the demon, ripping and tearing at anything he can reach, trying to drag it down with him. A patronising laugh bounces around and there is the sensation of something rushing to escape. Arthur scratches and grasps but it is hard to hold onto something that hardly exists. The result is an exercise in futility like he’s trying to dig his nails into loose shale.

‘Nice try but you’re a few centuries too inexperienced to hold me down.’ The demon slips away, leaving him to sink downwards, alone. ‘Try not to die while I’m out would you. I would hate for all this drama to be for nothing,’ Arthur can still feel the echo of rage and malevolence underlining its final amused jab as it fades from his consciousness. The demon is angry. He knows it is going to do its level best to hurt Lewis. There is nothing he can do to stop it. And, suddenly, Arthur is alone in his own mind.

“Why?” He coughs, wishing he could shake an answer out of Lewis. ‘Why did you do that Lewis?’ The last he sees of Lewis is a green discolouration creeping up the other’s arm. Lewis stumbles away, swallowed by the night.

Vivi’s shocked face fades to nothing a second later. Then there is only darkness. No demon, just himself and all his mistakes. No snarky running commentary on how screwed up and pathetic he was. No weird dissonance as he experienced two sets of emotional responses. He is just Arthur existing alone. He should feel relieved. This should be a triumph.

It's not...

It’s dark and he’s falling, slamming into a stone spike. Two sets of memories blur together, becoming one extended nightmare. Two failed timelines are laid before him in a spread of damning evidence against his very existence.

Lewis is dead…then alive, grinning, eyes flashing bright green as he looks down on him, “Once in a millennia chance and you managed to screw it up.” There is fire rising around him, growing increasingly not, framing Lewis’s human visage. “This is your fault.”

He coughs, gripping the spike piercing up through his chest.

“How many can say they’ve had a second chance? None. That’s how many?” Lewis growls and the flames become unbearably hot till even the air itself hurts. “Face it. I just wasn’t that important to you.” Arthur should just stop trying to fight and let the fire burn away all that was left of him.

It’s what he deserves.

“So that’s it.” The female voice cuts through the crackle of the fire, “You’re just going to give up?"

The stone around him shifts, colours mutating from purple and green to a gleaming, blue-tinted ice. Gone is the stone spike, the cliff, and the cave, to be replaced by an empty snow-filled field. He is no longer in pain. He is kneeling, half-buried in snow, surrounded be an empty silver-grey landscape.

“What about your promise to answer my questions. You’re going to leave everyone behind wondering what the heck happened?” Lewis and his fire disappear, replaced with cold air and a familiar voice. He squints up at the blurry Vivi-shaped outline but can’t make out her face. The word around him is too blindingly bright to make out any details.

“I can’t…” he pleads, “I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“So what. That’s never stopped you before.”

He drops his gaze, ignoring the the rustle of fabric as a person knelt in front of him.

“We all make mistakes.” Her voice is soft.

“I don’t know what to do?”

If there’s one thing the demon has taught him it was that things could always get worse.

“It’ll be okay Arthur. Just explain what happened. I’ll understand.”

He looks up, desperately searching for the face of a familiar older Vivi.

“I miss you.” He doesn’t care that he is angsting over what was probably a figment of his imagination. The shadow of a Vivi he’d left behind in a future that would never happen.

“Silly, I never left.”

The white space above him splinters, shattering like glass, falling on him like flakes of snow.

His next breath is heavy like he is struggling against some immense weight. It is nothing like being on the cliff, struggling to breathe against the heat and having it cut with frigid cold, this is real. The sensation of forcing his lungs to expand and take in the dry air is almost too real. A dull ache settles over him and he can’t tell if it is coming from his body or somewhere deep in his chest. Everything feels floaty and unreal and he struggles to pull together a coherent thought. Arthur wills his eyes to open, almost afraid to try and have this illusion of control snatched away.

Light eclipses the dark. The imprint of spikes, fire and ice, fade into a nightmare. He stares up at a familiar off-white ceiling. A pattern of square panels, broken by two overhead lights, one of which is switched off, meaning the room in only half lit. The faint smell of anaesthetic and bleach lingers in the air. Absently, he recognises the hospital ceiling. The dejavu is painful.

Slowly, almost too afraid to try, he turns his head, scanning for his arm. There is a needle disappearing into his skin just above his wrist which is connected to a machine beeping a faint rhythmic pattern. It is his flesh and blood arm. This is his original arm, meaning this is the other timeline. The one he had just royally screwed up. His fingers twitch when he wills them to move, jerking inwards to grasp at nothing. This is the timeline where his Uncle is dead, and Lewis is probably off somewhere killing people under the demon’s control. An unbearable sadness descends upon him. He takes solace in the melancholy, welcoming it, wrapping it around himself like a familiar blanket. Maybe, if he waited long enough, the demon would return, and he would be able to save Lewis. Arthur doubts it, he has nothing of value to trade aside from himself and Lewis is ten times more valuable than him. It was pointless. Maybe he hadn’t learnt his lesson about wanting things. Maybe he will just lie here forever, wasting away.

Maybe that didn’t sound so bad.

“Arthur.” The surprised voice cuts into him, slicing apart his thoughts.

He blinks, twitching to glance to the side, focus shifting past the empty hospital chair placed next to his bed and towards the doorway. Vivi. She is standing in the entrance. Her clothes are wrinkled, speckled with dirt, and she has smudges across her face that look a bit like wood ash. Her eyes are wild with open surprise.

Her surprise becomes relief, mixed with conflicting joy and apprehension.

“You’re awake.” She speaks slowly, voice halting.

“V…” His throat is far too dry to speak so the word comes out as a wheeze.

Whatever misgivings had Vivi frozen in the doorway, they don’t hold her for long and she is across the room in a flash of blue. The next thing he knows her weight is resting across his shoulder and chest, gripping onto him. There is a brief flash of purely physical pain as she bumps the wad of bandages he only just notices are covering the upper half of his torso, wrapping his collar bone. Her face is awkwardly pressed against his opposite shoulder.

When his vision blurs, he panics, momentarily thinking he was losing his control. However, he quickly recognises it as a different sort of loss of control. A normal loss of control. There is water pooling in his eyes, running down his face. He’s crying, making breathing hard.

“You idiot.” Vivi’s voice is unsteady now, full of hurt, “You colossal idiot.”

“I'm…sor…” He swallows, coughing out the apology “…ry” He doesn’t know what exactly he’s apologising for but he’s made so many mistakes that it’s the only thing he can think to say.

“I thought you were going to die.”

Sluggishly, Arthur tries to raise a hand, the one without a needle sticking into it, to hold onto the fabric of her jacket. His muscles feel a bit like jelly, spasming occasionally, as his mind re-associates mental commands with movement. He realises with a pang of grief that she is wearing Lewis’s jacket. What happened to Lewis? He tries to speak, to explain, to ask questions, but his throat is still too dry. After attempting this a few more times he gives up and allows himself the small comfort of being able to hug Vivi again.

NOTE: Happy Holidays!! Have an update as a gift :) Hope everyone is safe and wish you all good luck transitioning into the new year. Thank you for another years worth of support of this fic, it means a lot.

Part 43: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #arthur kingsmen #Vivi Yukino #angst #angst overload #depression #Suicidal Thoughts #tw suicide #descriptions of violence #fic is sad and angsty what else is new #hopefuly the worse is over...hopefuly...#arthur and vivi angst stuff #arthur and vivi friendship #time travel au #fanfiction

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entomancy · 3 years

Text

(Fic) One thing we can agree on

Title: One thing we can agree on (Wattpad)

Setting: The vampire nonsense / Vegas Masquerade

Warnings: Gore. I am having fun with my crayons.

Words: 1401

Summary: Flashback into the 'Moonlight Flush' part of the timeline. Which is the framing of the events of ~twenty years ago in the Vegas Masq. setting (which set up the current ‘rules’) as an urban fantasy police procedural; where Joplin would have been the secondary main / intro to the supernatural world and Belton the Season One antagonist who ended up Sort Of Befriended(ish).

This would have been in approx. Season Three, when bits from Joplin's past come back to bite him (er, again, I guess), and involves the first time he'd actually had to team up with Belton against a larger problem.

The larger problem being: more werebears, but asshole ones.

Indulgent, but I enjoy Belton being a dramatic irritation, and ~27yr old Joplin's permanent state of exasperation. And I wanted to explore an important (?) difference in the way the vampires and were(s) of this setting work.

(Also neither tumblr nor Wattpad has any sensible way to use footnotes, so there's one just... there, in the middle. Like this is FFN cira 2003 or something.)

---

The real difference between vampires and werewolves is how they bleed.

Clearly it isn't the only difference. There are the big, obvious - hairy - ones; and you could spend lifetimes comparing technicalities of characteristic amongst the supernatural set, searching for links or diversions or even a root cause. How magic plays in. How inheritances work, or the fundamental incompatibility of cross-siring. How sunlight, direct or orbitally reflected, could possibly trigger the different effects that it does.

But for Denis Joplin, as he'd scrambled to make sense of the extraordinary left turn his last decade had careened into, somehow the thing that really seemed to underline it all was the way they bled. Maybe because he'd always had such a damn knack for getting into situations that showcased it.

That last round of gunfire had really screwed up his right arm. He'd wedged himself in place against the thick struts of a heavy-duty shipping container - splattered almost as much now with crimson as it was with spraypainted Cyrillic – and tried to breathe quietly. The enormous bastard wielding a goddamn helicopter canon had fucked off to yell 'roided nonsense into a different part of the warehouse, so they probably had a few minutes pause before he realised his targets had dodged.

Not dodged as well as Joplin'd have liked, but there y'go. You worked with what you got.

Most of the bullets had gone straight through – since he wasn't an armour-plated van – but he could feel a few wedged points of pain even within the jellied miasma of broken flesh that hung unpleasantly from his torn shirt.

"Jesustapdancing-" he bit down on the mismatched curse as he grabbed his messed-up limb with his other hand and twisted, pushing it up against himself and the steel wall behind, and tried not to go blind.

It squelched.

"Don't like that," he muttered, then glanced up at the wet snort of amusement from just down the container row. "Hey, he nailed you to the fuckin' wall about as well as I've seen; don't get lippy."

Not that his extremely temporary partner was in much shape to be more actively sarcastic. The brunt of the recent salvo had hit taken Belton pointy-ear to hip, ripping the big grey fuck open like a side character in chainsaw splatter, which – somehow – made the look of dazed amusement on the bits of his face that weren't hanging off even more aggravating than usual. He shifted position, bringing his torn-up arms out in front of him as if holding something narrow and invisible in both hands, and –

Joplin blinked.

Pull... yourself...

"Oh fuck off," he growled – and it was a growl, a sound that started deeper than his chest actually went and brought the pull along with it; a bestial reverb that went beneath his bones. Joplin gritted his teeth – which felt about ready to start moving in his jaw as it was, aching with something beyond nerves – and had another unpleasant feel around where his elbow used to be. It helped if everything was in the right place. Last thing he needed right now was having to rebreak a limb because he'd managed to shift over all wonky.

That'd have to do. Very pointedly not making eye contact with Belton as he did so, Joplin Changed.

There have been a lot of renditions of a lycanthropic* transformations over the years, and there have even been some that have come close to the actual reality of seeing it happen. The exact visuals tend to vary person to person, but however it looks, the world bends – just a little, at the seams – as something that was only ever the thickness of breath away steps forward. Joplin always thought it felt like stretching should do – an all-over, unfurling release of physicality, like every fibre of you stopped hunching its shoulders all at once.

________________________________________________________________

* There's an argument that 'ursanthropic' might be a more technically correct term when the reader is considering Denis Joplin himself – or even the bellowing figure currently firing 30mm rounds into what will turn out to be a container of tinned garlic pallets – but the linguistic side of paraphylogeny isn't a popular field. 'Actually, it's wereBEAR' is only a helpful correction under certain circumstances, and this isn't one of them.**

** Yet. ________________________________________________________________

The arm took a bit more effort. A transformation that added several feet in height, width, and summed-up hair length didn't exactly have a problem fixing a half-mulched limb, but there was clearly an additional process going on. He wondered how people had explained what it looked like before timelapse film had been developed.

It... healed. Torn vessels sealed over; bone shards scraped and swelled together within muscles that bulged crimson-purple as they knitted close. Tissue bloomed, bruise-blossom hues racing through tattered skin and dragging raw pallor behind them; black-bloody tears welled up pink and grey and pink again, threaded with ribbons of tendon herded into place by a lightning flash of sudden scars, gone as fast as they appeared. Then the fur broke surface like desert flowering, and a heartbeat later there was nothing to show for the damage that a slight extra paleness in the iron-grey pelt, as Joplin flexed his bulked-out fingers carefully.

Belton clapped. Just once, with a softness that hands tipped with inch-long claws shouldn't be able to achieve, and it was the most sarcastic fucking sound Joplin had ever heard. He bared his considerable teeth in a silent snarl and waved his own padded hands towards the old bat.

Hurry. Up.

Belton's black eyes crinkled at the edges, and then he pulled himself back together.

The real difference between vampires and werewolves is how they bleed.

Belton's blood was dark, with a strangeness to its consistency that would have baffled splatter analysts on a fundamental level, but it also didn't tend to stay where it landed. None of him did. Metal gleamed naked against the pitted concrete as pools of inky crimson pulled away from the bullets that had torn them loose, flowing back along their own path like a retreating tide - rivulets of reversing gore that snaked and whipped back up their origin form, trailing back into ruptures that folded seamlessly shut around them. Belton stood up, even as his chest cavity was still closing, and gently pushed his hanging jaw back into place, smoothed like fresh clay.

Vampires don't heal – you see – so much as 'rewind'.

He held Joplin's gaze, half a heartbeat longer than he needed to, and grinned.

There was a spotless bullet held between his rows of teeth.

"Oh, fuck off," Joplin repeated – before he was drowned out by a guttural roaring, and the sound of a minigun barrel being smashed through something unfortune enough to be inside its turning circle.

"Little pigs, little pigs! I hear you!"

Both men visibly winced.

"See, someone with that little self-awareness just shouldn't be this much of a problem," Belton muttered, flicking the bullet aside like a cigarette butt. "It's genuinely a bit embarrassing."

"Yeah, well," Joplin whispered back, as he scanned the roof, taking in the environment with an eye to traversal options he hadn't had five minutes ago. "I won't tell if you don't."

Another roar burst the air, and Belton started edging down the row again, clearly doing his own version of the calculations.

"Pity he doesn't take after your side of the family, really."

"This isn't a family situation," Joplin snapped back, readying himself to move when the oncoming footsteps got a bit closer. If he could get around, then maybe he could deke out the...

He glanced back, about to signal a go, and realised the old vampire was still looking at him, one of those impossible-to-read expressions on his weird bat face for a second, before he spoke softly.

"See, that's the thing with monsters. It's always going to come back to blood, one way or another."

A shiver danced down Joplin's extended spine, strong enough to stir the fur. That was a bit close for comfort – and from sodding Belton? He shrugged dismissively, only partly to himself.

"Yeah, well, this ain't gonna be the worst it gets. Try not t'get cut in half again."

Then the shipping container exploded in a nightmare of burning metal. Belton went right; Joplin went up; and everything else went on from there.

----

#Entofic #urban fantasy #The Vegas Masquerade #Knockoff Manbat lookin' bastard #first team up is a bitch #Denis Joplin

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imdifferentshadesofpurple · 4 years

Text

Blood mixed with blood, the agreement is sealed.

Pairing: Mark Tuan x Reader Genre: pirate!au; sea faring!au; fantasy au

In the Empire of Mazar, one thing is known.

The deep waters of the ocean are not for the weak.

For centuries, they’ve been infested with mermaids, told to be vile creatures that lure with song and eat men whole.

Stories have been woven about the sea witches, tales of terror and blood. Stories that end in nothing but pain.

Eventually, the kingdoms of the Empire grew tired of their watery fears, uniting together to be rid of the demons below. Kings and their armies took their stand in the Ered Sea, where the merfolk made their home and bred their children.

Lives were lost. Water tainted red.

And only so many mermaids surviving, disappearing into the sea foam never to be heard from again.

They thought they won. They celebrated well into the week, displaying their trophies of war for all to see.

Tails covered in decadent scales, silvers and blues that shone in the moonlight.

But Zaia, Queen of Khotia, still feared those that were left alive would return to seek their revenge.

Thus, the Battle of Ered was remembered with a tradition. The princes of the kingdoms, the first born sons, set out on their 20th birthdays in search of survivors.

Sometimes they returned with nothing. And sometimes they never returned.

Stories have been woven about mermaids, the witches of the sea.

Tales of terror. Blood. Pain.

But you are a mermaid. And you know the stories are wrong.

+ + + +

His 27th birthday was spent out on the sea.

Surrounded by his handpicked, motley crew, he was given gaudy gifts and drank until the stars were dotting the sky.

A prince of Khotia, more at home on the deck of his beloved ship than in the midst of his own kingdom.

The ocean was where he was the calmest.

In the palace, everything was too loud, the expectations too great. Out on the water, he felt freedom. Among his crew, his status as a future king meant nothing.

It was their loyalty to their captain, slayer of mermaids, that drove them.

When he was 20, he set out like all the others before him, in search of the demons that plagued his people and the people of the Empire.

He was lucky, he returned with a prize.

It wasn’t easy to kill a mermaid. But he did it with ease, setting out on the Milo every few months and returning accomplished almost everytime.

As the years passed, he found himself spending more and more time away from home. He found that life, the life of a pyrate, to be much better suited than the life of a ruler.

+ + + +

“Your Majesty,” Eunwoo calls, voice teasing as Mark looks up from the map under his spread hands.

“One of these days, I won’t just threaten to throw you overboard.” Eunwoo pouts, “My prince, you wound me.”

Mark scowls as his first mate laughs. “Once we’re home, you’ll lose your head.”

“About that, our return to Khotia might be a little delayed.”

Mark’s brow furrows, eyes narrowing, “Why?” Eunwoo grins, “We're being followed.”

+ + + +

You knew this was a bad idea. One of your worst to date.

Mother was going to kill you herself if you don’t end up dying first.

Spotting a Khotian flag was considered bad luck. Following the ship it belonged to was suicide.

But here you were, tailing a large vessel that held a crew of mermaid killers.

And their captain. Mark Tuan. Future King of Khotia.

The famed mermaid killer.

Water rippled against you as you glided gently just below the surface. You could feel the ship’s movements, its strength and command apparent even as your hand smoothly traced the bilge.

For this to work, you needed to be confident. Unafraid.

Which was easier said than done as you were hoisted from the water and unceremoniously dumped aboard. The sun felt hot against your tail as you blinked up at the bodies beginning to surround you.

All held weapons in their hands, ready to strike and kill.

You held your ground and hoped your shaking wasn’t too visible as he came into view.

Coming up the stairs from his captain’s quarters, Prince Mark looked every bit the royalty you were expecting. Even in pyrate’s clothing, he stood out like a prince, walked like one, commanded like one and spoke like one.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him, even as he came to kneel in front of you.

“Well boys, looks like we’ve caught us a live one!”

His crew roared with laughter and you cringed at the sound. “Who has the honors this time, Cap?”

Mark is simply staring at you, as if urging you to make a move. There’s silence on deck and you realize this is the moment you were waiting for.

“I only wish to speak with you,” you say carefully. The prince frowns, as if pained and irritated. “I don’t speak Thirmish.”

Your eyes shut. Of course. “...I said, I only wish to speak with you.”

This surprised them, if the collective intake of breath is any indication. “Where did you learn to speak Khotian,” one demanded from behind you.

You don’t answer, you don’t need to. You’ve got his attention now and can see his curiosity plain as day.

“You can speak Khotian.” This time, it wasn’t a question. “I can speak many languages,” you reply, “there are books I’ve read...”

Someone yells off from the side, “You have books?” With mockery painting his tone, another exclaims, “You can read?”

You could bite back, your people had many many unpleasant things to say about humans, but you aren’t here for them.

You’re here to make one person listen. And one only.

“If you speak Khotian, I can also assume those ‘many languages’ include all the languages of the Empire?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” “You know who I am.”

“There isn’t a single soul in the depths of Ered that doesn’t know who you are Mermaid Killer.”

This seems to amuse him. “Yet you don’t seem afraid.” The sun is high, you can feel your tail drying as each second passes.

Prince Mark only watches you, handsome even though he’s responsible for the many murders reported to the High Council every few months.

You just need to hold his attention. You just need a moment.

Just. One. More.

Your eyes widen the moment you feel it.

The magic.

The sun shines bright and your gaze hardens as it flows through you. He starts to realize, that smirk fading as he gets up and moves back, along with the rest of his crew.

“What in the heavens,” he mumbles, eyes on the lower half of your body.

You knew this was a bad idea. One of your worst ideas to date.

No human knew of a mermaid’s magic.

But as you stood up, on legs as long as the tail that was once there, you knew it was the only way.

To save his people. And yours.

The magic ebbed and there you were, as human as those surrounding you.

Except.

“You’re royalty.” It wasn’t a question. If Mark felt fooled, it wasn’t obvious.

The calculating look still graced his face, now with newfound interest as you stood before him.

You smiled, “Yes. Like you, a future ruler. My mother is queen now.” “You did all this...you wanted to get caught.

A nod of your head confirmed it. His eyes narrowed, “Why?”

“Because I need you to listen. And I figured a siren growing legs would capture your attention.”

“I can’t say you’re wrong,” he replied, “so now that our attention has in fact been caught, what do you want princess?”

You level your gaze and smile. “...Your Majesty, have you ever heard of a Siren’s Agreement?”

#the anchors and arrows series #got7 #got7 fanfic #got7 series #got7 au #got7 scenario #got7 mark tuan #mark tuan x reader #mark x you #mark x y/n #mark tuan

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frstbiitten · 3 years

Text

cw: violence, gore, blood, death

The bathroom was a little further away than expected, she doubted anyone would notice the bloody wound on her back, too bad her black shirt would have a slit in it, she didn't want to get rid of it, at least not now. Feeling the bodies sticking against hers only made her sick to her stomach, it was an overwhelming and invasive feeling at the same time.

She reached the bathroom almost stumbling on her way, the light was white at least, no outlandish colors for now. It was also almost inundated in silence, beyond the music coming from the dance floor, it was a relief to get out of that shapeless mass of humans. There was no one at least insight, all the toilets clean and free of any interference - that is, anyone else-. She opened one of the empty cubicles, almost all of them were empty except for just one, she pulled out enough paper to wet the pieces slightly and clean the wound, it was a very deep one, just noticing its presence caused her even more physical pain, although it was clear that it was healing normally as expected of her. After a few days, only a somewhat lumpy mark would remain.

A girl, no taller than Frost, came out of one of the cubicles, it was to be expected that there might be someone else without her knowing, she was wearing a short tight black dress with loose dark hair, perhaps the whole outfit plus heavy makeup was more expensive than Frost could imagine. Though she didn't leave after washing her hands, she observed Frost for a moment, looking at the papers wet in water and blood at the same time, she was heading for the door until she took a closer look at the wound on her back.

"Do you need help, do you want me to call an ambulance?" Her voice was somewhat soft, from the way she looked Frost could tell easily that she drank a little, but still had a low level of alcohol in her blood.

"No thanks, I'll be fine in a few hours." Frost turned around to get a better look at her, at least a stranger cared about her wellbeing, maybe this little world wasn't full of selfish people.

"Are you sure? Maybe that could get worse."

She heard only a hiss and one of the heels hit the ground very close to her, her movement had been quick but Frost had reacted sooner. She had the girl's right wrist gripped firmly by his icy hand, the knife she carried being just a few inches away from reaching her stomach. A reaction the girl never expected, she would have preferred to catch her more off guard, but Frost's senses had been on alert since Kit had assaulted her.

"I can't let you go alive." The stranger was mumbling, attacking her with her fist from her other hand, it wasn't very efficient as Frost caught her instantly.

"I have to say the same thing, but I'm more stubborn."

The girl's hand holding the knife began to rapidly cool to the point where her fingers were being stuck against each other from the cold, before she began to scream, Frost used the girl's frozen hand and inserted the tip of the knife straight into the jugular. Frost shoved the body into the cubicle behind the girl, some of the blood had run down her face as she threw the body onto the toilet. It wasn't a pleasant sight, as much as she was used to exposed bones and split open heads at this point, a corpse was always unpleasant to look at. "How fucking disgusting, eww!" And she closed the cubicle, sure someone else would find it.

Frost didn't leave the bathroom until she could wash her face from the blood of the last attack, would this night keep this level of violence? She needed to leave. Kit had mentioned that this could happen, if that girl knew about her, then more people there would be looking for her with non-peaceful goals in mind. She had to find Violet before leaving, or maybe get the hell out of here with her. Still had to get through the mass of dancing people, it was a claustrophobic experience when panic mixes with the music and the lack of air. Was anyone else looking for her? From the shadows someone was watching her, watching her face being illuminated for a few seconds thanks to the spotlights.

Found Violet and Kit, both having a drink at the bar as if nothing else had happened before, it seemed that Violet forgave her very quickly. Kit first noticed Frost's presence approaching, she didn't appear too pleased to see her again.

"Hey Frost, don't you want me to call an ambulance?" Kit took a sip of her drink, striking a relaxed pose, elbows, and back leaning against the bar, it gave her a better view of the dance floor.

"What?"

"She deserves an apology from you, too." Violet returned Violet's comment, though she was turning her back to Frost from her seat, turning around almost immediately, something didn't add up in the young woman's expression, especially in her eyes. "Hey Frost... Do you need anything?"

"I have to go."

"So soon? Didn't you want to enjoy the evening first?" Kit seemed to know more than she appeared to, as if she had already foreseen the recent attack in the bathroom. "Or are you afraid of being in the eye of the storm?"

"... What?"

Could barely hear the rest of the world accurately after Kit said that, it was as if everything had quietened down for a few moments. But she could feel herself being watched, uncomfortably watched by more than a single person. Felt the weight of a hand on the back of her neck, it was a grip that sought nothing more than control over her, and suddenly it was her hair being forcibly pulled back. Frost didn't have much time to react and couldn't avoid the blow on the back of her knees, someone was forcing her to slow down and obey under every strike on her body until she ended up on all four of her limbs. Someone was belittling her power.

Frost took advantage of her enemy's position and used her left leg to create a circular motion and throw him to the ground. She had lost sight of Violet and Kit, this guy was her priority and it was an almost minuscule moment that it took her to kill the big guy, plunging the knife she had taken from Kit earlier to insert it into her attacker's chest.

The screams and chaos after the first attack were to be expected. It was all very sudden, had a gun in front of her face and her first instinct was to freeze it before the attacker could pull the trigger, that trick seemed to always work. She ascended from the ground with a blow from her fist directly towards the lower part of the man's jaw -he wasn't as big as the previous one but he did pass her in height-, she couldn't land a second blow, as another man had grabbed her waist from behind and pushed her to the bar, almost crashing into the chairs.

She was confused, but it was obvious that trusting Kit was no longer viable. Felt a hand trying to help her to get up, it was Violet, she hadn't left there like the rest of the other people were doing, like the ones that were left only wanted to watch the fight, or they were the ones coming for Frost.

"Get up... Get up Frost, you have to go, there's like 15 guys here wanting to kill you." Violet let Frost's arm rest on her shoulders, where was Kit? Well right next to them, she didn't know what look to give her back at Frost, but she didn't seem to have any intentions of helping her.

"No... I can't leave.... They're going to follow me anywhere, or they could hurt you if they wanted to." She had mentioned 15 men in total? 17 if you counted the girl in the bathroom and the dead guy on the floor. The DJ wasn't about to leave his place either, as he had changed the music to a much louder one, it helped set the mood, beyond how surreal it was, also some artificial smoke flooded the dance floor, was it to hurt her or benefit her?

She still had the knife in her hand, needed to be smart when using it, maybe they would come one at a time, she doubted they would want to kill her between them all. Took a few steps forward once she was able to compose herself, was already in plain sight amidst a fog and dancing lights.

"Did you guys come for me? Because you're only wasting my time."

Frost didn't have to wait too long to get a reaction from these men, clearly, they were determined to die for a sum of money, she was ignorant of what it would be and who might have put a bounty on her head. It wasn't easy, as some were armed or more experienced, they managed to hit her with their fists or some short weapon, although she also knew how to defend herself. It was also clear that the most desperate ones went for her first, it was easy to unbalance them with kicks, punches, and cuts. She felt the adrenaline rise and fill her skull, as well as her skin became colder and colder, the feeling of vertigo and of letting herself be carried away by anger.

But she didn't make it in time, instead, one of the men took it upon himself to lift her off the ground with her body over his shoulder, as much as she could stab his back - there was something underneath that could be a kevlar vest, which prevented her from reaching his muscles-. The man dropped Frost onto the drink bar, there were glasses and bottles, these became shattered glasses and alcohol scattered all the way to the floor, again the young woman's back was suffering the consequences. Being short was a disadvantage, as the man surpassed her in height by many inches, had leather gloves so he could withstand the cold, and grabbed Frost by her clothes to lift her and turn her around. Like a magic trick, he used the alcohol from the drinks as fuel and with a lighter turned the bar into a new method of torture, finally, he grabbed Frost's hair to slam her face into the surface of the bar, now on fire and with shattering glass.

It was her fury that stopped the man's strength, her hands rested on the edge of the surface in time to push her torso upward, between grunts and struggles, her eyes took on a whitish hue and the glow in them appeared. The fire didn't last long, a layer of ice began to spread from her fingers, extinguishing the fire instantly, she used her foot to deliver a kick in the direction of his knee and knock him off balance, knocking him to the ground but she didn't pay attention to him again, 8 more guys were waiting for their turn.

She grabbed the knife from the ground and wrapped it in ice, turning it into an even more lethal weapon than before. Frost slashed one of them in the stomach fatally enough to leave his guts all over the floor and start screaming, another was pierced through the eye and getting finished with a chunk of ice in the eyesocket as it cooled his skull, and so they kept falling one by one.

"This is... ew..." Violet was both shocked and disgusted, shocked by the scene in front of her eyes and disgusted by the blood spilled and the guts, too many for just one night.

"You should leave, it could get worse." Kit lightly pushed Violet in the direction of the door they had previously entered through, the last thing she wanted was to be involved in the situation, let alone afterward, she was planning on finishing her task however she could. "Besides, look at her, this only proves my point: Frost isn't like you, me or anyone else, sooner or later she could hurt someone innocent, she's not human either, have you ever seen a human do that?" Kit pointed at Frost who seemed to be winning the fight, her eyes perfectly reflected the anger that was driving her to keep fighting, using the ice that gushed from her hands to incapacitate and kill, the scene was getting harder to watch with every blow. "And if she doesn't at least kill us, those around her could die, you saw what happened to Jasper... it's not safe to be around her."

Violet preferred not to connect one event to another, Jasper's death was a mistake at the end of the day, and could do nothing to stop such, Jasper never saw Frost as someone who would hurt those who tried to help her. Jasper would say that Frost seemed more like someone who had lost her way than someone who could be violent for no apparent reason. To this day, Violet didn't know if it was beneficial to help her, nor how to help her. They didn't hear the man who had fought Frost against the bar getting back on his feet, overheard the previous conversation and had no intention of sharing the money, Kit included. With a surprisingly skillful move, he grabbed Kit from behind, wrapping his arm around her neck, making a headlock to leave her immobilized.

"Shit shit shit!" Violet tried to help Kit free herself from the man, only to be pushed away by Kit herself, not wanting to put her in danger, somehow managing to articulate the word 'go away' as she struggled to stop the man from choking her.

From a distance, Frost had noticed that the big guy hadn't fainted as she had assumed, before killing the last man, she performed a quick maneuver, never done it before from such a distance. From her fingertips, ice crystals detached like razor blades, threw them intending to kill the man who was trying to choke Kit. Frost heard the ice shards embedding into the skin and reaching up to the skull and neck, and with a final blow, she shattered the eye of the last opponent, letting him fall to the ground along with the others.

The adrenaline rush had worn off once she managed to relax, the knife slipped from her hand and fell to the ground, again staining the blade with blood as the ice melted. She was exhausted after such a fight, never fought so many people at the same time on the same day. Gasped as she tried to relax her muscles, trying to get back to her normal self.

She started to hear a cry from behind her, Frost turned around to get a better look at what had happened. Violet was on the floor, sitting on her knees and legs, in her lap she had half of Kit's body on her, it looked like she was trying to take something from her. As she got closer she could see in detail what had happened. It was a fatal aiming error on her part, yes she had managed to kill the man who had assaulted them both, but Kit was also affected. 3 of the 5 crystals she had thrown had impacted her body too, one of her eyes was gone and there was nothing but a piece of ice emerging from the eye socket, another embedded in her forehead, and the third -or first- in her throat. The blood wasn't gushing evenly, it was clotting and freezing right away, the face alone was becoming misshapen and taking on a bluish hue.

"I... I'm so sorry Violet..." Her hands were stained with blood, she wished she could reach out to touch her shoulder or take her away, she didn't know which way to act.

"Go away."

"What?"

"Please leave." It was the first time she had ever heard Violet speak that sternly, her eyes full of tears, her voice cracking and even sounding like she was going to attack her at any moment. "...they're coming for you.... you have to go..."

"I'm sorry..."

"PLEASE GO AWAY!"

Didn't have to think about it much, Violet no longer saw her as before, for Frost, she wouldn't know how to solve it in the future, she had to follow her advice to get out of there before the police arrived on the scene. Decided to take the way she had entered, then do her best to get lost in alleys and areas where she could hide for a few hours. Heard the sirens like a clap of thunder, a sound that chased her as she hid, how long was that fight? This was never in her plans, for she doubted she would ever make it home this time.

Finally hidden in the bushes of a building, there was a bridge several yards away, she could hide there too until the time she deemed safe. She heard a rustling behind her, as she turned in the direction of the sound, there was only a shadow standing, someone, but it was a familiar and unfamiliar feeling at the same time.

"Please... leave me alone." She would be cordial for now, but she wouldn't hesitate to use her force again.

Frost heard an almost imperceptible sound, like a tv being unplugged, a power failure, but it wasn't caused by an electric current or any artifact. It was out of nowhere, she felt a prick in her neck, her hand instinctively wanted to remove whatever was pricking her skin. Managed to remove a dart from her neck or so she thought, as she had never seen one, as it looked more like a yellow stain on her hand. Everything became a big dark blob as her body tried to find a way to react, her eyes paled just like her skin as she tried to stand up. The dart fell to the warm grass, looked for a way to support herself using her hands, looked at where the shadow was supposed to be, nothing but a patch darker than the night. Finally, her body decided to give up and Frost fell to the ground.

#novel #((ohh this is a long one))#blood tw #violence tw #gore tw #death tw

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Space Sweepers and the History of Working Class People In Space

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This week saw the release of Space Sweepers, Korea’s first big budget special effects space movie extravaganza. There are a lot of interesting things to say about this movie, but one of the things that makes it stand out is it’s an excellent portrayal of people in space who are skint.

See, I hate to break it to you, but you’re probably never going into space. Unless you’re a highly trained technical specialist (well done!) or a billionaire (pay your taxes!), your best shot at seeing Earth from space within your lifetime is the development of realistic-yet-cheap VR headsets.

And the thing is, a lot of the time this holds up in sci-fi as well. Space travellers are either living in a post-scarcity utopia, are part of the military, or are some kind of genius scientists.

Even where we see supposedly salt-of-the-Earth relatable types, like Han Solo or Mal Reynolds, their scruffy outfits and roguish ways can’t quite cover for the fact that they own and live in the equivalent of a massive luxury yacht or private plane. Serenity may look like a rust bucket, but it’s far from the equivalent of a white van, and while Mal is constantly complaining about the costs of fuel and repairs, that doesn’t change the fact that he seems to own the ship outright, and in “Oxygen” he appears ready to buy the ship for cash.

As for Han Solo, leaving for a moment his humble origins and that he won the ship in a card game, within the Galaxy Far Far Away the ratio of space travellers to non-space travellers doesn’t seem that different from the one on Earth. Yes, there are lots of smugglers and Tie-fighter pilots and interplanetary bounty hunters, but for every one of them there are millions of Tusken sand raiders, Jawa scrap merchants, moisture farmers and Corellian street rats. Spacecraft might come and go from the spires of Coruscant as regularly as buses, but the population density is such that most people on that planet will be lucky to see sunlight, let alone the stars.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, the chances of an ordinary person getting into space even in the foreseeable future vary between Willy Wonka Golden ticket level lucky, or truly dystopian. On the one hand, Elon Musk has announced the first all-civilian mission to space, led by billionaire Jared Isaacman (so, not what you’d call an everyman), two seats given to people who have won a place by donating to St Jude’s Hospital (it probably won’t be one of the smaller donors), and finally, one lucky front-line health worker.

But Elon Musk wants to colonise Mars, and sadly billionaires still need people to clean the toilets, so Musk has other ideas for how ordinary people might get into space. Unfortunately that idea is indentured slavery, demonstrating that the most prescient science fiction writers of our generation are the writers of first-person shooters.

This is why, outside of post-scarcity-fully-automated-luxury-space-communism, and the military, science fiction is always oddly quiet about money. With a few honourable exceptions.

We Just Work Here

The first and most obvious reason why any ordinary working-class person would end up in space is “they’re paid to”.

Pretty much the codifier of working-class people in space is Alien. The crew of Nostromo aren’t scientists, they’ve not got The Right Stuff. Nobody on that ship is getting a high school named after them. The crew of the Nostromo are basically truck drivers who venture off the highway and run into something nasty. Yes, ironically they show a great deal more competence, professionalism and intelligence in encountering an alien threat than the actual scientists in the prequel movie, but the first conversation these characters have when they come out of hyper sleep is about money. From the outset, these are people in a place of work.

It’s a model that set the format for gritty-industrial-working-class-people in space movies going forward for better or worse. Event Horizon just lifts Alien’s aesthetic completely for the rescue ship Lewis & Clark, as does the videogame series Dead Space, like Alien, set aboard a mining ship.

Away from the horror genre, Outland sees Sean Connery play sheriff in a final frontier mining town that could have taken place in the same world as Alien.

And of course, Red Dwarf, which not only made good use of the Alien aesthetic, but also cast the colony commander from Aliens as their Captain, to tell the story of chicken soup repairmen in space.

Across all of these stories, and of course the aforementioned videogames, the life of the blue collar space traveller is an unpleasant one, exploited by a company that not only controls your life while you work, but also owns all of your food, water and air. Indeed, it’s not rare for them to go further. In Moon, another film where the spacemen-to-earthmen ratio seems not far what it is now, Sam Bell’s employer decides to save the cost of training employees and ferrying them back and forth from Earth to the Moon by taking one employee and filling a cellar full of his pre-programmed, short-lived disposable clones.

Space Sweepers

Public Transport

But maybe you don’t want to work for “the Man”, not an unwise call given the Man is probably trying to feed you to something horrible in the hope of creating a new bioweapon. One surprisingly under-utilised method of getting into space is public transport.

In The Fifth Element, Bruce Willis plays a special-forces-operative-turned-cab-driver who, as part of his cover, wins a ticket to go on a space cruise. Although looking at the sets and the extras in this movie, as well as the packed-in-as-tightly-as-we-can apartments back on Earth, one gets the impression this is not an option open to the majority of working joes.

Perhaps the best example of this is in the shockingly under-loved 2018 flick, Prospect, featuring future Mandalorian Pedro Pascal.

In Prospect, the spaceship is little more than a rotating framework filled with cargo containers in front of a massive engine. The father and daughter prospecting team are on board a lander that resembles nothing so much as an old Apollo Lunar Lander on the inside, and as the mothership approaches their destination the ship doesn’t even stop, it just releases the lander, tells them when the ship is going to be passing back that way and warns them the line is being terminated, so there won’t be another ship passing that way.

This is a model it would be fantastic to see more of. The landing module is small enough that it’s entirely plausible that even these not-very-well-off characters could buy, hire or rent one. Rather than having the freedom of the space ways like Mal or Han, their travel options are entirely restricted by what destinations are profitable for large shipping companies and whether they’ll let you tag along. And while on the surface the aesthetic looks a bit Alien, in truth it feels far more like it’s cobbled together from relics of the actual space age.

Borrow Your Way Into Space

And finally, of course, there’s the Elon Musk solution. Borrow your way into space. One of the early places to use this idea was Gateway, by Frederik Pohl. Frederik Pohl in particular is fantastic at writing science fiction worlds where people actually have to worry about money. In Gateway and its sequels humanity has discovered Ancient Aliens left a space station nearby, stocked with a lot of spaceships. Being alien technology, humans can’t control the ships accurately, they’re limited pretty much to pressing the “Stop” and “Go” buttons, and when the ship flies off it might land on a world of fabulous riches, or it might chuck you into the heart of a star.

Prospectors who want to try their luck in these ships have to take out a loan to get to the station, and throughout the novel the protagonist is constantly aware of how many credits are in his account.

Which brings us back around to Space Sweepers. At first glance the Space Sweepers set-up might seem similar to that of the Millennium Falcon or Serenity – an extremely “used” looking ship run by a rag-tag bunch of misfits. But the first time we see the protagonist, Tae-ho, he’s in a pawn shop. As soon as he gets back to the ship we learn the crew are still paying off the cost of the ship, as well as the costs of repairs and parts.

We see an awful lot of “Space sweepers” throughout the film, junk collectors gathering up salvage from Earth’s orbiting collection of derelict spacecraft and defunct satellites. But these people don’t seem like roguish space pirates, the impression they give is more akin to app-based gig workers.

This is compounded by another issue – that to work in space you need a visa, with citizenship limited to the wealthy few who are able to afford a place on the deluxe orbiting space habitats.

Everything in Space Sweepers is driven by money, whether it’s Tao-Ho’s attempts to raise enough money to find his daughter, the robot, Bubs, and her attempt to get a humanoid body that reflects her gender, and of course, the $2 million reward for “Dorothy” which drives the whole plot.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Often space-based sci-fi is about the fantasy of freedom, of exploration. Even shows like Star Trek give us characters whose job isn’t much more than to fly around having adventures. But there is rich storytelling to be done about the people who have to clean the space toilets.

Chris Farnell’s novella series, Fermi’s Progress, is about a ship whose FTL drive vaporises planets, and features at least one space traveller who isn’t a scientist, super soldier or billionaire (although to be fair the other three characters are exactly that). You can find part one here.

The post Space Sweepers and the History of Working Class People In Space appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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pleasefeedthebirds · 4 years

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A Relatively Deep Dive Into My “Crème de la Crème” MCs - #1. Mavis Linnet

(From the astonishingly crisp interactive fiction by @hpowellsmith! ...It’s not weird to tag, right?)

Mavis “Miss Linnet” Mallee-Linnet

she/her/hers

Light brown complexion and loosely curled brown hair

Favors conventionally masculine fashion

Accommodating

Manipulative

Traditional

Exceptional Poise

Noteworthy Wit and Intrigue

Commonplace Spirit

Unremarkable Flair

LOADS more info and spoiler content under the cut!

I envision Mavis as having grown up in a wealthy household, where she was still raised reasonably well about the importance of non-profligate spending. Her parents both taught at Olmstead’s Valley School, where she was in attendance for the bulk of her college-age years. Sailing was manageablely smooth. Mavis got along well in her studies, had time for both dressage and lacrosse, and—for her genuine interest in the subject matter—made it on the good side of many educators there (albeit not as often her fellow students, being for all the world their definition of a teacher’s pet!).

Her life took an abrupt shift in its trajectory when Mr. Mallee, her father, had a shameful affair come to light. Their rural community was small enough that such a thing made waves. Her other father, Mr. Linnet, sent Mavis off to Gallatin with the still-favorable Linnet name, and spent a pretty penny to do so. Primarily, he did this to save her from suffering by association, and was very vocal about these intentions. He’s definitely also relying on her to save their social standing, and despite the point being markedly unspoken, Mavis quietly understands.

So, Mavis feels an immense pressure to make the most of her time at Gallatin. She tries to conform unfalteringly to the school’s every long-winded social expectation, which exhausts her utterly. However, by her proficiency in book research, and her sincere knack for studying people, she has grown excellent at “playing the game” in high society.

More than ever, Mavis is dedicated to her studies at Gallatin, even when the prescribed syllabus is less than stimulating. She keeps her head down so to never risk rocking the boat. This mode of being doesn’t make her happy per say, but the Gallatin atmosphere has her shoehorned into believing there’s no feasible alternative. She’s cognizant of surface level flaws in the system, but plays along because she thinks she has to. After all, it’s her way out of rural smallmindedness and into an academic world. That said, things certainly can change, particularly when one can’t help but notice atrocities being committed against literal children!

5’10”, with broad shoulders but slender hips. Her body makes an upside-down triangle shape.

Prone to acne, her skincare routines are extensive, and she’s usually up at the crack of dawn every day to get her proverbial ducks in a row.

Her hair is thinner than it looks, and she takes especial care when rationing it about her scalp. She feels vulnerable with it all the way down, so favors hair styles with low centers, such as looped pigtails, a nape bun, or double braids. Also labors to hide her considerable widow’s peak.

A heavy tea drinker. For all of her wits, she doesn’t realize that her mug o’ choice (earl grey) is highly caffeinated. She slugs the stuff down each day without ever realizing, because it “makes her feel better” about mornings.

Though it’s hardly polite, she LOVES gossip, and writes down every secret she hears as her guiltiest pleasure.

Miss Dalca and Mr. Griffith both make her uncomfortable—the former for her extreme progressiveness, and the latter for his gruff demeanor. Mr. Blanchard is her favorite teacher, and I bet she’s accidentally cried in his presence before. She’s scared of Lady Renaldt, and makes herself known to the headmaster only out of necessity.

Virtue: 91%

Popularity: 75%

Coursework Grade: A

Exam Mark: A+

Extracurricular(s): Birchmeier Society and the Gallatin Swans (goalkeeper)

*[Though not doable ingame, I like to think that she overloaded her schedule and dropped the Swans halfway through the semester. Mavis is never the type to drop anything, so having to take that step back was a double-edged blow to her confidence, in addition to being a sheer relief on her stress levels. Since the Birchmeier Society was where her heart truly lay, she managed to build herself back up there with Freddie’s support.]

Entanglements: Romantically engaged to Freddie.

Besties and then some with Freddie. They’re both hardworking scholars with each their own zest for learning, and by preparing for classes, exams, and Birchmeier Society biz in the same shared spaces, Mavis spent disproportionately more time with her than with anyone else. Freddie encouraged Mavis to be a bit less hard on herself, and was brave enough to stand up to her whenever Mavis’s fatigue was turning her curmudgeonly. Mavis helped get Freddie out of her own head on multiple occasions, taught her to break the most overwhelming situations down to deal with day-by-day, and bolstered her confidence anytime it faltered in the face of the Gallatin sphere. The engagement was Mavis’s idea, which she accidentally blurted out in a rare impulsive burst of feeling. After processing the implications, she was ashamed to have second thoughts upon remembering Freddie’s financial situation. It seemed for a while that the engagement was off, following a hard conversation that soured their relationship for awhile. I don’t think Freddie would easily bounce back after having her family standing scrutinized. However, the mine plot—when Mavis had to ultimately turn her back on everything she’d built at Gallatin—spurred character development enough that Freddie deemed her worthy of a second chance.

Friends with Gonzalez, who couldn’t help but respect that Mavis was competent in lacrosse, academically accomplished, and generally pretty nice to people. I don’t think she realizes that Mavis keeps a stiff mask. Mavis found Gonzalez refreshing, albeit off-puttingly honest, and couldn’t find a way to fault her spirited nature. I can’t imagine them engaging much off of the field (i.e. post Mavis quitting the team), but the two were mutually supportive in their interactions, even if Mavis was probably repressing some criticisms of Gonzalez’s fast and loose attitude all the while.

Friends with Max after he tutored her in flair, per Lady Renaldt’s instruction, via a sick dance sesh. I like to imagine him groaning about the task, assuming that Mavis would be a hopeless case, and then being pleasantly surprised at the fact that she can absolutely hit it (even just in the name of compliance with authority). He tried to make a move on her and was politely rejected. I think he supports the idea of her at a distance after recognizing that she’s not trying to breathe down anyone’s neck, and really is a kind, tired gal being squeezed dry by the system.

Friends with Hartmann, who was initially confused about which “side” Mavis was on in her prefectural feud with Max (Mavis shushed him at the opening commencement, which she liked, yet supported Max when he dipped out the common room window). They came to understand each other in the later game, bonding over how ill-affected they both are by the pressures of their respective positions. They don’t “hang out” much, but a couple of key deep conversations put each in the other’s good books.

Pleasant acquaintances with Karson. Mavis rarely went out of her way to talk to them, but whenever they crossed paths, she was good to Karson, and sympathized (albeit at a respectable distance) with their situation as a servant. When trouble in the mines was first coming to light, Mavis got sniffing, and sussed out enough clues that Karson eventually passed Blaise’s note on to her directly, trusting her moral compass enough to do so.

Unpleasant acquaintances with Delacroix. His unconventional take on life, passion for the intangible, and apathy towards collegiate procedure all make her uneasy. In his own right, Delacroix probably takes her for a stuffy, self-centered dud, which after all the times she’s reflexively shut his occult talk down, is pretty fair.

Acquaintances with Blaise. Mavis made nice in the early game because she had to, and was secretly relieved when she “resigned.” This was short lived, and turned into a misplaced sense of guilt after what actually happened to Blaise came to light. Mavis didn’t end up in the mines herself, but she did everything she could to help her, Miss Dalca, and eventually Gonzalez escape. When all was said and done, Blaise still made Mavis uncomfortable, and she let her be to get on with her life.

Approached Rosario at the punch table in an attempt to court the princess in the room… absolutely blew it. Ended up tripping over her own tongue when she realized that the heir is not so predictably wooed by traditional measures as originally anticipated. I like to think of that moment as a point of deeper connection for Mavis and Freddie, where both were totally overwhelmed by the noble sphere at Archambault and turned to each other for comfort. Otherwise, Rosario was a Rosari-no for Mavis.

Was weirded out by Auguste. Mavis fears any authority figures who don’t like her right away, and they’re too close to the ever-frigid Lady Renaldt for her comfort. She did totally trash them (benevolently) at dressage on sports day, though.

Gave Florin the widest possible berth. Mavis wanted nothing to do with that kind of scandal, but definitely found her shallowly cute.

Some Choice Plot Pieces (cue spoilers):

Gathered evidence against Miss Dalca in compliance with Lady Renaldt.

Had an adequate working relationship with Miss Benton.

Gathered information for Annick against Lady Renaldt.

Endgame (cue SUPER spoilers):

Worked in secret against Lady Renaldt.

Sent Gonzalez to the mines, but most everyone got out (I believe Miss Dalca died?!).

Settled things quietly with Kathrili Burgin.

Went on to study at Gessner.

Joined Freddie for the summer.

#creme de la creme #mavis linnet #if ref #choice of games

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skvaderarts · 3 years

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Hiraeth Chapter 20: Arrears

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Twenty: Arrears

Note: And just like that, we’re on chapter twenty for the third time. That’s totally surreal, isn’t it? Sorry that my replies were a day or two late this week and that this chapter is a few hours late. I fell asleep. I was out of town Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday with a friend, so my uploads and response times were not quite as quick as I would have liked. But it’s okay because I’m back! Now let’s get on with this fic.

(-~-)

Once they were gone, the doors to the front office swung shut with a resounding bang, sending an echoing boom through the entirety of the front room. In what had to be a rare moment of silence for the normally noisy space, there was no music playing and no ceiling fans spinning due to the lack of electricity present within the building. It was welcome, but also strange as he had finally begun to grow used to the sound of Dante’s particular brand of loud metal and rock. And although he couldn’t say that he enjoyed the exact music that Dante did, he found that he didn’t mind it as much as he used to when he’d first heard it. Maybe he could even convince him to play something else…

The Darkslayer took a moment to lock the door behind himself before proceeding, not so much because he was worried that they would be attacked or that someone would attempt to actually break in and rob them. No, that would be an absolute dream as far as the eldest Son of Sparda was concerned. Having the opportunity to teach a wayward criminal a much-needed lesson without the moral implications that came with cold-blooded murder or fratricide was a welcome change of pace for him. No, they needed to be alone for this, and he didn’t need any of his younger brother’s associates interrupting them with any trivial or annoying requests, especially given their current circumstances.

As the devil hunter in the blue coat approached his brother’s desk, Dante shook his head, reclining in the chair at his desk as he awaited his older sibling’s response. He was somewhat sure that he already knew what he was going to say. After all, Vergil had been looming over him like a literal physical manifestation of the shadow of his immense debt ever since they had returned and realized that the power was once again turned off. That had surely given them both enough time to contemplate what they both expected the other to say and, in turn, what they would add to the conversation themselves. That was, if there was a conversation at all. While they had made remarkable progress in the short time that they had been gone from the office, he didn’t put it past his older sibling to still want to settle this the old-fashioned way like they always had. And at this point, there was a part of him that expected nothing less than that, regardless of the progress that they made. The real question was how they would go about this process, and what the fight would be about this time, not so much if there would be one in the first place.

“I know, I know. This is the part where you barely hide how mad you are at me, and they you give me a piece of your mind before you stab me again, right Vergil.” Dante laughed grimly as he spoke those words, watching his twin slowly approach the desk. That was what was to be expected under these circumstances. And he’d dealt with Vergil enough times to know that-

“Why are the utilities always off, Dante? Am I to presume that you are in some form of arrears to the utility company, then?” Vergil said calmly as he reached the halfway point of the room. He stopped a few feet from the desk, looking around the room for a moment before continuing. “It came to my attention just after we had first returned from the underworld that you might be hiding something. It clearly wasn’t the first time that you had gone without electricity since you didn’t appear to be surprised by its absence, but considering our initial fight with Nero on the front steps upon arriving, my general mood at the time, and the lingering unrest in the atmosphere around the office as to my presence, I was unwilling to bring it up at the time. But now I require answers.”

His calm demeanor took Dante somewhat by surprise as while he was indeed expecting his brother to ask him why the power was off again, he wasn’t expecting him to do so with such a genuine level of curiosity. There didn’t seem to be any real anger in his voice as he asked that question, which admittedly turned things on their head a little. Dante was expecting to be lambasted for several minutes before things either turned violent or Vergil gave up and went to bed. This was… well, this was entirely too diplomatic to be an actual response from his older twin brother. What the hell was going on here?

“You caught onto what was going on that quick, hu? Well damn. I thought I was doing a better job of hiding it.” Dante said, dragging out a long, tired sigh. It was out in the open now, and that brought with it a sort of strange euphoric sense of release that he hadn’t expected, given the circumstances. “So… what happens now? Are we gonna skip the part where you stab me, or go straight to it? I’d just like to know what I’m getting myself into this time, ya know?”

Vergil stepped out of the shadows and approached the desk, unfolding his arms and using them to prop himself up against the desk. He seemed calm in a manner unlike what Dante was used to when it came to his older sibling. From what he could tell, the devil slayer in blue almost seemed to be considering something or even patently awaiting his response. But whatever he was doing, Dante wasn’t sure how he felt about it. As unpleasant as most of his older sibling’s reactions were to basically everything that he did and didn’t do, they were at least almost entirely predictable. This was the farthest thing from that that Dante could imagine, and it made him somewhat apprehensive as to what to do now. He was in uncharted territory, adrift at sea with no wind in his sails and now oars to row with.

“I am… attempting a new approach. My old methods have hit a dead end. And predictably so, at that.” Vergil let loose a barely audible sigh, looking down at the floor as he considered his next words carefully. He wasn’t entirely sure how to put into words what he was thinking, but he did, in fact, know what he actually wanted to do. Talking to his younger twin had never been something that he was particularly adept at, but that didn’t stop him from trying. After all, when had Vergil been the kind of man to do things by half? “As you know, I do not enjoy predictability. So in light of recent revelations, I am now attempting to actually communicate with you instead of simply folding to my baser instincts and using less civil means with which to get my point across.”

Dante sat up and leaned in towards him, looking at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. No, he couldn’t possibly be hearing that right. Had his older twin truly just insinuated that he might be tired of… that couldn’t be possible, could it? Well, it could. That was entirely possible. But he just never thought that he would live long enough to see the day that Vergil would succeed defeat and decide that maybe stabbing his younger sibling to death constantly was perhaps not the best method to achieving his goals. The thought had crossed Dante’s mind on several occasions, but he had just never been able to actually find a way with which to make those ideas into reality. But now…

“So if I’m hearing you right, you’re saying that you actually plan to not stab me right now, and instead you want to talk to me?” Dante wasn’t sure that his humorous tone of voice and sarcastic mannerisms alluded to the deep-seated elation that he felt at that prospect, but that didn’t make it any less true. He had waited a lifetime for the day that his brother might come to the conclusion that it might be a good idea to simply speak to him. And while he hadn’t helped to make that outcome anymore likely, and had often worked directly against it in ways large and small over the years, that didn’t make the possibility of that outcome becoming a reality any less joyous to him. “Am I getting that right, or has someone left and opened a valve that lets out toxic gases in here and we’re both just secretly dying right now or something?”

“Your half right, Dante. That is, in fact, what I am trying to say. But on the last account, you are incorrect. We are not secretly dying.” The Darkslayer paused for a moment, lingering on thoughts that he would have preferred to have kept buried deep below the surface to hide his apparent suffering. He had been through much, and a large percentage of his suffering in life had been through the lens of death. Talking about it wasn’t something that he cherished the opportunity to do. It was unpleasant but necessary. And yet, here he was, willingly doing so. Vergil had pivoted from defiance to indifference in some respects, and then he had made a sharp left into uneasy acceptance. For now, that was all he could do, and he had decided that focusing on what he was capable of instead of beating himself down with the combined weight of everything that he couldn’t might just be the best thing that he could do for himself in moments like these. “Every living thing is at all times marching towards their death. There is no secret in that. It is the inevitability of mortality. Some of us simply make it there quicker or under less desirable circumstances than others. But in the end, we all share the same fate.”

Giving his brother a much more serious look now than he had been a moment ago, Dante leaned back slightly in order to physically give himself space to take in what Vergil had just said. He had the distinct feeling that he now knew what this was about, and that was both a good and a bad thing. While it was far past time that they tackled this topic, he just hadn’t expected things to come to a head like this when they had. It would have been wonderful to have had forewarning so that he could have prepared and… no. No, had had time to prepare himself for this. From the moment that he had stepped foot in the Qliphoth and found himself standing face to face with the doors to Urizen’s throne room, coming to grips with the fact that the monster on the other side of those doors was indeed his twin brother, he had been preparing himself for the worst. When Vergil had reluctantly agreed to return to the human world with hum under the resigned fatalistic view that it couldn’t get much worse, he had known that they would have to have this conversation one day. And now that Vergil was here, it was time to have it. They had needed to get this off of their chest for quite a while now.

“Say what it is that you really want to say, Vergil. I’m not stupid enough to not be able to tell that there is more to this than what you’re saying. You know that, right?” Dante straightened his back out slightly as he reclined in his desk chair, peering out at Vergil from the bangs that hand now found their way in front of his eyes again. He needed to put some space between himself and his brother, if only to keep himself from developing claustrophobia. As much as Vergil utterly despised unwanted or involuntary physical contact, it was one of his best methods for making someone that he wanted to put on edge uncomfortable. Being at the mercy of both his impressive height in respect to most people, and his cold, unflinching stare was normally enough to make the average mortal flinch and back down, and in that respect, even Dante folded, even if only just a little bit. Being stared at the way that Vergil stared at people when he was trying to make a point was enough to make literally anyone want to back away from him. The Demon hunter wondered for a moment if his older brother even noticed that this was something that he did, or if it was something that he did involuntarily out of reflex.

A look somewhere between surprise and acceptance crossed Vergil's face as he nodded in agreement, standing up straighter as he shifted his weight to one hand and then quite literally looked down on his younger twin. There it was again. That noticeable change in him that had not been present when they were younger. Vergil understood it now more than he had when he had first noticed that something was drastically different about his twin now. It was his maturity level. Dante had indeed learned from his past, and seemed to be haunted by the mistakes and regrets that he harbored, much like he himself still did. He recognized it as his own, the poignant grief that he now realized deep within himself that they both shared. It was… well, he couldn’t say that it was something that he’d ever wished for Dante. There were plenty of unfortunate occurrences that Vergil would have brushed or even wished on his brother during his youth. Not so long ago, he would have been ready to exact those very injustices upon him with his own hands. But in that same light, he now understood something that he hadn’t then: the fact that Dante himself felt the same way. He just buried it under a thick layer of humor and sarcasm

He saw it in the moments that they were alone. Dante didn’t possess the same energy that he’d once had, the same spark that he had carried in his youth. And that wasn’t something he could blame completely on his age. Some things were lost along with the youth of the person who possessed them, and hope was one of those things. But hardship, regret, and suffering were great at enhancing those characteristics in a way that few other emotions could match, at least in regards to negative connotations. He would have never pegged Dante as the sort to think that deeply about his actions and their consequences when they were younger, much as he was willing to believe that his younger twin probably didn’t think he himself did back then. And they might have both been right under certain circumstances. But now they were older and they had lived through the folly of their youth. And they were ready to move on from it.

“You’re terrible at keeping things from me, Dante. You always have been. I had the feeling that something was amiss financially in regards to your personal life, and I see that I was not incorrect. But that does not concern me.” Vergil tilted his head slightly to the left, attempting to make brief eye contact with his younger twin as the slightly younger man attempted to not think too hard about the situation that he now found himself in. Things had taken quite the turn since Lucia had left the office with V and the others. He couldn’t say that he knew for sure whether or not his brother had specifically waited for them to leave before having this conversation with him, but he was willing to believe that that was more than likely the case. And that in of itself was admittedly fascinating to him. Vergil had never really cared about shaming him out in the open. Had he actually done so in order to not embarrass him any further than he was embarrassing himself due to the fact that they had company over who were not blood members of their family? Because if so, that had been uncharacteristically compassionate of his older twin. “If I had come here with the expectation that you had everything in your life under control, then I would not be able to claim to know you at all. Your financial troubles are something that can be fixed, unlike some of our other troubles.”

Dante couldn’t help but laugh at that statement. “Oh, brother! See, that’s where you're dead wrong. There is no fixing the amount of debt that I’m in. It’s a whole lot worse than just a few power and water bills.” Shaking his head, Dante leaned back and attempted to open the drawer to his desk, cursing himself internally when he had to pull on it much harder than he normally would. He’d shoved something in there before he’d left, and the sliding mechanism had been jammed, but it opened nonetheless. He then produced a worn brown ledger, tossing it onto the desk with a responding thud. Completely unwilling to even look in the general direction of the book, he slid the door shut and glanced over at Vergil, shrugging slightly. “You want a better answer as to what kind of mess I’m in? It’s in there. But you’re not going to like what’s in it.”

Leaning over to pick up the ledger, Vergil gave it a once over for a moment before opening the cover and flipping to the middle of it. Dante had to admire his twin’s insanity for a moment, likening the action of jumping to the middle of someone’s financial history with diving headfirst into ice water without knowing how to swim. Oh, wait… V had literally done just that. Perhaps reckless insanity for the sake of self-preservation ran in the family? Regardless, the frankly calm and placid look on Vergil’s face turned rapidly to confusion and perplexed frustration as he looked over the numbers. He then immediately turned back a few pages, only to realize that his answers were elsewhere. A moment later, he turned back to the very front of the book before furrowing his brow and jumping immediately to the end of the ledger to try and assess the damages in full. There was no point in trying to make sense of something like this. It was simply the kind of situation where you looked at how deep you’d fallen into the hole, and then tried to figure out what you could stack up to try and climb towards the surface again just to have a chance at jumping towards the general direction of the surface that you could probably barely see due to how far down you were. And you could only hope that you were able to grab onto something when you made that just, because if you didn’t? Well, you would just be back at the bottom where you had started in the first place all over again, and at that point, what had you accomplished?

Upon realizing the depth of the issue at face value, Vergil closed the book along with his eyes before letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He then tossed the book back onto the desk as though simply touching it was enough to make him contract some sort of lethal virus. He slumped over the desk for a moment before glancing back towards the back office door and making a b line for it. Dante watched him go, trying his best not to laugh. Yes, now that was a feeling that he could relate to.

“Where ya headed Vergil,” Dante asked, barely hiding his amusement. It was time to see if his twin brother’s new anti-stabbing ethos was something that he was willing to stand by, even in the face of such a frustrating realization. He imagined that Vergil was more than ready to stab him right now.

He stopped, his back to his twin brother. After pausing for a moment, he peered over his shoulder, a slightly disbelieving, shocked, and overall surprised look on his face. “I need a nap, Dante. I think that jetlag has just set in.” He said simply before turning back in the direction of the door.

“You’re telling me, Vergil. Why do you think I sleep so much?” Dante said with s slight laugh, shaking his head as he faced forward into nothingness again. It was incredible how dark it got in there at night without lights to combat the inky blackness.

“Depression? A desire to avoid your problems for a bit longer? Other ill-defined reasons that I care little to discuss at this point in time?” Vergil shrugged nebulously, seemingly resigned to the reality of his fate. How in the world had those numbers gotten like that? It defied logic. It defied reason. Hell, it defied science and math, too! “Those are just the reasons I can think of off of the top of my head. I am not your phycologist.”

At that point, Dante actually did laugh. It seemed that his financial state had managed to strip what little will to live and energy that Vergil still possessed in his body. That many zeros tended to do that to you. “I mean yea, that’s fair, but you don’t have to say it. I have feelings, you know?”

“Do not awaken me until either the utilities are restored or the office burns down Dante. This will take a substantial amount of work, and I am not at all well-rested enough as it currently stands.”

With that, Vergil closed the door to his bedroom, and a moment later, Dante could hear what was definitely his older twin hitting the bed with enough force to go through it. That right there was a mood, and he was positive that he had never once related so much to his brother’s questionable coping mechanisms. Maybe a good night’s rest was in store for them both. It was dark already anyway. What could it hurt? He was sure that no one would mind, least of all Vergil. Considering the way that he slept on the rare occasion that he actually did, he wouldn’t mind literally anything for a very long time. That could only be a good thing at this point.

(-~-)

I couldn’t tell you why, but Google Docs has decided it hates my guts lately. It decided to crash no less than 7 times while I was writing this, taking whole paragraphs with it. It was a nightmare to write. In fact, it crashed once while I was writing this footnote, so this is my second time writing it. Joy! Anyway, happy 2nd DMC5 anniversary everyone! I hope you all had a good time reading this one! Can’t wait to read your comments. Now time to go cry in the corner over my lost paragraphs! Duh du du du du!

#Dante #Vergil #Post Devil May Cry 5 #Post Devil May Cry V #Hiraeth #Fanfic #Sons of Sparda #Devil May Cry #DMC #DMC5 #DMCV #Devil May Cry 5

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honeymoonjin · 4 years

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day 14

This chapter was such a cathartic experience for me that I wrote book report for it. I have little else to offer at your altar of magic aside from my undying gratitude for your continued hard work and utter awe of your literary prowess. Please enjoy my attempt at articulating the emotions you have managed to evoke in me with this chapter. Thank you once again! 💜 Jan

Set to Self Destruct: An analysis of Sora’s Day 14 of “The Gentlemen”

Every genre brings with it a set of expectations that shapes the kinds of stories it can tell and the themes it can explore. “The Gentlemen” is entirely shot from one specific location, with its participants prohibited from leaving the premises of the villa (with the allowance only for Y/N and the fan favorite winner of that week to leave for a one night date). This restriction creates a scenario where 1) at first the occupants fall into an unspoken, almost idyllic community and 2) inevitably the conflicts that arise as a consequence of a Utopian society. With the added pressures of a competition, an environment that fosters moments of high emotional tension, physical and emotional intimacy, and 8 very different personalities, it feels as if the show was doomed for dissonance right from the start. It should be no surprise that the rather straightforward, raunchy reality show devolves so quickly into a “bottle episode” filled to the brim with an emotionally charged battle of whose tongue is the sharpest. On the surface, “The Gentlemen” is a story about a single female protagonist judging the sexual abilities of seven random men but this premise and the setting with which the story plays out on, serves to explore the deeper ideas of one’s role in the balance of social harmony verses the human tendency towards self destruction.

The setting of a story can be a powerful tool in expressing a character’s journey. “Bottle episodes” have often been used for dramatic effect in visual storytelling, with the limited setting and cast allowing for a slower pace and deeper exploration of character traits and motives. Having the entirety of “The Gentlemen” be one long drawn out “bottle episode” allows for the audience to experience a slow-burn like intensity of those personalities. It takes the fundamental process of how a group stuck in a certain location together for an extended period of time inadvertently falls into certain social constructs in order to reach an equilibrium of cohesion. The roles which each occupant of the villa naturally fell into set a precedent for many of the events that followed on the show, most obvious being Y/N as the “queen bee” (the one who holds the most power in the group), Seokjin as the designated “counselor” (the one who is expected to help his fellow competitors when an emotional issue arises), and Yoongi as the “mediator” (the one who is the voice of reason and rationale when tensions run high). And yet it is revealed that there is a price for that harmony, for even roles that are not as explicit begin to weigh heavy as the days wane on. The cohesion of these roles were meant to serve as cogs that fit together to uphold a sense of teamwork in an otherwise tension filled living quarters. But people are not cogs and emotions are not gears to be compartmentalized into neat roles to serve the higher purpose of the show. And as occupants spend more time with one another, natural biases, feelings of jealousy, possessiveness, envy, and pride start to surface under the umbrella of selfish acts, we begin to see that fine balance corrode the fragile peace.

The road to self destruction has begun in earnest.

It all comes to a head at the 2 week mark of the show’s timeline. At this point, tensions have been running high: from revelation of Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s romantic feelings for Y/N, to Jimin and Hoseok’s long running rivalry, to Y/N, Jimin, and Taehyung creating a polyamorous relationship in secret, to Jungkook feeling like the odd man out. The pressures of the show were eventually bound to break someone’s resolve and we see that personified in Jungkook in this episode. After speaking with Seokjin about his warring feelings towards certain members of the group and his desires to act on his frustrations regarding the restrictive parameters of the show, Jungkook was able to unload some of the pent up tension he had been carrying around for the last few days. The audience is then lulled into a false sense of security that the equilibrium of the group has been restored when in actuality, it was a red herring that something drastic was about to unfold. At first glance, the guidance that Seokjin offers Jungkook feels like a band-aid on a bleeding artery when in actuality it was more akin to Seokjin inadvertently stepping on a landmine he believes he has already defused. And his misstep triggers the entire villa to fall victim to the explosion.

In the climatic scene of the episode, Jungkook’s pent up emotions rears its ugly head in the form of harsh words, tactless criticism, irreparably broken trust, and even fists thrown. His actions turn from verbal assaults to physical ones and the damage seems to fissure out towards the entire group. The destruction is absolute; no one is left unscathed. Why is this scene so effective? Its power is not from the dramatic way Jungkook punches Jimin for calling him out on his childish behavior or the out of character way Hoseok tries to break up the fight only to be elbowed in the face by Jimin nor is it in the heartbreaking way those that are left behind in the villa are tasked with the self imposed responsibility to pick up the literal pieces of their tenuous friendship. It is in the fact that the audience understands the self destructive actions of the characters and perhaps to some degree relate to it on a very human level. We understand that Seokjin wanted to talk through the problems with the group because he didn’t want to shoulder all of the burden himself anymore. We understand that Hoseok acts the way he does because he uses it as a defense mechanism to protect himself. We understand why Sejin did not step in earlier when he was asked to by Yoongi and why Yoongi is bitter about it as a direct result of Sejin’s choice to abstain from deescalating the fight before it got out of control. We understand that Jimin and Jungkook clashed with each other so viscerally because they see themselves in each other and it’s a jagged pill to swallow when presented with a mirror of all of the ugly sides of ourselves we think we do such a great job of hiding. Perhaps exaggerated for a more dramatic effect, but at the core of these interactions, we see the flaws that we carry as human beings and are forced to face the unpleasant feelings that it elicits in each of us. We understand because we can empathize with their struggles.

How does a community attempt to repair itself when its very foundation is practically razed to the ground? Perhaps there is an argument to be made about a complete dismantling of a previous establishment. The audience can view this inevitable clash as a “controlled burn”. In terms of forest management, a “controlled burn” is a fire set intentionally for purposes of farming, prairie restoration or greenhouse gas abatement. These “controlled burning” is conducted during the cooler months to reduce fuel buildup and decrease the likelihood of serious hotter fires. In the same way fires are a part of a forest’s life cycle, the clash that occurred on day 14 might serve as a way for the characters to start fresh, with hopes of emotional maturity and foresight for rebuilding relationships moving forward in the competition.

The damage done during day 14 of “The Gentlemen” may arguably be irreversible, perhaps even amplified by the uncertain nature of the show, but challenges were inevitable with a setting like this one. And yet, there are seeds of hope scattered among the debris. In John Yorke’s “Into the Woods: a five act journey into story” he writes “…story matches psychological theory: characters are taken on a journey to acknowledge and assimilate the traumas in their past… By confronting and coming to terms with the cause of their traumas they can finally move on.” Day 14 revealed a lot of stances, opinions, and confessions that were previously kept secret due to the need to preserve the harmonious nature of the greater good, “the community”. But human nature does not allow for peace to reign for long; it yearns balance. Thus dissonance created discourse. Yet from strife there is revelation. From the ashes of fiery emotions, there is a chance at peace anew: either reestablish order or embrace the chaos. Yet most likely it’ll come down to a melding of the two in order to find the balance a community craves whilst also giving into the character’s more baser human desire for self ruin.

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jan i literally can’t stop crying thank you so much. there’s no way for me to put into words the feeling of someone caring so much about the story and even about one particular chapter that they’ve written such an articulate and profound ESSAY on it like,,,, i have no idea what i’ve done to deserve this, because writing this story is just this little passion project that i’m fostering with my brainstorming group and with the readers. it feels like a collaborative effort and so i never really saw it as anything more than just the fun gimmick of an interactive fic in a crazy situation.

you see things in my story that even i don’t see, make it sound beautiful when i worried it was awkward, and i can’t thank you enough for that. and when you brought up Into the Woods i LOST it, i adore that book and hearing someone quote a masterwork like that when referring to my fanfiction? it’s so absurd but so special all at once.

i’ve never really considered becoming an actual author because the pressure of money and income relying on it seems scary to me (even commissions stress me out) so i’m eternally grateful to you for always making me feel like this is something professional. getting a glimpse into that life by you writing an analysis on d14 is just.... i really can’t describe how special it is.

every week i aim to make each chapter better than the last, and we have a very different landscape in the house on day 15 after our controlled (perhaps not so controlled) burn. i’ll patiently await your thoughts then, but i just want to say that you inspire me to work harder each week ;;-;

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exxar1 · 3 years

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Episode 11: New Believer, New Faith, and a New Vow

2/7/2021

- 1 -

Good morning! It’s a beautiful Sunday here in Las Vegas. I have much to talk about so I’m just going to get right into it.

It’s hard to believe we’re already a full month into the new year. This year for me has been very rewarding thus far. For starters, I have had no trouble keeping up with resolutions 1 and 4. (For a refresher, you can scroll back through my previous posts to the one from New Year’s Eve.) I have found time each day to read my Bible and pray, and I have had little difficulty in maintaining a pleasant attitude and a smile in my daily encounters with my co-workers and customers. As expected, though, that latter one has been tested a few times by the occasional sour apples that woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But I’ve surprised myself every time by my patience and my ability to keep a calm and pleasant demeanor. (Those of you who have known me for a long time will understand how truly remarkable that is for me.) It’s simply another testament to the power of God to change our basic attitudes when we are willing to let Him.

I’ve also made great strides in resolution #3, and that’s where I’m going to spend the bulk of my time on this post.

Have you ever sought something – therapy, a particular medication, advice from a friend or colleague – thinking that it might help with one problem, only to be pleasantly surprised that one, the result helped in many other ways you hadn’t anticipated; and two, that the change/outcome/counseling exceeded your initial expectations by such a great magnitude that you couldn’t believe you hadn’t sought this help long ago? That feeling has been with me for over three weeks now, and it’s only getting better with each session.

One of my first tasks in tackling resolution #3 was to consult a pastor on this issue of homosexuality and the Bible. I needed to know what God really said in His Word on this controversial topic, and since I have yet to find a home church here in Las Vegas the only pastor that I am casually acquainted with is Mark Sjostrom of the church in which I was born and raised back in Twin Falls, Idaho.

For those of you unfamiliar with Twin Falls or this particular church, allow me to forge a brief rabbit trail here to give you a short history. Grace Baptist Church was founded in 1975, and, back then, it was just a one-story, oblong, red-bricked building, its main auditorium forming a bubble at one end, at the intersection of Eastland Drive and Falls Avenue on the eastern edge of town. It’s still that same building today, only now there’s a massive, two-story gymnasium/classroom on the other side of the back parking lot, and a third, smaller, two-room annex that sits behind the gym. The first of those latter two structures was needed in the early eighties when the church launched its own private school, Twin Falls Christian Academy. I was in kindergarten when the gymnasium was under construction. I have many memories of watching my dad and some of the other men in church up on the scaffolds, putting together the walls, while I waited for my mom to pick me up after school, which was held in the various Sunday school rooms in the church. A few years later, I would be attending high school in the classrooms above that gym.

In the years since I have grown and left Twin Falls, I have come back to that church on the occasional Sunday morning worship service when I’m home for a vacation visit. I’ve always had mixed feelings every time I set foot beyond the threshold of its main doors (see my previous posts about my struggles during my teen years.) It’s the same feeling you get when you come back to something that is at once familiar and strangely comforting, but also brings with it unpleasant memories and the pain of old wounds that have never quite healed.

Grace’s pastor since 2005 has been Mark Sjostrom (pronounced ‘shos-trum’), and I didn’t know him that well when I decided to consult him on this issue. Our only interaction thus far had been a brief handshake and a greeting after those sporadic Sunday morning worship services, and I wasn’t sure he would even remember me when I nervously texted him a brief ‘Hello’ a month ago. He responded within a few minutes, and I re-introduced myself and then gave a short explanation of what I needed. We agreed on a time and date for a phone call, and I emailed him the next day with a longer explanation of what I needed to talk about with him.

That letter was a somewhat detailed account of what most of you are already familiar with: my struggle in high school with keeping my secret of being gay while trying to fit in socially and eventually declaring myself an Atheist after being expelled from school my senior year a month before graduation. It was probably about 2 pages, and I was now very nervous after clicking the ‘Send’ button. I suppose now is a good time to tell you something else about me.

I have been one of ‘those people’ for all of my adult life. You know who I’m talking about: the people who silently judge the other customers in the book store who pause to browse the Self Help section; or the people who quietly scoff when anyone talks about their latest therapy session with their friends or coworkers at lunch in the break room. I’m glad I don’t need self-help or therapy, I’ve always thought. But, then again, good for them, I guess. I’m glad I have all my issues worked out, and I’m a stable, normal adult. I’ve never had any issues that were so bad I needed to get help from an armchair counselor’s latest best seller or a psychiatrist’s couch.

Hhmmm. My life, lately, has been chock full of irony.

When the time came to dial Pastor Sjostrom’s number my level of nervousness was up to a ten out of ten on the anxiety scale. I hadn’t felt like this since high school when it was opening night of our Agatha Christie play, and I was one of the main cast. I had prepared a detailed outline of what I wanted to discuss, and, after a few initial pleasantries, Mark quickly put me at ease. I was pleasantly caught off guard by his relaxed, casual personality. I found immediately that he was very easy to talk to, and my anxiety level dropped to a ‘three’ in the first five minutes. Pastor Sjostrom is definitely one of those people who has found the right calling. His warm, personable demeanor made me feel like I was talking to an old friend over coffee at Starbucks, and after about ten minutes of getting to know one another, he brought the conversation back around to my letter.

Here’s where my second surprise occurred. Mark was bluntly honest. I had told him that I believed I was saved in 1985, when I was seven, after the evening service of one of our church’s mid-summer week long revival meetings. “Neal,” Mark said rather pointedly, “after reading your description of your life after high school, I gotta say that it doesn’t sound like you were saved. Your behavior and your atheism doesn’t reflect the change that is described in the Bible.” He went on to explain that salvation is a change brought about the presence of the Holy Spirit in the new believer. There is a desire to learn more about God and His Word. There is a desire to serve him and to live one’s life in surrender to Him.

I had to pause and think about that. And, doggone it, you know what? He was right. And the reason I knew that was because I had only to look at the last four months of my life, even more so since I had returned from Christmas vacation. That desire – that hunger – to know God had never been present in my life until September 17, 2020. That was the night I surrendered to Christ in an awkward, fumbling prayer on the way home from work. Ever since, I have had nothing but a desire to read my Bible and change my life. I told pastor this, and he agreed. It was evident now that I was truly saved. That evidence was lacking in my youth and my adult life up to this point.

My third major surprise of that initial counseling session – yes, that was what is was – was when pastor told me he was assigning me homework for our next weekly conversation. He wanted me to read the book of 1 John. He explained that we would eventually get to the issue of homosexuality, but that we needed to cover this ground first. I agreed to the assignment, and we hung up. I glanced at the clock in the upper corner of my computer screen. We had talked for almost an hour. I immediately reached for my Bible and opened it to 1 John. I read the whole book in about ten minutes.

1 John is a primer for the new believer. John states clearly and succinctly what makes a Christian a Christian. Chapter 1:9 was immediately familiar to me from my Sunday School days: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” So was chapter 2:9: “He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is in darkness, even until now.” John goes to say in chapter 5:2: “By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God, and keep His commandments.” And, finally, verse 20 of that same chapter: “And we know that the Son of God is come, and hath given us an understanding, that we may know Him that is true, and we are in Him that is true, even in His Son Jesus Christ. This is the true God, and eternal life.”

Yep. All of that book made perfect sense. Part of that was because I had absorbed so much of God’s Word in my youth that it had sat in the deep recesses of my brain for all of my life, and much of it had begun floating to the surface in the last several months – like debris from an ancient wartime submarine that has been recently dislodged from its ocean grave. Except that these artifacts – Bible verses, fragments of sermons, some of Mr. Walker’s proverbs from Bible class – were not dirty, soggy, disgusting relics. They were bits of priceless treasure, and I’ve been rediscovering them in dribs and drabs ever since.

I have had three sessions with Pastor Sjostrom, and they are each the highlight of my week. I very nearly broke down after hanging up from our first talk. I felt a combination of immense relief, peace and calm. Not to be overly melodramatic, but it was if something had dislodged in my very soul, like a sliver of wood just beneath the skin that has never quite come all the way out. I realized with immediate clarity that I was getting far more than just a pastor’s opinion on a particular issue for my book. I had stumbled on to something else, something I needed far more: spiritual counseling and guidance for my new life as a child of God.

I am a new believer.

That seems so strange to say out loud. I was raised in the church. I had at least a third of the Bible memorized by the time I was twelve. I knew all the major stories from the Old Testament – the creation of the world; God’s covenant with Abraham; Jacob, Esau and Isaac; Joseph sold into slavery into Egypt and God’s eventual deliverance of the Israelites from their captivity there; the introduction of the ten commandments and the Mosaic Law; Esther, Ruth, King Saul, David, the Book of Psalms, the prophet Isaiah – I knew all of it by heart by the end of my days in elementary school. Same for the New Testament – the birth of Christ; all of His teachings and parables; His death on the cross; His resurrection after three days; the founding of His church after His ascension back to Heaven – it was all as familiar to me by the time I walked away from high school as the mathematical precepts of basic addition, subtraction, division and multiplication.

I had assumed all this time that I was still saved. I thought I had really, genuinely believed in Jesus as my savior that long ago night in 1985 when I was seven years old. And maybe I did. But, for whatever reason, the Holy Spirit had not come into me back then. I was not truly saved. (This is perhaps worthy of a more detailed discussion and analysis later on down the road.) Whatever the case, I am most definitely a new believer now. The Holy Spirit is alive and well within me, and I have only a single desire and purpose: to know the God that created me, and to serve him with all my heart, soul and mind.

Pastor and I did discuss my homosexuality issue in our second talk, and that, along with the extracurricular reading I’ve been doing on this topic, has enabled me to finally reconcile what I couldn’t in my teen years when I first fought with this problem.

- 2 -

If I am gay, and God – through His written word – has condemned what I am as a sin, how can I be His child and serve Him as he commanded me to do? That’s the question I’ve been wrestling with anew for the last few months. I began this new journey in last September with the premise that I was born gay. I’ve believed that my whole adult life. I proceeded from that assumption through all of my reading and research these last few weeks. But if God made me this way, why would He then condemn as an abomination the very thing that I am? Is He not contradicting Himself? How can this be?

Pastor Sjostrom asked that very question in our second talk. He then went on to answer it by explaining that my unnatural desire for the same sex was a cause of the Fall, when Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. This is what led their descendants to the sins of idolatry, fornication, sexual perversion, and many, many others. Yes, I was born gay. But that’s not how God made me. There’s a very distinct difference.

His explanation corroborated what I have come to discover in the last couple weeks as I’ve read Two Views on Homosexuality, the Bible, and the Church from the Counterpoints series. Author and editor Preston Sprinkle gathered four prominent Christian authors, scholars, and theologians to discuss this issue – two for and two against. I will not go into great detail of what these authors debate and discuss, mainly for the sake of page and time, but also because this issue is not anywhere near as complicated as it seems.

All four of the contributing authors to the Two Views book have used the following Bible verses/passages as the foundation of their arguments:

1.) The creation story in Genesis 1 and 2.

2.) Genesis 19:4-11 (Sodom & Gomorrah)

3.) Leviticus 18:22 & 20:13

4.) 1 Corinthians 6:9-11

5.) 2 Corinthians 5:17

6.) Romans 1:18-32, emphasis on verses 26-28

7.) 1 Timothy 1:9-10

Those authors have also drawn from extra-Biblical material such as the writings of Philo, a Jewish historian who was a contemporary of the apostle Paul; the Apocrypha; the writings of Saint Augustine; and various other books – most written in the last 50 years – on sociology, sexuality and anthropology in the ancient world.

Here’s an example of one of one of the arguments for the church’s endorsement of homosexuality. One of Two Views’ contributors, Megan Defranza argues that there were many people in Biblical times that were born with no distinct male or female genitalia or other defining sexual characteristics. These “intersex individuals” were often referred to as eunuchs by the people of that time, and many of them were used as sex slaves. Megan claims that Genesis 1 is “…a theological account describing creation in broad categories, not an exact scientific inventory of all of God’s good creatures.” She goes on to say that Adam and Eve were not the exclusive, ideal models for all of man and womankind. They were, rather, just the broad categories; that the birth of eunuchs and other such of types of intersex people prove that God would welcome the church’s acceptance of gays, lesbians and transgenders since they have been born that way, and their sexual desires are natural to them. She claims that God was not condemning the eunuchs and other similar people in those verses/passages I listed above. Those condemnations were for the ones who had turned deliberately turned away from God to worship idols and indulge their sinful lusts.

There’s a lot more detail to Megan’s argument, especially regarding the eunuchs and their forced sexual slavery to their male masters, but it’s not worth going into here. The other three contributing authors give similar arguments, citing external sources in addition to scripture, to support their particular view. Wesley Hill and Stephen Holmes, the two that are opposed to the church’s condoning of homosexuality and gay marriage, give the stronger of the four arguments. Two Views opens with Megan’s and William Loader’s essays (the other author who falls on the affirming and open acceptance side of this debate), but by the time I reached the end of their arguments, I already knew which side of this issue I was going to fall on.

Wesley Hill and Stephen Holmes – as well as Pastor Sjostrom – present a much stronger, sounder case for why the Christian church, no matter the denomination, should be condemning ALL forms of homosexuality as clearly as God does. My own Bible reading and prayer showed me this after only a few weeks. I don’t really need to read all the other books on this topic to know the truth. To be completely honest, I had a pretty good idea of what the end of this journey would look like before I even started it. All the verses from Genesis, Leviticus, Romans, 1st and 2nd Corinthians, and 1st Timothy that deal with this specific issue are quite clear. It is stated over and over: homosexuality is a sin in the eyes of God. Paul stated it best in 1 Corinthians 6:9-11:

“Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of our Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God.”

That word “effeminate” in the KJV is translated from the original Greek word that Paul used: arsenokoitai. This is a compound word: arsen – male; koite – bed. “Male bedders”, in other words; those men who sleep with other men. In the NIV translation, the word “effeminate” is replaced with the phrase “men who sleep with other men”. The only other passage that Paul uses that word is in 1 Timothy 1:8-10 (NKJV):

“But we know that the law is good if one uses it lawfully, knowing this: that the law is not made for a righteous person, but for the lawless and insubordinate, for the ungodly and for sinners, for the unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for fornicators, for sodomites, for kidnappers, for liars, for perjurers, and if there is any other thing that is contrary to sound doctrine…”

The meaning of these two passages is quite clear: those that practice any or all of those sins listed will not inherit the kingdom of God. They are not true believers and followers of Christ. And thus, any church that not only allows its homosexual members to remain in their sin, but also performs gay marriage, is not a true church of God.

And such were some of you.

God has commanded those that follow Him and declare His name to turn from their wickedness and be transformed. Those that believe on His name and repent of their sins will no longer practice those sins listed in the passages I quoted above. That’s the meaning of the phrase, “…and such were some of you.” Well, I have definitely been transformed. I can feel the Holy Spirit working in me. And, because of that, I have no other choice. If I am to be faithful to my Lord and Creator, if I surrender myself completely to His will, I must take a vow to turn away from my sin nature. I cannot indulge in the “lusts of the flesh”, as Paul says in Romans, if I am to call myself a true Christian. I am now a child of God, and His will alone must govern all I say and do.

But, even more important than those passages I listed and quoted above, is the book of Genesis, chapter two. God created Adam first and then He decided it wasn’t good for man to be alone. So God made the woman out of Adam’s rib, and he called her ‘Eve”. Then, in verse twenty-four, God said, “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.” This chapter, more than any other passage in the Bible, clearly and explicitly demonstrates what God had intended from the very beginning. The only natural desire of the flesh was for the opposite sex: man for woman and woman for man. That was God’s original plan.

Unfortunately for us, Adam and Eve did not resist the serpent’s temptation to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. After the Fall, their perfect, pure natures were corrupted by sin, and that corruption was passed unto their children, and their children’s children. Part of that corruption was the perversion of the natural, normal sexual desire. Men lusted after men and women for women. Even though the subsequent passages in Genesis which describe mankind’s deplorable state before the Great Flood never state it specifically, it is not unreasonable to assume that more than just homosexuality was a problem. Bestiality, pedophilia, rape and incest were very likely abundant among the first few generations of man, as well as the worship of false idols and complete rejection of God. Why else would God have felt the need to punish his creation by wiping them from the face of the Earth, save for Noah and his family?

As the old saying goes, ‘God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve’. I’ve always hated that pithy, snarky retort whenever I had to defend my sexuality to anyone who tried to tell me I was living in sin. But it’s true. God created only Adam and Eve; not Adam and Steve; not Melissa and Eve; not Adam, Eve, and some other non-gender, non-binary person.

Just Adam and Eve.

Man and woman were joined in holy matrimony and, until the Fall, they lived in perfect peace and union with their Lord and Creator. Anything that deviates from that original, holy standard that God still demands of His children today, is a sin. That includes homosexuality, bestiality, pedophilia, incest, idolatry and devil worship, to name a few. Anyone that willfully practices or engages in any of those things and does not repent cannot call himself a true believer in Christ. Nor can any church that not only openly endorses homosexuality but also performs gay marriage can call themselves a true church of Christ.

So then, what now? If I accept that my sexuality is a byproduct of my sin nature, and that God, in fact, did not make me this way, how can I best serve Him? I’m still gay. That hasn’t changed. (And, yes, I’m sure. I’m watching last week’s episode of The Resident as I write this. Matt Czuchry and Manish Dayal are among the best male eye candy on TV right now.) I still desire a physical relationship with another man. (Either of the aforementioned actors would be especially nice.) But that desire – as well as the act – is a sin. God has made that clear in his Word. After some more talk with Pastor Sjostrom, I finally came to an answer – or, at least, part of one.

- 3 -

I mistakenly assumed that after I asked Christ into my heart, after I surrendered myself to God, that my sin nature would be transformed. I thought what many torn, conflicted gay Christians and their family have thought: with enough prayer, genuine repentance, and strong faith I would no longer be a homosexual. God would change my unnatural desire, and I would be sexually attracted to women instead of men. I would throw out all the symbols of my gay pride that I had collected over the years – t-shirts, bracelets, baseball caps, the rainbow colored Apple watch bands – and I would begin my new life as a heterosexual man. 2 Corinthians 5:17: “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” Yes, it would be hard at first, but God and I would make this work, glory hallelujah amen!

But that’s not how salvation works. Yes, there was a transformation, but not quite the kind that I was expecting. It’s hard to put into words exactly what I felt in the weeks and months following that quiet prayer on that car ride home from work late the night of September 17, 2020. I knew for sure that something was different. To begin with, there was an almost instant peace and calm that settled over my entire being. All the anxiety, the fear, and the worry about the state of the world around me that had been plaguing me for many weeks melted away. In its place was a quiet, firm assurance that, no matter what happened from then on, I was in the hands of God. He would take care of me.

And then, in the days and weeks that followed that moment of salvation, I began to feel more than just spiritual peace and tranquility. The first was a hunger – an insatiable, ravenous desire to read my Bible. I had only the app on my iPad, and I started with Genesis 1. Every night, before bed, I would read two or three chapters. And then I would pray. It was awkward and nothing like the prayers that I heard time and again from my dad or my teachers in high school or my pastor back then. I stumbled over my words, I repeated myself, I kept forgetting what I wanted to say. And I still felt weird doing it. It was like I was talking to myself. But I kept praying nonetheless.

Gradually, as Christmas loomed closer and closer, and the more I read my Bible and talked to God, I felt something stronger inside of me. But it wasn’t anything physical, like an emotion. It was…something else, something in my soul. I imagined this new feeling as a few drops of red ink falling into a bowl of clear water. At first, the drops fall straight down, coloring only a little bit of the water. But then the ink begins to slowly spread, crimson tendrils that stretch outwards, eventually turning the whole water into the color of blood. That’s what it felt like was happening inside of me. My soul – the very thing that made me me was being changed from the inside out. And it felt damn good!

It was after my Christmas vacation, after ten days of rest and relaxation with my family in Idaho, that I noticed an even bigger change. When I returned to the daily grind of my two jobs, I realized that my whole attitude – and, by extension, my whole outlook on life – had been transformed. I was no longer the angry, anxious, frustrated, fearful man that was always pissed about something – usually the people who were my customers. Before, I was short tempered, impatient, always inwardly complaining whenever those around me were being difficult or annoying me in some way. Now, however, I was at peace. The difference in my new attitude from the old was as glaring as night from day. I greeted my customers with a smile. It was no longer an effort for me to be patient with the difficult ones. Nor did I feel the need to rant and rage on social media about the problems of the world, as I had been doing practically non-stop before I became saved.

It was like being wrapped inside joy, as if joy was something tangible – like a big, soft, warm blanket fresh from the dryer. I had to constantly check my reflection because I was sure I had a giant, stupid grin on my face all day long. And that feeling only got stronger the more I continued to read my Bible – now an actual book that I had bought from Amazon – and pray. That, too, was getting better. I no longer stumbled over my words or forgot what I wanted to say. The hunger to know God, to build a new relationship with my Creator, overshadowed everything else in my life. I lost interest in many of the things that had once taken up all my time, like watching TV or playing video games. All I wanted to do every night when I got home from a busy day was to open God’s Word and keep reading.

But there was one thing that didn’t change during all of that wonderful transformation. I’m still gay. The desire for that sin is still there, as strong and lustful as ever. Everything else about me seems different. I am, indeed, a new creature in Christ. So why am I still gay? Why is this particular thorn still lodged firmly deep in my flesh?

I still don’t have an answer. But I do have a theory. The transformation of the new believer in Christ is not like wiping the old operating system of your ten year old iMac. With a computer you can install a whole new operating system that’s free of the bugs, viruses and malware that plagued the old system. The hardware is still the same old hardware, but the software is brand new. Your computer has been transformed. It performs and operates like a new machine.

But we humans are not machines. We are creatures born of the Fall. Being saved in Christ has made us like new, but the old self – the old, corrupt nature – is still there. The old operating system hasn’t been wiped away. Rather, the new OS is now installed, and the two systems are at war with one another. Why is that, I wonder? Why doesn’t God simply transform our sin nature by wiping it way when He fills us with the Holy Spirit? Wouldn’t that be easier – and more complete – than forcing us to constantly battle our old selves in order to remain faithful and obedient to Him?

The honest answer is, I don’t know.

What I do know is that God, in His infinite wisdom, has chosen not to remove this particular thorn in my flesh. I am still gay.

The thorn in my flesh. Yeah, that phrase sounds familiar. In fact, it’s been rolling around in the back of my brain for several weeks now.

In 2 Corinthians 12:7-10, Paul writes of the “thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan sent to buffet me.” Those four verses, more than any other Bible passages that I’ve read and also read about, have continued to echo within me ever since the beginning of this journey. Many pastors and scholars agree that that the thorn Paul speaks of was of a spiritual nature, not a physical. Paul says that he “…besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.”

The thorn in my flesh.

What if I am in the same seat as Paul? What if my sexuality is the ‘thorn’ in my own flesh?

I think that part of the reason that God doesn’t just snap his fingers and wipe away our old self is because, without those old, sinful desires and temptations, we wouldn’t continually come back to Him for mercy, grace and forgiveness. It might have taken a little longer for me to surrender if the outside world hadn’t melted down last year, but I have no doubt now that God has always been working in my life, and He wants my love, worship and obedience. My homosexuality is a reminder from Him that I have a choice: I can give in to my sin nature and indulge my own desires, or I can turn from the flesh, take up my cross daily, and follow Him.

God knows us better than we know ourselves. He knows our sin nature, and He knows that when times are good, when everything is going our way, we often forget Him – just as the Israelites did over and over in the Old Testament. We get wrapped up in our daily lives, turn away from Him, and give our worship to false idols instead; or we just pay Him our weekly rituals and sacrifice on Sunday, and then put aside our Bibles until the following week. But it’s during the times of adversity, when God allows the trials and tribulations of life to afflict us, that we come to Him. We seek Him because He is our only source of comfort and peace. The storms in our lives remind us that God alone can save us, can heal us. Our afflictions draw us closer to Him. And, if we remain faithful to Him, there is much reward for our devotion and service. When the storm has passed, we often find a rainbow.

The rainbow was God’s covenant with Noah and his descendants that God would never again destroy the world with a flood. In our modern world the homosexual revolution of fifty years ago took the rainbow as a symbol of pride and diversity. When I entered my adult life as an out and proud gay man, I, too, adopted the rainbow as a symbol of pride in myself. I vowed to live my life on my terms, and I wouldn’t be cowered or ashamed into silence about who I was, of what I had been born as. But, of course, I have renounced all of that since becoming a new child of God. It is NOT my life, but His as a gift to me. I live now in complete service to Him, and Him alone.

But I’m not quite ready to throw away my rainbow bracelet that I wear on my right wrist every day. It is still a symbol to me – and to everyone I meet in daily life – but not the one that it used to be. I have found a new place beneath the rainbow created by God in the aftermath of that flood in Genesis. The peace and reconciliation I have long sought has been found at last, and the rainbow is a symbol of both my old life and my new one in God’s service. I don’t find that conflicting at all, just as I have no problem calling myself a gay Christian. Until such time as God, in his perfect timing and wisdom, decides to change my unnatural desire completely, I will always be a gay Christian, and the rainbow will be a sign of my personal covenant with Him.

The process of reconciling this issue, the spiritual traveling and soul searching that I have done over the last few months, has shown me clearly that God is my Lord and Savior. He has allowed this affliction so that I would do the work that I needed to reconcile what appeared to be a crisis of faith. I wouldn’t have experienced personal growth in my life – and my faith – without this conflict and pain. Yes, it has been painful. Peeling back the faded scars of old wounds wasn’t not all pleasant. I had to go back to that fifteen-year-old kid and have a long talk with him. (See section 5 of this post.) I wrote letters to my parents and my three brothers, apologizing for the way I treated them all those years ago. I have recognized how selfishly I have been living my adult life, and the pride of my old nature has screamed fiercely whenever I bow my knee and my heart every morning in prayer. There is now a fight within me – the old nature vs. the new self – that will never let up until I die. And, sometimes, that fight will be painful. And yes, I already know that there are times when I will fail, when I will give in to the temptation to break my new vow with God. But that failure is not as important to God as whether or not I stay in the fight. And I will stay. I’m in this for the long haul, and I know without a shred of doubt that God is on my side. He wants me to succeed.

Hallelujah, amen!

- 4 -

Most of you have seen my post on Facebook from three days ago. My only answer from God to this twenty-four-year-old conflict has been a call to celibacy. Until such time as he chooses to change my sin nature, to change my unnatural desire into a natural one, I have made the following vow to Him:

I take a vow of celibacy before God; that I have surrendered my life and my will unto Him; that I will not give in to the temptations of my sinful flesh; that I recognize my homosexual desire as a sin in His eyes, an abomination caused by the Fall; that He has saved my soul from eternal damnation, and I owe him nothing less than my whole heart, soul and mind.

I take this vow on the 3rd of February, 2021.

Amen.

- 5 -

I read a long time ago – probably in a textbook somewhere in college – that one of the tools therapists and psychiatrists use in their counseling of patients is to have their patients write a letter to their past selves. As I mentioned earlier in this post, I wrote letters to my family to apologize for how I had wronged them in the past. After some more thought and deliberation I decided to write one more letter, this time to that fifteen year old kid that used to be me.

At first, I thought this a stupid idea. I mean, how much more clichéd can one get? Plus, I’ve already treaded into dangerously melodramatic waters in this post. Is yet one more emotional, sappy passage needed?

Ehhhh…yes and no. Turns out, I had a lot more to say to myself than I thought at first, and, son-of-a-gun, I did feel remarkably better afterwards. Guess there was some genuine, therapeutic value to this little exercise after all.

So…here it is.

Hello.

It's been a long time.

Yes, I see you. You've been there all along, but only recently have I begun to really see you. You've been with me my whole adult life, affecting me, shaping me in ways I never realized until now. I thought I left you behind when I left high school. At various times in my life since, I've judged you, shunned you, tried to erase you, or just simply ignored you. I could never understand why you never had the courage to speak up, to ask for help. There were a few adults – or even your friends – who would have very likely sympathized and tried to help you. All you had to do was say something! But you didn't. You kept your secret, protecting it, guarding it like Gollum with his precious ring. I was the one who eventually had to reveal the secret to those around me when I was old enough and no longer ashamed of what I was.

But now I realize that instead of judging you and blaming you, there's one thing that I should have done long ago. I never said, “Thank you.” Thank you for giving me the strength and courage to step into the world as a confident, independent adult. It was because of you, what you went through silently as a teenager, that I developed the strength and resolve to live my truth as an adult. It was because of you that I knew what I wanted in life. It was never my desire to just go with the flow, to blend into the crowd and do whatever everyone else was doing. I did my own thing. And yes, it would have been better if I had been living that truth within God's will, but God, in His infinite wisdom, decided not to work His will just yet. He chose to wait while I forged my own path.

Part of me wishes that I could go back in time and be the adult that you needed. I would have embraced you, told you that you weren't a mistake; that God loves you just the way you are, including being gay. And, deep down inside, you knew that you were loved. Your parents told you that every day. But you always had that sliver of doubt in the back of your mind.

“Would you still love me if you knew my secret? Would you still accept me if I was gay?”

I, the adult looking back at you across the gulf of years between us, know the answer to that is a resounding “Yes! They have always loved you, no matter what!”

Part of me also wonders how our life would have been different if you had reached out to the one person that understood what you were going through; the one that knew your pain – and your secret. It was He that made you, after all. What I can see so clearly now is that it never occurred to you to reach out to God. You only knew Him through the church, through your teachers, through your parents, through all the endless rules, and restrictions, and demands that they all placed on you. That's what you rebelled against. God, to you, was just a system, an institution that governed every corner of your life. That institution would never understand your secret, would never accept you for the real you.

But He was there all along. He was there on those nights when you cried yourself to sleep. You were struggling to understand your pain, to understand the turmoil inside you, but you didn't have the words or the wisdom or the experience to fully realize it all. All that you knew was anger, frustration and fear. But God understood you, and He was there in the darkness, crying with you.

I want so badly to be there now, to wrap you in my arms and wipe away your tears and tell you that everything will be okay. Because it will be. You can’t see it now, but things will get better. You will find a way through this, and you will emerge on the other side with a strength and resolve that you never knew you had within you. The rest of your life is an as-yet-unwritten map of joys and blessings, failures and setbacks, triumphs and successes that will make all of this suffering worthwhile. You will know happiness that you couldn’t dream of – most of it found within the family that you don’t understand or get along with now. (There are 10 nieces and nephews that think you’re the greatest uncle ever, for example.) God has a plan for you, and, like the father of the prodigal son, He will be there with open arms when you finally come back home. He will accept you, just as you are.

But all of that is for later. For now, just know this: the storm will pass, and there will be peace.

You will find your rainbow.

#christianity #life #personal growth #homosexuality #gay

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