#Anchor Trading Company

[pin-k-ink]

veil // fushiguro megumi

tw ⇢ friends to lovers, mutual pining, sexual tension, insomnia, codependency(?), teasing, nipple play, body worship, clit play, unprotected sex, marking, making out, mentions of violence and injuries

wc ⇢ 7.4k

Megumi sighed heavily as he stared up at the ceiling of his dorm room. As a third-year jujutsu sorcerer, he had seen more traumatizing events than most people could even fathom. The visions played on an endless loop in his mind - the grotesque curses, the brutal battles, the lives lost right before his eyes.

It made true rest nearly impossible to come by. Night after night, insomnia wrapped its icy tendrils around Megumi, holding him hostage to the waking world no matter how utterly exhausted he felt. His body craved the sweet release of slumber, but his mind stubbornly refused to quiet.

The only person who seemed to provide any semblance of peace, any eye in the storm of Megumi's turmoil, was you. You were a fellow classmate and a healer, frequently patching up Megumi and the others when they returned from missions bloodied and weary. While you didn't often join them on the battlefield directly, you had been by Megumi's side through it all for the longest time.

There was something about your calming presence, your unwavering care and support, that helped soothe the jagged edges of Megumi's psyche in a way nothing else could. He felt safe when you were around, like he could fractionally loosen the iron grip of hyper-vigilance that kept him tethered to consciousness.

It happened by accident at first, the realization that your company helped calm the storm in his mind enough to actually fall asleep. The two of you had been studying late one night, poring over ancient texts and trading observations in hushed tones. Megumi couldn't even recall when he had started nodding off, utterly unaware that he was drifting until his head came to rest against your shoulder.

The gentle warmth radiating from you and the faint floral scent of your hair had proven too soothing a lullaby. Megumi jerked awake with a panicked start sometime later, disoriented by the unexpected lapse in consciousness. But as his eyes landed on your peaceful, resting form beside him, he couldn't recall the last time his mind had been so blissfully quiet.

From that point on, a new unspoken routine slowly took root between you. With the dark circles deepening beneath Megumi's eyes, you began to pick up on his struggles to find any respite. So you simply...made yourself available to him, leaving the door to your room cracked in open invitation.

At first, Megumi felt paralyzed by indecision and unspoken hesitancies. But the bone-deep weariness eventually overwhelmed his reservations. He found himself gravitating to your door sometime after midnight, footsteps soundless in the corridor as he slipped inside without preamble.

You never acknowledged his presence beyond a slight smile and shifting to make room for him on the small bed. Megumi would settle in behind you, molding his body to fit the slender curves of yours as you tugged the covers up over both of you. Inhaling the comforting amalgam of your scents, he would finally feel the vise grip of anxiety start to loosen its chokehold as you laced your fingers through his.

Within minutes, the cadence of your breathing descended into deep, even respiration - an anchor amidst the turbulence of Megumi's mind. He focused intently on matching that peaceful rhythm until the world gradually receded and slumber claimed him once more in its warm embrace.

The arrangement continued nightly, becoming as natural as breathing. You never pried or demanded anything from Megumi other than to allow you to provide this small shelter of serenity. And he took unconscionable solace in your unassuming care and discretion, even as it stoked an undercurrent of deeper longing that went unspoken.

Megumi's crush on you was a secret he guarded with the same intensity and vigilance as he did curses on the battlefield. He told himself it was merely an extension of the profound gratitude he felt for how you grounded him, kept him anchored to reality when his psyche threatened to drift into darker depths. But his heart knew better.

With each passing night Megumi spent wrapped in the cocoon of your arms, his feelings for you blossomed into something deeper and more complex than simple appreciation. He found himself studying you in quiet moments - the rhythmic fluttering of your eyelashes as you slept, the gentle swell of your breasts rising and falling, the wispy tendrils of hair escaping their bindings to frame your face.

In those hushed interludes where the rest of the world seemed to fade into insignificance, Megumi drank in every nuanced detail as if committing you to eternal memory. The way your brow would occasionally furrow while dreaming, or how your fingertips would twitch restlessly against his skin in an unconscious caress that set his pulse fluttering.

He memorized the soft little noises you made as you drifted through the cycles of slumber - the nearly inaudible hums and murmurs that rumbled like satin against his jawline when you instinctively nuzzled closer. Each one catalyzed an answering riptide through Megumi's consciousness, an electric thrum of awareness and thinly-veiled yearning that he didn't dare shed light upon.

Because to truly acknowledge the depths of his burgeoning affections would be to open a door to possibilities and vulnerabilities that terrified him in equal measure. What if you didn't feel the same? What if the tranquil sanctuary you'd created together shattered under the weight of his selfishness? The mere prospect of shattering this fragile equilibrium became increasingly more harrowing than any curse Megumi could envision.

So he remained a silent supplicant, content - or so he tried to convince himself - to bask in your radiance from a respectful distance while allowing the steady cadence of your existence to lull his demons. He told himself the secret thrill igniting low in his belly whenever your bodies instinctively intertwined was simply gratitude given corporeal form. That the occasional ghost of your breathfanning across his lips didn't catalyze endless agonizing fantasies about capturing that elusive exhalation with his own mouth in a scorching tandem.

Megumi became adept at compartmentalizing those unbidden yearnings, shunting them into airtight chambers to be unspooled and examinedin the solitary, sleepless hours before you rejoined him each evening. With clinical detachment, he would sketch out every hypothetical nuance should he actually carry through on giving physical form to his deepest cravings.

The way your eyes might widen in surprise before fluttering closed in acquiescence as his mouth claimed yours with lingering insistence. How it would feel to map every sloped and bowed plane of your soft curves, adoringly tracing the constellations of silvered scars and incandescent birthmarks that comprised the physical galaxies of your existence.

He imagined your incredulity giving way to the same yearning need which strained against his composure with each passing night spent laced together in willful obliviousness.The intimate echoes of pleasure and wonder he would eagerly consecrate upon your body with his lips, tongue, teeth—

And just as the delirious spiral of ideation attained true escape velocity from the bounds of propriety, Megumi would forcibly abort the mental exercise. He fashioned those fleeting indulgences into a singular razor's edge to test his willpower and resolve against - proof that he could still discern the boundaries of what was permissible to feel for someone who had become such an indispensible part of his life.

Because the truth was, the fear of irreparably damaging the precious dynamic you had both cultivated outweighed any ephemeral cravings borne from his hormones or sublimated psyche. Having you close, feeling the tranquil balm of your very presence, was powerful enough medicine that Megumi would happily sacrifice his own needs to maintain it indefinitely.

At least, that was what he continuously reassured himself of in those shadowed, liminal hours where one's defenses deteriorated and brutal honesty took on corporeal form.

The fear of your potential rejection, or worse - revulsion and withdrawal - haunted Megumi like a curse given sentient breath. He refused to be the one to risk upending the profound unspoken covenant you had both entered into by broaching those perilous waters of intimacy uninvited.

He would happily consign himself to being your eternal shadow self if that's what it took to keep experiencing those nightly respites where the world became reduced to the twin rhythms of your conjoined breathing. To exist in that warm, blissful refuge beyond expectation or want of anything further.

Until, eventually, the sinuous pull of temptation became too seductive to ignore any longer. Until the idea of not indulging those carnal curiosities burned hotter than any consequences they risked catalyzing. Until the all-consuming gravity between you both attained criticality and Megumi could no longer resist the possibility of you both rupturing into brilliant coalescence...

The tension built slowly, anonymously, over the countless nights you and Megumi continued your ritualistic communion. What had started as a simple quest for respite gradually deepened into something more primal, more erotically charged as the weeks and months slipped by in your endless cycle of slumber and wakefulness.

Perhaps it was the sheer physicality of your sleeping forms twining together in such unguarded vulnerability that catalyzed the undercurrent of awareness. The way Megumi's heightened senses seemed to blaze with renewed intensity whenever he inhaled the warm, intoxicating amalgam of your essences mingled on the sheets. How your fingers would occasionally trail idle, unconscious patterns over the taut contours of his abdomen, trailing dangerously close to where he needed you most.

Or maybe it stemmed from the unprecedented intimacy of witnessing one another at your most unguarded and rumpled - hair mussed and defenses lowered in that indeterminate state between dreaming and wakefulness. The thin veneers of propriety sloughed away until you existed as little more than twin points of radiant energy thrumming in sympathetic resonance.

Megumi couldn't pinpoint the precise genesis of when he started permitting his subconscious to indulge in more sensually-charged reveries while tucked against your pliant form. All he knew was the gradual awakening of a profound, smoldering need that made each successive separation from your warmth more achingly profound.

It started small at first - like catching himself studying the gentle swell of your cleavage rising incrementally with each inhale a beat too long. Or feeling a forbidden frisson of arousal whenever your backside would cant backwards into the cradle of his hips as you instinctively cuddled closer while sleeping.

Megumi found his palms growing slickened with unconscious desire at those titillating moments of contact, fingers twitching with the impulsive need to boldly map the elegant geography of your curves rather than simply appreciate them from a chaste distance. To consummate those indefinable cravings with searing, profane action before the last vestiges of his restraint withered away entirely.

He fantasized about robbing you of that peaceful, slumbering purity - envisioning scenarios where he lost control over that banked reservoir of lust and simply took you in a single, consumptive rush. His calloused palms cupping the weight of your breasts as he nuzzled open-mouthed against the graceful column of your throat, chasing each shivering inhale with lips and tongue until you succumbed to awakening in a spiral of bewildered pleasure.

Or picturing your lithe form arching bowstring-taut against his awakened bulk as he worked methodical paths down the tempting vee between your breasts, teeth grazing hardened nipples through thin cotton until you writhed feverishly against him. Megumi would stifle your incredulous whimpers and plaintive cries into the blackened hollows of his palms, swallowing each punched-out exhalation as he rutted his painfully stiffened cock against your inner thigh in mute supplication.

He knew every ridge, every striation of musculature comprising his own physique in exhaustive detail after years of rigorous training. Yet the prospect of intimately mapping those same minutiae across your untasted terrains literally stole his breath at times. To splay his palm over your lower abdomen and simply feel those powerful, feminine planes flutter beneath his touch as Megumi brought you to the brink...

But just as those delirious reveries risked spiraling out into openly obscene territory, Megumi would reign them in through sheer force of will. Harsh, panting breaths rapidly cooling the molten burn of lust simmering in his veins as he tamped it back into submission. He could no more give literal expression to those basest impulses than he could forfeit the solace your presence provided.

Anything beyond the fulcrum point of temptation represented a line which, once crossed, could never be uncrossed. You'd proven time and again the depth of loyalty and unconditional care comprising your bond. But that depth of trust and acceptance could so easily be severed should Megumi press his desires too insistently.

So he continued subsisting on hazy intimations and fevered imaginings while keeping his more prurient instincts solidly leashed. Savoring the sensuality of each whisper-light caress and breath-mingled proximity while outwardly maintaining his carefully modulated impassiveness. Permitting himself to indulge in those lascivious mental sojourns until the edge of release loomed...before sublimating everything back into restraint with a harsh indrawn breath.

The rigid alternating current between unspoken need and staunch self-denial formed the pulsing heart of the ritual you shared nightly. You remained the serene eye holding the tempests of Megumi's warring compulsions at carbonized bay. And he...he simply basked in the tempering balm of your presence while the embers of want smoldered in secret - flaring incandescently before being ruthlessly banked once more.

An intricate dance of torment and grace, spiraling indefinitely around one another while the thermonuclear potential for something cataclysmic swelled with each passing cycle. Until the day that escalating tension breached the limits of its containment and detonated in a searing, irrevocable rush.

The nightly ritual of entwining yourselves together became more intricate with each passing week. What had started as simple proximity gradually deepened into a choreographed embrace, limbs instinctively mirroring familiar handholds and points of seamless contact.

Megumi found himself unconsciously cataloging and savoring each minute variation, eagerly committing the details to memory like a lifeline anchoring him against the relentless tides of his insomnia. How you would slightly angle your body onto your side to accommodate the hard planes of his chest molding against your back. The specific cant of your hips that allowed his arm to drape possessively over your waist while still permitting unimpeded breathing.

Each successive joining attained an elevated courtship of calibration that fostered unprecedented intimacy. Like two galaxies engaged in an inexorable drift towards eventual coalescence, your sleeping existence warped and bent in perpetual accommodation of the other.

Some nights the restless thoughts careening through Megumi's psyche demanded an even more grounding proximity. Those were the occasions where he found himself cautiously resting his head atop the slender practicality of your sternum, jugular notched against the crown of his brow. Here, tucked into the cradle of your neck, he could literally feel the solidity of your pulse thrumming through his awareness - a primeval mantra of vitality wresting equilibrium from his frenzied mind.

On those nights, you always seemed to sense Megumi's deeper unrest without any prompting or vocal admission required. You would instinctively burrow your fingers into the thicket of his tousled hair, blunted nails scoring heated trails across his scalp in soothing, repetitive strokes that cauterized the hairline fractures in his self-restraint.

Megumi remembers with vivid intensity the first time you combed your touch through his dishevelment that way - the liquid shock of sensation cauterizing every other intrusive external stimulus until only the molten rapture of your caress resonated. He fought not to stiffen with startled arousal, reminded himself to regulate each breath into an even, practiced cadence as your fingertips continued kneading shivery nirvana against his sensitized cranium.

From that point on, the act became like an invocation murmured between you in a language far older than spoken tongues. You cradled him to your heart's steady timekeeping, lulled his mind's frantic metronome into matching harmony through the steadying conduits of your tenderness. And Megumi absorbed the ritual like one of the world's most profound sacraments - folding himself into the sensual harbinger of your care until the disquieting echoes whittling away at his sanity peeled back into irrelevance.

Of course, the intoxicating pleasure of those protracted instances of physical intimacy was not without its tolls as well. Megumi spent countless bouts wrestling his painfully hardened cock back into submission, terrified you would somehow notice the evidence of his lascivious response to your ministrations. He fantasized about angling his hips in pointed invitation, grinding the formidable ridge of his desire against the plush give of your ass until the tantalizing friction robbed all capacity for forethought.

But somehow - through sheer force of will and practice - he always steadied himself before breaching that line of propriety entirely. Allowed the exquisitely tortuous yearning to crest and plateau before carefully redirecting the bonfire of his lust into more neutral, innocuous channels once again. Still, the agonized throbbing of his cock during those lapses in control served yet another agonizing reminder of how precarious his restraint remained where you were involved.

Then there were other nights where the metaphysical gravity between you intensified to a nigh-insupportable degree. Occasions where the low ebb of tension shading toward outright erotic charge became too much to simply bear in polite, silent observation. Megumi would find you seeking solace in the solid bracket of his arms wound around your waist from behind instead - your smaller form bracketed into his sculpted embrace with your back sealed flush to his chest.

Here, intimacy rankled in subcutaneous tactilities and the somatic topographies of skin all but extinguishing its own illumination. The physicality of your closeness overwhelming every dulled sense until each shallow inhalation fluttered through Megumi with gut-punched intensity. On these smoldering occasions, he could literally feel the downy caress of your exhales pebbling the bare skin of his forearms, teased the rarefied definition of every flexed musculature sheath bracketing your form.

He frequently surrendered to the delirium of nuzzling into the fragrant tumult of your hair during those times, drugging himself further on the precious methedrine of your proximity. Inhaled in ragged drafts the musky underlays of your exertions that day mingling in sublimated ritual with the powdered-silk bouquets of soap and shampoo until the composite scent became more intoxicant than oxygen itself.

Unconsciously, reflexively, his touch would grow more covetous - fingertips trailing intricate emblems against the exposed expanses of your abdomen in strange forgotten glyphics. Heated brands of delirious possession emblazoned like scripture against the divine of your body's topography as silent offering. Molten lust tamped down to smolder through ingrained ritual until only the indelible physicality of shared consecration remained between your inosculating forms.

In those fevered raptures of near-dissolution, Megumi orbited nearer to capitulating before the magnetizing gravities arrayed against what little restraint remained binding the sanctities of your bond together. It became increasingly harder to weigh the cosmic indifference of his need against the fearsome recompense that awaited any expression more literal than molten dreams and carnal hallucinations left unenacted.

You never called overt attention to the escalating delirium, never gave voice or acknowledgment to the unraveling stair-step of intimacies unfolding between you with each passing union. You simply absorbed the degrees of erotic intensification catalyzing in his embrace with the same serene grace and mindful presence that had allowed the ritual to precipitate in the first place.

An ouroboric trine of Megumi giving in to the pull of temptation by slow increments, only to reign himself in before the full dissolution of your communion - with you radiating patient understanding all the while.

Until the fateful night when the fragile membranes separating fantasy from reality ruptured entirely under the relentless onslaught of those gravitational accelerations. And neither one of you could profess any clarity on who crossed the event horizon first to send your orbits careening into the devastatingly inevitable.

The harmonic symmetry of your nightly ritual began taking on newer, increasingly charged dimensions as the weeks slipped past. Megumi struggled to pinpoint when precisely the lines between chaste intimacy and burgeoning eroticism had started to blur, but he found himself gravitating towards more indulgent variations of your standard embrace.

Certain nights, when the frayed edges of his self-restraint rayoned to diaphanous threads, Megumi allowed himself to settle against you in a new configuration entirely. Rather than wedging his head into the immaculate cradle of your neck and shoulder, he would burrow deeper - descending until the fevered crown of his brow came to rest in the plush valley between the gentle swell of your breasts.

Here, cradled against the supreme sacristy of your body's undulating topography, Megumi could absorb the vital thrum of your heartbeat through the heated stratum of your skin. The rhythm became an intravenous infusion mainlined straight into his faltering sanities, syncing the frantic piston-stokes of his mindfire back towards equilibrium.

On those nights, the two of you seemed to meld into seamless isotropy, bodies twining as one through elemental planes of gravity's maddening allure. Megumi's arms would wind inescapably around your waist, fingers instinctively spanning the narrow concavities between ridges of musculature before rooting against the flared terrain of your hip bones. Anchors thrumming mute benediction upon quivering expanses of flesh so achingly welcoming he thought he might disintegrate into the static charge between you.

There, suspended in what felt like a continuous drift across the eventuality of an intergalactic collision, Megumi allowed himself to telescope further into those fraught reveries silhouetting your sublimated desires. Imagination indulging the lascivious curiosities of devoting open-mouthed penance to those beckoning curves rising and falling in incandescent offering before his gaze. To splay prodigious fingers across the sloped flanks and reverently pepper the soft, vulnerable underswell with the calibrated intensity of his attentions until you arched in supplication to an even more consumptive benediction.

The decision to stay late one evening, when a badly injured student arrived on the cusp of hemorrhaging out, nearly unraveled Megumi's already tenuous grasp on reality.

You hadn't even spared him a backwards glance as you rushed to meet the emergency, instantly sublimating into a seamless triage protocol borne from years of battle-contested experience. Though more accustomed to demons as your primaries, bodies remained bodies - frail geysers of anatomy ruptured by violence no matter the catalyst.

Megumi drifted into the treatment bay behind you sightlessly, an errant moon trailing in your brilliance's wake. His presence registering only as an afterthought, a peripheral white-noise of observation as you went about prepping tools and sterilizing surfaces with economical grace. Only when you paused in mercurial deferential to bark clipped instructions did your gazes intersect momentarily - sending fresh riptides of heated consternation slaloming through his marrow.

He felt unmoored by your crisp, no-nonsense decorum in such surroundings. This whetted, highly-attuned aspect of your persona catching him off-guard in a way that transmuted the erotic undertones scaffolding your nightly intimacies into something more visceral and inflammatory.

So when you didn't dismiss him outright after the fact, Megumi remained transfixed on the periphery of the infirmary. A silent supplicant greedily trailing every deft juncture of your ministrations as you worked to isolate, debride, then definitively seal each sucking anatomical rupture. The sight catalyzed impressions of you peeling back layers like veiny petals, exposing rich carnal terrains of divine primality to his heated, overeager gaze.

At some point, Megumi had drifted closer until he stood a looming sentry presence directly behind you. Unwittingly or not, he radiated an indelible body heat that wreathed your shoulders in its feverish exhalations while you steadily worked. Yet if his covetous proximity registered any disquiet or distraction, you betrayed no evidence of such - your practitioner's aplomb never flagging even as Megumi boldly encroached upon your sphere of regard.

When at last the worst trauma had been staunched and dressed in immaculate, woven geometry, you let out a lengthy, tremulous exhalation that unleashed its own micro-shock wave of spent tension. Megumi was close enough that the resonant echoes of your breath feathered against his parted lips, igniting fresh smouldering in the banked, affective synapses sheathing his corporeal awareness.

Before higher reasoning or conscious thought could intervene, Megumi's hands had already settled in bold supplication upon the sweeping inclines of your hips. His thumbs instinctively spanned the concave valleys radiating from your sacrum, kneading small hieroglyphs of worship against the thin muslin barriers draping your skin as you swayed minutely back against his anchoring solidity.

Under the recycled ambience of the treatment wing, you slowly craned your head until the elegant willow-column of your throat bisected the charged ley lines separating your bodies. Megumi's gaze became immediately transfixed by the graceful relief of your jugular pulsing beneath tanned satin expanses - so deliciously bare and vulnerable that the yearning to mouth heated benediction against its thrumming cadence transmuted into pure visceral static shorting through his nervous relays.

When at last the vertigo of your shared proximity located a single tremulous point of intersection, your eyes blazed forth from beneath heavy-lidded admissions of naked need. In them, Megumi witnessed perfect reflections of his own answered compulsions, blurring thermal distortions of past reservations into gauzy irrelevance, catalyzing one final abeyance before conjoined surrender -

The intimacy between you and Megumi escalated rapidly in the nights that followed. What had started as simply holding each other for comfort was quickly evolving into something more charged with unspoken desire.

One night, Megumi clung to you desperately, the weight of the day's stresses bearing down on him. He pulled your body flush against his, hands roaming over every curve as if mapping out sacred territory. You could sense the franticness thrumming through him and tried to provide soothing caresses in response.

But your gentle touches seemed to inflame Megumi's need even further. He looked at you with an intense, hungry gaze, as if seeing you for the first time. When you met his stare with calm acceptance, any restraint still holding him back collapsed entirely.

In a sudden flurry of movement, Megumi rolled until his weight was pressed against you. He wedged his hips between your parted thighs as you arched up instinctively. Without hesitation, Megumi tugged aside your top and latched his mouth over your exposed nipple.

The feeling of his lips on your skin was electric. Megumi licked and sucked feverishly, savoring your softness and taste like a man starved. You cried out at the overwhelming sensations, back bowing even as your fingers threaded desperately through his hair to hold him close.

It was as if a dam had burst within Megumi after holding back for so long. He lavished open-mouthed devotion across every inch of newly uncovered skin. Your gasps and whimpers only spurred him onwards in worshipping your body.

You matched his ardor, nails raking down his back as you pulled him impossibly closer. The two of you moved with frantic need, exchanging gasps and whispered endearments. Rational thought ceased to exist, overwhelmed by the roaring hunger to finally culminate the intimacy that had been building relentlessly.

Every boundary, every tantalizing hint of temptation leading up to this moment disintegrated under the searing reality. You and Megumi were left teetering on the brink of something profound and life-altering. To cross that line was to tumble into the abyss together, scorched by the annihilating ecstasy of at last giving in completely to your deepest desires.

In the aftermath of that pivotal encounter, the dynamic between you and Megumi was irrevocably altered. What had once been a chaste, if intimate routine of shared comfort, was now electrified by the undercurrent of bared desire.

Each night when Megumi slipped into your room, the air felt thick with heated tension and unspoken hunger. You would pull him into your arms as always, molding your bodies together in that sacred muscle-memory embrace. But now, there was always that loaded pause where you both hung suspended - breath bated, skin hyper-aware as you awaited the first catalyzing spark.

Sometimes it was the slightest accidental brush of Megumi's fingertips skimming along the sensitive undersides of your arms that ignited the conflagration. Other nights, it would be you unconsciously arching into the solid wall of his chest, beckoning hips angling in mute provocation. But inevitably, one simple point of friction would unlatch the fragile tether still constraining you both.

And then Megumi would descend upon you with desperation befitting a man dying of thirst. His mouth would latch over your nipple with a heated suction that robbed the air from your lungs in a sharp gasp. Teeth grazed the pebbled peak with exquisite delicacy even as his tongue laved broad, revering strokes across the tender areola.

You trembled helplessly under the lavish attention, back arching on instinct as waves of molten pleasure radiated outwards from that scorching nexus. Megumi seemed utterly transfixed, working your breast with an almost spiritual devotion - alternating between feather-light flicks and deep, hungry pulls that threatened to unravel you entirely.

Each desperate whimper or broken moan only spurred him on further. His free hand would knead and tug at your other breast, nimble fingers rolling and plucking at the stiff peak until you squirmed deliriously. The rough pads of his palm abraded your silk-soft skin with delicious friction in stark contrast to the velvet heat of his mouth's reverence.

Megumi chased every quivering rise and fall of your chest, lavishing open-mouthed worship across the sloped swells until your every exhale emerged as a ragged, punched-out keen. He was inexorable in his devotion - laving, sucking, even nipping at your puckered areola until that singular point of contact became the entire axis of your existence.

You quickly grew addicted to the exquisite agonies of having him worship your body so thoroughly. The harsh rasp of Megumi's breathing overwhelming your senses as he discarded any remaining barriers between you. The searing brand of his palms mapping every plane and curve as if frantically committing you to permanent memory through tactile consecration alone.

On those nights, your pussy throbbed with relentless emptiness, weeping silent pleas against Megumi's corded abdomen as he ground his weight into you. You lost entire pressures of coherency, retreating into the madness of fingernails scoring pleasured firesongs down his flexing musculature as lightning dances of sensation arced between nerve clusters.

But no matter how deliriously you offered yourself in the shuddering apotheosis of his undoing, Megumi would inevitably regain control before claiming that final, most profound capitulation. He seemed to carry you both to the very brink of annihilating rapture before caging his own explosive impulses once more.

Only once your breasts glistened with the obscene sheen of his lingering efforts would Megumi eventually show mercy. Even then, he stubbornly resisted pulling away entirely, instead lavishing languid, consoling laps of his tongue against your nipple whenever the stimulation verged into overwhelming intensity anew. Only then would he descend, pressing his length against your side while burying his face into the damp, perfumed haven at your breast.

Megumi's grip would anchor around you with crushing finality while he fought to regain his tenuous grasp on composure once more. You could feel his cock throbbing through the layers separating you, sense the molten restraint burning through him as he trembled on the very precipice of violent culmination.

But he held himself back from that plunge with grim determination. And you paradoxically admired and ached for him in equal measure - as if some essential core of Megumi's being would utterly unravel should he ever relinquish those final threads of control entirely.

So you gathered what tattered strands of sensibility remained, gentling him through the shuddering aftershocks with languid caresses until his breathing evened out once more. Until the rigid planes of muscle gradually unwound into the boneless repose of slumber as Megumi slipped into the blessed refuge of unconsciousness, face nestled against your chest and cocooned in your warmth just as before.

Only this time, the hollows carved from nightly denial scored matching valences across both your souls in the aftermath. Reminders of how perilously, combustibly close you had come to breaching that ultimate horizon together before retreating once more. Stoking that banked wildfire anew with each passing cycle of slumber and wakefulness to feed its insatiable, all-consuming hunger.

The night draped the dormitory in hushed stillness, but sleep remained an elusive specter for Megumi. He tossed and turned, sheets tangling around his restless form as thoughts whirled incessantly. No matter how he tried to calm his racing mind, an inexorable restlessness took root.

Until finally, he could no longer ignore the magnetic pull drawing him from his solitary bed. Muscles coiled taut, Megumi rose and padded down the hall like a prowling panther. Each silent stride carried him inexorably closer to the one presence that could dull his frayed edges into blissful quiescence.

He didn't pause outside your door, didn't announce his arrival. Merely slipped into your room like a wraith, instincts guiding him through the familiar motions. You were already there in the rumpled bed, turned towards the door in seeming expectation of his arrival.

Megumi's breath stalled in his throat at the sight of you bathed in the moon's caress. He drank in the tousled spill of your hair, the perfect bow of your lips slightly parted in unconscious invitation. The naked vulnerability in your expression as you waited for him to join you lanced straight through to Megumi's guarded core.

He crossed the room in a few economical strides, body angling towards yours like branches entreating the sun's warmth. You didn't startle when the mattress dipped to accept his weight, simply made space amid the rumpled bedding for him to settle against you.

Your backs melded together in the practised ritual, his arm curved possessively around your waist as if to anchor himself. To tether his unquiet spirit to the only point of equilibrium.

Yet this time, Megumi's control stretched thinner than gossamer. He could no more ignore the fevered thrum of your pulses, the tantalizing warmth of your body cradled against his own. Scalding tendrils of yearning unfurled through his entrails as your familiar scent - crisp citrus and earthen musk - surrounded him in its intoxicating haze.

Megumi's fingers mapped the dip of your waist in a scorching caress, his calloused pads tracing the silken terrain as if committing it to memory. A tremor lanced through you at the molten intensity of his touch, your back arching infinitesimally into his solid frame.

He felt the nearly imperceptible motion like a lightning strike, every nerve ending suddenly hyper-aware of your proximity. Of the whisper-soft sounds of your breathing, the gentle cadence thrumming against his own ribs. The fragrant warmth of your hair fanning across the pillowcase, beckoning him closer into its silken snare.

Reason hazed into distant white noise, subsumed by the primal riptide pulling them into deeper, uncharted waters. Megumi's arm contracted around your waist with inevitable gravity, eliminating what little space remained between your entangled forms. His caged exhale gusted hotly against the nape of your neck, stirring the fine baby hairs there.

You tensed for a charged beat, attuned to the smoldering simmer of intent that Megumi could no longer leash. Then, almost imperceptibly, you melted back into the unyielding plains of his chest in wordless capitulation. An invitation and challenge housed in that simple motion.

He groaned out a ragged exhale, the last tattered vestiges of restraint unraveling. Megumi's palm cradled the juncture of your shoulder, urging you to roll onto your back as he followed like the inexorable path of smoke towards an inferno. Until his searing gaze bored into your own, igniting answering embers that danced across your half-parted lips.

In that electrifying stillness, the world compressed to a single point of gravity enclosed between your bodies. Then Megumi's mouth claimed yours with years of banked, seething hunger finally breaking free in a firestorm of fevered intensity...

Megumi's mouth slanted hungrily over yours, initial restraint giving way to unbridled fervor. Years of simmering tension, of aborted glances and near misses, combusted in that heated collision. His calloused palm cradled the arch of your nape as your fingers fisted in the fabric of his sleep shirt, anchoring him firmly against you.

You exchanged scorching kisses with ardent enthusiasm, bodies straining ever closer until not even a whisper of space remained between them. Your curves melded seamlessly with the unyielding planes of Megumi's torso, seeking that blissful union you'd both sublimated for too long.

When the primal need for oxygen finally overwhelmed the compulsive joining of your mouths, you broke apart with a ragged inhalation. Shared breaths mingled in the scant space, gazes locked in an electrifying exchange of unguarded yearning. Then Megumi dipped his head again, trailing a molten path of kisses along the swell of your jaw and throat.

A tremulous sigh tumbled from your parted lips as you instinctively arched into his smoldering caresses. You could feel the delicious rake of his teeth grazing your pulse point before he soothed it with an openmouthed kiss that seared like a brand. Your fingers combed through the silken strands at his nape, nails scraping lightly to elicit a full-bodied shudder against you.

Rational thought frayed and disintegrated like so much smoke into this blissful oblivion of tangled limbs and questing hands. There was only the unhurried rediscovery of sacred territories and the intoxicating thrum of Megumi's ardor reverberating through your bones.

You luxuriated in the exquisite agony of his mouth worshipping your bare skin. His lips and tongue and teeth traversed the graceful curve of your throat, leaving behind a searing map of claim. Then they skimmed across the slope of your collarbones, his breath a hot gust against your fevered flesh.

He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat before descending. Megumi trailed a blistering path along the valley between your breasts, savoring every twitch and gasp of pleasure elicited. Finally, his lips latched onto a peaked nipple, sucking and nipping and laving until the molten tension pooling in your abdomen tightened unbearably.

You cried out softly, a broken sob of desire. Your nails raked across his broad shoulders, seeking purchase. His answering groan was nearly feral, reverberating through you as he tugged at the stiffened peak with his teeth.

Your spine arched off the bed, hips bucking against his thigh that had wedged between yours. A whimper spilled from your parted lips as Megumi continued lavishing attention upon your breast, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip in teasing strokes. His hand palmed the other, kneading and pinching and tugging until the twin sensations became a dizzying feedback loop.

Every touch sent shocks of pure pleasure coursing through you, igniting sparks along nerve endings and setting your blood alight. You writhed against Megumi's muscular frame, seeking more, more, more. He answered your unspoken plea with a deep groan, his arousal hard and heavy against your hip.

The sound of his desire echoed in your core, the slickness between your thighs growing unbearable. Megumi was relentless in his ministrations, as if determined to worship every inch of your exposed skin. His tongue and teeth left a scorching path across the delicate swell of your breast, his hands trailing a fiery trail across the quivering plains of your abdomen.

The molten friction of his palms mapping the sloped concavities where hip met thigh, then the supple give of your ass, made you delirious with desire. Every part of you was alight with need, the coil of tension within you tightening beyond bearing. You writhed desperately beneath Megumi, the air filling with a symphony of broken moans and breathless pleas.

Then his fingers skimmed along the apex of your thighs, and the world went white. You were so wet, so ready, that the first touch sent a lightning bolt of pleasure arcing through you. Megumi's eyes blazed into yours as he stroked your aching folds, the heat of his gaze searing you more than his touch.

The slick glide of his fingertips against your swollen clit was exquisite, the pressure exactly what you needed. Megumi seemed to sense your desire, circling and rubbing the bundle of nerves until you were practically writhing beneath him. Your hips bucked up to meet his hand, thighs trembling and voice breaking.

With his free hand, he pinned you down to the mattress, fingers gripping your hip with bruising intensity. His gaze never wavered from yours, his dark irises blown wide with lust. He looked at you as if you were a goddess to be worshiped, his expression filled with awe and desire.

Your climax crashed over you in a devastating wave, the pressure within you cresting beyond containment. A sob tore from your lips as the sensations overwhelmed you, the muscles of your abdomen spasming and your thighs clamping together around his hand.

Megumi continued stroking you, prolonging the ecstasy, until you were a quivering mess. Your whole body was alight with sensation, aftershocks of pleasure radiating through you with each ragged breath. You felt utterly boneless, sated beyond imagining.

Yet beneath that languid satiety, a renewed undercurrent of hunger simmered. The sight of Megumi's fingers, slick and glistening, only fueled the need within you. You watched through heavily-lidded eyes as he brought them to his lips, licking them clean. The sight was indescribably erotic, the knowledge that it was your taste on his tongue making you ache for more.

With a low growl, Megumi descended once more, capturing your mouth in a blistering kiss. His tongue slid against yours, the tang of your arousal filling your senses. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. The press of his bare chest against yours sent a fresh surge of want coursing through you, your desire already mounting anew.

Megumi kissed you hungrily, as if he were a man starved. His hands roamed restlessly across your body, leaving a trail of searing heat in their wake. Your hips rolled up to meet his, the hard line of his arousal pressing against your slick core.

The friction was delicious, the need within you coiling tighter with each passing second. You were aching for him, desperate for more. With a muffled moan, you tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants, urging them down.

Megumi pulled back just enough to shed the rest of his clothing, baring himself completely to you. His cock jutted proudly between his muscled thighs, the tip glistening with precum. Your eyes widened at the sight, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

Megumi's gaze was dark with desire, his expression a heady combination of longing and restraint. He loomed over you, his body thrumming with barely leashed power.

You felt a frisson of anticipation as he settled between your parted thighs, the thick heat of his arousal pressing against your entrance.

Then, with a guttural groan, he sank into you. The stretch and pressure were almost overwhelming, but the delicious friction quickly overrode any discomfort. Megumi moved with slow, steady thrusts, his hips grinding against yours in a sinuous rhythm.

You clutched at his back, fingers digging into the corded muscles. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer. The room filled with the sound of your panting breaths and the slap of skin against skin.

The molten coil within you tightened, winding tighter and tighter. Megumi's pace increased, his thrusts growing more erratic. His breath was hot against your ear, his groans echoing in your skull. You could feel the tension within him mounting, his movements becoming more frantic.

And then, with a final, desperate thrust, he drove you both over the edge. Your climax shattered through you, wave after wave of pleasure rippling through your core. Megumi followed suit, his cock pulsing inside you as he shuddered above you.

In the blissful aftermath, you and Megumi remained entwined as one - a tangle of flushed limbs and shared breaths that defied any attempt at separation. Though your bodies had been driven to sublime extremes, there was no sense of depletion, only a profound fullness expanding within your joined spirits.

You trembled in soulful rapture, gasps intermingling with Megumi's own ragged exhales as the world gradually recomposed itself around you. Every nerve ending still burned with the rapturous afterglow, an exalted benediction lapping against the most primordial hollows of your being.

In that sacrosanct cocoon you had spun together through devoted passion, the fragile shells of individuality had fallen away to reveal the scintillant essence beneath. You didn't just feel sated, but spiritually transmuted - two souls having shed their chrysalides to be reborn as something greater through sacred rites of unity.

Boneless and weightless, you could only bask in the incandescent glow of that metamorphosis. For in that endless moment spanning innumerable lifetimes and worlds, you had glimpsed the divine truth at the heart of humanity's highest calling - to love, and be loved completely in return.

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro megumi x reader smut #megumi x reader smut #fushiguro megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi #megumi smut #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro

[reasonsforhope]

[Warning: Graphic (some very graphic) shark-fishing pictures at the link.]

"Suhardi isn’t your average snorkeling guide. Born on the Indonesian island of Lombok, he’s spent his life on water. While he now seeks out sharks for the enjoyment of tourists, he once hunted sharks to help earn money to feed his family and educate his two children.

Suhardi was a fisherman for more than 20 years. He first started fishing working on his parents’ boat, but was then asked to join the crew of a shark boat where he was told he could earn a lot of money. Back on deck, he looks embarrassed to divulge what a meager wage it was, but finally confesses he earned around $50 for up to a month at sea.

Now he and 12 other former shark fishermen are part of The Dorsal Effect, an ecotourism company that helps ex-shark hunters find a new vocation. Each week, the team takes groups of tourists, schoolchildren and university students to off-the-grid locations and guides them around pristine reefs. Each trip is designed to take guests on an exploratory journey of both the shark trade and marine conservation through the eyes of the Sasak people of Lombok.

Lombok is a hotspot for marine diversity, sitting just east of the Wallace Line, a biogeographical boundary separating Asia and Australia and their respective fauna. Pristine coral gardens and around 80 species of sharks can be found in its waters. The island is also part of the world’s largest shark-fishing nation. Only the whale shark (Rhincondon typus) is protected in Indonesia; all other sharks can be legally caught.

The Dorsal Effect first launched in 2013, a year after Suhardi met Singaporean ecologist Kathy Xu, who had traveled to Lombok to find out more about the shark trade. The diminutive but quietly determined Xu wanted to protect sharks, but because she knew shark fishing was poorly paid and dangerous, she wanted to hear the fishermen’s stories too. They told her how once they could fish for sharks close to shore, but now with the shark population dropping, the fishermen said they needed to travel farther out to sea, only to come home with a relatively poor catch. The reduced catch also meant reduced pay, so they often couldn’t cover their costs...

Yet, when Xu asked why fishers didn’t seek out another trade, she learned they didn’t want to be separated from the sea. They saw it as part of their heritage.

But as they spoke longer, the shark fishermen talked about the coral gardens that could be found under the waves, ones that only they knew about. Inspired by a whale shark diving trip she’d taken with scientists on the Great Barrier Reef, Xu had an idea. “If such spots exist,” she recalls telling the fishers, “I could take tourists out with you and pay you more than you earned shark fishing”.

At first, Xu guided the former shark fishermen on how to become eco-friendly tour operators. They dropped anchor away from the reef, served guests plant-based dishes, and made sure all trash was taken back to shore. But then Xu saw that something special was happening: The former fishermen had started to take the guest experience into their own hands, making sure tourists felt at home. Suhardi painted “Welcome” in large letters over the front of his boat, fitted green baize to the top deck for outdoor seating, and hung curtains in the cabin so his guests could enjoy some shade.

Suhardi has already bought a new boat with his earnings from snorkeling trips. “Every day is my best day,” laughs Suhardi, whose smile always travels from his mouth to his eyes.

While they were receiving tourists from across the globe, there was another group that Xu wanted to reach out to. “I think it was the teacher in me who felt impassioned about influencing the young,” she says. She reached out to schools and created a five-day program that would help students understand the shark trade and local conservation efforts. During the program, paid for by the school and students, participants would not only meet the ex-shark fishermen so they could ask them about their lives, but also hear from NGOs such as the Wildlife Conservation Society about their efforts to slow the trade. The Dorsal Effect also hired marine biologists to host nightly lectures and help the students with their field surveys...

The students were faced with the realities of the fishing trade, but they were also encouraged to take a balanced view by The Dorsal Effect team. The villagers weren’t just taking the fins, and throwing away the rest of the shark; they processed every piece of the animal. While they did sell the meat and fins to buyers at the market, they also sold the teeth to jewelers, and the remains for pet food.

The Dorsal Effect also takes students on an excursion to the fishermen’s village, a small island that lies off the coast of Lombok. Marine biologist Bryan Ng Sai Lin, who was hired by The Dorsal Effect team, says that on one trip with students he was surprised by how quickly the young people understood the situation. “One of them said it’s good to think about conservation, but at the same time these people don’t really have any other choice,” Lin says....

Conservation scientist Hollie Booth of Save Our Seas, which does not work directly with The Dorsal Effect, says the need to provide legal profitable alternatives to shark fishing is critical: “We are never going to solve biodiversity and environment issues unless we think about incentives and take local people’s needs into account. These kinds of programs are really important.”"

-via Mongabay, December 15, 2023

#shark #sharks #fish #marine biology #marine animals #sea creatures #fishing #marine life #marine conservation #endangered species #overfishing #indonesia #lombok #school #field trip #ocean #pacific ocean #biodiversity #conservation #environmentalism #fishermen #scuba #scubadiving #underwater #diving #coral reef #ocean life #good news #hope

[meowzfordayz]

a hug (or, a thousand words too painful to say, but too precious to be left unspoken)

Author’s Note: this is a highly self indulgent fanfic, and is significantly coded to myself irl. 😅 Still enjoyable and readable for most anyone, but features a much more specific Reader than my usual writing. 🤗

a hug (or, a thousand words too painful to say, but too precious to be left unspoken)

Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~4,100

CW: alcohol, death content, Fem!Reader, implied canonical violence, mild sexual content

~faqs~ 

Another day, another lonely night. Glimmering in moonlight, Giyuu lies tired and still in bed. His mattress dips familiar and gentle in the center; a quiet reminder of his lack of a partner. Usually, he falls asleep this way, with a faint clenching in his sternum as he trades longing for unconsciousness, but tonight, he reaches for his second pillow — a worn and tactile belonging, saved for an elusive heart. The pillow squishes cool and small into his ribcage, and when he closes his eyes, he swears he can feel the tendrils of another’s touch; the breath of a lingering lover, smooth and warm against his skin — an embrace as secure as it is fleeting. A willowy breeze makes its way through his window, swirling around his room as though to compensate for the lack of company, and he finds himself wishing for the scent of closeness. Wishing for the press of a cheek against his chest, lips curving into a smile, arms clinging tightly—greedy, even, as though they truly desire him—around his waist, a hand rubbing slow circles into his back, the other gripping his bare skin. Exhaustion weighs more insistent on his eyelids now, goosebumps raising on his forearms as sleep conquers his melancholy, pillow happy and unmoving in its nook beneath his shoulder.

“Tomioka-san,” she says quietly, steps light as she walks beside him, “Are you going to be alone tonight?”

“I suppose so,” he shrugs, not sparing her a glance, “I intend to eat and then sleep.”

With a soft chuckle, she murmurs, “How straightforward,” expression kind as she remarks, “Would you like any company?”

“Whose company?” Giyuu deadpans, pulse quickening as his pace falters, still resisting the gravity of her stare, “Nobody likes me.”

“Now that isn’t true,” she retorts, “Kocho-san addressed you at least once during the meeting, and Shinazugawa-san was as behaved as he can be.”

“Formality is a given,” he mutters Meetings don’t count.

“And where exactly are we going?” she asks politely, a hint of amusement brightening her tone.

We? he pauses mid stride, realization settling in as the shift in greenery registers, well pruned bushes and watered flower beds trailing off to ancient trees and shadowy forest aromas, maintained cobblestones soon to give way to dirt trodden paths, spindly and senseless in their form and direction Why is she following me? Does she believe me incapable of protecting myself?

“I’m going to eat,” he states plainly, hesitating when she offers no response, “Are you…” swallowing nervously, eyes fixated on the ends of his sleeves, “Going to join me?”

“Tomioka-san, was that an official invitation?!” she exclaims cheerfully, birds scattering as she claps cheerfully, “I humbly accept!”

“I-” he begins to say, finally daring to look at her I didn’t invite you caught in his throat at the sight of bronzed sunlight glistening warm and tender through her hair, her uniform—in the style of Shinobu’s—perfectly fitted, additional haori a deep maroon not unlike half of his own, “Alright then.”

He leads her in silence, sun lazily sinking from the treetops to their branches to their trunks to their roots, a hazy darkness clinging to their silhouettes with the onset of night, hunger hastening his footsteps, an unfamiliar heat filling his chest with every peek behind him, her determined smile anchoring itself further and further into his memory.

—

“Tomioka-san.”

Grunting, Giyuu tilts his head, refilling their sake cups with a soft, “Huh?”

“Hashira don’t do this often, do they?”

Part of him wants to play dumb, wary of her openness and honesty, wondering if he should perhaps, not share his sake with her, her cheeks far redder than when they first entered the tiny restaurant, but a larger part of him revels in her earnesty. She hasn’t experienced enough loss is his guilt laden impression, sorrow spiking through his veins as he watches her down her cup. This has to stop he decides, lead in his gut as he braces himself to push her joy from his proximity.

“We’re usually too busy training to stay alive, trying to stay alive, or mourning those who couldn’t stay alive.”

“I understand,” she replies simply, taking his bluntness in stride, “Rengoku-san makes similar statements, albeit with a bit more enthusiasm.”

“Would you like to finish the sake? I’m tired, and will be leaving shortly.”

She blinks once, twice, and he nearly grimaces at the underlying disappointment in her eyes, voice steady as ever when she answers, “I’ll finish it for you,” for us, “Would you like me to accompany you to your next stop?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Of course, have a good night, Tomioka-san.”

A chokehold of regret grips him as her demeanor changes, heady comfortability dissipating between them faster than it thickened, the clang and clatter of other patrons suddenly louder than he recalled, facade of intimacy popping.

“Will I see you again?” he ponders aloud, alcohol speaking life into his treacherous thoughts.

“Do you want to?” she counters, raising an eyebrow, “I was under the impression that I bothered you.”

Standing slowly, he reaches out to pour the rest of the sake into her cup, tremor in his elbow noticeable only to her keen eyes, “I am alone, and it would be selfish of me to live otherwise. I don’t do this often,” ever, “Because it toes the line between duty and survival. You want to survive, don’t you?”

“I want to live,” she responds gently, a light fingertip resting atop his elbow, her other hand raising the full cup to her mouth, “I want to make the world a place where everyone can live.”

“That is admirable,” he murmurs evenly, back already turned to her, anxious to disappear into the ache of the dark, “May I see you at the next meeting,” may you continue living till then.

Where is she? Giyuu wonders, taking in the profiles of his fellow Hashira Surely…

“Tomioka-san, whatever is on your mind?” Shinobu coos loudly, “Never have I known you to actually daydream about someone!”

How unfair he thinks petulantly, haori feeling tight around his shoulders as he breathes in deeply, “Kocho-san.”

“That is indeed my name! Good of you to remember, we’ve been colleagues for so long anyhow.”

Eyes flashing with irritation, his nostrils flare, noting the distinct lack of a scent—her scent, swirling of amber and lavender, of dusky woodland and sundrenched wildflowers—drowning instead in the strength of Tengen’s perfume. The line up of Hashira feels incomplete, her petite figure typically squished somewhere near Mitsuri, her hurriedly tied hair missing from his peripheral, palette of stares otherworldly without the grounding brownness of her eyes.

“Kocho-san,” he repeats, certainty in his tone now, “Someone cares about me.”

“Oh?” she gasps, delighted at his sudden bite, “How wonderful, Tomioka-san! I would be honored to meet whoever’s oblivious enough to befriend you!”

Teeth gritting, his expression blankens, shame prickling at his skin Using her as leverage when she isn’t even present… how low of you…

“Would you like to dine together?” Shinobu chimes, “After this meeting? Do you have any old haunts worth revisiting?”

“I would not like that.”

“I suppose nothing could shine brightly enough to keep your focus,” Shinobu laughs lightly, good natured glint in her eyes as she quips, “That’s Tomioka-san, as sullen and single minded as always.”

“Does it shock you?” he ventures, “That someone could care about me?”

Head tilting at his question, Shinobu eventually smiles, silently mouthing as Kagaya comes into view Not at all, but I’m shocked you could notice in the first place.

“You weren’t at the meeting,” a frustrated voice mutters, cool body slipping into the seat beside you, “Oyakata-sama didn’t mention you either.”

“I was recovering from a mission,” she explains, not bothering to greet him, enraptured by condensation sliding down her glass of water, “Congratulations on your success.”

“The loss of the living is never a success,” Giyuu snaps, muscles still fatigued, his heart even more threadbare, “Slaying demons is just the physical aspect of being a Hashira.”

“And existing in the shadows and shrugging off praise is the other aspect?” she snorts wryly, unperturbed by his harshness, “Certainly, you are my senior, Tomioka-san, but you seem to be missing out on the true nature of your position.”

“I do not care for material treasures,” he says sharply.

Laughing at his assumption, she rolls her eyes, carelessly nudging his bicep with her own, “I’m not a Hashira for the sake of a salary. You believe me to be so shallow and stupid?”

“I don’t know you.”

“And yet, this is the second time we find ourselves in the same place at the same time.”

“You followed me the first time,” he grumbles, “This is my spot.”

“You didn’t leave when you saw me here,” she hums, gesturing at the bartender for more sake, “In fact, you willingly sat beside me.”

“I will not be bullied away from my few comforts.”

She lapses into silence at his indignation, mouth twitching as she considers his subtle confession — the extent of his self inflicted punishment.

“Of course not, we’re both Hashira, we couldn’t bully each other if we tried,” she jokes lightly, warming her palms on the newly arrived bottle of sake.

I wonder how they would feel, if I could offer her the heat of my own skin Giyuu frowns, “I’m stronger than you.”

“Not in the heart.”

Immediately, her attention focuses on pouring the sake, tiny clay cups reflecting her embarrassment back at her, chest nearly bursting at the pressure of waiting for his reply — of waiting for him to simply up and leave, again.

“If I was any stronger in the heart, then I would be dead.”

Pinching one of the cups between his thumb and index finger, he sips slowly, then all at once, head pitching backward, messy hair blurring the redness of his face, the outline of his feelings.

“Our line of work is tragic, isn’t it?” she remarks, following suit as she drinks from her cup, tongue tingling at the bittersweet flow of sake, “There are the silver linings of gratitude and the sunrise, but it’s grueling on the soul.”

“Your soul radiates ease,” he admits.

“And you envy me for that?” she asks gently.

“No. I don’t understand.”

“Tomioka-san, I-”

“-Giyuu. Call me Giyuu,” he interrupts Before the chance to do so escapes us both.

“Giyuu,” she tests the word delicately, unaware of the pricking along his spine, the flimsy defense of his clenched fists, eyes distant and guarded as ever, “So you cared about my absence.”

“And you revisited my restaurant.”

“Your restaurant?” she grins teasingly, “I didn’t pin you as a business owner.”

“Kanroji-san missed you,” he ignores her banter, reaching across her vision to pour the next round, “Should I be concerned about your love for sake?”

“Should I be concerned that you seem incapable of conversation without the tactical distraction of sake?” she retorts, neglecting to inform him that I only drink with you.

Mustering his courage, Giyuu breathes in the flickering glow of late night stupor and lowered inhibitions, surrounding patrons oblivious to the gnawing turmoil in his toes, working its way up his calves, his knees, the bend in his hips as he leans over the countertop, granting her a sideways glance, “I’m afraid I’m beginning to enjoy these moments of normalcy.”

Eyes widening, she sits upright, voice tinged with gruff amusement, “Normal? There isn’t a normal bone in your body, Tomioka Giyuu.”

“And is that okay?” he dares to venture Or is that why everybody hates me?

“It’s wonderful,” she declares, meeting his solemn stare with an overwhelming smile, “I’m positive there’s more to you than you’re willing to entrust with me, but perhaps someday, gradually, I can earn your honesty.”

“Would you accompany me to my estate tonight?”

“Feeling more scared than usual?” she chuckles, tentative hand tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, unable to hear the I should’ve done that struggling through the din to the forefront of Giyuu’s thoughts, “What’s different?”

He can’t bring himself to tell her I’m terrified, can’t bring himself to tell her This tightness in my lungs, how could I survive if a demon hunted me now?, can’t bring himself to tell her I’ve been too engrossed in yearning for my ghosts to get closer to the living, too buried in self contempt to feel the heat of anyone’s patience.

“Nothing’s different,” he lies, “I’m striving to be a better mentor.”

“Mentor?” she giggles, rolling her eyes, “How old are you, Giyuu?”

“Twenty one,” he stifles a sigh, relieved she let his omission go — disappointed she didn’t press further.

“And I’m twenty two.”

“Your kills?” he pries carefully.

“Fewer than yours,” she murmurs, “But my rank isn’t simply a pretty gesture.”

“My estate isn’t far,” nor is it much to see he tacks on silently.

“We’re all lonely, you know? I wouldn’t abandon you, even if you demanded me to.”

Her determination stirs a fierce emotion in his chest, maroon of her haori bleeding into his veins as he allows her promise to curl into the hollow of his throat, tone steely and splintered as he holds out his hand.

“Don’t utter such nonsense. Everyone departs eventually,” but maybe, just maybe, we could depart together.

She’s quiet as she reaches for his fingers, her callouses somehow familiar yet unexpected, warmth licking from her body toward his own coolness, unable to coax him any closer. I wonder how we appear to others Giyuu muses, an odd sensation spreading from the base of his spine up to his nape How her hand looks grasped in mine heart filling with nostalgia as he turns toward his estate Could we be…

—

“Oh…” her nose crinkles, eyes having long adjusted to the stillness of the night, “This is you.”

“This is me,” he affirms, grip still intertwined with hers, forgotten in the easy rhythm of their companionship, “Are you…”

“Willing to come inside? Judging your lodgings? Going to let go of your hand anytime soon?”

Blushing faintly—too faintly for even a Hashira to see under the foliage of midnight—Giyuu swallows thickly, no longer able to conceal his discomfort behind a sip of sake, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh?! And I didn’t even think to bring a housewarming gift,” she jokes softly, instinctively squeezing his hand, the flustered uptick of his pulse audible, “We can say goodbye here,” eyes closing against the dizzying rush of longing Sake, I’m sure it’s just the sake, “Until the next meeting.”

“What if I asked you to stay?” he whispers, unmoving, tired, sapphire eyes stuck, for once, on her face.

“Are you?” she smiles knowingly, releasing his hand with a gentle rub to his knuckles.

I wish I knew how to embrace you, how to ask… how to feel closeness without… “No, I guess not.”

“May I hug you, Giyuu?”

Her abrupt request cuts through the wayward spiral of their unvoiced desires, boldness propelled less by any sake, and more by the sorrowful gleam in his eyes, bodies drawn together by a shared craving to soothe each other’s listlessness, a haven of sweet, languid energy cocooning itself around his dampened, stoic posture. Barely able to nod, he swears he’s floating, slipping through her fingers as she melts into him, her head tucked precious and snug beneath his chin, mouth curving fondly at the scratch of his haori against her cheek. Her arms wrap slow and shy around his waist, forearms resting hesitant above his hips, light pressure of her sweaty palm touching the small of his back. Is this okay? she seems to say as her movements pause, waiting for the tension to seep from his shoulder blades. Are we alright? as she holds her breath, practiced and steady, allowing herself to gradually exhale as his eyes close, trembling fingertips grazing the hem of her haori, curling as if to tug her nearer, tighter, into the sloppily stitched patches of his heart.

“Tomioka-san!” she shouts excitedly, spotting his lithe figure slinking through the lower gardens, pointedly ignoring the amused snorts around her, “We’re going out for dinner, join us,” waving exasperatedly at Tengen’s dramatic groan, Kyojuro’s curious Oh?, Shinobu’s giddy laughter.

A slight shake of his head disappoints her, the sting of his rejection sharper than she anticipated, albeit the dimmest trace of a smile tells her where he’ll be instead.

“I don’t know why you bothered to invite him,” Tengen huffs, arms crossing, “He declines everyone and everything.”

“He is not the merriest individual,” Kyojuro nods thoughtfully, “Difficult to read.”

“I beg to differ,” Shinobu chimes in, “Tomioka-san isn’t difficult at all to read,” sly glint narrowing her eyes, “But why would anyone care to read him?”

“You’re all dear to me,” she murmurs softly, not striving to be heard, “Tomioka-san too.”

Brow furrowing with disapproval, Tengen chooses to disregard her remark in favor of questioning Kyojuro about his latest mission, Shinobu grabbing your arm to pull you along, the tug of Giyuu’s long gone presence halfheartedly resisting the Insect Hashira’s efforts for a fleeting second.

“Kocho-san…”

“Hm?” she hums quickly — too quickly to successfully feign oblivion.

“Never mind.”

“He’ll accept you, if you offer yourself,” she winks, dainty elbow jabbing at her side, “Few people accept him, he’s so aloof. You might even smile together.”

“I smile plenty!” she protests, face warming at the memory of Giyuu’s fingertips brushing feather light against the wrinkles of her uniform, “I always stop and smell the roses!”

And he needs someone as vibrant and upfront as you Shinobu titters, pinching her pink cheek with a smug grin, “Seems to me you’re quite enjoying the scent of a particular rose.”

“Kocho-san…”

“Hm?”

“I regret telling you anything!”

—

“How did you escape Kocho-san?” he asks, tall glass of juice nearly empty beside him.

“I simply explained I had someone important to see.”

Important? a dent forms between his brows, eyes shinier than she remembers.

“No sake tonight?” she smiles shyly, gesturing at his drink, “Saved a little for me?”

“If you’d like,” he offers smoothly, committed to unraveling his feelings—the odd sensation still nestled in his nape—after a much needed pep talk with himself (which would have continued through the entire night, had she not shown up).

“I think we should talk,” she says, not quite avoiding his display of intimacy, but anxious to unfurl the storm behind his gaze.

“You could sit?”

“Or we could walk,” she counters, “It’s a lovely temperature outside,” and I might run if I try to do this in here.

“You’re welcome to stay,” he declares softly, a warning haze of heat cupping his jaw, reddening his cheeks, not even sparing the tip of his nose, “At my estate. There isn’t much,” ... “But I’d feel…” I’d feel happy, “I’d feel better, knowing you’re somewhere…” dry? Safe? Within reach? “Somewhere less lonely.”

“You would share yourself with me, like that?”

“I have been, haven’t I?”

He moves swiftly, before she can respond, paying his tab, hand deftly finding hers as they head out the door, the feeling of her pulse in her wrist distinctly different—unbearably clearer—without the demanding buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream.

—

I have been, haven’t I? the sentence tumbles over and over in her head as they travel to his estate, its location vaguely familiar to her after only one visit, the plush of his hand so delicate yet firm as he guides her, almost too aware of every breath, every glance, every jump of his heartbeat, as though she might change her mind — as though she might forget their embrace, too painful and complicated to cherish.

“Giyuu-Oof,” she yelps as he suddenly stops, the front entrance shrouded from her view.

“I apologize,” he sounds so close, turning as she blinks, gripping both her forearms, “I fear I know what you seek from me, and I,” mouth shutting, his grip tightening, “I cannot be so selfish to indulge you.”

“Feelings are not an indulgence,” she whispers roughly, breast aching at his avoidance of her stare, unable to caress his jaw, unable to ask him to Look at me.

Knowing he might shatter if she did.

“My sister died. My best friend died. To protect me. Countless below me have died, those above me will die too. I will die. I can’t have it on my conscience, your faith in me, your… your pursuit, of me. I am as dedicated to the living as I am destined for an early death, and you-” speaking harshly now as she listens in silence, his body pleading for her to interrupt him, his heart clinging to the solace of her presence, “-You will die.”

Don’t ask me to mourn you, to trace the scars upon your skin as you leave me behind, to wallow in the numbness that used to be your scent, your laughter, your life against my chest.

“And what can I have?” she finally interjects, voice brittle with soured anger, “If I am marked for death, then why can’t I at least live? Why can’t I feel to the furthest extent of my limbs? Give to the deepest void of my soul? Hold you as close as you deserve to be held?”

“I don’t deserve to be held,” Giyuu hisses, still gripping her forearms, still teetering, “I deserve to kill for those who died in my place, to wander for those who couldn’t see the world, to die for those who deserve, much more than I do, to live.”

“Just shut up,” she snarls, shoving in closer to his glassy eyes, not wanting to shrug him off, but wanting him to, “Look at me, Tomioka Giyuu. Look at me. Tell me, Giyuu, what is living to me?”

“Certainly,” he seethes, “It isn’t me.”

“But it could be,” she persists, desperation clawing through her words, leaves crunching as she presses closer, closer, closer, the most tender of glares illuminated by the indefinite guard of the moon, haori sleeves falling slightly as her forearms lift upright, forehead nearly touching his collarbones, “I’m this close already, so what’s stopping us?”

“You said so yourself, I’m weak in the heart,” he mutters, releasing her arms, flinching when she promptly wraps them around him, frozen at the crossroads, “I’m stopping us.”

“Are you?” she whispers, gaze searching for his, stubborn brown burrowing into choppy seas, a wooden boat sinking, sinking, floating.

“Am I what?” he retorts, malice all but lost as a warm heaviness seeps through his cracks, “I am weak.”

“Are you going to stop us?” as she rises onto her toes, fingers tangled in the memories, the despair, the love, of his haori, “Are you going to live?” as her eyes close, that little wooden boat still floating, still slicing through the grief and deep of his vast blue, “Will you live with me?”

His lips part. A breath to say a thousand words. A breath to say nothing. A gentle snaking of his arms around her waist, palms cold and decided, cupping the back of her head, supporting the weight of her trust as she falls into his touch, throat bared for the barest graze of his teeth, the low groan of his broken desire caressing her skin, making its way to her jaw, nipping light and unsure at her earlobe, sucking soft and wet across warmth of her cheek, hesitating at her mouth.

“Giyuu,” she says, and he kisses her.

He kisses her smile, tasting of salt and relief, his eyelashes fluttering when she tugs on his haori, that odd sensation finally dissolving, devoured by the pressure of her closeness, body jolting as her eyes open, a life worth learning glowing before him, like molten starlight cradled against his heart.

“I will share all of myself with you, if you can tolerate my pace,” he rasps, feeling as though he’s gasping for breath, hurting at the emotional transaction of truth, “I am far from ready to live,” a poised, fateful edge lingering, even as he grasps her hands, guiding them to his neck, his jaw, his face, tracing the outline of his devotion, “But I…” a low sob erupting, posture crumpling, “I want to learn,” her haori dampening, his tears dripping one by one onto its stiff collar, “I want you to know how I feel, for how I feel to grow,” a sliver of his trust as clear as his pain etching itself into the walls of her heart.

“Giyuu,” she murmurs, “Giyuu, Giyuu, Giyuu,” hoping he understands.

As they walk the ten steps to his estate, hand in hand, he tells her, with a shaky, silent pause to tuck her hair behind her ear, that Someday, I swear I will.

#giyuu tomioka #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader #tomioka x reader #water hashira #one shot #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

[ltwilliammowett]

The Hancock off Lahaina, Maui, 1791, by Mark Myers (1945-)

The Boston brigantine Hancock is shown surrounded by native craft as she comes to anchor at the island of Maui in Hawaii on her voyage to the Pacific Northwest in 1791. The view shows the ship off West Maui near Lahaina with the island of Kahoolawe in the right background. Based on the topography of the West Maui Mountains and the perspective of Kahoolawe, the area depicted is near Olowalu, an anchorage just slightly east of Lahaina.

Hancock was typical of the American fur-trading vessels active in establishing the early trade routes linking the Pacific Northwest, Hawaii and China. These early trading voyages would later help to justify America's claims to sovereignty over these areas. The Hancock sailed from Boston under the command of her owner Samuel Crowell in November 1790 bound for the rich seal and otter hunting grounds in the Pacific Northwest. En route, after first stopping at Staten Island to take seals before proceeding around Cape Horn, she arrived in Hawaiian waters during the spring or early summer of 1791. This arrival is depicted in the present work. During this visit a plan by local natives and beachcombing ex-mariners to capture the Hancock was discovered and thwarted by her crew. Hancock then sailed north and east, arriving off the Queen Charlotte Islands on July 14, 1791.

There she joined company with the brigantine Hope, also out of Boston, owned by Thomas H. Perkins and under the command of Joseph Ingraham. In August, 1791 Hancock encountered Captain Robert Gray and Columbia Rediviva at Masset Sound on Graham Island in the northern part of the Queen Charlotte Islands. In October Hancock was back in Hawaiian waters, again in company with Captain Ingraham and Hope. Both ships were bound for Canton with a cargo of seal and otter pelts. It is not known if Hancock and Hope proceeded to China together, but both were at Canton in early 1792.

After successfully marketing her cargo in Canton, Hancock departed China on April 26, 1792 sailing with Hope and the small sealing schooner Grace. They arrived back in the Queen Charlotte Islands on July 3. George Vancouver, on board Discovery, reported encountering Hancock at Nootka Sound in May, 1793. Further data regarding this voyage has not been uncovered. However, it is likely Hancock sailed again to Canton in the winter of 1793 before returning home to Boston via the Cape of Good Hope.

#naval art #brigantine hancock #1791 #age of sail

[57sfinest]

i wanted to look at the symbolism of the ocean in disco elysium because it features so prominently in the setting. insulinde being an isola comprised of islands, martinaise as a port town financially anchored by its ocean trade. the divisions brought by water that we see in the geography: how the canal separates the working district of martinaise from the even poorer, commerce-less village-- how the river esperance separates the worst ghettos of revachol and jamrock from the more rebuilt and financially stable districts-- how, for example, lilienne looks across the bay of revachol to the wealthy district of la delta, a poignant moment of separation between someone desperately poor and the towers of wealth built out of the ruins of revachol. we see water, and often the sea specifically, acting as a divider in various contexts. 

the ocean of time and distance that separates dora and harry, that separates klaasje from oranje:

then, further into the idea of the ocean as representative of time: in various contexts i see the ocean as representing the past. memory residing under the waves, and each of us living above water-- in the present-- but often still helpless to the tides when we’re not careful. to me this is cemented by the implication that the pale is commonly theorized as an *outer ocean* (juxtaposed with harry’s introspective skill, inland empire!!): the pale is the past, and if the pale is seen as an outer ocean, then right there is a tangible connection between the two. memory and the past as an ocean, dangerous if you don’t respect its power, but ultimately navigable. there is frequent reference made to the fact that the bombed ruins of martinaise are sinking or lost into the ocean, lost to the past, now only memory. 

and harry, who is living in the past and being consumed by nostalgia like a rot, drives his car into the ocean. harry’s badge, which is conflated with his identity in the aftermath of his amnesia, was underwater before he pulled it from the car: until he got it, his entire identity was lost with his memory in the past. klaasje’s documents, too, presumed lost to the ocean, a loss of who she was or claimed to be (until you meet the phasmid). lilienne’s husband was lost to the waves, and in the same lines she’ll dismiss your concerns-- he’s in the past now, she’s really not too upset. the cleaning lady, abandoned by the world, who has only her own memories for company in her sea-beaten room. in the context of ruby’s near-suicide in the shack, how inland specifies how the “waves had calmed” as she put the gun away: ruby distancing herself from the past that she thinks is chasing her to form a better plan. the working-class husband, who, had his corpse fallen through the boardwalk into the ocean, would have been lost to the past, living only in the memory of billie and their daughters.

for me, the final dream had some of the heaviest but most subtle inclusions of the ocean symbolism. it’s brought on by looking into the ocean around the seafort and takes place under the ocean somewhere. even before the dream, dora is alluded to in the context of the sea. she moved across the ocean and now, to him, she’s lost under it. she’s trapped in his memory.

where we see things half-submerged or partially oceanic, we see a bridge between the past and the present being represented. something partially lost to the past but still with a foot in the here and now. harry’s half-sunken car, in part a representation of his career: part of his past, yes, but still very much in his present. one of the primary spiritual practices we hear of is the volta do mar: originally a palefarer’s practice to keep them grounded in an onslaught by the past, and its meaning is *return from the sea*. when harry tries to turn back time, he wants to go back to a time when the sun had not yet sunk into the sea-- when the light in his life didn’t reside solely in the past.

also in this context, something that really struck me was how harry will sometimes think of himself in the context of the sea. first is the sea monster thought, brought about by the broken plaza: him as a creature submerged in the past, terrorizing the present. and seafaring brought up to represent a kind of compromise between living in the present and acknowledging the draw of nostalgia. even joyce in her limited knowledge of harry compares him to a “half-submerged ruin”. and when harry is prompted into introspection by the dros predicament, inland empire becomes the *inland sea*.

and i really want to make a final, individual point of this. the whirling-in-rags music is sea power’s song “fire escape in the sea”. there is an explicit reference made to the song by shivers as well, and i think the choice of this song is very intentional. the whirling-in-rags is where harry forgot his whole life, the whole world, and it’s where he wakes up and begins to piece it all back together. the whirling-in-rags is harry’s fire escape in the sea. his bridge between his past and his present, his last-ditch attempt at escape from the tortures of his subconscious. 

(this is by no means exhaustive, there are a lot of other moments where the sea comes in, but i included the moments that spoke to me most. you’re welcome to add your own!)

#disco elysium #disco elysium meta #gen meta #hdb meta #kiwipost #i'm gonna see if i can go on mobile and edit the alt text in #if not i may rb with dialogue descriptions #anyway yeah. maybe this is nothing but it means something to ME. to me. #joyce and lilienne are the two people we see with boats #coincidentally the two who seem to have made peace with the past that led them here to this point in their lives. #also on the significance of it being a dockworkers' union in particular that we deal with. #it doesn't mean nothing. i swear there's something here #i also want to think about what it means for harry to be compared to several types of bird #in a context where the ocean represents the past #he's got the name of a hawk. his heraldic bird could be a cockatoo but also he can be compared to a seagull. #he destroys the stuffed skua. his old partner was jean-heron. #much to consider there. #will need to ruminate on that for a while.

[laidback-thrills]

EDIT: THIS IS SLIGHTLY OUTDATED. More coming soon.

Hello all!

I've been meaning to talk more in depth about this!!! I put a "read more" bc this is a little long and I don't wanna clog up the tag.

BUT

DSAF CULT AU!!!

My DSAF Cult AU is very canon divergent.

Dave Miller is a fledgeling demon who was once a young nephilim. He remembers very little about his past, but something horrible has made him what he is now.

He has a full, actual Enochian name, but people tend to throw up and shit and die when they hear it, so he chose to go by "Dave" because "It's common! I'm a normal, common guy!", but also because he trusted and loved someone like a father.

His demonic sigil and general telltale symbol is the extremely long sacrificial dagger driven into his skull. No matter what form he takes, he will have it. It can be taken out for a short period of time before Dave begins to have trouble staying corporeal.

Now literally borne with a total inability to feel remorse for his actions, he is a sick and twisted monster that does not know how to control his own extremely horrifying powers. He requires a conduit to channel them, lest he explode.

He was all alone in the world. A freak, even when "disguised" as a human. (He's purple for fuck's sake, he smells like rot and he's scaring people!). Connection eluded him, although it was all he ever wanted, even as a horrifyingly malicious entity. It's very much a similar situation to regular DSAF - he was "abandoned", and now forever seeks

Until some idiot.

Jack Kennedy was a desperate man with a missing family and no future. He was addicted to every kind of substance, heavily in debt, and crushingly isolated.

After uncovering some interesting literature from his shitty Fazbender's Pepperonerie job, he decided that he was desperate enough to follow the instructions in the grimoire. Nothing to lose anymore, and a big goal to achieve. A skeptic as he was, he did not expect the ritual to work, but when it did, it completely changed his world.

Jack did not immediately make a contract with Dave, out of pure shock and wariness, but the fucker stuck around anyway. He was offered a deal and spent a while debating it.

Eventually, it went through.

Jack was granted a demonic boon. Power, money, pleasures of the world, and a chance to put them back together. In return, he traded his body and soul for Dave's services.

The process was painful.

An agonizing death, and a transformation. Dave's sigil burned into his back, and all at once, he was rotten and orange.

Then, the demon ate his soul.

Dave benefits greatly from the exchange too (baby's first contract). He gets a lot of power from it. It keeps him anchored. Gives him something to do. Someone interesting to play with. Company at last, and it's someone that can't run away from him!

Jack is Dave's saint. They are intrinsically bound. Jack is the first person to ever form a contract with Dave— Blackjack is caged inside of Dave, alive and warm, providing him with abilities and power he didn't have before. The Black Dog is loyal to its original master, however, and attempts to return to him. As a result, the soul more or less keeps them tethered. They physically cannot stray too far from eachother.

Post-contract, now armed with the knowledge that more souls = more power, and wanting to actually put a use to their power, they get to work!

With supernatural persuasion and a great gambling streak, Jack gets his start in Nevada. There, they build their empire off of the backs of desperate gamblers who put their soul on the line. Hungry, lonely men, hookers, the desperate and the naïve...all are errant souls that Father Jack will lead right on home.

Dave requires fresh blood for any spell, but demands child sacrifices to perform large spells, but that is quite alright. With the influx of followers, children are not too hard to come by. The death of a toddler, and an unholy miracle is performed— Jack's precious little flock has a home, a commune tucked into the desert.

(It isn't DSAF without a little toddler stranglin'!)

Jack and Dave- they get them good. Victims, converts- they're promised security, "God is dead, but we've got the power to help you!" Father Jack's a friendly and convincing fella, it seems, and after all...his Gospel is very legitimate- why have just faith when you can see your new God? When that doesn't work, there's always fear. Don't believe his word? Why, they'll show you horrors of which you've never seen! Father Kennedy's fun loving, but he's a soulless bastard, and he's not shy about putting the fear of all things unholy into his flock.

Of course, once the sinners are deep enough, it's too late to escape. Father Kennedy has some dirt on them. This lovely community is built on violence, after all, and Father knows exactly what they did to get here, and exactly what they've said at confessional. That, and...who does not fear the erratic demon?

At the commune, the "church" is hidden away in the labyrinthine basement of an invaded Freddy's location. (The management seems...more than willing...) The Pepperonerie is a front, concealing profits and deaths from the government. The Priest and the Demon wash their money, wash their hands, and serve unsuspecting guests pizza with a healthy dollop of propaganda.

When they aren't terrorizing their followers, however, Dave and Jack spend their time together. It is with mixed enjoyment. They find new purpose in each other. Commit horrible atrocities and live it up in V E G A S, baby! They're...gasp...starting to crush on each other? They're also sexily trying to kill each other just a little bit.

"I hate this purple motherfucker...but I want to kiss him on his hot mouth..."

Important note shoehorned in—

Jack does not worship Dave traditionally, the way the other followers do. He does not fear him at all. He recognizes Dave for what he is- a lonely, desperate fool. As far as they go, the demon is on his leash, not the other way around. He only prays when he needs something, in the very beginning. As their relationship advances however, and they commit atrocities that would make mankind pale, Jack becomes a very religious man. Not because he is afraid or respects him as any kind of authority (he does not respect him period), but because he is Really Gay. The way he prays is devout and hungry. Only in prayer can Jack manage to say what he means.

Actually, Dave ends up more worshipping *Jack* more than Jack worships him. It's turned on its head. Dave is sooo down bad and in love, he'll do anything. Anything at all for his priest, his clementine. His obsession is very much comparable to canon. He haunts Jack and everything that he does. Jack is never alone, never truly, because a dark looming purple shadow will always follow him. He steals his things and vies for his attention at all times of the day, because he is so wrapped around Jack's orange finger it's stupid...

"Jump." "How high?!"

Peace, quiet and privacy is an extinct concept to Jack, unfortunately.

TLDR; They're horrible to eachother but are in love and their hands are drenched in the blood of children (as usual) but now it has a gay worshipping undertone.

This is not everything, of course. Next time I talk, i'll delve more into the serious and rather toxic side of their relationship but this is just some stuff i've managed to crank out! Sorry if it's all over the place! I have one billion thoughts. Feel free to ask any questions, too, I'll do my best to answer. There will be more soon.

#my stuff #dsaf #davesport #dayshift at freddy's #dsaf cult au

[roo-bastmoon]

Fractured and Adrift

I was going to write a big huge post with lots of screen shots and chart data and analysis that I'd saved on my phone, but honestly I'm too sick right now to sit up and organize all that. If you go on twitter, you see in real time what is happening, anyway.

Bottom lines:

it's very clear to me that ads, payola, pay to play, vpn and other "networking" tactics that go against what BTS has always been about have pretty much come into play--for a catchy, but ultimately impersonal and generic, pop single that was given to only one member.

I'm not just disappointed, I'm gutted. I don't know where to go from here, as someone who used to take pride in being an ARMY and stanning artists who made it to the top the organic and hard way, by being genuine and talented and real with us.

As always, I look to my ult-bias, Jimin. His debut album was abandoned the moment he hit #1, yet he continues on with this company and to be a team player. He was with JK on private time during a couple's holiday. He's been filmed with and is likely working on some sort of project with JK right now. These are my cues. So without any further information about what is happening, I will continue to follow Jimin's lead.

I am a person who believes in the potential and the very best of others until I just can't any more. But I also cannot hide from the glaringly obvious. Jimin was mistreated, and Jungkook was prioritized in ways I personally find dishonorable.

I don't know how much, if any, input JK had in this. He's got a Masters in Communications, a decade of industry experience, and owns stock in his company; but I also know that talent are very rarely given complete insight or say over sales and marketing strategies--that's external, executive business decisions. I don't know what conversations, trade-offs, or internal pressure came into play here.

At this point, I would say I'm very adrift.

I'm a good soldier. I bought the CD, I bought each version of the song, I added it to my playlists. But I no longer feel needed as a fan for Seven; I feel replaced by Scooter's dollars. And I don't feel any personal connection to this particular song, as catchy as it is. I was excited when the styles JK helped choose seemed to be an homage to Jimin's Face, but... now a lot of the elements of this work seem rushed and disjointed. I just don't know.

I'm very worried about what this rollout means for our 7, especially how they are supposed to come together in a fair and equitable way after military service. I'm trying to read through their book when I can stay awake long enough. Trying to trust and hope and manifest the best.

I wish there was more transparency, more communications around what the game plan is, and if the members are all on board with everything.

All I can think to do is to keep loving Jimin and the people who are good to Jimin, keep working hard for what I want and not invest energy and time into what I don't. I do believe that Jungkook and Jimin love one another.

But I'm... fracturing... inside. It hurts.

I'm very ill. Maybe I'm just too emotional right now because I'm so sickly. Maybe I just need more time and more data to have a more rational perspective.

All I can think to do is hang in there and wait to be more anchored in facts before I can decide what all this means--for Jikook, for BTS.

I'm sorry if this post isn't very coherent. I'm on a bunch of steroids until I can get to a specialist and the brain fog is immense. I'm gonna go rest now. I think I might stop posting memes and thirsts and other things for a bit, while I just focus on getting well. But I'm sending you all so much love.

Hang in there. Deep breaths. We will find our way. We will make our way, if necessary.

#jimin #jikook #jungkook

[meirimerens]

maidens, brides and crones 💃🌱🌾🍂

headcanons time:

Maiden

— ages 15-19/20 — a very small portion of the Maidens have felt "called" to being a Herb Bride for as long as they can remember, most others have started to show a pull towards Herb Brides during childhood. Around 15 of age, the to-be-Herb Brides (nicknamed Herb Maids/Maidens, or Fledglings) will go through an Initiation ceremony in the presence of older Herb Brides. — their outfits are heavy, layered, cloth and leather with minimal sigils as face and body paint since they still have to learn their meanings : they will rather have simple lines and shapes. they wear heavy bone and clay jewelry, and their hairdos stay pretty simple. — they are very active, following older Herb Brides in dances. year after year, they develop their own dance, going through phases of very intense, frantic and kind of disorganized choreographies as they try to find their footings in the dance that will feel the truest and most meaningful to them. — the heavy outfits are here to allow them to prove they can dance even with all of the weight on them. the to-be-Herb Brides often fall from exhaustion, more often than their older counterparts, and these instances are seen as important proof that they are giving it their all, losing themselves into Boddho and allowing her to take their energy and give it back.

"Mother" / Bride

— ages 19/20-45 — functioning as a coming-of-age rite, a Confirmation ceremony takes place around the 19th to 25th birthday of a Maiden having proven her determination and stood by her choice of becoming a Herb Bride. she is able, anytime before the ceremony is set to take place, to walk away from a future as a Herb Bride and reintegrate the rest of the Kin: it is understood that the life of a Herb Bride is tough, hard, exhausting, even if ultimately exhilarating and incredibly fulfilling to those who are able to follow through, and that not everyone is fit for it. Maidens reintegrating the rest of the Kin will still typically have an interest in herbs, and will tend to gravitate towards being herbalists, gardeners, botanists... some might take up entirely different trades, even if they tend to be anchored in Kin culture, such as becoming leather tanners, leather cutters, weavers, tapesters... — the fledglings become Herb Brides in the presence of other Herb Brides and a/multiple Warden(s). they typically bathe in the Gorkhon or one of her tributaries and are expected to dance through the night. — from there, they wear lighter clothing which allows them to move freely. having learned the meaning of the sigils during their earlier years, and now in the company of more knowledgeable Herb Brides, sigils become part of their face and body paint. intricate hairdos become more common as Herb Brides help each other with them. — at this point, a Herb Bride will have settled into a dance of her own, something that feels true and meaningful to her. she will continue to change, morph and adapt it as she grows and learns more, but she has, now, come into her own. — the "Mother" title is not really accurate, as Herb Brides are celibate per their customs; they will be mother figures and mentors to to-be-Herb Brides, and some will learn midwifery. — whether or not a Herb Bride does become an actual midwife, Herb Brides will tend to to-be mothers and be around for births even if they do not help with the birth itself. — the Voice of Boddho grows stronger during this time, and many Herb Brides will pick up chants directly from the Earth. — a Herb Bride might still walk away from being one years, sometimes decades after her Confirmation ceremony. while these cases are rare, a Bride reintegrating the Kin at this point will typically gravitate towards herbalism, herbal medicine, poetry or storytelling inspired by the chants of the Earth. — even more rare than the previous cases, but having been seen nonetheless, adult women might want to become Herb Brides past the usual age of Confirmation ceremonies. they might or might not go through the Maids "trial" period, as they are typically more sure of themselves and more convinced of their desire to devote themselves to the dance.

Crone

— ages 45+ — as some herb brides age and do not have the vigor to dance they once had, their knowledge of sigils, plants, and for some, childbirth, allow them to focus on these aspects of the Kin rather than the frantic dances as the new generation of Herb Brides fill that role. — with sometimes 30 years of being a fledgling/maidens then full-fledged Herb Bride, their knowledge of sigils, herbs and the myths is vast and crucial to be shared. some Herb Brides become more sedentary, settling in with family members, and are reached periodically like Elders. — for some, having been trained in midwifery by other Brides; and for others, having been witnesses to these births, a number of Herb Brides of that age settle in a midwife role. their knowledge of herbs allows them to make births less painful for the mother, and they either shoulder the Menkhu during birth, or take care of it themselves, surrounded by younger Brides. — with age, some Herb Brides start wearing warmer clothing again as they handle the cold less well than when they were vigorous young women. their outfits welcome layers again and often intricately braided grass and herbs into sleeves, vests or skirts. — the Brides who keep dancing tend to settle into a slower, softer, less brutal dance. they grow closer and closer to blades of grass swaying in the wind with the knowledge that they, soon, will go back to the Earth and be reborn as these very same blades. — mentorship of to-be and younger Herb Brides is a crucial part of their life.

#pathologic #pathologic 2 #мор утопия #herb brides #herb brides lore #pathologic headcanons #herb maids #herb fledglings #herb crones #my nicknames for them <3

[driftwithme]

That deleted scene between Chuck and Herc haunts me because that is the ThesisTM of Chuck as a character.

Let's see:

He feels he was not raised by a man, but by the machines he grew up around. I'd admit this one is more implicit, so let me explain. When Chuck says that Herc did not raised him to be anything, he then admits he spend more time around the machines than with Herc. Chuck doesn't even mentions anyone else human, not even the j-techs or other pilots. He goes to straight up mention the machines. Herc might have not raised him to be anything, but those machines thought him how to be a pilot.

He is perceived by other people as a great ranger but not a very good man. Which yeah, Chuck is great at his job, but what about his social life? We never see him around other people, talking or anything else. The movie makes a good point of separating him from the bunch in every scene. The only mention of him having a life is when he tells Raleigh that he wants to come back, but hold on, it takes us to another point.

When Herc asks him who is him and follows it by saying everybody knows he's a great ranger, Chuck asks his dad what else does Herc want him to be. He doesn't understand the question. He is doing what he is required to do, isn't it? So why is it not enough? At this point is obvious Chuck doesn't have an identity beyond being a jaeger pilot. That's not a job for him, that is his whole life, who he is, what he was raised to be. Is that the life he wants to return to? The life Chuck likes so much?

He tells Herc that the only reason they still talk if 'cause their drift compatibility and the fact they are good at smashing things. To me it sounded more like they are good at destroying, which could be a reference to how they constantly fail at mending their relationship. This means that the only meaningful connection he has is only there because of his job. And I'm not counting Max here, but it's all the same to say this man's alone in the world with only a dog for company.

When all is said and done, this scene was as an explanation for Chuck's death, narrative wise. He was no one without the kaiju war or the ranger job. He had no identity beside the identity of a soldier. Every other character's storyline has a figurative anchor, except of course the ones who died: The pilots of both Cherno and Crimson died with their family and jaegers, Pentecost trade places with G. Danger for them to survive and Chuck? Well, Chuck gave his anchor (Max) to his dad, so Herc would have something after he's gone.

The PPDC and Team Danger also work as an anchor for Herc, since he still had to be there until the mission was over. Hannibal Chau had an anchor (his business) and ended up surviving as well.

So I guess, in the sense that New was born to study monsters and fall in love with them, Chuck was fight in that war and made it his mission to end it. He doesn't survive because his arc in the story was over, solved, done.

That's the genius of the Hansen meeting deleted scene. It sets the tragedy to happen.

#pacific rim #pacrim #pacific rim 2013 #pacrim 2013 #chuck hansen #herc hansen #hercules hansen

[cavendishbutterfly]

If you decide to start writing fic

you’ll post something on Aug 22. Nothing major. It will go out to your fresh-faced AO3 and your followers on tumblr, fewer than ten, including your friend the gymnast who is also very good at reccing. You’ll write more microfics, wait to see whether anyone notices, loiter in your office bathroom to scroll through the precious tags of a reblog. A tiger will offer you an invite to a discord server, a first gateway, a beginning. You’ll talk about transness with a chameleon. You’ll talk steadily more to a black cat who lets you onto a whole sea of servers and that will make all the difference in the world. And then the cat will make all the difference in the world, a hundred times over, a thousand. You’ll meet a small community: cacti, witches, rocks, birds, cat owners, apricots. A local of the city you love. You’ll meet fellow hufflepuffs and acespecs and writers you’ve quietly followed for months and months; stars and sweets and quills, readers, healers and academics and degree-holders, and people who take your breath away in fifty words. You’ll remember why language is beautiful. You’ll remember why you write, or maybe learn it for the first time. Four thousand words will feel impossible but you’ll build the first story brick by brick, rewriting and rewriting. People will take the time to read it over for you. They’ll volunteer, even. Sometimes they’ll even thank you for asking them, and it will blow your mind; you’ve forgotten how giving people can be, or perhaps you’re still learning. You’ll meet a chemist by passing your phone to your partner, and by some stroke of luck she’ll anchor you in all her brilliance and warmth. When you post your first longer fics, they will receive love beyond your comprehension. People will leave you long, gracious comments. They’ll write recommendations that floor you. They will say, we saw your heart in Eastern Europe. In the scene with the hair, on the shoreline, in the small cramped flat, in the cabin. You will create things you did not think were possible for you. Strangers and friends will choose to keep you company online, small strange boxes of text made infinitely precious on lonely days and bright ones. You will write a horrifying (wonderful) story with someone halfway across the world and cackle far past your bedtime. You’ll trade paragraphs about eighth year fics, recipes, disco cowboy memes, gifts and prompts galore. A bee, a white cat, milk, honey, geese, a chickpea, an octopus, an artful mouse. These people will teach you queer joy. It is not a small thing to learn. There are so many intricacies captured—here, this is a new way to love your body. Here, this is a new way to stoke your soul. And all the while you will have been becoming yourself, surrounded by art and artists, and you will remember what a beautiful way this is to grow. Fostered by the generosity of strangers, and strangers become friends.

#even if you are not blatantly named here #if you have spoken to me in the past year #you are in this post #and I am so grateful #that you offered me a piece of your time and your self #that you are part of this place that has made my world brighter #thank you thank you thank you

[princess-sof-time]

I wanna request headcanons for Aqua and Ruby with s/o who is in a rap battle team (take as ejemples the franchises hypnosis mic and paradox live)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ──────

🄰🅀🅄🄰 🄷🄾🅂🄷🄸🄽🄾

• Amidst the world of rap battles, Aqua's presence goes beyond just being a supportive partner; they embody the essence of serenity and strength, guiding your s/o through the ups and downs of this competitive world. As the beats drop and the adrenaline builds, Aqua's comforting aura envelops her partner, creating an oasis of calm amidst the storm of battle.

• In the quiet corners of their shared space, Aqua's pen dances gracefully across the paper, weaving heartfelt lines that pay homage to her S/O's talents, struggles and triumphs. Each line is a tribute to the fire that burns within your partner, recognizing your partner's glow and inspiring you to reach new heights. Though they don't utter the words onstage, Aqua's heartfelt poetry serves as a powerful encouraging force that fuels her S/O's determination.

• When it comes to the actual rap battles, Aqua may not be part of the official team, but she is an indispensable member of the support team. On days of battle, they sneak in like a shadow, armed with a bag of snacks and their s/o's favorite drinks. With a gentle smile, they provide the much-needed sustenance and emotional boost, ensuring their partner is physically and mentally prepared to shine.

• As her S/O takes the stage, Aqua watches with a mixture of pride and awe. His analytical mind is always attentive, capturing every nuance of the performance. After the battle, they gently offer constructive feedback, always highlighting their s/o's strengths and finding ways to further hone their skills. With Aqua's guidance, your partner grows not only as a rapper, but as an artist and performer.

• But it's not just about the rap battles; Aqua's unwavering dedication extends to all aspects of the relationship. They celebrate wins together, big or small, and offer unwavering support through challenging times. Aqua's ability to listen with an open heart creates a safe space for your significant other to share your thoughts and feelings, allowing you to navigate life's uncertainties hand in hand.

• In quieter moments, Aqua and her partner find solace in each other's company. They often spend hours discussing lyrics, analyzing beats and trading ideas. This shared passion for music and poetry deepens their bond, creating an unbreakable connection strengthened by mutual respect and admiration.

• In the end, Aqua and her s/o are an unstoppable duo, not just on the battle-rapping stage, but in love and life as well. Together, they find harmony in the chaos, drawing strength from each other to face whatever challenges may come their way. As the world of rap battles continues to challenge them, Aqua's steadfast presence remains the anchor that keeps their s/o grounded and their love blossoming, united forever in the pursuit of artistic excellence and emotional fulfillment.

🅁🅄🄱🅈 🄷🄾🅂🄷🄸🄽🄾

• Ruby's energetic and enthusiastic personality makes them the go-to person for their partner's rap battles. They take the role seriously and go all out, pumping up the crowd with their infectious energy. Their wild and lively antics create an electrifying atmosphere, getting everyone fired up and ready for an unforgettable show.

• In addition to official rap battles, Ruby and her s/o engage in freestyle sessions as a way to relax and have fun. These impromptu rap battles become a regular part of their daily lives, with both exchanging witty and hilarious lines, causing laughter and joy in the air. It's a special bonding experience that strengthens your relationship and fosters a deeper understanding of each other's creative expressions.

• Ruby and her boyfriend are not only partners in love, but partners in art as well. They spend hours exploring different rap styles and experimenting with different beats together. Their passion for music and performance fuels their collaborations, and they are often surprised by new elements and ideas during their rap battles. This dynamic partnership sets them apart from other teams, making them a force to be reckoned with in the rap battle scene.

• Ruby's protective nature shines through when it comes to her love relationship. They are fiercely dedicated and will always stand up for their partner, especially if anyone dares to question or undermine their partner's talent. Ruby becomes a formidable shield against negativity, wiping out enemies with her confidence and unwavering support.

• Outside the world of rap battles, Ruby and her girlfriend enjoy peaceful, intimate moments together. They find solace in each other's arms, with Ruby using her enthusiasm to bring comfort and joy into her partner's life. Her S/O, in turn, provides a calming presence that helps Ruby find balance amidst her energetic nature. They are the perfect complement to each other, balancing passion and tranquility in their relationship.

• As Ruby and her s/o continue to grow together, they embark on a journey of artistic exploration. They collaborate not only on rap battles, but also on creating original songs, finding a harmonious blend of their individual styles. Their evolving synergy becomes a source of inspiration for others, and they become role models for aspiring rappers and artists alike.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ──────

#oshi no ko x reader #anime x reader #aqua hoshino x reader #ruby hoshino x reader

[dailyanarchistposts]

The Islamic Republic

The 1979 revolution swept aside the monarchy and the comprador bourgeoisie that benefited from its rule. These were replaced by a new form of capitalist state, the Islamic Republic. The Iranian system is best described as state capitalist, both under the Pahlavis and the Islamic Republic. By that I mean, it is a system where the state is the main motor for capital accumulation. The private sector and modern industry are supported by state revenues, which mainly come from oil. The upper-level managers and bureaucrats constitute a class who, like those who filled this role in the previous regime, enriched themselves through positions within the state bureaucracy. Control of state power allows these “millionaire mullahs” to amass enormous fortunes. Their investments are global, including in Western democracies. This class now comprises not only those clergy, merchants, and state officials, but also their extended families, who make up a large and wealthy bourgeoisie. A central pillar of this state bureaucracy is the Pasdaran, or “Revolutionary Guards.”[20]

The Revolutionary Guards were formed during the revolution as a way to solidify the Khomeinist position. Khomeini and his supporters were distrustful of the army, as it was closely associated with the Shah’s regime. They also needed to counter the armed leftist guerilla groups who had a formidable presence as a result of their role in the insurrection. Consequently, a militia was created of committed Khomeini supporters, drawing from the militias that had evolved out of the neighborhood committees that sprang up during the revolution. The latter were themselves tied to the local mosques, which were in turn controlled by a central “Revolutionary Committee” presided over by Khomeini himself. After the revolution, these armed committees were purged of non-loyalists and formalized into the revolutionary guard. With the war, they became formalized as a military unit and formed the frontline of the battles. The Pasdaran were, and still are today, ideologically and institutionally tied to the seat of the “supreme leader.” At the time of the Guard’s emergence, this position was occupied by Khomeini, but now filled by Ayatollah Khamenei. Originally a middle-ranking cleric, Khamenei was a committed Islamist militant during the Shah’s period, who would go on to become one of Khomeini’s most ardent supporters, later serving as president for a time during the 1980s. However, irrespective of who is in government, the Pasdaran are autonomous and owe their loyalty to the leader.

Today, the Pasdaran are larger and even more institutionalized, having become one of the central anchors of the state, not only militarily and as a repressive force, but also economically. The Pasdaran are not only a massive military force that parallels the regular army. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, state bureaucracy provided a means of advancement for those previously excluded from state and economic power. The Pasdaran consequently became one of the largest corporations owned by the state, second only to the national Iranian oil company. Their books are completely closed, even to the official government. They draw their arms from the private sector, but also the black market, aided by their control of the borders. Iran routinely executes drug traffickers; indeed, these makeup most executions. But if you are an officer in the Pasdaran it can be a lucrative trade. Civil exams were replaced by religious exams, ensuring that those who were the most ideologically loyal and committed to the state could advance through the ranks and be given positions. The Pasdaran is also responsible for regional repression. For example, they organized and coordinated the repression of the Iraqi demonstrations of 2019. Their elite Al-Quds force has also been instrumental in supporting the Syrian state against its opposition.[21]

Ultimately, at the level of political-ideological organization, the Islamic Republic operates similarly to other one-party authoritarian states, with the difference that religious networks replace the party apparatus. In other words, the Islamic social networks play the role that the party apparatus did in the fascist and Stalinist countries: the mosque is the party headquarters, and the Friday prayer leader is the local commissar, spreading the message of the state to the masses weekly. The Friday prayer at the central mosque in every city is the megaphone of the central government, while the cleric plays the role of the commissar doling out state ideology to those in attendance.

#The Islamic Republic #iran #middle east #Anti-imperialism #history #Ill Will #insurrection #Class Struggle #Autonomy #anarchism #resistance #prison abolition #acab #jail #prisoners #autonomy #revolution #community building #practical anarchism #anarchist society #practical #practical anarchy #anarchy #daily posts #communism #anti capitalist #anti capitalism #late stage capitalism #organization #grassroots

[darkangel1791]

From Anne's Facebook page-

Dearest People of the Page. This is Christopher. For as long as I can remember the World Trade Center of New Orleans has anchored the foot of Canal Street. Even in my childhood it had a distinctly retro vibe, with its cross-shaped footprint and rounded observatory deck. In more recent years, it struggled to retain occupants and took on a ghostly atmosphere, a shame given its central location. Very recently the Four Seasons company renovated its interior from top to bottom, installing a new luxury hotel and high end condos on the upper floors. As part of this renovation they installed an exhibit called Vue Orleans. Visitors are greeted with a colorful, multimedia exhibit about the history of the city before express elevators whisk them high above the city to an observatory deck offering gorgeous views. Inside the first floor exhibit the novel INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE is featured as one of two novels that definitively captures the New Orleans experience. (The other is the beloved classic "A Confederacy of Dunces" by John Kennedy Toole.) I know that Anne would be deeply thrilled by this honor and my profound gratitude goes to the organizers of the exhibit. Love, Christopher Rice

Vue Orleans

#anne rice #vue orleans #four seasons #new orleans #interview with the vampire #christopher rice

[ltwilliammowett]

The Raid of the Medway, 12–14 June 1667

“And, the truth is, I do fear so much that the whole kingdom is undone”

These were the words of Samuel Pepys Chief Secretary to the Admiralty (1633-1703), taken from his diary entry on 12th June 1667, a stark reminder of the victorious Dutch attack launched on the unsuspecting Royal Navy. This attack became known as the Raid on Medway, a humiliating loss for England and one of the worst in the history of the Royal Navy.

The dates here refer to the Julian calendar used in England at that time.

The Prelude

After the end of the first Anglo-Dutch War in 1654, the restoration of the monarchy had taken place in England with the return of King Charles II (1630-1685). The latter needed financial resources for a government independent of Parliament, which he hoped to gain through the spoils of another war against the United Netherlands. He was supported in this by the ambitions of the Royal African Company to damage the Dutch competition. In the spring of 1665, open warfare broke out. After the initial fighting, the Dutch won the Battle of Four Days in June 1666 and thought they had gained the upper hand. A few weeks later, however, the English fleet regained naval supremacy in the North Sea in the "St. James's Day Fight". As a result, the Royal Navy interdicted Dutch shipping and English captains raided places along the coast. The most famous case occurred on 20 August 1666, when Vice-Admiral Robert Holmes (1622-1692) burned down the village of Ter Schelling on the island of Terschelling and sank 140 to 150 merchant ships anchored in nearby Vlie. This event became known and celebrated in England as Holmes's Bonfire. Afterwards, the English fleet retreated to its own waters.

The raid of the Medway, by Willem van der Stoop (–1665) (x)

War weariness grew in the States General as the costs strained the national budget and confidence in the ally France had waned. After the catastrophic losses of the merchant ships at Terschelling, the Dutch opened peace negotiations under Swedish mediation. But English finances were also exhausted. The war had not brought the hoped-for profits, and Parliament refused to grant new funds for warfare after it emerged that some of the money granted had gone to the king's expensive court. Added to this were the losses caused by the severely impaired maritime trade, the great plague epidemic of 1665 and the "Great Fire of London". Against the opposition of Admiral Monck (1608-1670), King Charles II therefore ordered in the winter of 1666/67 that the large ships of the line be dismantled and decommissioned. The war was to be continued only with privateers in order to damage Dutch trade.

Meanwhile, at the peace congress in Breda, the English envoys had been instructed to reach as advantageous a conclusion as possible. Against the background of the last successes in 1666, Charles II dragged out the negotiations in order to end the war with a profit, even though he had had his only means of pressure, the fleet, de-rigged. The United Netherlands were not prepared to make concessions. Soon, however, they came under pressure from elsewhere. King Louis XIV of France (1638-1715) declared war on the Kingdom of Spain in May 1667 and began an invasion of the Spanish Netherlands to appropriate it. The United Netherlands was now forced to bring peace negotiations with England to an immediate conclusion so that it could concentrate on containing French expansionist intentions. To this end, it seemed necessary to Johan de Witt (1625-1672), the council pensioner and head of Dutch policy, to increase the pressure on England by directly attacking the island of Great Britain.

The Plan

The idea of landing troops on the British Isles was not new. Such plans had already been worked out after the victory of the Dutch fleet in the Battle of the Four Days. In the summer of 1666, Admiral Michiel de Ruyter (1606-1676) had taken about 6000 soldiers to the Thames estuary in addition to the fleet, in order to be able to intervene in a supportive manner in the event of a local uprising of the English population against Charles II. But such an uprising failed to materialise, and the transport ships were sent back to Dutch ports after a storm. Only a brief landing on the Isle of Thanet was achieved.

The burning of the English fleet off Chatham, 1667, likely painted by Willem van de Velde the Younger, 1670 (x)

In the summer of 1667, Johan de Witt was well informed by spies about the financial shortages of the English crown and also knew about the decommissioning of most English ships of the line, as well as about the situation of the sailor and dockyard employees who had not been paid for months. Despite his own financial strain, he now prepared the equipment for a Dutch expedition. They were to sail into the Thames Estuary, enter the River Medway and sail to the great dock at Chatham, where many of England's proudest warships lay. Once at their destination, the raiders were to sink or burn as many ships as possible, taking care to capture the best ships as prizes. Such a raid would be a severe blow to the power and prestige of England, for the Royal Navy was the pride of the island nation. Chastened and humiliated by defeat, the English might accept peace on Dutch terms.

The designated contingents of ships were gathered and prepared in various Dutch ports, while in April a squadron under Admiral Van Ghent attempted to enter the Firth of Forth. The main purpose of this enterprise was to provide cover for the main fleet, which assembled at the island of Texel in early June 1667. Admiral de Ruyter sailed along his own coasts, taking in the various contingents as he went. In the end, his fleet consisted of 64 ships of the line and frigates, 15 fireships, 7 escort ships and 13 galliots with a total of 3330 guns and about 17,500 men.

The attack begins

The Assault on Sheerness

The Dutch fleet reached the English coast at Harwich on 7 June 1667. The following day it sailed south along the coast and anchored off the Thames estuary. While doing so, she ran into a storm that forced a large number of ships to cut their anchor ropes and drift. This mainly affected troopships, which were no longer available for the following operations. At a council of war on board the flagship, the further course of action was discussed. Admiral de Ruyter had reservations about sending the entire fleet up the river, as he was not precisely informed about the whereabouts of the smaller English fleet units. Should they return unexpectedly and close the mouth of the Thames, the Dutch fleet would be trapped. Cornelis de Witt proposed that the main force itself should remain off the mouth of the river and a small detachment should guard the English Channel, while a squadron under Admiral Willem Joseph van Ghent (1626-1672) should advance up the Thames. There, this squadron was to attack some West Indian merchant ships at Gravesend, which had been reported by an intercepted Norwegian trader. Admiral van Ghent's squadron consisted of 17 smaller warships, four fireships, some yachts and galiots, and 1000 marines under Colonel Dolman. The squadron set off on the morning of 9 June and initially occupied Canvey Island. However, the wind then shifted and the English merchant ships, which in the meantime had been warned of the approaching Dutch warships, escaped upriver.

Sail to Chatham, Willem Schellinks, c. 1668 (x)

Cornelis de Witt now urged Admiral van Ghent to enter the Medway and attack the English fleet lying there. The entrance to this river was controlled by a fort still under construction at Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey. However, to defend this key position, the English had only a weak Scottish garrison, 16 guns, the small frigate Unity and two lightships at their disposal. On 10 June, Admiral van Ghent attacked the fort. The Unity fired only a single broadside and then fled up the Medway, pursued by a Dutch fireship. The Dutch ships took the fort under fire for the next two hours and eventually landed 800 naval soldiers under Colonel Dolman. The fort garrison fled without offering serious resistance to the landing troops and the whole of the Isle of Sheppey was occupied by Van Ghent's forces. The battle for this important position had cost the Dutch about 50 men. The value of the 15 cannons and other goods captured in the process was 400,000 livres or four tons of gold, according to contemporary estimates.

Informed of the events on 9 June, George Monck, 1st Duke of Albemarle (1608-1670) received royal orders to organise the defence. Monck first inspected the installations on the Thames at Gravesend Fort and on the morning of 11 June went to Chatham on the Medway. There he found virtually no organised defence. At Gillingham an iron chain had been drawn across the course of the river, but it was too low. There were only three smaller ships to protect them: the Unity (44 guns), the Charles V and the Matthias (former Dutch merchantmen Carolus Quintus and Geldersche Ruyter). Otherwise, panic reigned. Of the more than 800 dock workers, almost all had fled or refused to help because of their unpaid wages. Out of thirty boats and ships, only ten were still to be found because refugees had used them to escape or local officials had evacuated their personal belongings on them. The Duke ordered the soldiers and officers he had brought with him to set up two coastal batteries on the shore by the chain, but even for this they lacked the necessary tools. To create further obstacles in front of the chain, Admiral Monck ordered fire ships to be sunk there. Two ships, the Norway Merchant and the Marmaduke, were successfully sunk, but the great Sancta Maria, which had also been designated as an obstacle, ran aground. Also on the scene was the large warship Royal Charles (88 guns), but it was completely unarmed.

Stern decoration of the Royal Charles, anonymous, c. 1663 - c. 1664 (x)

Admiral Monck ordered them upriver to safety, but there were not enough personnel to do so. When the Dutch attack came later, she was still lying unmanned on the shore. Among the more than 1100 workers in the docks at Chatham, there were few willing to help. Their pay was months in arrears, as the King lacked the financial means, and now they too refused to serve.

The breakthrough at Gillingham

On the morning of 12 June, the Dutch units began their advance in the Medway. The narrowness of the channel forced the ships to sail one behind the other in a single line. In the lead was the Vrede under the command of her captain Jan van Brakel. The captain had been placed under arrest two days earlier for allowing his men to plunder on the Isle of Sheppey. In order to restore his reputation, he had now voluntarily taken over the top position. Brakel's ship soon came under the crossfire of the three English defensive ships and the two coastal batteries.

However, he steered straight for the Unity without firing and gave her a broadside at point-blank range. The English crew then fled the ship and left it to the Dutch. Under cover of the powder smoke, the two following brander under Brakel's command also approached and sank the English ships Charles V and Matthias in quick succession. The iron chain was subsequently broken during the first ramming attempt (there are some discrepancies in the tradition here, some historians also think that it was simply sailed over because it lay so far in the water and were actually useless).

From the left ;  "Agatha" , "Beschermer" , "Charles V" , "Propatia"  , The "Royal Charles"  , "Matthias"   and a Dutch Admirals yacht, by Jan de Quelery (x)

The Dutch ships now had free passage up the Medway, because behind the chain there was a wide gap between the sunk English ships, which should have been closed by the sinking of the Sancta Maria. The following Dutch frigates soon silenced the English coastal batteries with their fire, whose fire had been almost ineffective anyway due to structural deficiencies. The biggest prize of the day for the Dutch fleet was the Royal Charles which had often served as a flagship for the English fleet commanders. Btw the Dutch did not take her into naval service because it was considered that she drew too much water for general use on the Dutch coast. Instead the Royal Charles was permanently drydocked near Hellevoetsluis as a public attraction, with day trips being organised for large parties, often of foreign state guests. After vehement protests by Charles that this insulted his honour, the official visits were ended when she was auctioned for scrap in 1673.

Raid at Upnor Castle

Meanwhile, the English were making defensive preparations at Upnor Castle. The Duke of Albemarle and Peter Pett, the commander of the docks, put the castle's guns on standby and set up another battery on the far bank. The attempt to stretch another chain across the river failed. Now they wanted to bring the warships towards Chatham, but again there were not enough men. To at least save the largest warships from capture, the Duke of Albemarle ordered them to be sunk in low water where they could be raised again later.

The Dutch before Upnor Castle, by Jan de Quelery (x)

Late in the afternoon of 12 June, the Dutch advance was halted by the state of the tide. On board the captured Royal Charles, Van Ghent, De Ruyter and De Witt met to discuss further action. These three commanders decided to push further upriver the following day and attack the Chatham Dockyards and the large warships located there. At midday on 13 June, the remaining Dutch braders, protected by four frigates and a larger number of smaller ships, attacked the English positions. They were soon caught in the crossfire between Upnor Castle and the battery hastily raised on the opposite bank of the river. A detachment of naval soldiers landed and moved to attack the English ammunition magazine at Upnor Castle, which they successfully blew up before withdrawing again.

The bombardment of Upnore Castle by Arnold de Lange (x)

In the meantime, the Dutch ships fired on the English gun batteries. While the battle was still going on, a calm set in, forcing De Ruyter and other officers to transfer to longboats in order to direct the actions of their units from them. After a fierce firefight, the Dutch fireships succeeded in attacking the three large warships lying on the shore, Loyal London (92 guns), Royal Oak (76 guns) and Royal James (82 guns). The water in which these ships had been sunk by the English themselves was not shallow enough to offer protection even against an arson attack. All three ships fell victim to the Dutch fireships after their hull crews fled. The Duke of Albemarle, meanwhile, tried to tow the remaining warships upriver under the protection of Chatham's guns. He lined up battle-ready warships on the banks and gathered militia troops to halt the Dutch advance. In fact, the Dutch ships went no further against the stiffening English resistance. Late in the afternoon they retreated with the rising tide as far as Gillingham. There they made the captured English ships Royal Charles and Unity seaworthy and left the Medway on 14 June. The losses from the battle in front of Upnor Castle amounted to about 500 men on the English side, while it is assumed that the Dutch lost between 50 and 150 men.

The aftermath

The Dutch raid on the English ships in the Medway became the biggest debacle of the war for the Royal Navy. It lost more ships than in all previous naval battles combined. The Royal Charles and the Unity had been captured by Dutchmen and the Loyal London, Royal James, Royal Oak, Charles V, Matthias, Marmaduke, Sancta Maria as well as five fireships, two ketches, a fleute and a smaller ship sunk or burnt. In contrast, the Dutch had deployed a total of ten fireships. In addition, there were further indirect losses of the Royal Navy. The Vanguard, for example, had drifted while attempting to ground her and eventually wrecked at Rochester so that she could no longer be lifted. Further north, beyond Gravesend, Prince Rupert had wanted to block the Thames to a possible Dutch advance by sinking the Golden Phoenix, House of Sweeds, Welcome and Leicester there. This turned out to be a sheer waste of important warships, as the Dutch never advanced further than Gravesend. All in all, these losses - especially those of the three large warships - changed the strategic balance between England and the United Netherlands in favour of the Dutch for years to come.

After this success, the Dutch were able to display their unrestricted superiority. One part of the Dutch fleet took action against the English merchant ships on the Channel coast, while another under Admiral Van Nes continued to blockade the Thames for English shipping. In smaller operations, Dutch troops still landed in some places or sailed warships up the Thames in the following weeks.

In London, the events on the banks of the Medway led to a severe economic collapse and panic among the population. Rumours said Chatham was on fire, as were Gravesend, Harwich, Queenborough, Colchester and Dover. Dutch landings at Portsmouth, Plymouth and Dartmouth were reported, and even claims that the king had fled; the Papists were about to take power. Even an imminent French landing was expected.

After the Raid on the Medway, Admiral Michiel de Ruyter, Admiral van Ghent and Cornelis de Witt each received a golden cup from the States of Holland (x)

The Dutch had taken up a position in the Thames by which they cut London off from trade. Coal supplies from the Tyne in particular were failing, and soon the price of coal increased tenfold. The English fleet was weakened by the raid and there was hardly any money available for its replenishment. King Charles II therefore had little choice but to instruct his envoys at the peace conference in Breda to conclude the treaty as soon as possible. The Peace of Breda was signed on 21 July 1667, and on 16 August the Dutch fleet abandoned the blockade of the English ports and the Thames estuary in accordance with the treaty. But England’s desire for revenge helped motivate another Anglo-Dutch War the following decade. But also an upgrade of the Navy as well as a change in the pay and living conditions of the Sailors which laid the foundation for one of the most powerful navies in the world. 

#naval history #raid of the medway #12-14 june 1667 #age of sail #event overview #and it is a very long post #sorry

[ampleappleamble]

—

Very few ships operating within the Deadfire bothered to make the long and treacherous trip to the lonely expanse of open sea known colloquially as the Windless Wastes. Traversing the unnaturally still waters was, after all, a task hardly worth the effort– excepting a direct route south to Naasitaq or the White That Wends, the area held little of value. No whaler was mad or foolish enough to brave the icy depths for a prize that could be won far more easily in safer waters, and cartographers had yet to make an offer enticing enough for any sufficiently competent explorer to successfully chart the place. The only known ports in which one might find shelter consisted of an abandoned Vailian fortress surrounded by shipwrecks and shrouded in a malevolent fog, and an inhospitable iceberg populated entirely by fanatical Rymrgandian cultists. Therefore, very few ships passed that way, and fewer still dared to drop anchor at the lone settlement frozen into the crevices of the Dead Floe, lest the burgeoning ice issuing forth from the winds of the glacial cliffs freeze their vessels in place for good.

Still, an unlucky or incompetent captain finding themselves bereft of the trading companies' good graces– if not a crew still to be paid and fed– might sometimes need plunge into very unfriendly waters indeed if they were to make ends meet. And even oblivion-seeking zealots needed tallow and firewood, needed vegetables and fruit and grain, and if they had coin or useful sundries to trade for it, who was a desperate merchant to argue? And so ships still, on occasion, reluctantly docked at Harbinger's Watch, offloading whatever wares they had before they spoiled: to the brewmaster, the fishmonger, the innkeeper.

But despite the dangers and the difficulties, one plucky young entrepreneur visited on a more regular basis, one who treated exclusively– and secretly– with the High Harbinger himself. And on this visit, much to her chagrin, he was proving to be a very difficult client.

—

"This is it?" Vatnir picked at the thin, shabby fare laid out before him, an unimpressed scowl stretched across his lipless face. "This is all you have on offer?"

"Per complancanet, fentre, do not sound so offended." The merchant fussed with a loose strand of ivy sprouting from her shoulder and strode briskly across the tiny hidden room, as though she were trying to physically distance herself from her own pathetic muster. "Di verus, it is nothing personal. My sister and I, we have merely suffered a... a lean quarter, ac? A temporary bout of poor fortune. You, more than anyone, should understand that." She narrowed her goat's eyes at him, somehow managing to pout condescendingly.

The son of Rymrgand shot the daughter of Galawain a withering glare as he roughly placed a jar of corpsefruit preserves back onto the table with a resounding crack. "And you, more than anyone, ought to understand the incredible risk I take in simply meeting here with you every month."

He folded his hands behind his back and lowered his horned head down between his shoulders as he spoke, sounding not unlike a teacher scolding a bright but lazy pupil. "I am the leader of this clan, Bela, the very beating heart of this community. My spare time is both exceedingly scarce and incalculably precious to me. If it should ever be discovered how I choose to spend that time–"

Bela huffed indignantly. She had come here to do business, not to get lectured. "Postenago, of course I know that–"

"Then why," he hissed, whirling sharply on her, "do you think you can convince me to trade the products of my limited time and effort– painstakingly crafted, authentic, invaluable jommydra– for dross and dregs?" He thrust a bony, accusing finger at the pitiful display of substandard goods cluttering his table.

For a moment Bela was shocked into silence, but if her miserable childhood as part of a traveling curiosity show in the Republics had taught her anything, it was how to recover quickly from an unexpected blow. "Well, you seem to have very easily put a value on them, High Harbinger," Bela spat back coolly. "Over the years we've been doing business together, you've traded away quite a few copies of your precious lore. For food, drink, smoke..."

Vatnir snorted derisively, waving a bandaged hand at her as though to waft away her insinuations. "Yes, yes, good food, good drink, good smoke," he barked. "Rare foreign luxuries that might lift away at least some small portion of the burdens I bear. Things worth the hours I pour into reproducing my clan's most sacred scripture for a profane outsider. Not this... detritus."

"There's plenty here that's perfectly good yet!" Bela insisted, stomping back over to the table and casting her hand in a broad arc above the sad little pile of miscellanea, trying to convince herself as much as her customer. "Madiccho, I thought you Glamfellen were more resourceful than that. Look, here. This whiteleaf–"

"—is naught but stems and seeds," he scoffed, "more likely to clog my pipe than to ease my pain." He coughed, as though to make his point.

"Well," she countered brusquely, "perhaps a man in your condition should not be smoking so much anyway." She snatched up a brown glass bottle from the table, waved it enticingly at him. "Drink, I think, would be much better to soothe your poor throat, ac? Rum, fine rum distilled in the heart of Neketaka, fit for a Watershaper– no, for the Queen herself!"

"Half empty," he growled, crossing his arms over his chest. "And nowhere near as good as anything I can already get from Nyvardir. For free."

Really, the worst part was that he was right– her stock was shit, all of it. But unfortunately for her, shit was all she had, and she couldn't endanger her proprietary arrangement with the only priest of Rymrgand in the Deadfire, and one willing to betray the sacrosanctity of his office for personal gain at that. Desperation crawled up inside her guys like a creeping vine. "Gellarde. Fine. Fine! All of it, then! I will give you all of it, fentre, everything you see here, if you'll only–"

"Maribel," Vatnir snapped. "I don't want any of it."

She turned away from him.

With any other client, she'd have probably called it quits by now and referred him to a peer to whom she owed a favor. Part of being a good saleswoman, after all, was recognizing when one was simply the wrong kith for the job, and networking with contemporaries was just as important as pleasing one's customers. But if Marri was right– and being an Endings godlike herself, her "sister" did possess some unique insight into the matter– having exclusive access to authentic Glamfellen holy lore could mean the difference between dominating the market in the White That Wends, or continuing to drag along the bottom of the mercantile social strata as they did now, barely making enough profit for the next job's expenses, servicing clients with her body when her merchandise would not suffice. And if they were successful in using their godlike status to capture the custom of an entire country (or the communities along the northern coasts that deigned to trade with outsiders, anyway), perhaps they could capture the attention of the Songretta as well, convince them and the ducs that godlikes did have a place in the Republics, that they could run magnificent businesses, fill a niche that no ordinary kith ever could. She couldn't just give up on that dream. In fact, she refused to rest until this repugnant, boorish, creepy little charlatan of a priest gave her what she wanted; what she deserved, really, for putting up with him for so long. So she turned away from him, and she uncorked the vial of oil of allure strung around her neck for just such an occasion.

When she turned back to face Vatnir again, her eyes were downcast, her full, glossy lips parted just slightly. She fluttered her long, dark eyelashes, willed color into her cheeks, made her voice smoky and sultry and sweet. "In that case," she murmured, "I suppose I only have one more thing to offer you, High Harbinger."

The dozens of tiny orange flowers that crawled up her delicate antelope's horns and nestled throughout the tight curls of her mahogany hair all slowly turned toward Vatnir in unison, as though he were the sun. Her lichen-pocked hand drifted slowly across her soft, round belly, then up and across the plunging neckline of her dress, tugging at a leather strap tucked between her shoulder and her ample bosom.

Vatnir stumbled a step backwards, a bruise-colored blush spreading beneath his mask, bad memories rising up inside him like bile. "N-no," he blurted, "no, no. None of that. Never again. I'll not humiliate myself a second time just for you to–"

"Cuè?" Bela purred, pulling the strap harder to bring her satchel around to her front. The oil burned as it clung to her tongue, its intoxicating perfume billowing up around her as she spoke. "Sientere, but I cannot imagine what you might find humiliating about being offered a perfectly innocent book, fentre."

Vatnir blinked, eyeing her suspiciously before stepping closer again, his shame quickly and mercifully forgotten. "A book?" he muttered, his tripartite gaze fixed on her hands as she opened her bag and produced a thick, heavy volume bound in skuldr leather. "What, a new one?"

"New to you. And to me as well," she sighed, trying to suppress a grin. He couldn't smell it, she knew, but her oil was definitely working on him, drawing him in. And it was working on her, too, loosening her up, making the right words come to her as though they were being whispered in her ear. "Di verus, this item is not exactly part of my regular stock– it is a personal possession, a... gift from another client. I am only halfway through it myself, but if you insist on driving such a hard bargain..."

She coyly proffered the book, holding it just out of his reach, and as expected, he grasped for it eagerly. For many reasons, physical travel wasn't feasible for the High Harbinger of Dusk, but reading afforded him a kind of escape anyway. While narcotics and culinary delicacies could bring great pleasure and powerful succor, his enjoyment of them was also agonizingly momentary, and he was at the mercy of the gods to decide when an opportunity to endulge might fall upon him. A good story, however, was something he could escape into whenever he pleased, for as long as he dared: he needed only find the time to read it first, and then his chanter training allowed him to easily recall a particular turn of phrase or a favorite quotation and slip into another world inside his mind, a fantasy where he could hide away from the endless, miserable drudgery of his life. They were good for inspiring new ideas, too, new imagery and experiences and characters to weave into his sermons and his "visions", to make them sound more meaningful, more believable to his ignorant followers. If he were to be completely honest, a good, thick book was probably his very favorite thing to find among the vendor's wares when she visited– although, in the interests of trying to lower her prices for the damned things, he'd never admit it to her. Noting with relief that this one was written in a language he could actually read, Vatnir took up the weighty manuscript in his arms and adjusted his eyes and his mind to Aedyran script, drinking in the title.

The New Legends of the Eastern Reach: A True and Thorough Telling of the History of the Dyrwood in Anni Iroccio 2823, Detailing the Animancy Trials, the Assassination of Duc Aevar Wolf-Grin and the Defiance Bay Riots, the Rise of the Watcher of Caed Nua, and the Lifting of the Hollowborn Curse.

He sagged in disappointment.

"What in– for frost's sake, what kind of title is that?" he whined, even as he flipped the cover open and began leafing through the pages.

"One that tells you what the book is about, fentre," Bela deadpanned, smirking. "I know you haven't much use for world news down here in the frozen-over asshole of the southern seas, but let me assure you, the events described therein are as exhilarating and enthralling as any fantasy novel or sprawling epic. And what's more, they actually happened! In fact, if rumors–"

"You said this one was new," Vatnir grumbled, licking his thumb before turning another page. "The title says Anni Iroccio 2823. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the current year in your Vailian calendar is 2828, ja?"

Bela bristled slightly at the priest's constant interruptions, not to mention his choice to smear his stinking slobber all over the book she'd worked so hard to pilfer, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. "I said it was new to you," she reminded him patiently. "And books do take time to scribe and to illustrate, fentre, especially the more comprehensive ones like this. But the really interesting thing about this one is–"

"Ah, so there are pictures," Vatnir mused, happening across one as he rifled through the pages. "And in color, even." Indeed, vivid hues and brilliant goldleaf leapt out at him from the copious marginalia and full-page illustrations, charming and intriguing him despite himself: a Dyrwoodan city district teeming with what looked like the undead, a cluster of adra pillars surrounded by armed kith with painted faces, a bearded meadow folk man in an opulent cloak. He turned another page, and another, searching for more.

He stopped.

There on the page before him was a portrait of an orlan woman in a shining silver breastplate, her bright red hair cascading over her sturdy shoulders, her golden fur glittering against her tawny skin, her long, slender ears arcing gracefully toward the heavens, her violet eyes fixed on a point beyond the edge of the page, piercing and determined.

Vatnir stared, stupefied, powerless to look away. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Bela, peeking over his shoulder, had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Oh, she had him now. "Careful not to drool on the parchment, fentre. You'll make the ink run."

The smitten priest abruptly snapped back to reality, blinking rapidly and sucking air in between his teeth. "W-what?" he gurgled.

Now the merchant allowed herself to laugh. "As I was saying," she continued, "the interesting bit about this book is that it chronicles, in part, the rise of a particular hero of the Dyrwood. One who, if rumors are to be believed, has recently arrived here in the Deadfire. And gellarde! You have found her: the Watcher of Caed Nua!"

"Watcher?" Vatnir looked down at the book again, his gaze lingering on the woman's face for a moment before finally spotting a caption woven into the portrait's intricately detailed border, just beneath her clasped hands.

"Axe," he read, then stopped, perplexed. He squinted at the page. "Ocks-ah–"

"Ah-sha, postenago," Bela laughed. "She is Ixamitec. Ah-sha Ma-la is her name."

"Ah-sha Ma-la," he repeated softly, reverently, his eyes roving hungrily over the portrait again. "Axa Mala, of Ixamitl. Who is she?"

Hook, line, and sinker. Now all Bela had to do was reel him in. "To find out, aimoronet, you will have to buy the book," she teased, lightly running a fingertip along the edge of his ear. "Or trade for it, of course."

"Of course," he echoed absently, completely sincere– and then, too late, he caught himself.

Embarrassed, he gritted his teeth and jerked away from the merchant's touch, slamming the book shut. "Of course," he groused, scurrying to the opposite end of the room, the book still in his arms. "Well. You were right about one thing– I have no use for world news. In truth, no one does. So long as the Floe keeps expanding, there will soon be no world, no news. As it should be." The High Harbinger heaved a heavy sigh. "But..."

Bela's grin broadened. "But...?"

He turned his head to peer at her over his shoulder. "But you have piqued my curiosity. You said this... Watcher was here, in the Deadfire, now? What brought her here? I doubt I'll find that out from a book written five years ago."

Bela's golden-green eyes shone with excitement, and she hurried to his side, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You have heard of the giant adra man, ac? The one storming across the archipelago, possessed by Eothas, the dead god, devouring souls and luminous adra wherever it treads?"

A giant man made of adra? This was the first he'd heard of anything like that. "I've heard rumors," he lied. "So it's true, then?"

"Oh yes, fentre, it is true," she chirped. "And this Watcher, this Axa Mala? She is here because she is chasing it. It emerged from beneath her castle in the Dyrwood, tearing away her soul with its rising, and Cirono returned her to us from the Beyond to hunt the giant down."

Vatnir rolled his eyes at the mention of Berath, but pressed on regardless. "Hunt it down?" he muttered. "To what end?"

She shrugged. "Who can say? Perhaps Cirono wishes her to reclaim her soul from the dead god, that it might return to the Wheel as is proper. Perhaps she has been tasked with finding a way to stop the giant's rampage, or else destroy it. Whatever her reasons, she has told the Queen of the Kahanga that she intends to sail the seas far and wide, scouring the isles for her runaway god. Who knows? Perhaps one day she'll even pay you a visit, all the way down here. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Bela winked at him, laughing again as the priest cringed and blushed.

"D-don't mock me, Vailian," he grumbled. "I've grown weary of your company. Just... take the jommydra and go. A book for a book– that will have to stand in for a fair trade, this time." He set the thick tome carefully on the edge of his table, snatching up a significantly slimmer manuscript and coughing into his free hand as he thrust it in the merchant's general direction.

Bela clapped her hands together, delighted in her victory, and flounced over to him to collect her prize. "Agracima, High Harbinger," she gushed, gathering her hard-won treasure– along with her unsold wares– into her satchel. "Always a pleasure to do business with you."

He grunted dismissively, and then again in alarm as he noticed what she was up to. "H-hey, wait a minute– what are you doing? You said I could have all of it if–"

"–if you'd trade me what you promised me you would when last we met, ac," she explained, cocking a slim green vine of an eyebrow. "I did not say you could have all of this and my personal copy of a rare and expensive book. It's one or the other, fentre. Do not be greedy."

Vatnir narrowed his cold, beady eyes at her. "Fine," he spat. "But you owe me better, much better than this next time. And I intend to hold you to that."

"I'm certain you will," Bela chuckled, latching her now bulging bag shut. "If you should ever wish to trade it back to me, my sister and I will return in a month, as per our arrangement. Corès for now, aimico. Use her portrait for your pleasure all you wish, but do try not to fall in love, ac?"

Vatnir growled, reaching threateningly for an empty bottle of rymsjódda. But before he could even pick it up let alone throw it at her, the woman gave him a cheerful little wave and vanished in a puff of smoke– her favorite rogue's trick, and an excellent way to return to her ship undetected by any of the other harbingers. She always ended their meetings that way. Annoying, but at least he was finally alone.

Alone with his new book. With Axa Mala, hero of the Dyrwood, and the tales of her great and terrible deeds. His hands trembled as he cracked the book open, letting the pages fall to either side, parting to reveal the orlan's portrait once more, every bit as captivating as the first time he'd seen it. He suddenly felt nervous, nauseated even, as though she were about to march into his quarters in person and demand to know what he thought he was doing. So he closed the book and took a few deep breaths before opening it again, this time to the first page.

"Well then," he murmured, "shall we get to know one another, Watcher of Caed Nua?" And he started reading.

—

#pillars of eternity #vatnir #fanfic wip #working title: hero worship #honestly that'll probably be the published title too #kinda bummed i had to change the Lords of the Eastern Reach reference #but unfortunately it just didn't quite work #anyway this is the intro and first half #the rest will come... uh later #thanks for reading ♡

[reborrowing]

a strange appearance, part one

stranger swap masterpost | ao3 | Next Val is doing their best to adjust to a more traditional borrower lifestyle, which naturally includes keeping their much larger roommate in the dark about their presence. It's about the only part they've gotten right. One morning, at the end of Val's run, the two of them inexplicably trade sizes, leaving Phoebe to wake up in what may as well be a new world with no company but a mysterious, inhuman stranger. They're not much for conversation.

I really did hold onto that idea I just never finish anything anymore 🩵 posting so I can stop obsessively rewriting the same thing on repeat

cws: unreality, fear/anxiety.

This renter was harder to work around than the couple Val had roomed with previously, but at least she had the courtesy to snore. Val thought all insomniacs should snore, like cats that wore bells on their collars. It was loud, it was annoying, and it was reassuring—Val knew that she wasn’t looking their way.

Val spread their meager weight across multiple stems of lavender to keep the flowers from bending out of place. The human here was generally disorganized and careless, but she fussed so readily over her dear plants and jarred gardens that here of all places, they were careful not to leave a trail here that might catch her otherwise flighty attention. They plucked flowers from the base of each bloom until they had an armful, hopeful that spreading out the damage would keep it from being visible, then shimmied back down to the lip of the ceramic vase.

Someone had once told them a Rule to determine whether or not one’s borrowings were noticeable to a human eye, but after spending half their life at odds with much more significant Rules, they’d forgotten the minor ones entirely. 

They cringed as they stepped in front of the digital clock. The red light washed over them like a warning. 5:26. Only one hour to get back home before her alarms could start going off. It was enough time, but less than they liked, especially tonight. Val was sore, headachy, and had a gut feeling that it was going to get worse. The Tylenol stock up in their kitchenside nest was down to a few grains and they weren't interested in trying to come out here when they were actually sick. 

Outside, the wind picked up to a howl and caused a tree branch to bang against the nearby window. Val jumped at the sudden sound and their bag fumbled out of their hands and slid over the edge of the dresser. 

Val groaned as they watched the contents spill out into an open drawer below before the bag itself bounced down to the floor.

Can't anything be easy? Just once?

Val had never been good at the whole borrowing deal, they just didn’t have a lot of other options for the time being.

They grabbed their floss and threw themself down the side of the dresser. With a huff, Val secured their bag over their shoulders and started to climb back up to the middle drawer to retrieve their borrowings from the sock drawer. 

The howling wind and creaking framework masked the sudden silence behind them as the storm continued to beat against the complex. There was no warning that the human was awake until Val was a good half foot off the ground and a soft blue glow appeared overhead. 

They tensed and looked over their shoulder. The human was squinting at her phone, not the floor. Not Val.

They adjusted their grip and leaned against the dresser to stay as still as physically possible. It was agonizing to hang in the open like this, but they were just as worried about their movement catching her eye. She was probably just checking a message or whatever and would roll right back over.

And yes, after a few more breaths, the human groaned and tossed the phone back onto the dresser. Val let out a sigh of relief, too soon. The phone bounced and slid into the earring that had anchored Val's line in place. There was a gentle scraping and Val’s line went slack. The earring caught on the open drawer and jerked their sudden fall to an equally abrupt stop and Val choked on a startled squeal.

That, she noticed.

The mattress creaked. The human grunted as she pushed herself up and to the edge of the bed. Her face scrunched up as she peered down through the relative darkness until her eyes met theirs. She recoiled with a yelp that mirrored Val's, albeit several times louder.

Val cursed—just one fucking trip without some kind of bullshit close call—and dropped themself to the floor. The horizon turned to shadow as the human sat up. Val dove to get under the dresser and out of reach. They missed the low clearance, instead slamming their head against the wooden frame.

They blinked away stars as they reeled back, ears ringing. They reached out to catch their balance and their hand curled around something small and metal, thinner than the palm of their hand. Val stared for several seconds, not really understanding what they were looking at. Their hand was wrapped around one of the dresser handles–one they ought to be able to use as a balance beam.

They shook their head to clear themself from the daze, unsuccessfully. They swayed for a couple of seconds and collapsed the rest of the way to the floor, right in the open where the renter would have no trouble finding them.

What a stupid way to go.

~

Phoebe wasn’t sure if she had just woken up or blacked out into a dream, but she was pretty sure there’d been a sudden shift in her consciousness. She’d been looking for something—a noise?—and then there was a brief blank in her stream of consciousness and now she was sitting back up.

She couldn’t tell where she was, which was hopefully just a sign that she was dreaming. She should have woken up in bed or maybe in a pile of textbooks, and this was neither. It was hot, stuffy, and darker than she ever let her apartment get.

As she stood and stretched to get her bearings, she brushed up against a canvas wall. Phoebe followed it for a while, but never found an exit. No one answered when she called out, either. She ran a hand through her hair, unsettled by the dark, then tugged at the bottom of the fabric. It was heavy, but after a few seconds, she managed to worm her way out from under what she assumed to be a collapsed tent.

She took in her new surroundings with a sense of awe. She was inside a poorly-lit room that was so huge that the shadows ate at the distant walls and the ceiling was barely defined in her peripheral vision. But what she could see was familiar. The ground in front of her was covered in more fabric, a field the exact color of her sheets. There was a wooden building in the distance, carved in the same shape as her dresser. A squat hill to her left was wearing a pillowcase. She had woken up in bed.

Unsteadily, she pulled herself to her feet, tripping over what she first assumed to be a slick fabric rug. She looked down as she pushed herself off the ground and recognized it as the tag from the T-shirt she’d fallen asleep in.

She blinked slowly, then laughed. It was so surreal, so absurd, that whatever fear she should have felt fizzled into bemused curiosity. She ran a hand over rough cotton stitches, each now as distinct as in a knit sweater.

It was impossible. Not strange, not unexplainable, impossible.

Definitely dreaming, she decided, never mind lucidity. That’s a thing anyway, isn’t it? Lucid dreaming?

Phoebe stood slowly, more carefully than the last time, and walked towards the edge of the bed to explore the rest of the room. Crossing the bed was strange. She was too light to sink into the mattress, but the cotton sheets were spongy and grabbed at her heels to keep her from walking too easily.

She wondered about how she’d get down once she reached the edge. If it was a dream, she ought to be able to fly, right?

To her disappointment, the thought didn’t miraculously lift her into the air. She was still thinking about how she might force it to work when she got close enough to see and be startled by the stranger passed out on her floor. She jumped, but that didn’t knock her into flight mode either.

The stranger was presumably normal-sized, although Phoebe didn’t bother with the math. Whether they were full-size or not, they were still comparatively huge to her. Like a jetliner had been re-sculpted into a living person.

They looked like they'd been through some real ordeal before reaching her bedroom floor. They were on their back, splayed out as if they'd collapsed and large, overlapping scars painted their bare chest pink. There were fresher cuts on their shin.

“Hey, are you alright?” she called down warily.

Several seconds passed with no response. Phoebe stepped closer to the edge and gave them another look to confirm they were breathing, then raised her voice and she tried to wake them again. Had her volume scaled down with her? Her vocal tract would have, right? But why would part of her physiology function as expected at scale, but not—

Phoebe pushed her hair back and shook the thought out of her head. This was a dream. It wasn’t going to be real or sensible or possible. She shouldn’t make herself crazy trying to make sense of it.

Instead, she tried simply willing the stranger awake. It was about as effective as willing herself to fly. She looked around for anything that could help, waiting for dream logic to kick in and hand her the next piece of the plot.

She found that anything that could’ve been useful either dwarfed her or only existed far out of her reach. The best she could see was the charging cable dangling off of her nearby dresser, but as she got closer, she got queasy looking at the gap between the two pieces of furniture.

That was strange too. Phoebe didn’t have any particular fear of heights when she was awake. This was a dream. It was only a few feet between the edge of the bed and the cable (proportionate to her current size). She hadn’t done the math, but she could. If she was even half as light as she ought to be at this scale, the fall shouldn’t hurt, not beyond some light bruising. She was sure of that.

But the math also suggested she shouldn’t be alive at this scale, so the dream had to have rules of its own. Or no rules at all, which could make the fall as painful as she imagined, or maybe perfectly harmless. That was all assuming she even tripped in the first place.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself against the mattress as best she could. She’d probably just wake up if she fell anyway. Because this was a dream, despite how clear her head felt. She’d be fine.

The stranger groaned and her attention snapped away from the stunt. She took a few steps back from the mattress’s edge and watched as they rolled onto their side. Their eyes opened into a squinting glare towards the ceiling. Immediately, their eyes widened into panic. The stranger shot upright like a house collapsing in reverse, eyes darting around to take in the horrors of a disorganized grad student’s bedroom.

"Are you okay?" Phoebe called.

The stranger froze. Their gaze swept over the bed twice before finding her on the sheets. Their eyes were big, gold, and so intense enough that Phoebe found herself taking several steps back. They only held eye contact for a brief half second before looking down to their own hands wringing in their lap. Their lips twitched for several seconds before the words came.

"What–why–what just happened? What did you do?" they sputtered.

"What did I do? Look at me, don’t you think I should be asking you that? You broke into my apartment! Who are you?”

"Your apartment? Since when does anyone else–oh god, unless? You’re not…?"

“I’m not what? What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?” Phoebe demanded.

They leaned closer and Phoebe edged backwards as they took over her horizon, overwhelmed. This kind of fear didn’t really belong in a dream. It lacked the urgency of a nightmare, but she no longer felt as detached from the feeling. She wanted it to stop.

The stranger’s breath hit her in gusts, even though they’d stopped a good distance away from her. The color drained from their face and their mouth split open in shocked horror, revealing a set of fangs. Phoebe’s stomach jumped and she couldn't keep herself from flinching when they yelled.

“You are! You’re her!”

"Her who? Who are you? What are you?"

They answered with a string of curses and pushed themself away from the bed. The shove reverberated up through the mattress. Phoebe caught herself only for her legs to go weak as the stranger rose. They'd still been on their knees when they were gawking down at her and now they stood up and seemed infinite. The speed of it made her motion sick.

They looked down at her one last time, shook their head, then unsteadily backed out of the room. Their footfalls were upsettingly silent for something so large. Phoebe ran after them so far as she could, but stopped several inches from the cliff edge where her bed ended. The stranger had already disappeared around the corner.

"Wait, hey! Who are you? What's going on?" Phoebe shouted.

They didn't answer. They didn't leave either. Every few seconds, the old floorboards behind the couch squealed with use. As far as she could tell, they were just pacing.

Phoebe stared down the drop to the floor, feeling even less convinced that it was safe.

But this had to be a dream, it had to be, and she’d really like it if the lower levels of her brain could work that out and wake up.

#g/t #giant/tiny #gt #gianttiny #gt writing #borrowers #stranger swap #oc: val #oc: phoebe #my writing #giant tiny #aotp ocs #a strange appearance