#He's a true southern man with a city to burn

[sydneighsays]

I love him so much. He's my favorite (probably) mass murderer with Christmas tree hair ❤️❤️❤️🧚‍♀️✨💅🏼

I have even more pictures of him on my Instagram 💀💀💀 My brain is mush.

#fanart #johnny silverhand #cyberpunk 2077 #He's a true southern man with a city to burn #You think he has religious trauma? #cuz he definitely has Mommy and daddy issues

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Eight

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number eight is ready to swagger into the bakery and I've only got four more weeks of this! I realised the very final chapter would be posted on February 12th so lets delay it by two days and end this on Valentine's Day, seeing as this is the fluffiest, most romantic thing I've ever written. Feels very appropriate to end it with my favourite Pedro boy on Valentine's Day. 🥰

This chapter is dedicated to my lovely, sweet friend @ladybess-a03 who, in my world, is this Pedro boy's beautiful wife.

Series Master List

“Is the rodeo in town?” the kid who works extra over the weekends in the bakery asks, raising their eyebrows and nodding towards the window. You look over and catch a glimpse of the man striding across the street. The comment is pretty accurate, he certainly looks like a cowboy; a slick cowboy dressed up for the city in a well tailored suit that hugs his narrow hips and wide shoulders, topped off with a black Stetson and suede shoulder patches. 

“Pretty good looking cowboy,” you say and the kid snorts, hanging their apron on the hook and giving you a quick wave goodbye. The cowboy reaches the bakery door and holds open the door for them before he steps inside.

“Afternoon, miss,” he says, greeting you with a polite tip of his Stetson, two fingers on the brim, as he saunters up to the counter, his lips quirking up in a smile. 

“Afternoon, sir,” you reply, returning his polite greeting with a smile of your own. Internally you’re swooning and giggling, there’s a smoothness to the man that makes you want to twirl your imaginary braid and kick your heels. 

“Sir,” he says, chuckling as he puts one hand on the counter, the other on his hip, pushing back his jacket and revealing a large belt buckle in the shape of a hip flask, “makes me feel about a hundred, darlin’. Call me Jack.” He offers you his hand, dwarfing your own as you shake it. 

“Alright, how can I help you, Jack?” you ask as the warmth of his hand lingers on yours. 

“Pie, sugar, I’m in a real mood for some pie,” he says, patting his belly with a grin, “And I heard you might be the best baker in town so I had to see for myself,” he winks, “if the rumors are true.” 

“I don’t know about best baker in town,” you smile back, “but thanks for the vote of confidence. What kind of pie are you in the mood for?” 

“Well, I’m an old fashioned cowboy, southern born and bred, so I doubt you’ll be surprised when you hear that I’d love some pecan pie, sugar,” he says, pointing to the one pecan pie you have in your display. 

“Not old fashioned,” you say, crouching down to slide the pie out, “but maybe traditional. And it’s a great pie,” you put it on the counter and Jack chuckles. 

“Honey, I’m anything but traditional, but I have a soft spot for pecan pie,” he says, putting an arm up on the display case and leaning in, his mouth pulling up in a crooked grin, “Sweet pecan pie, and sweet bakers,” he winks at you again and you feel your cheeks heat up and busy yourself adjusting the pie on the counter, trying to bite back the grin that’s threatening to split your face in half before you look up at the smiling cowboy again, his dark eyes twinkling under the brim of his Stetson. 

“Would you like the whole thing, or just a slice?” you ask and Jack grins. 

“Oh, sugar, I want the whole damn thing,” he replies and you swallow loudly. He keeps his eyes on you as you squirm under his gaze, your cheeks burning up as you quickly duck under the counter and grab one of the take away boxes. You’ve never met a man who so shamelessly flirts with anyone and you hear him chuckle as you look for the right sized box.

Jack is still smiling as you pop back up and start folding the flat cardboard, butterflies fluttering in your stomach under his gaze. 

“This pie sure smells wonderful, darlin’,” he says, leaning in closer and drawing a deep breath, his arm still on the display case as he puts a hand on his waist, but he’s got his eyes on you, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile under his neat mustache. 

“I hope it’ll taste as good as it smells then,” you reply, just to reply something. His over the top charm shouldn’t be getting to you so easily, but you’re practically a puddle at this point, any coherent sentence from you is a win and Jack seems to notice your reaction to his flirting and clearly loves how he’s getting to you, judging by the size of his grin. 

“I’m absolutely certain it will be every bit as sweet as you, sugar,” he purrs, his hand coming up to rub over his smooth jaw. 

You manage to slide the pie into the box and close the lid, pushing it over the counter to Jack, giving him a flustered smile. 

“Here you go then, enjoy,” you say, “Please let me know what you think, if you’re passing by again.”

“And what do I owe you, honey?” he asks, reaching back and pulling out a slim black wallet from his pocket. 

“Uh…umm…” you stutter, the prices, that are usually seared into your brain, have wandered off under the onslaught of Jack’s charm and you fumble for the price list next to the till, “Twenty-four, ninety-nine,” you finally get out and Jack pulls out two twenties and hands them over. 

“Keep the change, sugar, you’re undercharging for both the pie and the company,” he says, grinning as he winks at you again. 

“Oh thank you, sir-Jack,” you reply, “but that’s really not necessary.”  

“I know, but I want to,” he smiles, softer this time, “And I’ll be sure to let you know how much I like it,” He slides a hand under the box, carefully lifting it up as he tips his hat at you, two fingers on the brim again. 

“Have a good evening, darlin’,” 

“Same to you Jack, enjoy the pie.” 

“Oh, I will, I’m sure,” Jack grins, pushing the door open, letting a new customer in. 

“Ma’am,” he says, giving her a tip of his hat before he disappears with a final smile at you. 

“What a handsome man,” Mrs Morales says as she comes up to the counter, “and such good manners.” 

“He was very well mannered,” you smile at her as she comes up to the counter, “What can I get for you today, Mrs Morales?” 

…

When the doorbell jingles in the middle of the morning a few days later, you’re pleasantly surprised to see Jack’s smiling face above the small crowd of customers. He gives you a two fingered salute, tipping his hat, before he sits down at one of the café tables to wait. The crowd slowly thins out and eventually it’s Jack’s turn, and you notice that he’s choosing to wait until he can be served by you and not your shop assistant. 

“Hi Jack,” you smile at him as he comes over. He’s opted for a more casual look today you notice, a black leather jacket and white t-shirt instead of his slick suit, but the Stetson is still on his head as he gives you a crooked grin. 

“Hi there, sugar,” he drawls, his southern twang even more pronounced, “you’re looking real gorgeous today, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He winks as he leans on the counter, giving you his most winning smile and you can practically hear the eye roll from your assistant down by the till. 

“Thanks, you’re not looking to shabby yourself,” you smile back at him and he puffs his chest, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“How was the pecan pie?” you ask and Jack grins widely. 

“Just as sweet as the gorgeous baker girl who made it,” he croons, “I may have eaten the whole thing already.” 

“I’m happy to hear it,” you smile, your cheeks heating up at his praise and Jack chuckles, taking off his Stetson and fanning you with it. 

“Is it hot in here, darlin’, or is my praise heating you up there?” 

“Oh shut up,” you reply, trying to give him a scowl but failing as he runs his free hand through his dark hair, smoothing out the unruly locks that have been hidden under his hat, before he puts it back on. The simple action shouldn’t make a shiver run down your spine but you feel your mind go temporarily blank as he adjusts the brim to his liking. As he cocks his head and gives you a playful smirk, the corner of his lip curling up, you try to snap out of it. 

“So what can I do for you today, Jack?” 

“How about another pecan pie, darlin’?” he asks, glancing over the display cases and spotting the one you made this morning. 

“Another one?”

“What can I say, your pie is calling my name, sugar,” he grins and winks at you, hooking his thumb into the pocket of his tight jeans. 

“I’ll make sure to keep making it for you then, Jack,” you giggle and slide the fresh pecan pie from the shelf and into a carton. 

“I’ll be a steady customer for sure,” he says and reaches back for his wallet, handing you his card with a smile, “no other bakery has better pecan pie.” You fight the grin on your face as you charge his card and go to hand it back to him, but he gently takes your hand instead, pulling you closer to him over the counter, “And the most gorgeous baker to make them,” he whispers, his low voice rich and warm as you feel his warm breath slip over your cheek.

He gives you a wink and lets go of your hand, stepping back from the counter and letting the next customer step forward as he tips his hat to you. 

“What a charmer,” Mrs Levinson says, pulling your attention away from Jack as she puts her handbag on the counter. “But I always preferred a man in a suit, and a bit less forward if I may say so.” She wrinkles her nose at you, dismissing Jack as you try to stifle a giggle. 

“I think he was just the right amount of forward, Mrs Levinson,” you reply with a smile, “Would you like your usual order today?” 

“Yes please, dear. But add one of those Lemon Meringue Pies please. I’m going over to Mrs York’s place later,” she adds the last part with a sigh. “So sad, her son and his wife have just split up, they have two such beautiful daughters.” 

“Didn’t they divorce last spring, Mrs Levinson?” 

“Yes, at Easter, but he’s still single and she’s found some new man,” Mrs Levinson shakes her head as you place the pie next to her usual bread order, “he’s such a handsome boy, always wears a suit too, he’d be a real catch for you, my dear.” 

“I’ve got plenty on my plate already, Mrs Levinson,” you smile, thinking of Jack’s flirting and tight jeans, “I just don’t have time for any more right now.” 

“You have to let yourself have some fun too, can’t be all work,” the old lady scolds you mildly as you hand her the change and she puts everything away. “I’ll tell Mrs York to send him here for some time soon, I’m sure you’d like him.” She gives you a cheeky wink and waves goodbye, letting the next customer in line step up. 

The next time Jack comes by the bakery, he’s back in his sharp suit, and tips his Stetson at you with a wink as he comes up to the counter. 

“Seeing as I was found lacking last time, I thought it best to suit up,” he chuckles and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you laugh. 

“Mrs Levinson has a sharp eye for handsome men, but might be a little bit old fashioned,” you reply, “But I do like your suit, it’s very ‘you’, Jack.” 

“Thank you, sugar, I do like to dress the part for work,” he straightens his impeccable hat again. 

“So what brings you back here, Jack? You can’t possibly have eaten two whole pecan pies in just a few days?”

“I certainly could’ve,” he chuckles, patting down the front of his suit jacket, “but I was kind enough to share it with my colleagues and told them you have the best pie in town, and I think you might be getting more customers soon.” 

“That’s very nice of you, and thanks for the recommendation”, you smile, but Jack shakes his head. 

“Only telling the truth, sugar,” he winks, “and I’ve promised them to bring another pie tomorrow so could I trouble you?” 

“Of course, I’ve been making extra just for you, Jack” you smile and Jack’s face lights up, a wide grin making a dimple appear in his cheek as he rubs a hand over his neat mustache. 

“Honey, you’re spoiling me rotten, how can I ever repay you?” 

“Well, I’d say twenty-four, ninety-nine, but this one’s on the house,” you scoot the box with the pie over the counter towards Jack who’s furiously shaking his head. 

“You know I can’t accept that, sugar. You’re already undercharging as it is,” he says, pulling out his wallet from inside his suit jacket as you raise your hand to stop him. 

“Jack, if you pull out that wallet any further I’ll have to ban you from the bakery, it’s on the house.” 

Jack’s eyes go wide, “You wouldn’t?” he exclaims with mock horror as you nod emphatically. 

“Oh I would, Jack,” you grin, pointing to the door, “Now take your pie and leave that wallet in your pocket.” 

Jack shakes his head as he picks up the pie box, “I’ll pay you somehow, sugar, but thank you very much for the pie.” 

“You’re very welcome, Jack,” you smile at him as he carefully brings two fingers to the brim of his Stetson and gives you a nod. 

“‘Till next time, darlin’.” 

You do sell a couple of more pecan pies over the next few days and you wonder if your new customers are Jack’s colleagues as you add extra pecans to your online grocery order. Thanks to Jack you’ve gone through your stores of pecans in record time, and as you tap your pen on your notebook you toy with the idea of making variations of it for Jack to try. The jingle of the bell above the bakery door pulls you out of your thoughts and you look up. Your heart skips a little beat when you recognise the black Stetson. 

“Hey there, gorgeous,” Jack calls to you as he spots you in the kitchen, “I’m not too late am I?”

“Not at all, I’m closing in about five minutes, I’m just ordering next week’s groceries,” you wave him in behind the counter and he comes to the door into your kitchen, putting an arm up over his head as he leans on the frame. 

“More pecans?” he winks and you laugh. 

“How did you know? I’m running low on them, someone keeps buying all my pies.” 

“A few of my colleagues said they’ve stopped by and bought a couple of pies,” he says as you try to discreetly glance at his tall frame as he leans against the door post. He’s back in his white t-shirt and black leather jacket this evening, and the way the shirt rides up over the edge of his tight jeans as he stretches his arm, a sliver of tanned skin peeking out, has your mind going blank. 

“Oh, y-yeah,” you stutter as your brain slowly comes back online, “A very nice woman with short black hair and glasses came in and bought one, but it was busy and I didn’t get a chance to ask if she worked with you.” 

“Ginger,” Jack smiles, “she’s the one who asked me where I got it. Tried telling her I made it myself but, funnily, she didn’t buy it,” he chuckles and comes into the kitchen, leaning over your shoulder to look down at your notes, “What are you working on there, sugar?” 

“I was thinking of making some variations of the pie,” you say, “maybe one with a hint of lemon, or a bourbon chocolate one?” 

“Now you’re talking my kind of language, sugar,” Jack grins, tapping the ridiculously large belt buckle in the shape of a hip flask that sits on his belt. 

“Don’t tell me you actually have bourbon in that?” you ask, your eyebrows shooting up and Jack nods and grins. 

“Of course, sugar! Never know when I might need a shot,” he laughs, unclipping the hip flask from his belt and flipping open the top, holding out for you to smell. The rich, warm aroma of the bourbon wafts up and you inhale deeply.  “That smells so good, Jack, it’s giving me ideas!”

“What kinds of ideas, sugar?” Jack drawls, winking at you as he leans on your workbench, his eyes suddenly level with yours, all chocolate brown and warm. Your cheeks heat up as he takes a swig from the hip flask, his eyes never leaving yours, and then offers it to you. 

“Baking ideas,” you force out, almost jumping out of your skin as his fingers slip over your hand when you take the flask from him. The warm whiskey goes down smooth and warm, heating you up from the inside as it lands in your belly, and your eyes come back to Jack’s. He’s looking at you with a smile, one corner of his mouth pulled up as he takes the flask back from you. 

“Are you making me a new pecan pie straight away, honey? Because I absolutely have room for dessert…” he trails off with a quirk of his eye brows. You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot, little hot sparks are erupting in your stomach and they have nothing to do with the bourbon. Jack runs the tip of his tongue over the edge of his lip, catching an errant drop of whiskey and you follow the movement with your eyes, his plush bottom lip disappearing for a moment as he sucks it in, wetting it. 

“Cream!” you blurt out. 

Jack raises his eyebrows questioningly, “Cream?” The tone of his voice has dropped about an octave and there’s no mistaking the suggestion in his voice. 

“No! Yes! I-I mean, whipped cream, with bourbon, for the pie,” you flounder, pointing to Jack’s hip flask as his smile widens. 

“That sounds like the most perfect addition to your pie, sugar. Right now?” 

“Yeah, if I can use a few tablespoons of your whiskey?” 

“You can have whatever you want, darlin’,” Jack replies, unclipping the bottle again and handing it to you. 

“Grab the pie from the display case,” you tell him as you open the fridge to pull out the whipping cream. You hear Jack go back to the front and bring the pie back to the workbench, as you pull out a hand mixer and a bowl, he shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of your chair before he comes back to the table. The white t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders as he leans on the workbench next to you.

“So I finally get to see you in action,” he says as you measure out two tablespoons of whiskey from his flask before handing it back to him. 

“For about the two minutes it’s going to take to make this,” you smile and start the hand mixer. Jack grabs the bowl and holds it steady while you slowly start whipping the cream, adding powdered sugar as you go along with the whiskey. Soon the cream has transformed to pillowy clouds and you stop the mixer. You can smell the bourbon and so can Jack, he leans forward and inhales deeply. 

“This smells gorgeous, sugar, just the thing for the pie I think.” 

You giggle as he stands up again, a small dollop of cream clinging to the tip of his nose. 

“You’ve got some cream on your nose there, Jack,” you smile and Jack laughs, going cross eyed as he tries to spot it. With a swipe of his finger he catches the dollop and puts his finger in his mouth. 

“Mmm…delicious,” he says, grinning around his finger as you smile back at him, grabbing a couple of plates and a knife for cutting. 

“Should be even better with the pie,” you say, giving Jack a generous slice and then cutting another one for yourself before spooning the bourbon infused cream next to both slices. 

Jumping up on the workbench, you grab your plate as Jack takes a step closer, picking up his own piece. You swipe your finger through the cream on your plate, wanting to taste it without the pie first. But Jack beats you to it, his hand comes out and grabs your wrist, his calloused fingers closing gently around your soft skin as he pulls your hand to his lips. The wet heat of his mouth envelops your finger as he sucks it in, his tongue brushing over your digit, and you gasp. 

The sensation of his tongue running along your finger shoots electricity through your body and you exhale sharply, your eyes locked on Jack’s mouth as he studies your reaction. As your eyes come back up to his he lets your finger slip from between his lips, leaning forward and capturing your chin with his hand. He pauses for a second, waiting for your permission, and as you lean into him, he presses a soft kiss to your mouth. A low groan slips from him and the taste of bourbon and cream fills your mouth as he tenderly dips his tongue in between your lips. Your hand comes up to his shoulder to brace yourself, his hot mouth on yours making your pulse rase. You lean into him, needing to taste more of his mouth and his arm comes around your waist, pulling you close. 

“You taste even better than the pie, sugar,” Jack mumbles against your mouth, cupping your cheek with his large hand as you chase his lips. 

“You too, Jack,” you moan, letting him angle your face so that he can deepen the kiss, fervently licking into your mouth as he pulls you closer to his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist where he stands between them. His body is warm through the cotton of his t-shirt, his muscles moving under your palms as you explore the planes of his back. Jack lets his mustache tickle across your cheek, your jawline, as he slowly moves his lips with small, wet kisses, along your sensitive skin, trailing a path down your neck. His dark hair is thick and soft when you curl your fingers into the back of it, Jack tilting your head back as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his nose buried in your hair. 

“So sweet, darlin’,” he mutters, his voice muffled, “smells like butter and sugar.” 

“Come up here and kiss my lips again, Jack,” you protest, tugging light at his hair and he chuckles, inhaling deeply. 

“Anything for you, honey,” he replies, his big hand cupping the back of your head as he drags the cool tip of his nose up your neck and jaw, bumping against yours. When you lock eyes again he’s smiling softly, all the confident cockyness gone, replaced by warmth and affection. His lips part slowly as you pull him closer, his tongue teasing yours, making you lick into his mouth. 

He hums softly, his hand caressing your back, finding the divot of your spin and trailing his fingers up and down. In the quiet kitchen all you can hear are his low groans and your own gasps as each kiss traces sparks along your nerves. Jack’s fingers press into your back as heat builds between you, his hips slowly grinding in a movement so unhurried it’s as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. When his warm palms find their way up under your shirt, rough calluses stroking gently over your curves, you lean back, pulling him with you until you're flat on your back, Jack leaning down over you. 

“Gorgeous…” he mumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, his hands pushing further up your shirt. 

“Oh no!” he suddenly exclaims, lifting his head up from your throat and holding up his hand, covered in mushed up pecan pie. 

“You’re on top of it, honey,” he laughs, helping you sit up, and you hear the plate clatter to the bench behind you. Now that you’re up, you can feel the stickiness against your back, and you twist, trying to see how much of a mess you’ve made. 

“Is it all over my back?” you ask and Jack looks over your shoulder and nods. 

“I’m afraid so, sugar, your shirts covered in it. Do you have something to change into?”

“No, I took everything home to wash yesterday,” you grumble, twisting your arm up behind your back and feeling the remains of the pie. 

“Here,” Jack says, standing up straight and swiftly pulling his own t-shirt off, “I’ll wear just the jacket, you take my shirt.” He holds it out to you and you hesitate, temporarily mesmerized by the sudden sight of Jack’s bare chest, tan and smooth with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans.  

You swallow and pull your eyes up to his face again, “I can’t take your t-shirt, Jack.” 

“Why not? Take it, I’ve got plenty more, and I kinda like the idea of you in my shirt,” he winks and takes a step closer again, making you grab his shirt as he bends and places a wet kiss on your lips, “And this way, I can come by your place and pick it up. Or leave another one.” 

He grins as stands up again, “C’mon, sugar, take that one off and let me see you in mine.” He helps you by putting his hands back on your waist and pushing up under your ruined shirt. You peel it off gingerly, trying to avoid getting pie in your hair, and Jack’s eyes darken as you sit in front of him in just your bra. 

“Want me to put it on straight away, Jack?” you tease him as you watch him take in your shape. 

“No..but yeah, or we’re not leaving this bakery anytime soon, darlin’,” he chuckles, and you pull his t-shirt over your head as Jack sighs in mock disappointment. The soft cotton is still warm from his body and smells just like Jack, you have to inhale as it slips over your head. When you pop out from underneath it Jack is watching you with a small smile. 

“Beautiful,” he says softly, his hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you feel your cheeks heat up. 

“Do you want more pie, Jack?” you ask, pointing to the remaining pie and Jack’s eyebrows quirk up. 

“What do you think, sugar?” he smirks and you laugh. 

“I think you’ve got three empty pie forms at home and an extra hole in your belt.” 

“Not yet, but soon,” he grins, patting his small belly, “C’mon, sugar, let me drive you, make sure my shirt gets to its new home safely.” 

“I’ve got my own car, but thanks for the offer, Jack,” you smile at him and slip your arms around his neck again. “Come by soon, I’ll have more pie for you.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it, sugar.”  

Part Nine

This week's recipe comes courtesy of @goodwithcheese who shared her own Pecan Pie recipe with me! Thank you Megan!

Megan’s Pecan Pie 3 eggs ½ cup/100g sugar 1 cup/250 ml dark corn syrup 3 tablespoons melted butter 1 teaspoon vanilla  ¼ teaspoon salt  2 cups/approx 250g chopped pecans Whisk together all ingredients except the pecans. Stir in the pecans and pour the mixture into an unbaked pie crust and bake for 40 minutes at 350F/175C.

 @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers 

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #jack daniels #agent whiskey #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels fanfic

[markantonys]

amol chapter 37 (which is 200 pages, so i am justified in making a whole recap for just 1 chapter!)

lan notes that there are many women fighting even among the southerners and also says “have you ever seen a man OR WOMAN from the two rivers ride?” (capslock mine lmao) when another borderlander says a lot of the newcomers look more like farmers than soldiers. we love to see it!!

“the babes kicked as she [healed birgitte]. did they react to times when she healed someone, or was that her fancy?” 🥺

“elayne’s sturdy boots looked like something a soldier would wear, not a queen, but she didn’t intend to ride into battle wearing slippers.” tuon and min take notes. and nynaeve for that matter. this has always been true of elayne: as much as mat, birgitte, and fandom criticize her for being a spoiled noble, she never hesitates to get her hands dirty when it’s called for and has no problem roughing it, wearing grungy boots, selling her own jewels to fill the city coffers, etc.

“[the guardswomen were] watching the seanchan with distrust. elayne understood the sentiment perfectly.” when elayne gets healing from a damane and sul’dam by offering her foot: “both seemed to take it as an insult. elayne had certainly intended it as one.” elayne tells birgitte to tell them to heal the others: “these seanchan paid very close attention to which people could speak to one another. elayne would not give them the honor of speaking to them directly.” “[the sul’dam] was highborn. light willing, elayne had managed to insult her again.” upon seeing how a scout bows and scrapes to tuon and mat: “she was also sickened. no ruler should demand such of her subjects. a nation’s strength came from the strength of its people; break them, and you were breaking your own back.” GO OFF!!!!!!! and so we have confirmation that elayne is indeed one of the few who does not have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair where the seanchan are concerned. the last passage is especially refreshing because someone is for once acknowledging that channelers aren’t the only ones who suffer under seanchan rule and disproving the “seanchan make life great for normal people!” fallacy. @ elayne, egwene, and gawyn: fuck everyone else i respect you!!!!!

“she took a moment to properly compose herself. smooth features, emotions in control. she picked at her hair, straightened her dress, then walked into the building. ‘what,’ she bellowed as she stepped in, ‘in the name of a bloody, two-fingered trolloc haystack-grunter do you think you are doing, matrim cauthon?’ unsurprisingly, the curse made the man grin as he looked up from the map table.” THEY’RE MARRIED!!!!

mat is wearing pink ribbon on his hat 🤮

“‘hello, elayne,’ mat said. ‘i figured that i could look forward to seeing you soon.’ he waved to a chair, bearing the red and gold of andor, at the side of the room. it was extra cushioned, with a cup of warm tea steaming on the stand beside it. burn you, matrim cauthon, she thought. when did you grow so clever?” MARRIED!!!!

no actually i’m on the floor over mat preemptively having a THRONE - an extra-cushioned one! - and a cup of warm tea prepared for elayne 😭😭 is that husband behavior or is that husband behavior!! it is the last battle but by god is he going to take the extra time to make sure his pregnant wife is comfortable and cared for! and seated on a throne as she deserves!

“‘i’d guess it has less to do with that medallion of yours and more to do with you having too thick a head for compulsion to penetrate.’ ‘bloody right,’ mat said.” MARRIED!!!!

“i come for the dragon reborn!” oh i bet you do, demandred. “you will send for him. either that, or i will see that your screams bring him.” when your ex has blocked you on all social media platforms and you’ve gotta come up with alternate methods of contacting them. demandred is standing in the street outside rand’s house screaming at him for the whole neighborhood to hear until tam finally sticks his head out the window and informs him rand isn’t even home right now.

rand sent “a small angreal of a man holding a sword” to logain and the asha’man. is this fat little man angreal my beloved?? aww i’m bummed he’s not with rand for the last battle. but excited that he has been sent off for another important purpose! presumably!

“gawyn didn’t like egwene standing there, head and shoulders hanging out over the battlefield. he held his tongue; the gateway was as safe as they could make it. he couldn’t protect her from everything.” king 😌 birgitte take notes

“where are you, lews therin! you were seen at each of the other battlefields in disguise. are you here too? fight me!” i literally cannot take demandred seriously jkjfgh he is soooo desperate

“[demandred was] killing thousands. and here they stood.” “how long would he just stand around and do nothing while men died? you promised, he thought to himself. you said you were willing to stand in her shadow. that didn’t mean he had to stop doing important work, did it?” okay so gawyn’s ~hero complex~ and ~inability to stand in egwene’s shadow~ is actually just survivor’s guilt and the very reasonable anxiety that it is the last goddamn battle and he’s not doing as much to help as he’s capable of. you all are so wrong about him all the time! how is this any different from rand’s pathological need to save everyone?

oooh interesting, gawyn’s exhaustion leaves and strength returns when he puts the bloodknife ring back on, so it’s kinda like a drug i guess, and maybe that’s why bloodknives don’t live long (in addition to the fact that they activate the rings for the purpose of going on suicide missions). and now he puts on ALL the rings! boy oh boy.

perrin was gravely injured after returning from TAR and is now in mayene, where tam predicts he’ll spend the entire last battle. lmao classic perrin, god. why the hell wasn’t he the ef5 to get killed off if he already accomplished his one task and is just gonna spend the rest of the last battle unconscious on the other side of the continent?

“what is that boy up to?” tam wonders upon receiving mat’s new orders. fondly baffled father-in-law ❤️

“dannil could say, and think, what he wanted - but tam doubted he would have liked to endure the things that had forced mat, perrin, and rand to become the people they now were.” 😭

“galad damodred was a man who could have used a few stiff drinks in him.” mat informs us that galad has a pretty face without adding To Women, I’m Sure. “‘you’ll do as you’re told,’ mat said.” oh.........Daddy Mat? 😳 i guess a few stiff drinks are not the only thing galad could use in him, am i right

“together, mat and demandred were composing a grand painting. each responded to the other’s moves with subtle care.” why is this so romantic. they should forget about rand and run off into the sunset with each other

“he noticed, with amusement, that in shifting it about for ‘comfort,’ [elayne] had somehow gotten birgitte to wedge [the throne] up a few inches, so she now sat exactly level with tuon. maybe an inch higher.” djkjfg good for her!! mat doesn’t even mind elayne flexing on his wife, he’s just fond at her for it. because it’s actually ELAYNE who’s his wife! this is the type of childish pettiness that feels made up for sanderson!elayne and ooc for original!elayne, but it’s hilarious and flexes on tuon, so i don’t care.

elayne wants to know mat’s plans, but mat’s reluctant to say anything outright in the command tent because he suspects demandred has a spy in there. and so, fascinatingly, he leads elayne and birgitte ONLY out of the tent to share his suspicions with them, and deliberately avoids tuon’s eyes when she questions him as he leaves. he does not trust her but he trusts elayne!!! so implicitly!!

“i want you away from the command post. i’ll tell you what i’m doing. if something goes wrong, you’ll have to pick another general, all right?” HE TRUSTS HER SO MUCH she is his right-hand woman! his bestie! his person! literally why the fuck is she not the one he married. we’ve now had 2 or 3 scenes this book of mat and elayne general-ing together like a power couple while mat’s actual wife either sits there in complete silence or is not trusted enough to come join the convo. we could’ve had mat and rand as brother-husbands if rj hadn’t been too much of a coward to let women have multiple boyfriends in addition to the reverse! (or better yet mat and rand also dating but that would’ve been even less likely to Actually happen, of course.)

“she folded her arms above her swollen belly. light, it seemed bigger every day.” mat is so soft for elayne and the babies!! 🥺 also, at some point in this chapter it is outright confirmed that elayne is 6 months pregnant. so @tonysstressball​ you are TECHNICALLY correct, but i still don’t buy it jkjfg i recognize that the council has made a decision but given that it’s a stupid ass decision i’ve elected to ignore it.gif

mat has been barking orders at everyone else, and offending min by saying he “could use” her, but to elayne, he says “i’d like you to go help at the ford” he loves and respects his wife 🥺 because she is his co-commander and he acknowledges her as an equal in every way!

elayne leaves, and i fear this may be our last matlayne interaction 😭😭😭 it was a good run!!!!

mat’s note to galad: “p.s. if you see any trollocs with quarterstaffs, i suggest you let golever fight them instead, as i know you have trouble with those types.” DJFKJG get his ass!!

forsaken!nynaeve in the vision of the future the dark one shows to rand.........hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me 😳

egwene thinks “i have not finished with you” about tuon. literally why take the time to set this up as the big faceoff of the fourth age only to kill egwene off??? make it make sense!

siuan to egwene: “when moiraine and i set out to find the boy, i had no idea the pattern would send you to us as well.” egwene and rand co-protagonists!!! egwene is ta’veren!!!

“it is...comforting to know i’ve had a hand in shaping what is to come. and if a woman were to wish for a legacy, she could not dream of greater than one such as you.” 😭😭😭 why the fuck is egwene getting killed off!!!!! it’s not even about personal character preferences or not wanting my favs to die, it is, objectively speaking, narratively unsatisfying to set up so much stuff about how egwene is going to shape the fourth age and then kill her before she gets the chance to!

gawyn is going to fight demandred!!!!! this is definitely how he’s gonna get killed, but by god what a sexy move!!!

“once, perhaps, he would have done this for the pride of the battle and the chance to pit himself against demandred. that was not his heart now. his heart was the need. someone had to fight this creature, someone had to kill him or they would lose this battle.” okay so literally WHY does everybody fuss about gawyn doing stupid shit out of a selfish desire to be the hero???? the narrative OUTRIGHT SAYS that he is doing this NOT for personal glory, but for the world’s need, and you all just go “i can’t read suddenly i don’t know”!!!! i’ve had enough!!! i waited FOURTEEN BOOKS to find out gawyn’s great crime, and it turns out there was no crime, you guys just can’t read!! yes, silviana later blames him for being selfish etc but she hates him and has a biased pov on him that can’t be trusted, any more than we can trust mat’s pov on elayne.

me @ the entire wheel of time fandom except for the 2 other people of culture who like gawyn:

gawyn describes demandred as “handsome and imperious” without adding To Women, I’m Sure. they should also forget about rand and run off into the sunset with each other.

i don’t want to lose my boy but by god am i excited to see this Foil Faceoff!! what a delicious thing to do, sending the character who let go of his obsession with personal vengeance against TDR for the sake of the greater good to fight the character who turned to the shadow because he cannot let go of his obsession with personal vengeance against TDR. delicious!!

demandred keeps calling gawyn “little man” “little swordsman” and refers to elayne as “the little queen” Daddy Demandred 😳

“is that not what your dragon claims he can do?” “why do you keep calling him my dragon?” JKJFGKJHKJH one last rand/gawyn crumb for the road! demandred is so jealous

demandred thinks that the general leading the battle is too good to be anyone but rand, so he thinks that mat is either a) rand disguised with an illusion or b) receiving messages from rand through the one power. cauthor rights?

demandred: i face a true master on the battlefield mat: what up i’m mat i’m 21 and i never fucking learned how to read

i love this whole duel!! all the different swordforms, it’s like they’re dancing, it’s so good!! and can we talk about the fact that gawyn, a non-channeler, is holding his own in a swordfight with a fucking forsaken????? yes he has the advantage of the rings but still, KING SHIT!!!! @tonysstressball you’ve been laughing all this time because i was saying demandred was sexy and you knew he was gonna kill gawyn, haven’t you dkfjg well it’s okay because if gawyn had to die (which i’ve known since i started the series that he did), then getting killed by the sexiest forsaken after putting up an insanely impressive fight and having a delicious Foil Faceoff is just the way i would want him to go!

however! i am still heartbroken!!!

“he wobbled and fell to his knees, looking down at a hole in his gut. demandred had thrust straight through the mail, then pulled his sword free in a single fluid motion. why can’t...why can’t i feel anything?” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“if you do survive this and see lews therin, tell him i am very much looking forward to a match between the two of us, sword against sword.” oh i’ll bet you are, demandred. sword against sword, huh?

“his heart cried out; he needed to return to egwene.” 😭😭😭😭😭

rhuarc falls under graendal’s compulsion, oh no!!!

i’m just saying, rand’s vision of the future includes seanchan living happily whereas in the dark one’s vision the whole seanchan continent had become uninhabitable 🤷 #thedarkonewasright

egwene senses that gawyn is dying 😭😭😭😭

we have a weird pov swap mid-section that made it past editing lmao it’s all silviana pov and then there’s a random paragraph of egwene pov in the middle of the scene. i remember there was something like that in TOM as well.

birgitte goes on a spiel to elayne about how all her memories are gone now. that sucks, but it’s really not the time for this birgitte lmao we’re in the middle of the last battle here

galad to elayne: “i assume that it would be completely futile to inform you how inappropriate it is for a woman in your condition to be on the battlefield.” galad your mom would whoop your ass for saying that. she would whoop your ass while in labor, in fact! oh man the show better make it to the last season so i can make a parallels gifset of tigraine and elayne battling while pregnant! the mother of rand and the mother of rand’s children! oh i am passing away

“if we lose this war, galad, my children will be born into captivity to the dark one, if they are born at all. i think fighting is worth the risk.” an excellent point that Certain Readers who whine about elayne taking risks while pregnant do not seem to understand. “‘so long as you refrain from holding the sword personally.’ ...the words implied that he was giving her permission - permission - to lead her troops.” galad is the worst!! constantly undermining elayne’s authority and talking down to her! elayne is 10000% right to treat him the way she does and i’ll die on that hill. and most of her behavior towards galad that Certain Readers claim is SOOoOOoOOOOoooOO immature really just reads like standard exasperation with an overprotective older brother. she’s never once done or thought anything truly malicious to or about him (unlike HIM joining an organization dedicated to persecuting women like HER............)

“you’re not asking me to guess the mind of matrim cauthon, are you? i’m convinced that mat only acts simple so that people will let him get away with more.” elayne knows her husband!!!!

elayne trying to read mat’s letter to galad: “elayne waited patiently - patiently - to a count of three, then moved her horse up beside galad’s mount and craned her neck to read. honestly, one would think he’d take concern for the comfort of a pregnant woman.” JKJFG i love her your honor!! this line really has a ring of jordan!nynaeve to it, i love it. the other day i was reading a compilation post of some funny early-series nynaeve pov lines like this and realizing how much i really missed that after ACOS. from WH on nynaeve was so sidelined and got so little pov, and even then that pov lacked a lot of the bite and humor it used to have, i feel like. there’s a difference between making her more mature due to character development and sapping away the uniqueness and energy that made her her.

“the handwriting was much neater and the spelling much better in this one than the one he’d sent her weeks ago. apparently, the pressure of battle made matrim cauthon into a better clerk.” not sanderson roasting his own TOM mat letter jkdjfjg this is hilarious

mat is sending galad close to demandred and gave him one of elayne’s medallion copies to protect him from channeling. if FREAKING GALAD ends up killing demandred where gawyn failed, i am going to be SO MAD!!!!! (update: freaking galad does not end up killing demandred, thankfully)

galad is okay with killing women because women are just as capable of being evil as men #feministking and elayne’s like “wow that’s the only thing you’ve ever said that didn’t make me want to strangle you” jkdjfjg the bar for that is on the floor

“demandred knew how to gamble. mat could sense it through the movements of troops. mat was playing against one of the best who had ever lived” they’re falling in love while waging a war i swear “and the stake this time was not wealth. they diced for the lives of men, and the final prize was the world itself. blood and bloody ashes, but that excited him. he did feel guilty about that, but it was exciting.” oh, and gawyn’s the one who’s hungry for personal glory at the expense of other people’s lives? 😤 no but that feels SO ooc for mat. i will chalk it up to all the battle commanders in his head taking the wheel so strongly during this whole thing.

mat thinking logain is insane for being jealous of rand being TDR, truly demandred’s (other) foil!

“what he would give to be done with all of these high heads. mat might be one of them now, but that could be fixed.” by divorcing tuon. “all he had to do was convince tuon to forsake her throne and run off with him.” he does NOT know her at all, does he? another one for the “he loves her but he doesn’t like/know/understand her” file. “compared to the challenge he now faced, tuon seemed to be an easy knot to untie.” yes, all you have to do is draw up divorce papers. i give this marriage 6 months post last battle, tops. very interesting how he says TUON is the knot to be untied, not tuon’s throne or tuon’s noble status or something like that.

min throws herself at tuon to protect her when gray men attack. LITERALLY WHY????? she basically kidnapped you! not to mention you were literally enslaved by her people back in TGH, though that’s had so little an effect on you that i forgot it even happened. and it’s not like tuon’s survival is important for the last battle, she has not contributed SHIT so far and definitely isn’t going to!

mat is fighting fiercely to protect tuon, and then min sees a gray man about to kill her and throws her dagger, killing the gray man. “min breathed out. never in her life had she been so happy to see a knife fly true.” LITERALLY WHY?????? JUST LET HER DIE why the fuck has min gone from being so upset about being kidnapped and made tuon’s truthspeaker to feeling genuine relief upon tuon not being killed? there was NO character or relationship development to bring about such a drastic change in the span of a few scenes! also i guess min is more relieved about saving tuon’s life than the handful of times she managed to get a knife in someone who was attacking rand lmao! i can’t believe min has contributed one (1) thing in the last battle and it is saving tuon’s life. goddammit!!!!!!!!!! classic min.

siuan is dead! rip! i did get spoiled on that, but quite quite recently, only within the last few months i think. i’m not that attached to her tbh, i like her but her death was an “aww bummer” rather than a real emotional reaction (tho i might’ve felt more strongly if i hadn’t known it was coming, of course). i would’ve been more emotional if we saw egwene reacting to her death, but i doubt we will get the chance to since egwene is also not long for this world.

mat is being so protective of tuon and frantic that she’s injured, i’m sick of this lmao why didn’t they just let her fucking die!!!! god!!!!!! siuan died so fucking tuon could live!!!

egwene feels gawyn’s life fading fast. “i’m coming, gawyn, she thought, growing frantic. i’m coming.” 😭😭😭😭😭

i know i know, i’m being excommunicated from the fandom for being more upset about gawyn’s death than siuan’s djkfjg to be fair, siuan’s death happened so fast and with such little fanfare that it was hard to feel that strongly about it, plus the only person who reacted to it was min going “oh no! anyway.” i’m sure it’ll hit WAY harder in the show (if they do kill her off there)

this demandred pov has me in HYSTERICS jkdjfg just you wait and see all the gay shit he says here

“he had thought himself long past caring for a woman again - how could affection thrive beside the burning passion that was his hatred for lews therin?” I’M. okay. this line speaks for itself.

he admits that lews therin was better than him at everything but warfare, including “capturing the hearts of men” YJHFGJ demandred is jealous that lews therin got more dick than him. bicon LTT rights!

demandred continues to fall in love with mat via the dance of battle tactics

“[the female love interest sanderson hastily introduced for demandred because he realized he made demandred too gay] took his hand, and something stirred within him. it was quickly smothered by his hatred.” repressed gay demandred rights

“‘i would cast it all away,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘everything for a chance at lews therin.’” things to say to your girlfriend during sex. literally the “i bet he’s thinking about other women” meme.

“her voice seemed to imply that perhaps, once lews therin was dead, demandred would be able to become his own man again.” sorry girl you’re barking up the wrong tree, this man is gay and already in a relationship. “he was not certain. rule only interested him insofar as he could use it against his ancient enemy.” he’ll be so sad when lews therin dies

“but within him, there was something that wished it was not so. that was new. yes, it was.” I Could Fix Him.................

demandred flexing on taim 🥵🥵🥵

“i care only for lews therin” we know, demandred

brief juilin pov! hello king!

“what did you do when the one power failed, the thing you relied upon to raise you above common folk?” galad is literally the worst person mat could’ve chosen to give an anti-channeling medallion to. except for tuon whom mat also plans to give one to. mat stop giving anti-channeling medallions THAT ELAYNE MADE FOR YOUR UNGRATEFUL ASS to people who want to oppress channelers challenge

gawyn reaches galad for his dying breaths 😭😭😭😭

"i failed. i should have...i should have stayed with her. i killed hammar. did you know that? i killed him. light. i should have picked a side...” “this will hurt her. and at the end of it, i failed. to kill him.” all his dying words are about beating himself up for failures 😭😭😭 he deserves better!!!! i’m especially mad that killing hammar keeps getting brought up (within the fandom as well) as a crime of gawyn’s when an earlier book outright stated that hammar attacked gawyn first and gawyn was only defending himself.

“i tried to kill him, but i wasn’t good enough. i’ve never...been quite good...enough...” NOOOOOOOOOO BABY BOY YOU’RE GOOD ENOUGH TO ME!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭

“[galad] had loved his brother, loved him deeply - and gawyn, unlike elayne, had returned the sentiment.” TAKE A FUCKING HIKE GALAD stop hogging gawyn’s death scene with your stupid self-pity about how ~mean~ elayne is to you!!! i hate him!!! he should be the one dying, not gawyn!!! it’s not faaaaaaaaair!!!! and galad is “surprised” to find himself crying lmfao why are you so much of a robot that you’re surprised that you’re crying as your brother bleeds out in your arms?

gawyn tells galad that rand is his brother! and his very final words are: “don’t hate him, galad. i always hated him, but i stopped. i...stopped...” one last rand/gawyn crumb for the road 😭 i can’t believe gawyn’s last words ever are saying that he doesn’t hate rand anymore and telling someone else not to hate him. growth!!!

AND NOW GAWYN IS DEAD, RIP TO A KING, MY BLORBO, WHO DID NOTHING WRONG EVER IN HIS LIFE!!!

and now galad is definitely gearing up to kill demandred UGH it’s so unfair!!! even with the medallion, galad should NOT be more capable of killing demandred than gawyn was with his rings + warder abilities! he was killed by being defeated in swordfighting, not by demandred channeling on him! and galad is about equal to gawyn in swordfighting abilities, but does not have the rings and warder abilities to give him an edge! it should’ve been galad who went against demandred first and failed and then gawyn who went in with more abilities and killed him! (update: galad does not kill demandred, but he does do better in the fight and ultimately survive, so i stand by this bullet point)

also, i wish gawyn’s death scene had been with elayne instead of galad, their relationship had way more importance throughout the series! gawyn and galad barely (if ever) thought about each other after the tower coup, but elayne was right alongside egwene as gawyn’s raison d’etre for so long and they had their wonderful scene in the last book, she should’ve been the one to hold him as he died! SHE would’ve reassured him that he had been good enough! and then elayne could’ve gone apeshit and killed demandred!

speaking of going apeshit, now we see egwene’s reaction 😭😭😭

“something severed within her. it was as if a knife suddenly tore into her and scooped out the piece of gawyn inside, leaving only emptiness. she screamed, falling to her knees. no. no, it couldn’t be. she could feel him, just ahead! she’d been running for him. she could...she could...he was gone. egwene howled, opening herself to the one power and drawing in as much as she could hold. she let it out as a wall of flames toward the sharans who were all around now...she would destroy them! light! it hurt. it hurt so badly.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

but also:

that’s what it’s all about!!! that’s the good shit!!! she is serving rand after rahvin killed mat and aviendha vibes!!! queen eldrene at the fall of manetheren vibes!!! delicious!!!

tuon and mat have a fake fight to throw off the spy and i wish with all my heart that it was a real fight

“‘peaches!’ rand said, aghast. everyone knew those were poisonous.” why is this so funny jdkfjgh somehow this feels like the spiritual successor to eotw rand spitting out his milk in surprise when he sees the fade. he’s just a baby your honor.

the dark one’s new vision of a future where he wins: “men who think they are oppressed will someday fight. i will remove from them not just their will to resist, but the very suspicion that something is wrong.” soooooo literally exactly what the seanchan empire is like already???

bryne has died. could not care less!

demandred is hunting elayne to get rand’s attention. because he’s decided that elayne is the girlfriend who’s most important to rand 😌

“demandred, you call for the dragon reborn! you demand to fight him! he is not here, but his brother is!” okay that’s a baller line from galad, i will admit

“i grow displeased. lews therin can hate me or rail against me, but he should not ignore me.” demandred are you sure you meant to include the word “against” in that sentence?

so it seems that nynaeve’s one (1) contribution in the last battle is going to be healing alanna, and moiraine’s i guess is going to be nothing. super fun and satisfying!

mat: [yells at bashere] bashere: joke’s on you i’m into that

that’s true of every interaction anyone has with any saldaean, really. bless them. i hope the show can manage to incorporate this element of their culture without making it feel like a breeding ground for abusive relationships lmao because it IS hilarious.

“he also felt a pull from the north, a tugging, as if some threads around his chest were yanking on him. not now, rand, he thought. i’m bloody busy.” exasperated boyfriend. also, note that the tugging now feels like threads yanking on mat’s chest rather than his gut. because it’s not the ta’veren pull, it’s just his heart wanting to go to rand!

mat and teslyn reunion!!! ❤️❤️

“if rand were dead, we’d know it. he’ll have to watch out for himself, without matrim cauthon saving him this time.” exasperated boyfriend part 2. we were robbed of warder!mat part 7,000.

silviana talks shit about gawyn 🔪🔪 but egwene is not gonna stand for that any more than i am! “that fool boy saved my life from seanchan assassins. i would not be here to mourn if he had not done so. i would suggest that you remember that, silviana, when you speak of the dead.” 👏👏👏

silviana also shares her view that warders are a weakness (since the pain of losing them has such a strong effect on the aes sedai), which is the first time we’ve heard ANY reasonable explanation for reds not having warders besides just that they hate men lmao

“egwene al’vere can grieve. egwene al’vere lost a man she loved, and she felt him die through a bond. the amyrlin has sympathy for egwene al’vere, as she would have sympathy for any aes sedai dealing with such loss. and then, in the face of the last battle, the amyrlin would expect that woman to pick herself up and return to the fight.” sobbing and cheering, cheering and sobbing. i disagree vehemently that the romance with gawyn took away from egwene’s character, i always loved seeing her Heart Vs. Duty conflict and struggling to reconcile egwene al’vere and the amyrlin seat (rand parallels, anyone?) and i think it added to her character by making her more complex and giving her conflicting desires and motivations. we see a little of this through her friendships with elayne and especially nynaeve too, but not as strongly.

“she drew a deep breath, pulling in more of the one power. she allowed herself anger. fury at the shadowspawn who threatened the world, anger at them for taking gawyn from her.” mood 😭

and egwene bonds egeanin! so egeanin is indeed the seanchan woman who will help her or whatever the dream was

“egwene strode back onto the killing fields, bringing the fury of the amyrlin with her.” YEAAAHHH SHE’S GONNA FUCK SHIT UP!!!! GO ON THAT APESHIT POWER BLAST!!!!

galad is doing better against demandred in a swordfight than gawyn did, which i am calling absolute bullshit on because even if galad WAS a better swordfighter than gawyn (which he isn’t) gawyn’s rings and warder abilities would’ve given him a huge advantage that galad doesn’t have! demandred isn’t even trying to channel on him that much either, he does a couple times but it’s mostly swordfighting. and this is only a copy medallion, shouldn’t it not work against more powerful weaves?

you know what should’ve happened is that mat should’ve ultimately been the one to defeat demandred because a) he has the one true medallion, which offers stronger protection than the copies, b) they are foils, c) the two of them have been leading the entire battle against each other the whole time, so it would’ve been narratively satisfying to see them come face-to-face. and d) mat is good at hand-to-hand combat too with his ashandarei, maybe even better than galad and gawyn since he defeated them in TDR (tho i forget if maybe they were both using quarterstaffs in that fight, not their preferred weapon, rather than swords)

tho actually demandred DID defeat galad, so that’s okay. but galad is still alive.

“i saw androl. i followed him for a while.” “i don’t care about that one!” mood!!

“a stone slab, where a body had been burned long ago, rested here alone. overgrown with life: vines, grass, flowers...rand’s grave. the place where his body had been burned following the last battle.” 😭😭

RAND CREATES A VISION OF THE FUTURE WHERE HE KILLED THE DARK ONE AND REALIZES IT’S BAD BECAUSE HE TOOK CHOICE AWAY FROM ELAYNE AND AVIENDHA!!!!! JUST LIKE HIS VISION WITH EGWENE IN THE SHOW!!!!!

you all knew all along that that 1x08 vision was a deliberate homage to this scene, of course jkjfg but i’m experiencing them in reverse order and am very leonardo dicaprio pointing at tv.jpg right now!!!!

first of all, we get unexpected randlayne (via a vision dreamworld but still)!!!! i was not ready!!!

“elayne was as beautiful as she’d been when they’d last parted” ❤️❤️❤️

“rand approached her, glancing at the garden wall that he had once fallen over, tumbling down to meet her for the first time. these gardens were far different, but that wall remained. it had weathered the scouring of caemlyn and the coming of a new age.” HOLD ON A SECOND MAN HOLD ON A SECOND 😭😭😭😭 The Wall™ exists in rand’s dream version of the future! and elayne and aviendha have a close relationship even 100 years after the last battle in his dream version of the future!

elayne really does feel like The Main Love Interest in this scene and dare i say in the entirety of AMOL. like, rand going back to the very spot where they first met during a key moment in his confrontation with the dark one, that’s huge!!

“elayne looked at him from her bench. her eyes widened immediately, and her hand went to her mouth. ‘rand?’...elayne smiled. ‘is this a prank? daughter, where are you? have you used the mask of mirrors to trick me again?’” 😭😭❤️❤️

“that wasn’t elayne...was it? the tone seemed off, the mannerisms wrong.” “that simpering tone, that vapid reaction...elayne had never been like that.” “but it was wrong too. he thought aviendha would be a wonderful mother, but to imagine her seeking to spend all day playing with other people’s children...” “she was not herself...because rand had taken from her the ability to be herself.” WHAT ABOUT WHAT SHE WANTS!!!!!! THAT’S NOT THE WOMAN I LOVE!!!!!! SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP!!!!!!!!!!

also, i am absolutely losing my mind that min plays no part WHATSOEVER in this vision! it’s because it’s 100 years in the future and as a non-channeler she wouldn’t still be alive like elayne and aviendha are, but still, sanderson/rand COULD’VE chosen to set this vision only 50 years in the future and include min, but no! elayne and aviendha are the main love interests! they’re the ones who matter most to rand! seeing/hearing about them being so different from themselves (avi is not actually present, elayne just talks about her) is what makes him realize he can’t kill the dark one! i feel god in this chili’s tonight! once again cementing the “min was just a fling at a time when rand needed Literally Anyone to keep him company but elayne and avi are endgame” vibes!

on that note, i’m retroactively laughing at rand always brushing off the idea of marrying min when nynaeve hassled him about it lmao he claims it was because it would hurt her or endanger her, but really he just Wasn’t That Into Her.

i do love the faile and the horn sidequest. she’s such a damn hero!!!

“egwene al’vere strode past them up the slope, glowing with the power of a hundred bonfires.” YEAAAAHHHH egwene’s apeshit power blasts are something that can be so personal

somebody better kill logain in this battle because he is giving off ominous vibes for the fourth age (“the world would know of him and the black tower, and they would tremble before him as they never had for the amyrlin seat.”)

“[during the seanchan attack on the tower] her rage had been fringed by desperation and terror. this time, it was a white-hot thing, like a metal heated beyond the point of being worked by a smith. she, egwene al’vere, had been given stewardship of this land. she, the amyrlin seat, would not be bullied by the shadow any longer. she would not retreat. she would not bow as her resources failed. she would fight.” YEEEAAAAHHHH

interesting pov from ila rethinking the way of the leaf! and thinking about aram 😭

WHY THE FUCK DID NOBODY WARN ME THAT BELA DIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

THE ONE CHARACTER DEATH IN THE WHOLE SERIES I WASN’T SPOILED ABOUT AND ALSO THE ONE I WOULD’VE NEEDED THE MOST ADVANCE WARNING FOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i’m dead inside. moving on.

“lord rand had come to him, making apologies. to him! well, hurin would do him proud. the dragon reborn did not need the forgiveness of a little thief-taker, but hurin still felt as if the world had righted itself. lord rand was lord rand again.” 😭😭😭

“the names of those who had died for him, starting with only women, but now expanded to each and every person he should have been able to save - but hadn’t.” THANK you sanderson lmao! the show will for sure take this approach right off the bat.

and now rand witnesses a bunch of deaths, including bashere, his wife, hurin, and enaila 😭😭😭 those are also deaths i hadn’t been spoiled on. but not as traumatic as bela’s death!

“he wept for gawyn.” i keep saying one last rand/gawyn crumb for the road and then there’s one more!

birgitte dies, i was spoiled on this one as well lmao but also very recently and in the context of, you guessed it, reading a reddit comment where someone was shitting on elayne and claiming that she got birgitte killed (which is absolutely not true in the slightest, and i’m pretty sure birgitte’s death is a good thing anyway because it might mean she gets returned to TAR in time for her next rebirth and gets all her memories back)

this scene of min rooting out the spy is pretty cool of her, i will admit! the only cool/significant thing she’s done since book 4. why tf hasn’t she been doing stuff like this with her viewings all along? it’s a perfect example of a non-channeler non-warrior character exhibiting a different skillset and type of strength to contribute something meaningful.

also she owns tuon publicly, which is something i always love to see: “as truthspeaker to the empress fortuona, i speak now the truth. she has abandoned the armies of humankind, and she withholds her strength in a time of need. her pride will cause the destruction of all people, everywhere.”

and we get to egwene’s final scene. despite the abundance of crying emojis in this post, this is the only part of the book (so far) where i actually cried

she invents a weave to reverse balefire’s damage to the pattern, holy shit her power!!!!!! “the opposite of balefire. a fire of her own, a weave of light and rebuilding. the flame of tar valon.” 😭😭😭

“in that moment, egwene felt a peace come upon her. the pain of gawyn’s death faded. he would be reborn. the pattern would continue.” 😭😭😭 “she reached more deeply into saidar, that glowing comfort that had guided her so long.” 😭😭😭

“her body was spent. she offered it up and became a column of light, releasing the flame of tar valon into the ground beneath her and high into the sky. the power left her in a quiet, beautiful explosion, washing across the sharans and sealing the cracks created by her fight with m’hael. egwene’s soul separated from her collapsing body and rested upon that wave, riding it into the light.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 i got choked up again just typing that up! rip to a legend, an icon, the biggest damn hero of the whole series!!!!!

thoughts on egwene’s death: while i hate that she died seeing as the fourth age needs her so badly to stand against the seanchan and continue reforming the white tower, if she HAD to die, then i’m very satisfied with the way she went out. it was such a powerful scene!! and she didn’t die uselessly (like gawyn..........), she died to heal the pattern itself AND to destroy taim and ALL the sharan channelers. though i do wish she’d gotten demandred too, his killer absolutely should have been either egwene (to avenge gawyn) or mat (since they’re narrative foils).

also, i’ve seen people blame gawyn for egwene’s death, so i presume that’s part of the reason why he’s hated, but if i hadn’t seen people saying that, it wouldn’t have occurred to me that he could be considered at fault. obviously his death pushed egwene over the edge, but once she returns to the fight, it’s only one of many reasons for her anger - the bulk of it is anger at the shadow for destroying the world, not just gawyn-specific feral rage, and i do think she would’ve gotten to this point after fighting a hopeless battle for so long and seeing so many people die even if gawyn hadn’t died (after all, it’s what rand and many other characters are also feeling right now even without having warders die). not to mention that her actual death is a moment of peace, heroism, and healing, not gawyn-specific feral rage. my client is innocent, your honor!

moving on

“egwene died. rand screamed in denial, in rage, in sorrow. ‘not her! NOT HER!’” “rand bent over, squeezing his eyes shut. i will protect you, he thought. whatever else happens, i will see you safe, i swear it. i swear it...” that felt like a callback quote, so i looked it up and it’s what rand thinks about her at the eye of the world in book 1 😭😭😭 god this is going to hit even harder in the show with the deepening of their initial relationship!

galad tells berelain to bring the medallion back to mat, so now i’m second-guessing that it’s a copy, could it be mat’s original??? in which case i would take back my complaint that it shouldn’t have protected against all demandred’s weaves. but i have a hard time believing mat would give his own original medallion away during the last battle, so i’m skeptical. i could go back and reread the passage where he gives it to galad but i don’t feel like it. anyway, at least galad no longer has an anti-channeling medallion, that’s good.

“blood and bloody ashes, mat thought. egwene. not egwene too? it hit him like a punch to the face.” “he didn’t know if he could win...not without egwene, her two rivers stubbornness, her iron backbone.” 😭😭😭

really it’s rand, egwene, and mat who are the main characters in this portion. perrin just be napping.

“he pulled out rand’s banner, the one of the ancient aes sedai. he’d gathered it earlier, thinking perhaps it might have some use. ‘somebody hoist this thing up. we’re fighting in rand’s bloody name. let’s show the shadow we’re proud of it.’” 😭😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️ LOVE!!!! ROMANCE!!!! CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!!!! HUSBAND BEHAVIOR!!!!

mat hears the (false) news that elayne is dead. “bloody ashes! not elayne! mat felt a lurch inside. rand...i’m sorry.” HE HAD PROMISED TO KEEP HER SAFE FOR RAND HE HAD PROMISED!!!!! we have now gotten to see mat react to elayne’s death without her having to actually die TWICE, we are so lucky!! and both times rand is intrinsically linked to his own feelings!! matrandlayne rights!!! one last matrandlayne crumb for the road!! you guys he felt a LURCH inside!!!

and of the 4 specific people rand lists seeing the struggles of now, 2 are elayne and mat, matrandlayne rights!! (the other 2 are rhuarc and lan) “he saw elayne, captive and alone, a dreadlord preparing to rip their children from her womb...he saw mat, desperate, facing down horrible odds...rand had failed.”

and the killer of demandred is [drumroll] lan! i did not see that coming at all. hmm. it’s fine. in-universe he’s a good bet, as he has the trakands’ blademaster skills + gawyn’s warder abilities advantage + galad’s medallion advantage + another advantage in his true mastery of the void (he IS the sword rather than wielding the sword, which demandred said gawyn did not do). narratively, though, it feels like a random choice and i still think it should’ve been egwene or mat. maybe the show could do taimandred and have egwene kill him with her power blast, although then fanboys would be mad that lan didn’t get his Epic Moment lmao (but lan has a lot of epic moments of charging alone into battles that seem hopeless, so does he really NEED this one?)

also, if you’re going to shit on gawyn for risking his last-battle-crucial aes sedai by impulsively charging off to singlehandedly duel a forsaken, then you HAVE to hold lan to the same standard! they did the exact same thing! it’s not gawyn’s fault that the author(s) decided he had to fail and die and lan had to succeed and live! (i assume lan lives, it’s dicey now but i’m 90% sure i remember reading that he survives the series.) this is the equivalent of people shitting on elayne for cooking up harebrained schemes while praising mat for doing the same thing, just because some of elayne’s schemes fail and mat’s succeed.

and we have FINALLY finished the 200-page chapter, christ on a cracker. i cannot believe that perrin, nynaeve, and moiraine, ostensibly 3 of our most important characters, have been spending the whole last battle doing basically nothing lmao! i like the idea of nynaeve saving the day by using her old wisdom herb skills, but there’s gotta be a way to do that in a way that feels more significant (having her save a major character, for example, like maybe elayne/avi/min was the bondholder whom the shadow injured and nynaeve has to save them). meanwhile perrin is deadass asleep the whole time (sanderson should’ve structured it so that perrin’s TAR stuff was happening DURING this bulk of the last battle rather than beforehand) and moiraine’s just chilling out being a saidar battery and doesn’t even get any pov in these whole 200 pages, i don’t believe, even though we heard from tons and tons of minor characters (although she absolutely might have and i just don’t remember.)

100 pages left! let’s see if perrin does anything in them lmao

#wot #wot book spoilers

[best-jimmy-buffett-song]

Round 1 Schedule

Below are all the matchups scheduled for Round 1... I'll update this with links to each post as I get them posted.

GROUP D.2 NOW VOTING! (11/13/23)

Group A.1, starting 9/25/23

Peanut Butter Conspiracy vs It's My Job

Beach House on the Moon vs. Banana Wind

Come to the Moon vs Quietly Making Noise

A Mile High in Denver vs. I Wish Lunch Could Last Forever

Mañana vs. Take Another Road

It's Five O'clock Somewhere vs. Cheeseburger in Paradise

Treat Her Like a Lady vs. Mental Floss

Semi-True Story vs. Son of a Son of a Sailor

Group A.2, starting 10/2/23:

Brown Eyed Girl vs. Someday I Will

Little Miss Magic vs. In the Shelter

Volcano vs. Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitudes

Migration vs. Coast of Marseilles

Life is a Tire Swing vs Bama Breeze

Sailboat for Sale vs. Havana Day Dreaming

Boat Drinks vs. Nobody From Nowhere

Permanent Reminder of a Temporary Feeling vs. Stranded on a Sandbar

Group B.1, starting 10/9/23:

Grapefruit - Juicy Fruit vs Savannah Fare You Well

The City vs. Gypsies in the Palace

Biloxi vs. I Will Play For Gumbo

Twelve Volt Man vs Overkill

Lucky Stars vs Knees of my Heart

Frenchman for the Night vs. My Heart Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don't Love Jesus

Slack Tide vs. Lovely Cruise

Who's That Blonde Stranger vs. Banana Republics

Group B.2, starting 10/16/23:

He Went to Paris vs. Bubbles Up

Nothing But a Breeze vs. Tonight I Just Need My Guitar

When Salome Plays the Drums vs. Stars Fell on Alabama

Growing Older But Not Up vs Why Don't we Get Drunk

Coastal Confessions vs Fins

Apocalypso vs. False Echoes

Nautical Wheelers vs. Southern Cross

Margaritaville vs. Oysters and Pearls

Group C.1, starting 10/23/23

Island vs. Only Time Will Tell

Changing Channels vs. Down at the Lah De Dah

Mademoiselle vs Coconut Telegraph

Livingston Saturday Night vs. The Weather is Here, I Wish You Were Beautiful

Something so Feminine About a Mandolin vs Burn the Bridge

Coast of Carolina vs. Reggabilly Hill

Desdemona's Building a Rocketship vs. Mr. Spaceman

Barefoot Children vs. Flesh and Bone

Group C.2, starting 10/30/23:

We Are The People Our Parents Warned Us About vs Ragtop Day

Pencil Thin Mustache vs. Fruitcakes

I Heard I was in Town vs Bring Back the Music

Delaney Talks to Statues vs A Pirate Looks at 40

Love in the Library vs Knee Deep

Sail on Sailor vs Tin Cup Chalice

Homemade Music vs Great Heart

Breathe in, Breathe out, Move on vs Pacing the Cage

Group D.1, starting 11/6/23

The Last Mango in Paris vs First Look

Six String Music vs God's Own Drunk

Tides vs Come Monday

Oldest Surfer on the Beach vs Jolly Mon Sing

No Plane on Sunday vs I Don't Know and I Don't Care

Wonder Why We Ever Go Home vs Cultural Infidel

Love and Luck vs Take it back

Steamer vs Caribbean Amphibian

Group D.2, starting 11/13/23:

Livingston's Gone to Texas vs Schoolboy Heart

One Particular Harbor vs The Christian

Ballad of Spider John vs Wings

Jamaica Mistaica vs Happily Ever After (Now and Then)

The Captain and the Kid vs Lone Palm

Slow Lane vs Vampires, Mummies, and the Holy Ghost

Death of an Unpopular Poet vs Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season

Railroad Lady vs Pascagoula Run

#jimmy buffett #poll tournament #tournament poll #poll bracket #tumblr tournament #jimmy poll

[wiildcardd]

NEW OC - SUZAKU YAMATO: THE VERMILION BIRD OF THE SOUTH

Well, here he is! His bio will be put under a cut as it's quite long and I don't want to ruin your dash experience! This is what I've been working on this weekend!

Meet Isshin Yamato, a once proud young man who loyally commanded the Emperor's Legions in a time long past. A warrior devoted to his people, the emperor whom he adored, and the reunification of Japan one hundred years after a ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴍɪᴛʏ, his trusting attitude soon avails to nothing as he is betrayed by those closest to him. On death's door, he is given the most important choice to take. Fate had other plans for the general who would become ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ.

TW Note: This bio contains war imagery, blood and death. Please beware before reading Faceclaims: Suzaku (FF14), Mitsuhide Akechi (Samurai Warriors V) Art credits: fiveonthe (Suzaku FFXIV)

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀᴍɪʟɪᴏɴ ʙɪʀᴅ, the Guardian and Protector of the South famed for bringing Summer to the lands and many islands of Japan as well as China. Many mortals only know of the form that its current vessel chooses to wear, which is that of a blazing phoenix burning as golden as the sun! But to the divines and yokai that take residence with their fellow mortal compatriots, the bird assumes its true form, the vessel that it has held onto for the longest out of the Guardian Spirits.

Sᴜᴢᴀᴋᴜ ʏᴀᴍᴀᴛᴏ, once known as ɪssʜɪɴ ʏᴀᴍᴀᴛᴏ was a young and promising battle tactician and general. He served an emperor of a time long past, those who recount this tale paint him as a tragic hero or a vilified traitor, it is a matter of perspective. The story however remains the same. Partaking in a siege of a Southern Province, he was placed in command of the Emperor's legion, to quash the local warlord's blasphemous proclamation of independence. With utter devotion, he led his forces to the South and laid siege at the Warlord's castle. But with a force as large as his, dissension would brew. Those vying for the position that Isshin held, many of whom wished to sabotage the general in what should have been his triumph and victory.

They were jealous of his youth and how someone as young as he was attained the position of General, but due to his kindness and loyalty he mistakenly let the toxicity spread, hoping that his acts and gifts would prevail over tyrannical attitude that generals of the past would use.

At the day of the siege, he commanded his forces, telling his admirals to ensure the safety of the women and children, to ensure the preservation of the Emperor's land and the defeat of those that are enemies. But it was here that the betrayal was made clear. On the Eastern corner of the palisades, the horns of war sounded early rousing the spirits of his army. From there, the admirals that he had trusted delivered the orders to attack.

The gates were blown open by explosions, further diminishing the control of Isshin as he begged his troops to calm down and follow his orders to prevent an absolute bloodbath from ensuing but to no avail. The roars of his troops overcame the cries and pleas of their honoured General. Time slowed as he stood in utter awe at the chaos, rushing into the city awash in flames. All he could hear were the cries and screams of innocence amongst the brutality of ᴡᴀʀ

Within the flames, Isshin's eyes caught the sight of a crying child, hiding underneath a wagon. The general rouses himself from his shock to make it his duty to take this child to safety. Approaching the child, he takes their hand, the warmest of smiles on his face as tear stained cheeks conveyed his own emotions at the moment. Fear, solemnity, but like the raging fire around them, his soul burned brighter of purity and goodness. Earning the trust of the infant, he carries the child in his arms and makes his way through the burning city.

It was here that the general would meet the three traitorous admirals that orchestrated this sabotage, the betrayal. Despite his pleas to let the two of them go, the admirals were having none of it, boasting about their ingenious plan that Isshin failed to uncover. They would take their prize and higher positions within the Emperor's court, his body left to burn within the flames of his failure. Through gritted teeth, Isshin pleas one more time, wishing for the child in his arms to live. They could take his life for their riches and fame but have a heart to spare the legacy of their Emperor.

Feigning approval and innocence, it appears the admirals allow the child to escape telling the General to stay where he was. He grips tightly on the child's hand and nods, offering a reassuring smile. Careful eyes watch as the child starts to run towards greener fields beyond the raging inferno of the city. However, the atrocity that soon followed sends a chill up the spine of the disgraced General. An atrocity too cruel as steel impales flesh and the child that he sought to protect falls to the ground.

Burning rage consumes Isshin, letting loose a roar of heartbreak, betrayal and unbridled anger as he draws his sword and charges towards the betrayers, the ᴏᴀᴛʜʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴇʀS and with each step he took his chest met with arrow after arrow, his fury rivalled that of the most divine sending thunderbolts and shocks within heaven itself as sorrow consumed the once gentle and trusting general.

But alas, Isshin was mortal and before he could even reach the men he once trusted, who moulded him into who he was, he slows down and falls to his knees before them. His hand gripped tightly on his blade, five arrows impaled against his body, the warm trickle of crimson staining his once royal armour. Raising his head in defiance, he spits blood on his former friends and watches as they depart, satisfied that the flames would consume him.

He crawls slowly towards the body of the child and places a hand atop the child's own. tears streaming down his face as he gazed upwards towards clear blue skies blackened by thick smog from the burning city. It was here that he felt the presence of something, neither mortal nor demon. Divine in nature as through profuse smoke and blistering flames emerged the famed phoenix of the South. The body that he thought had at last been freed from mortal coil rises. The child's appearance changes as flaming robes envelope them and hair alights in golden wreathes, crouching down to take a firm hold of Isshin's hand.

"Death will come for you soon... But it does not have to be this way. You may live on and continue to uphold the laws and will of that which is divine. Become the vessel for the sacred phoenix, the vermillion bird and bring an end to treachery and deceit born from flawed human nature as I once did... Nurture them, protect them."

He questions what will happen to the child, but they promise that by accepting the spirit, they will be his guide and ensure he stays on the right path. Isshin asks for the name of the divine child, in exchange for accepting the divine rite within his broken form.

"I no longer remember my name... Only the name which the people that call upon us I recall now... Suzaku."

With those final words, the flames around the city grew fiercer and brighter as the body of the divine one slowly faded back within the Phoenix's form and with arms outstretched on bloodied mud, the blazing avian finishes the ritual as the it plunges itself within Isshin. The General's body floats from his pool of blood on muddied ground and stands him upright as his wounds are sealed, armour remade in golden and amber flames befitting that of a god and a halo made of the feathers of the Vermilion Bird form behind the new vessel. His hair burns a bright red, swept upwards in a structured but messy way, the great inferno around him becoming less painful as the new ascended accepts his newfound power.

"Isshin Yamato, successor of Suzaku, mortal vessel of the Guardian Spirit of the South. There is much work to do, mighty General, let those who came before you guide thine wisdom."

"I was betrayed and broken, yet I do not hold a grudge. Only pity to those who did not see beyond what they desired, may they be judged fairly and accordingly when death comes for them... In honour of you, mighty Guardian of the South and my predecessor, I wish to be known as Sᴜᴢᴀᴋᴜ ʏᴀᴍᴀᴛᴏ henceforth."

Thus, from the fires of destruction came hope and new life, as the new vessel vows to continue to protect mortals for as long as evil spread within the hearts of mortals, the phoenix will shine brightly to embolden the hearts and minds of those who hope and burn away those who corrupt.

#♡ ˙ * ✧ ━━ When Ashes Fall The Legends Rise ❪ Suzaku Yamato ❫ [ BIO ] #/WHEW HERE WE GO OSIDFOIAF #/I HOPE Y'ALL LIKE HIM ;3; #/IF Y OU READ IT ALL THANK YOU ASDIOFUAIDSF #tw. war #tw. blood #tw. death

[achtung-attitude]

The Southerners couldn’t have cared less. Ganmyeol screamed and yelled for his parents’ return, raising an awful, howling racket. The soldiers didn’t so much as glance down at him as they dragged him away. Eventually, he settled into a silent rage, grinding his teeth together. He squeezes his little fist so tightly, his unkempt fingernails dug into his palm, puncturing his flesh.

The drip of his blood on the floor is what drew his attention. To the pain in his hand, and the strange power coalescing in his fist. Opening his fingers, he saw it, as clear and solid as the concrete under his feet. A key, as black as the void of space.

The 6 year old doesn't understand. Why are the soldiers taking him away? Why can no one but him see the key in his hand? Why are they putting him on a ship, to send him east across the ocean?

“What, you didn’t go to school or something, you dumb brat?” a passenger on the ferry barks at him. “America! We're going to America!”

“America…?” Ganmyeol repeats, huddling into a corner in the ship’s hold. “You mean… the foreigners from the war?”

“We’re going to where those guys came from! Land of the free, home of the brave! All that crap…” the passenger says, alcohol on his breath. He had taken the boy aside, effectively cornering him. He never laid a hand on him. Perhaps he simply wanted someone to talk to. “Whadda you know about America, kid?”

Ganmyeol swallowed. “It uh… It has that statue… The lady with the torch-”

“No, no, no! That’s the Statue of Liberty, dumbass! You’ve got the wrong side! That’s New York, on the East Coast. We're headed for the West, OK? You know what’s on the West Coast, kid?”

“N-no…”

“Of course you don’t, you know why?” the drunk raved, “Because there’s nothing on the West Coast! Nothing but sand, sun and shitty cities in between. And the worst one of all is where we're goin’: Los Angeles. City of Angels…”

He took a swig of his booze, then roughly pointed at the boy. “Now don’t you go thinking crap like ‘That doesn’t sound so bad!’ Don’t let the name fool you, stupid!”

Ganmyeol, who hadn’t planned to say anything, simply cowered. The drunk scowled and spoke again. Not to the boy, but to everyone in general. “Listen to me… I broke my back, tilling the land for the government for 30 years. 30 years! I never saw nothing but strife for my trouble. My wife and sons got the smallpox. My daughter pissed off to marry some rich bastard. Then the Northerners came and burned my place down! I got no place else to go but this boat…”

Seeming to remember he’s there, the drunk then turns to Ganmyeol. “You can’t control nothing. It’s all up to fate’s cruel hand.  Nothing belongs to you. Everything will get taken from you someday-”

“That isn’t true!!!” Ganmyeol explodes, jumping to his feet. The drunk is stunned into silence. “I’ll take it back. I’ll take EVERYTHING BACK!!!” 

As naturally as breathing, the BLACK KEY appears in his palm. He sticks the drunkard with it, turns the object, and the man falls down dead.

The boy’s rage dissipates as quickly as it rose. He stares, dazed, at the drunk’s slumped form. He's dead. He killed him. He doesn’t understand, but quivering, he knows he’s done something wrong. On desperate instinct, he reinserts the KEY into the man’s chest and turns it in reverse. 

And to his astonishment, the man wakes up, as if rising from a deep sleep.

Ganmyeol spoke to no  one else for the rest of the trip across the Pacific. He sat alone in the cluttered bunks and stared at the BLACK KEY. For all he didn’t understand, there was one thing he knew. The KEY, which held power over life and death, was his. His alone.

“I’ll take it back. All of it… I’ll take back my life…”

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #achtung attitude #all-kill #black keys #ch74

[hurricanehcarts]

{  jessica parker kennedy | thirty-eight | cis woman ﹜  welcome to san francisco, antonette “toni” williams! just to make sure, you go by she/her, right? okay, great. i just have a few questions for you before i can let you go..  how long have you been here for? thirteen years. where are you currently living? pacific heights. what’s your current occupation? hair stylist at barrow salon but what’s your dream occupation? special effects makeup artist. wow! interesting. is there a secret that we can keep between you and i? [secret redacted due to potentially triggering material, it can be found under the readmore]. lastly, this is a bit of a random question but … what’s your favorite song? save my soul by jojo  & that’s all they wrote, friend! we can’t wait to see you around the golden city!

Potentially triggering material ahead: alcoholism tw, infidelity tw

The Basics:

Full name: Antonette Lori Williams

Nickname(s): Toni - preferred name

Hometown: Savannah, Georgia

Age: 38

Gender & pronouns: cis female & she/her

Sexual orientation: bisexual

Occupation: hairstylist

Secret:  she was a recovering alcoholic, sober for three years but recently fell off the wagon

 Appearance:

Faceclaim: Jessica Parker Kennedy

Height: 5’1”

Hair color: brown

Eye color: hazel

Build: fit, curvy

Tattoos: a long red rose and stem tattooed along her spine

Piercings: ears, right nostril

Scars: a small burn scar on her left wrist from a kitchen accident as a child

Personality:

Positive traits: debonair, compassionate, creative, loyal, witty

Negative traits: reticent, untrustworthy, dogmatic, boastful, jaded

Background:

You’d never know it by just looking at her, but Toni Williams was once a tried and true southern belle. Born in the heart of Savannah, Georgia, her father was a politician and her mother was a journalism professor at a local university. She had the best that money could provide - she went to a private school, wore designer clothes. For heaven’s sake, her first car was a BMW. She literally had it all. 

Behind closed doors, however, there were darker things brewing. Despite his high profile personality, her father was an alcoholic - a heavy one at that. There was never a day the man didn’t drink, and as far as she knew, there was never a time she saw him sober. Her mother, though she wasn’t a drinker herself, didn’t really care. She didn’t mention his drinking, he didn’t mention her extramarital affairs. To the outside world, the Williams were perfect - on the inside, they were crumbling.

To Toni, all of this was unfortunately normal and completely warped her sense of how relationships and families in general should be run. She never thought twice about everything her family did, and why would she? The family name got her into every prestigious university she could have dreamed of - aside from the fact that she didn’t want to go to any of them. Toni didn’t want to be a doctor, lawyer, teacher, or anything of the sort. Her entire youth was spent being a ‘pretty princess’, as she would say, and she wanted to make others feel the same way. So, she packed up and moved to Texas while she completed beauty school at the Ogle School.

After completion, she had hoped she could obtain some high profile clients also using her parents’ name, but it didn’t quite pan out that way. What did happen, however, was she met someone she fell madly in love with at the age of 23. They were inseparable, and within a few years, were engaged to be married. When the news came that they were offered a promotion across the country, Toni never once questioned moving with them. And so with her heart on her sleeve and her dreams full, she packed up and moved to San Francisco at 26 years old, leaving everything behind. 

The first few months were absolute bliss, but the longer they lived there the more things seemed off. Her partner would have longer nights than usual, strange phone calls in the middle of the night - and some odd business trips they never had before. It took an entire eighteen months from the time they had moved to San Francisco for her partner to leave her - for another person, nevertheless. To say that Toni was devastated would have been an understatement. They were her entire world, the person she left everything behind for and now they were gone.

Although her ex-partner was gracious enough to let Toni keep the apartment and furniture, she felt as though she was starting over. And that’s when she found herself at the bottom of a bottle. While drinking was always around her as a child, she never thought she’d pick up a bottle herself - until it was too late.

She wasn’t sure exactly how many months had passed from the time she started until the time she realized she had a problem, but it didn’t matter. It was too late. At just 28 years old, she had finally become just like one of her parents; a full blown alcoholic like her father. 

Toni continued to live at the bottom of that bottle until her health and business started to fall apart. She had lost almost all of her clients from being unreliable, rude, or just smelling of alcohol. She felt sick constantly, but if she stopped drinking the shakes started. No matter where she turned, her life was falling apart. It took a few interventions before she finally admitted she needed help, but she eventually got it.

She was thirty five years old before she was completely sober, but god did it feel good. She got a new position as a stylist at Barrow Salon, she was making amends with her friends, and her health was recovering. And for three glorious years, she continued to do just that.

Until she started meeting with ‘the wrong crowd’. At 38, she wasn’t getting any younger. Her chance at marriage and children was likely dwindling, as was her youth, and so she found herself wanting to recapture it, in a way. However, the younger people she was spending time with were also drinking. Soon, she had lost her way. The drinks feel stronger than they did before, and it takes less to get her inebriated, but that doesn’t take away from her shame. She worked so hard to get sober, to get her life back. What happens if her friends discover what has happened?

Possible Connections:

Ex-Partner/Fiance(e) - This person was once Toni’s entire world, until suddenly, they were gone. While it has been ten years since the two of them split up, she still harbors a bit of animosity towards them. In her eyes, they took everything from her, including her caring and generous heart. While she was taught to forgive and ask forgiveness in AA - she’s not quite sure she ever can. (will also be submitted as a wanted connection)

Best Friend(s) - Toni lost a lot of good friends during her battle with alcoholism, but these are the few that never left her, and some new ones that have joined her life along the way. These are the people that keep her going day to day, but also the people she’s most worried about hurting if her secret ever got out. (x/3)

Bad influence - While they probably didn’t know what was happening at the time, this is someone Toni desperately wanted to impress and party with - hence her all but jumping off the wagon. They’re not a bad person, nor does Toni think they are, but they might not be the best thing for her. 

& more to come soon!!

#goldencity : intro #toni: intro #alcoholism tw #infidelity tw

[lumosinlove]

Between Fifth and You

(cw in tags)

~

chapter one

“Olives or twist?”

Sirius had to watch the barkeep’s mouth to make out the words beneath the pounding music, which meant Sirius caught the way his eyes skittered across his face almost fearfully. The sheer amount of obsidian in this place probably did nothing to lighten his features. Not to mention, few people knew how to look him in the eye.

“Twist,” he said.

The man nodded and flipped the bottle of gin until it dipped into a shot glass, the glass into the ice. Sirius watched until he was stirring the bitters in and a hand appeared on his shoulder, lips to his neck.

“Burn this,” Saint said, and plucked at Sirius’ shirt sleeve, rubbing the black material between his fingers. Sirius raised an eyebrow as he turned. Saint’s own shirt was unbuttoned half way down his hard chest, light brown skin warm in the flashing club lights. “You’ve worn it too many times.”

“Hello to you, too,” Sirius said. “I like this shirt.”

“I liked it two months ago,” Saint replied. “It’s September now, your highness.”

Sirius scoffed as the bartender slid him his drink.

“You gonna tell everyone the sun did that?” Sirius took a clean sip of gin with one hand and stroked his other through Saint’s gold curls, only suddenly some of the slightly course strands were almost white.

Saint’s grin turned coy. “Isn’t it nice to have a mystery to think about?”

“Oh, yeah, do blonds have more fun?”

“You wouldn’t know.”

The music kicked up a beat that Sirius felt through his spine.

“Why do we always come here?” he leaned a hip against the bar. “We have an entire city.”

“Yeah, fuck the rest of the world, we have one whole city.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Saint shook his head. “Because that’s what we do. You see that guy over there? I’ve taken him out four times. Couldn’t tell you his name. They couldn’t tell you mine.”

“Everyone knows your name, Saint.”

Saint grinned. “Maybe. But why do we go back to each other? Because we’re creatures of fucking habit.” Saint cocked his head, stole Sirius’ drink. “And what is this city but a bad, bad habit?”

Sirius’ blood cooled and he looked away.

What am I, Sirius? said the familiar voice from his memory. Am I easy? Am I safe? Do you want me, or am I just familiar now?

He closed his eyes against the memory of his reply.

Bad habit indeed.

XOXO

Spotted—a familiar face from the past. What has this train brought in? Thanks to a tip from @magicinthemaking, I bring you this picture of none other than Remus Lupin (and a certain Southern bell we know and love) under Grand Central’s stars. We missed you, Re—how was England? Or was it Europe?

The rumors can never seem to decide, but why the sudden change in plans to take his Junior year abroad? Here we were thinking he wanted nothing more than to stay.

I wonder how another certain star will feel about this sudden homecoming. And just in time for senior year’s Fall semester, too.

XOXO.

Remus adjusted his suitcase, glad he’d mailed so many of his things home. He’d been on U.S. soil for all of three hours, and he already missed Rome. He wanted to walk down the tiny staircase from his billet family’s apartment and get a cappuccino. He wanted to stand on the drain of the Pantheon and soak up the sheer history in the air.

He already wanted a break.

But he also wanted to see Julian. Sometimes it felt like the only thing pulling him back home was seeing his baby brother’s grin in real life rather than across a Facetime call.

“All good?”

Remus looked up at Leo. His blond hair was still bleached a bright blond from the Roman sun. Their program had ended in May, but Remus was glad they had stayed together. He hadn’t been looking for Leo—for someone to kiss for the first time in the rose garden at the top of the Aventine Hill while Leo told him about its past as a cemetery.

It’s footpaths are laid out like a Minorah, see? Leo had pointed out. To remember. 300 different types of roses isn’t enough. But I like to come here.

Remus thought it had been Leo’s love for history, and his respect, too, that had drawn him in. They both came from a world where the biggest thing most people cared about was what they’d wear to the next party, and who was bringing their next drink.

Remus hadn’t been able to believe his luck, as fragile as his heart was still.

“Yeah,” Remus nodded. “All good.”

But he wasn’t sure. They hadn’t been friends here, in the city, or at Hogwarts. It had been Rome. Remus didn’t know what their old lives would do to them. But he took Leo’s hand and watched the way Leo fingered the star he wore around his neck, the way he shot Remus his dimpled smile.

“Come on,” Remus said. “I want you to meet Julian.”

XOXO

Good morning Upper East Siders—Gossip Girl here. All trends point to Fall’s Hogwartsers coming back in Black—in more ways than one. Sirius Black’s got a baby brother on campus now, and after another wild summer for the Hogwarts College elite, count me in with the rest of them on wondering what to expect. Rumor is he’s not much like our favorite star.

“You don’t have to talk to me, you know.”

Sirius kept his eyes on his eggs and toast. “Your missing your tie. Mom said—”

“What do you care?” Regulus replied. “I hear when she used to make you wear one it usually ended up around some other guy’s neck by ten in the morning.”

“If you’re going to believe everything you read on Gossip Girl about me, then maybe I won’t talk to you.”

Regulus smirked. “So, you read it, too.” 

“Boys.”

Both brothers went back to their breakfasts.

“Good morning, mom,” Sirius said.

Walburga Black smiled with her painted lips, resting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder and bending to kiss his cheek.

“Don’t you both look handsome for your first day. Although that leather jacket has seen better days, Sirius. Do what you want for dinner, ask Chef, I don’t care. I’ll be at the House.”

The House. The House of Black, his mother’s million dollar fashion industry.

“Fine,” Regulus nodded, and rose. “I’ll take the first car.”

Sirius rolled his eyes again. “Really?”

Regulus just snatched up his backpack.

Saint, James, and Thomas were waiting for him on one of the courtyard tables when Sirius got out of the Escalade. It certainly felt like a first day of a semester. Saint’s neck dripped in gold necklaces—a story behind each one. Thomas, who had replaced his short braids with a closely shaved head, wore a white t-shirt and ripped up jean shorts, gold nose-ring glinting in the sun. James had evidently been helped out by Lily, as usual, a green, tight-fitting Henley shirt bunched up at his elbows. The two flanked Saint, who basked on top of the stone table, head tilted back to bare his throat in a way that made Sirius think of last night, in the back of the bar. He could see a purplish mark he had left there.

“You’re looking surprisingly chipper,” James said when Sirius reached Hogwarts’ courtyard.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, knowing he didn’t. “I’m not failing any classes yet, James.”

His friends went oddly silent. Sirius looked around at them, spreading his hands in confusion. Saint wouldn’t look at him, expression going oddly stoney. Thomas, finally, offered him his phone, biting his lip. Sirius took it.

His heart leapt to his throat. He didn’t even bother reading the Instagram caption. Remus loomed out at him from the phone screen.

“Leo Knut,” Saint said. “Who would have thought.”

Sirius cleared his throat and turned away from the picture—from Remus and Leo’s clasped hands.

“Why wouldn’t I be chipper?” he said again, and ignored their unconvinced expressions. “I’ve got class.”

Under his desk while he waited for the rest of the class to show, Sirius pulled out his phone and opened Instagram.

XOXO

Remus approached campus slowly. He felt like he didn’t know anyone anymore, even if he knew that wasn’t true. He thought he saw James from afar, but Lily and Kasey didn’t have class today.

Really, Remus didn’t know if he had many friends that weren’t…shared. That didn’t feel too close to home. Manhattan wasn’t that big of an island.

He looked down at his schedule he’d written out on his phone.

The 19th Century Novel - Hogsmeade R#302.

He made his way to the Hogsmeade building and climbed the spiral staircase quickly. It all felt too industrial, too metallic. At least he’d woken up with Leo, who still had the ancient air about him. He didn’t want that bubble to pop.

“Mr. Lupin,” Professor McGonagall beamed when he walked in, and Remus smiled, too at her familiar Scottish drawl. “It’s so very nice to have you back.”

“Hi, Professor. It’s good to be—”

But the words died on Remus’ tongue. He looked out at the small class—just twenty at this high level—and his heart, out of habit it seemed, had leapt at the sight of familiar dark hair.

Uh-oh. Looks like Pyramus and Thisbe are actually wishing for a wall between them this time.

Sirius’ hair was shorter than it had been at the end of sophomore year, the last time Remus had seen him. He wore a touch of a beard, too, just scruff, really, but it framed his silver eyes like darkness to the stars—two stars, which were zeroed in on Remus.

“Back,” Remus tried to recover, mouth dry. He sent McGonagall a shaky smile, and turned to find a seat, trying not to find those stars again.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes in defeat when he realized that there was only one left. He walked towards Sirius looking ahead and with his heart pounding. Leo. Leo making pancakes for him and Julian this morning. Leo making his little brother laugh. But he could smell the worn leather of Sirius’ jacket. He remembered the feel of it around his own shoulders. Are you cold, baby?

“All righty, then,” McGonagall stood from her chair and leaned against the front of her desk, looking down her spectacles at the attendance sheet. “Looks like we’re all here.”

XOXO

“Well?” Saint asked as Sirius took the joint from between his fingers.

“Sat down next to me,” Sirius said. “Didn’t say a fucking word.”

“Did you say a fucking word?” Saint raised his eyebrows.

Sirius blew out smoke. “No.”

“Well, all right, you fucking hypocrite.”

Sirius looked over at him from where they lay side by side, stretched out in the fading sunshine of Central Park. “I’m keeping this now.”

“No, you’re not. Did you pay for that? I don’t think so.”

Sirius scoffed. “Yeah, like this made a dent in the Montague treasuries.”

Saint laughed, tucking a palm behind his head. Sirius let his eyes linger on the strip of skin where his shirt rode up. He’d kissed that last night, too. It was nice with Saint. He’d been friends with him for longer than he could remember. Saint never looked for more. If Sirius snapped at him, he snapped back and then they laughed about it. Saint wandered through the world loving people freely. He kissed them, or he made them dinner, or he took them for long walks along the river. He showed them his favorite jazz club, or gave them the orgasm of their life, or read to them from his favorite books. He was New York in human form, accepting and inviting, living and breathing.

Sirius wished he was so trusting, even if trust seemed a funny word to apply to Saint.

No one ever got too close to either of them, except the other.

“What are you wearing to your mom’s fashion show?” Saint asked with his eyes closed. “It’s the event of the season.”

“Are you joking? The fittings started in July.”

“Mm, I love that,” Saint grinned, stretching. “Want to come help me decide what I’m wearing? We’re at the Plaza right now, you know that. You know my mother. If it’s not broken, break it. We’re renovating again. We can order champagne to the room.”

“Is that code for make out?”

“Partly. But I will be showing you my outfit choices.”

“Deal.”

XOXO

Remus made it back home seeing no one, but one of the butlers had an envelope with his name on it waiting for him.

“Thanks, Moody,” Remus murmured, but thought briefly about handing it right back to him.

He knew this invitation. He knew its black boarders and heavy stock. It came ever year.

It used to be something they had looked forward to.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

invites you

TOUJOURS PUR

“Jesus,” Remus breathed, but took it up to his room, checking the time on the way. Julian would still be at school, his parents at work. This apartment was too big for the four of them, not to mention just Remus alone.

His suitcases still lay open and unpacked on his floor, and he kicked at one without looking up.

“So, did you just forget to mention that you were home?”

Remus spun towards his bed, only to find Lily sprawled across it and fiddling with an emerald on a chain.

“I had to find out from Gossip Girl?” Lily shook her head.

Remus slapped the invitation against his thigh. “Wow, wasn’t like that was a surprise present for you or anything.”

Lily smiled, red hair in a thick french braid. “I see green and I know it’s for me. What can I say?”

Remus huffed out a laugh, and she gave a small squeal and pushed off of the bed to wrap him in a hug.

“I’m so happy you’re home, Re.”

He let himself rest his chin in the crook of her neck for a moment. ‘Thanks, Lils.”

She pulled back, hands on his shoulders. “What, no, me too?”

“I am,” he said tentatively. “But I had fun in Rome.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Southern fun?”

“His name is Leo,” Remus said pointedly, then eyed the pile of garment bags piled high on the other side of his bed. “Are those…”

“Pour moi, et pour toi,” Lily patted his cheek. “We have a fashion show to go to, sweetheart.”

XOXO

What do we think, Courtiers? House of Black’s fashion show is the biggest event of the fall. But what on Earth does doe-eyed Remus Lupin have to do within that dark forest now?

Is he a Bambi, or still the wolf we knew?

You know you love me.

XOXO,

Gossip Girl

#between fifth and you lumosinlove #wolfstar #harry potter #gossip girl #Harry Potter x gossip girl #sirius black #remus lupin #cw: mention of sex #cw: drinking #cw: drugs #Harry Potter fic #the marauders #the marauders era #Harry Potter au #woflstar au

[justtryingmybestest]

Demons of Netherworld and their origin/inspiration PART 2 (Abnormal Class)

Note: Texts and photos are not mine. These information are copied from the Trivia column of each character in the Mairimashita! Iruma-kun Wiki. Enjoy.

1. Agares Picero

In demonology, Agares (also spelled as Agreas) is a Duke who rules the eastern zone of Hell, having 31 legions of demons under his command. He can make runaways come back and those who stand still run, causing earthquakes from the underground, destroy dignities (both temporal and supernatural), and grand noble titles to others. He is depicted as an old man riding a crocodile, carrying a hawk on his fist.

2. Allocer Schneider

In demonology, Allocer is a Great Duke of Hell, and commands over thirty-six legions of demons. He induces people to immorality and teaches arts and all mysteries of the sky.

3. Andro M. Jazz

In demonology, Andromalius is a Great Earl in hell with 36 legions of demons under his command. He can reasonably read, bring strength or punish, and uncover and discover hidden treasures, all wickedness and the relationship with the dishonest. He is described as a man holding a large snake in his hand. (Second photo source.)

4. Caim Kamui

In demonology, Camio (also spelled as Caim and Caym) is a President of Hell, having 30 legions of demons under his command. He is a good disputer, and can give men the understanding of the voices of animals (such as birds, bullocks, dogs etc.) and the voices of waters, give true answers concerning things to come. He is depicted as a thrush, but can change into a man with a sharp sword in his hand. When answering the summoner's question, he seems to be standing on burning ashes or coals. Camio's name seems to be taken from Cain - the First murderer according to the Bible.

5. Crocell Kerori

In demonology, Crocell (also spelled as Crokel and Procell) is a Duke of Hell, having 48 legions of demons under his command. He can teach geometry and other liberal sciences, warm bodies of water, create the illusion of the sound of rushing waters, and reveal the location of natural baths. He is depicted as an angel with a tendency to speak in dark and mysterious ways, and is associated with the element of water.

6. Gaap Goemon

In demonology, Gaap (also spelled as Goap and Tap) is a Prince of either the southern or the western zone of Hell (President or King in some versions). He can teach philosophy and all liberal sciences, cause love or hate, make men insensible and invisible, deliver familiars out of the custody of other magic-users, give true answer concerning the past, present, and future, carry and re-carry men and things from one nation to another at the summoner's will, and can make men ignorant. He also has control over the Water Elementals or 'water demons'. He is said to be better conjured to appear when the Sun's in a southern zodiacal sign, and should be honored with sacrifices and burning offerings. He is depicted in a human-like shape.

7. Purson Soi

In demonology, Purson is a Great King of Hell, who controls twenty-two legions of demons. has been said to knows of hidden things, can find treasures, and tells past, present, and future. Taking a human or aerial body he answers truly all the secret and divine things of Earth and the creation of the world.

8. Sabnock Sabro

In demonology, Sabnock from the Ars Goetia, Great Marquis of hell is known for building high towers, castles and cities, furnishing them with weapons, ammunition, etc. He is depicted as an armor-wearing warrior, who has the head of a lion and rides a horse.

9. Shax Lied

In demonology, the demon Shax is a Great Marquis of Hell and commands thirty legions of demons on evil horses. He is known to take away the sight, hearing and understanding of any person under the conjurer's request, and steals money out of kings' houses, only to return it 1200 years later if everything is still in order. He also steals horses and everything the conjurer asks. Shax can also discover hidden things if they are not kept by evil spirits, and sometimes gives good familiars, but sometimes those familiars deceive the conjurer.

10. Ix Elizabetta

I didn’t find anything about her. However, I read in a comment that her name might be based off of Xezbeth. In demonology, Xezbeth (alternately Shezbeth) is a demon of lies and legends, who invents untrue tales. Its name in Arabic is "The Liar". According to French occultist Collin de Plancy's Dictionnaire Infernal (1853), it is impossible to count the number of its disciples. (Second photo source.) 

For Valac Clara and Asmodeus Alice, check the Part 1. 

#mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma-kun #agares picero #allocer schneider #andro jazz #caim kamui #crocell kerori #gaap goemon #ix elizabetta #purson soi #sabnock sabro #shax lied #abnormal class #the misfits

[whatanoof]

Cold Hands and Warm Bodies

Merry Christmas! This is a Secret Santa gift for @autumnleaves1991-blog!

There’s a sequel now!

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Whiskey x Reader

Word Count: ~4.7k

Content: fluff, dancing, swearing, oral sex(female receiving), rougher sex, fluffy, smut, there’s a part at the beginning where Reader rejects a man’s advances but it doesn’t get past name-calling

A/N: I liked the idea of a lonely Christmas in a new city turning into something much better through unexpected events, especially since so many are going to be celebrating with less people than normal due to the pandemic. The music referenced is Gasoline by Halsey from her Badlands album.

Your parents had begged you to not complete the move over the holidays, surely it could have waited a couple of weeks so that you could celebrate with your family. But you were decided, and the timeline of your new employment was not up to you. Staying in LA for Christmas wouldn’t have benefited anyone. The confidential nature of your job meant you couldn’t talk about your job with your family, and that’s all that families really want to know besides if you have a boyfriend yet. This left more rumors flying between the aunts than bullets around a battlefield. At this point, you’re pretty sure that your own mother thinks that you’re a prostitute.

Alcohol is an easy option to curb loneliness. The drink burns on the way down, but you savor it. It’s been cold in the new city, and you haven’t been able to shake the chill since moving. Your current choice of atmosphere is the bar closest to your house, leaving you with the freedom to slam as many drinks as would let you forget how alone you are at the time of year when no one should be alone. You don’t have to drive home this way. But now, inside and looking around at the excessive Christmas decorations, you begin to wonder if this was the best way to avoid the holidays.

There are Christmas wreaths all around, draped over as many surfaces as possible. Mistletoe hangs near the corners of the cleared section of floor, and you wouldn’t be surprised if some of those corners were soon occupied by drunk dancers. Lights dangle over the bottles behind the bar, and the bartender is wearing a Christmas elf headband. And to top it all off, most everyone inside has a partner, making you stick out like a sore thumb. Your sole point of luck is that the bar isn’t Western based. 

“Well, hello good-looking.”

The moment is shattered by the stranger’s arm around your shoulders, pulling you too close for the small amount of liquor in your body. The brunette man smells like spearmint, but his breath clearly reveals his state of mind. 

“The name’s Grey. Now, I heard a little birdie that told me that you’d be coming home with me tonight.” His grin appears genuine, but something glitters in his eyes that sends an icy distrust through your gut.

You turn away. “No thank you.” Better not to give him any attention, drunks are never reasonable if you let them believe for even a second that they have a chance.

“Now that’s not very kind. I was being civil, and you rebuff a poor man who just wants a warm bed tonight. May I at least get the lady’s name so that I can address her properly? Where’s the Southern hospitality? ” You catch a concerned look from the bartender, though there’s no need to worry. This isn’t your first rodeo.

“Nonexistent, Grey.” You grab his wrist, yanking it off of your shoulder. 

For a blissful second, the contact is gone, then it returns, and now his fingers are digging into your bare skin. His hands are cold. The handheld taser in your pocket is burning, and you reach for it as he snaps, “Now, there’s no need to be a bi--”

“Hey now,” The new voice is sudden, but there’s a distinctive Southern drawl to the baritone voice that sends pleasant tingles down your spine. Now that is a voice that you could listen to the rest of the night. “The lady said no. And last I checked, Southern hospitality doesn’t apply when said person isn’t Southern.” 

The arm around your shoulders vanishes and you slowly reach for your bag. Angry voices echo behind you, but you’re too preoccupied with leaving to worry yourself with the brewing argument. Goddammit you had only come for drinks, and now you might have to duck out before a fight starts.

But the angry voices lower and the normal barroom din returns. You slowly release your bag to rest once again at your feet, and a new man appears on the stool at your elbow. 

“Good evening.” It’s the rumbling voice of your faceless Southern gentleman. 

He saved you, but that doesn’t mean you can trust him. Feigning disinterest is more difficult now, but you take a sip of your drink and focus hard on how the light from the glass catches the amber liquid. “Thank you for stepping up. Doesn’t happen often.” 

“Unfortunately. Mostly for the men if you end up pulling that taser.” The casual observation catches your attention.

You turn and finally look your gentleman in the eye. Oh. You weren’t prepared for him to be so-- gorgeous. That’s really the only word you can summon to your scattered brain at the moment because, damn. Dark hair brings out darker eyes that glimmer warmly in the lowlights of the bar despite the cowboy hat. A mustache accents plush lips. Tan skin and bold features draw you in, and you don’t want to stop looking except he clears his throat and you realize that you’ve been staring for much longer than the appropriate time.

“Is there something on my face?” Your eyes dart back up to his face and you’re struck by how unfair it is that someone can be so effortlessly attractive.

“N-- no!” Stammering, really? Dammit you’re a full grown woman, pull yourself together. “How-- how could you tell I’m not from around here?”

He beckons a finger to you, and you lean in. “I am an undercover operative working with an American based agency that deploys me worldwide to handle top-secret missions.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back to take him in again. The jacket over the tight shirt shows his athletic build rather well, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it were true, “Really?”

“No. It’s the accent.”

You laugh and roll your eyes. The pleased smile spreading over his face matches the one sneaking over your own. “You’re right, I just moved here.” A thought strikes you, “What are you doing alone in a bar during the holidays? No family or friends to visit?”

“None left that mean enough.” The statement is casual enough, except there’s a tension in his voice that makes you hesitate. “And I could ask you the same thing. What motivates a lady to move to a new city, all alone at Christmas?” The tension passes and he waves at the bartender, who immediately turns and starts making a drink. He’s a regular here, apparently.

“A job,” You swirl the remnants of your drink lazily before finishing it, “I’m starting tomorrow.” The last dregs slip down your throat, and the burning buzz will last for now.

“Ah, a beautiful woman and a hard worker. It’s too much for my heart.” 

“If that alone is too much, then this is going to be a short evening indeed.” The subtle innuendo doesn’t fly over either of your heads, and you don’t miss the smile spreading across his face when you flirt back.

“I think I may surprise you, darling. We’re both willing to work for what we want.” His drink arrives, and he takes a sip. Heat pools in your core at the implications. “If this evening is going to continue, may I have the lady’s name so that I can address her properly?”

You hum low in your throat in response. You’ve never brought a man home at the first meeting, never allowed flirting to be anything more than that on the first night. But something’s different about this one. In a split second decision, you give it to him. 

He repeats the syllables after you, rolling them around his tongue in a way that sends a thrill through you as you wonder what else he can do with it, “Gorgeous. George, another drink for the lady, on my tab.” 

You tilt your head back, catching his eyes, “And may I then have the gentleman’s, so that I may know the name of my fearless knight in… shining leather and spurs?”

He laughs, “Jack Daniels.”

“Jack Daniels, like the whiskey brand?” 

“Something like that.” His grin is mysterious and seems a little too practiced, but that’s fine with you. You smile back anyway. Your drink arrives, and you raise the glass to Jack as you take a sip, though you find that the burn of the whiskey doesn’t leave you with the same satisfaction.

A song starts playing in the background, and you straighten up and glance over your shoulder at the dance floor. “Wait, I--”

“--love this song.” You both finish the sentence together. You look back at him hopefully, and he looks at you with a bit of a challenge in his eyes. 

The stool scrapes across the floor and he rises, extending a hand to you, “Would you care to dance, sweetheart?”

“Depends. Are we going to square dance?” 

“Only if you want to, darling.”

“Yes to the dancing, no to the square dancing then.” You accept his hand and walk with him to the center of the dance floor. Your drinks remain abandoned at the bar.

The bassy thrum of the music and crooning vocals keep your hips undulating against his, but Jack has other ideas. He hasn’t let go of your hands, and your arms are crossed over your chest when he draws them up and over your head. Your arms extend and you spin, meeting his eyes as you grasp his hands. 

The alternative pop song doesn’t translate perfectly to the style that he brings, but you can hardly complain. Around you, people are grinding against each other, but a small space clears for him to sway and turn with you. It’s surprisingly fun compared to what you knew of night dancing in a bar. 

The tempo slows and you step inside his reach so that your back is against his chest. 

‘Are you strange like me?

Lightin’ matches just to swallow up the flame like me?’

His breath catches hot and heavy in your ear as you press back into him, savoring every breath and drop of sweat that is your effect on him. The verse fades, and you allow him to lead once again. The melody swells in your head, drowning out everything around you until it’s only him and you. But this time the lyrics make you wonder about the man holding your hands.

‘Well, my heart is gold and my hands are cold.’

The music ends with a crescendo and a final spin, and you’re left panting as your gaze locks with Jack’s. He’s holding you firmly, one hand on your waist, and your bodies feeling like they’re steaming in the chilly air. The spell breaks with a single glance upwards from him. 

“Well that’s a fine addition to an already wonderful night.” There’s a tinge of amusement in his voice, and you follow his gaze.

The mistletoe hangs directly overhead. You glance down, a thrill of nerves running through your body at the intensity in Jack’s stare. Something must have shown in your eyes or body language, because he relaxes and loosen his grip on your waist.

“Only with your permission of course, darling.” He’s fighting it, but disappointment clouds his tone, and he withdraws. “I understand if it’s not something you wan--”

You cut him off by snagging his collar and pulling him close. The surprise on his face gives way to a smirk as you quip, “Don’t mind if I do, cowboy.”

Then his lips are on yours and you’re melting into him. The bar fades into the background and you lose yourself in a man that you had met three hours ago. He tastes like your drink. Tingles spread through your body as he deepens the kiss, warming you to the tips of your fingers.

Then you’re being pressed backwards until you hit the wall, hands instinctively flying up to tangle in his already messy hair. Something soft and firm brushes your fingertips, and you snag it on instinct, lifting Jack’s hat to plop it on top of your own head. He breaks the kiss, a soft smile spreading over his face when he pulls back to look at you. 

“Do I make a good cowgirl?”

“Looks better on you than me, darling.” He kisses you again, hands sliding over your waist down to your ass, and you don’t think that’s a lasso pressing up against you. A low moan rumbles out of his throat, and you stifle a whimper at the sound. He chuckles, “Want to get out of here, cowgirl?”

“Yeah.” Lust boils in your stomach. You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his kiss-swollen lips that part ever so slightly so you can see his tongue flick over them.

“Got any friends to notify of your immediate departure?” His breath ghosts over your skin and his dark eyes flick up from your lips to meet yours, warming your body as you lose yourself in the deep brown.

“No, too new to the city.” You whisper back, the noise of the club fading into the background while a wave of heat crashes over your body, swelling between your legs.

“Your place or mine?”

---

Funny enough, Jack didn’t bring a car either, but he doesn’t explain and you don’t question it. You don’t regret walking the short five minutes to and from the bar, especially when Jack pulls you close to his side as you walk. You’re just passing under the bridge on your street when he stops walking.

“Stop, do you hear that?” You instantly freeze, eyes darting around for any perceivable threat. There’s too many potential hiding places, the shadows of the bridge supports could hide a man of any size and--

“Listen closely…” He hums the tune from the bar and steps away, tugging you forward a couple of steps. He pulls you back into him, and you’re able to hear the melody through the vibrations in his chest. 

‘You can’t wake up, this is not a dream.’

You find your rhythm. The tempo picks up, only a shadow in your mind as you sway to the invisible beat. He matches you easily, and the two of you move with an unpracticed ease out from beneath the shadow of the bridge into the streetlight glow. The melody swells, and you laugh when a breeze ruffles your hair. You sing the last line to him.

‘Well, my heart is gold and my hands are cold.’

You end up back in his arms, breathing hard and smiling up at Jack. His fingers slip down to interlock with yours, “I can help with that.” You should be freezing, but heat throbs under your skin in time with your racing heart. 

He leans in, but just before his lips touch yours, you whisper, “Jack? We’re here.”

His eyes shift over to your front door briefly, then back to you. He grins. “Nice place.”

---

You laugh as you stumble through your front door, your back hitting yet another wall when Jack pins you to the side of the living room. Heated kisses trail down your neck and a muscled thigh slides between yours. You shudder at the contact against your clothed pussy, your heartbeat throbbing between your legs fiercely.

“Jack, bed’s that way.”

“Oh sweetheart, that would be the end goal for sure.” Hands support your rear, and you fold your legs around him. You’re vaguely aware of him walking you towards the door that you indicated, but you can’t bring yourself to pay attention when he’s licking into your mouth and he’s so close and so warm and right there for you to enjoy. He lays you gently on the bed, legs dangling off the edge. 

“You want this?” The question is so starkly unexpected that you blink and sit up for a moment. He’s standing there between your legs, hair disheveled and shirt half unbuttoned. His pupils are completely lust-blown and his shoulders are heaving with the heavy breaths he’s taking, and you’re struck with the thought that this is the first time someone has thought to ask. But you’d have to be half-dead to say no now. 

“Yes.”

And then he’s undoing your pants and dropping to his knees in front of you. Warm breath ghosts over your exposed skin after he gently peels your pants off. You squirm as large, warm hands rub over your inner thighs. “Beautiful.” But he is too, with the way he glances up at you from between your legs. He’s absolutely beautiful, as he carefully pulls your panties to the side and drags his tongue through your folds. 

“You taste better down here, sweetheart.” He immediately concentrates around your clit, tracing lazy circles around the sensitive nub and you forget how to breathe. 

Your hips roll against his face, trying to gain more friction than what he’s giving, and you whimper as his mustache leaves a tingling trail on your skin. The heat pooling within your core is begging for more, and you’re close to doing the same as he continues to patiently taste you. 

“Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. I’m going to make you feel so good, darling, you’re going to be screaming my name.” A thick finger rests against you, gathering your wetness and continuing to massage against your clit while his tongue finally dips to press against your entrance. You flutter in response, a whine scraping against the back of your throat. His tongue presses deep into your core, and you clench around the insistent pressure.

“Ja-Jack I’m go-gonna--” The words refuse to come smoothly, but he seems to sense your urgency. His tongue returns to your clit, sucking and kissing the flesh while his finger slips into your pussy. 

“Come, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” Every flick of his tongue against your clit pulls another whine from you. Fuck, something inside you snaps and then heat is burning through your body. The wave crests, and you dimly hear a choked moan when your floor muscles convulse and heat drips from you.

He continues to taste you long after you’ve stopped convulsing, while the light fades from you vision and you regain feeling in your limbs. And you understand something. He’s tasting you simply to taste you, giving for the sake of giving. You know why you allowed it to get past the flirting stage.

“You doing good, darling?” He climbs up over you and kisses you, lips molding to yours like they were made to. He tastes like you.

You can’t respond, don’t want to when it means pulling away from this moment right now. The only thing you want right now is to stay like this, to stay in this perfect warmth, where the only thing you know is that he’s kissing you and you’re floating on the sheer feeling of being able to give because you feel like it.

Then he shifts, and you feel his erection brush against your thigh. And your gut tells you it’s his turn now. You move your leg, bringing it up between his thighs. It bumps against his length, and he tenses, pulling away and dropping his head to the crook of your neck. And you take the moment to flip the two of you, straddling his hips. 

“Give me a second, darling, have to find a condom.” His arm reappears from the edge of the bed with his wallet, but you stop him.

“I have an implant. Are you clean?”

“Last checkup, yes. And I haven’t been with anyone since.”

You smirk, “Well then I see no need.”

He exhales, arms going behind his head as he grins up at you, “I’d have to say, as enjoyable as that just was, seeing you like this?” He shakes his head, “Best part of the night.”

“It’s about to get better.” His dick is velvety hard between your thighs, and you can’t help grinding down on it just a little. 

“I’ll believe it when I feel it.” He groans, head falling back against the pillow. 

The challenge floats in the air, and you grab both it and his length in a single moment. He’s going to be saying your name soon. Notching it at your entrance, you sink down in a single motion. He drags against your insides so perfectly, fitting to you and filling you so completely. Your back arches at the burning stretch, but all you can focus on is Jack’s groan when your butt meets his hips, how his body seizes under you, and how his hands fly to clutch at you. 

But his cock inside you isn't enough, you need more contact, need to know that he’s right there with you. You grab his wrists and drag his hands up to your breasts, relishing the moan that escapes him as he squeezes them.

Your name echoes through the air, followed by his gasping breaths as you raise yourself off of him and sink back down. The heat starts building inside you again. His hips jerk up into you, seemingly unintentionally. “God, fucking perfect. Feel so good around me. Not gonna last, not after earlier, please sweetheart.”

You grind down onto him, finding your rhythm again. The fire inside of you is constant and overtaking you. It swells on its own without needing anything else besides Jack, who’s looking up at you like you’re the only star in the sky. 

“You look so good bouncing on my dick, cowgirl, but I’m going to have you under me, squirming for me while I get you to keep making all of those cute noises. I’ll be-- fuck!” His breath catches and his hands dig into the flesh of your hips, and a voice in the back of your mind tells you that you’re going to have bruises tomorrow. You can’t seem to bring yourself to care.

You fight to retain your own rhythm, but it’s unsustainable, and your screaming muscles wear down in the face of Jack’s strength. They give out, and you’re caught in the rhythmic slapping of skin as Jack takes over.

“Ja- Jack! Fuck!” You can’t organize yourself enough to think, let alone acknowledge him while he continues to drive up into you. The ragged cries ripped from your throat lose all coherency. It’s too much, and the orgasm rising through your body is taking your mind with it. A hand detaches from your waist and presses directly against your clit, rocketing you further towards your climax. “Jack!” 

“Come on sweetheart, I know you’ve got another in you. Let go. Let me take care of you.”

Your own orgasm hovers at the edge of your mind, but you shove it away in favor of tripping his. His breaths are coming heavier now, and his hips continue to slam upwards into yours. He’s going to outlast you at this rate, unless--

A hand grips your neck just enough that you register the pressure, and he drags you down against his body. The world flips around once more, and then you’re underneath him instead and his arms are planted on either side of your head as he-- fuck. The pace increases, no it must multiply by some large number because your body is shaking with every thrust, and the headboard is slamming against the wall and you’re glad that you don’t share these walls with anyone else. Your cry is muffled by his mouth, but the new angle causes him to drive up against something inside you that you swear makes you see a corner of heaven.

It spikes with a fury, driving you over the edge as you clamp down around him. Your body seizes, arching against Jack as the shockwaves claim your body. You’re rocketed somewhere high above the clouds for the second time tonight, and all you can really comprehend is how happy you are that you brought him home. And through the haze, you faintly hear him purring in your ear, “Good girl, pretty girl, gorgeous. Gorgeous.”

He keeps fucking you through your high, and you need him to cum. You need him to feel the same bliss that you do, and you know how to do it. The idea barely crosses your mind before your body accepts it, and your floor muscles clamp down almost of their own volition. He falters, and a gasp is the only sound you hear before he’s coming. His hips piston out and in one last time, and then he’s spilling deep inside you.

When the light fades from behind your eyes, you feel yourself being shifted. Your combined juices trickle down your leg as he pulls out, and your back is pressed against his chest. You drift, blinking in and out of consciousness. You feel him rise from behind you and then hear the sound of running water. He returns moments later, and there’s a damp cloth cleaning between your legs before he’s back in bed behind you, arms locked around your waist and pulling you close. His fingers intertwine with yours over your belly, and as they brush against the skin of your stomach, you realize that they aren’t cold anymore. He drags the comforter over your bodies.

The world around you is dissolving in a haze of exhaustion, but his voice rumbles through the fog. You’re so comfortable and warm, and by all rights you should be asleep. But you force yourself back to the world of waking, enough to hear him thanking you as he plants slow kisses along the back of your neck. The delicious warmth of his skin against yours draws you farther under and stifles the confusion at the statement, and you finally surrender to the exhaustion pulling at your body. 

---

Your phone alarm wakes you the next morning to an empty bed. 

Realistically, you shouldn’t have expected him to be there, shouldn’t have hoped that it could have been more than a one time thing. Right? You’re a certified badass, a top-rated handler at Statesman Distillery who has guided multiple agents and friends through life and death scenarios. You deal in realism and pessimism. You have had one night stands before, none of which led to any kind of connection. You don’t need emotional connection to function. This shouldn’t be any different. Right?

Except you know how you normally feel after one night stands, and this isn’t it.

You’re on autopilot as you shower and dress for your first day. All you can think about is the warmth of his hands as they ran over your skin, his smirk as he caught your eye, mouth glistening with your release. His quiet ‘thank you’ last night as he curled his body around yours before falling asleep. If you could have had a say, you would have wanted more than one night. A second chance, maybe, but it’s not like you get many of those these days.

Statesman Distillery is across the street from last night’s bar, and the brisk air helps to clear your head and prepare you mentally. As soon as you walk through those doors, you’re Agent Seltzer, not a girl pining for a man whom you barely know beyond his name. You hesitate under the bridge on your way to work. The music echoes in your ears and chest. You keep walking. 

The receptionist directs you to your new office. Top floor, third door on the left. It’s roomier than your last one, though now you’re at HQ, not the LA branch office. A woman meets you at the elevator. She is slight, but her steely composure and short cut hair give her an air of maturity and ability. 

“Good morning and Merry Christmas, Seltzer.” She’s holding a basket with a label that reads ‘Happy First Day!’ “I’m Ginger Ale, the head overseer of the base-side handlers, and I’ll be giving you the basic acclimation on your first day. Sorry that it had to be a holiday, but an impending crisis in Chicago has just taken a turn for the worse. The mission briefing has been sent to your tablet.”

Your brow furrows slightly, and she continues as if she could read your internal question. “This isn’t usually my job, but it’s the holidays and most of the other agents trained in onboarding are on leave. We’re throwing you into the deep end on your first day, unfortunately, but your superiors at the LA branch assured us that you would take to it naturally.”

She sets the gift basket on your desk, and you notice the largest item in the basket is a bottle of the famed Statesman whiskey. You idly take it out and study the label. “Interesting first day gift.”

Ginger shrugs with a faint smile, “That’s directly from your assigned field agent, Agent Whiskey. He gifts those to his new handlers.”

“Any reason why?”

“He--” She seems to start to say something, then stops herself, “It’s an early apology. He’s experienced, and he operates as he sees fit. He burns through handlers faster than a hot knife through butter.”

The challenge floats above your head at the explanation, and you take it. “I’m assuming that I will get to meet Agent Whiskey before our official briefing?”

“Yes,” Ginger checks her watch, “In about… two seconds.”

“Sweetheart.” The voice is achingly familiar, and memories of last night crash over you like a heatwave. Second chances, hm?

Part Two if anyone cares for it

#pedros12daysofchristmas #smut #fluff #agent whiskey #kingsman #statesman #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #ginger ale makes a cameo and is a tired badass

[whitehotharlots]

The point is control

Whenever we think or talk about censorship, we usually conceptualize it as certain types of speech being somehow disallowed: maybe (rarely) it's made formally illegal by the government, maybe it's banned in certain venues, maybe the FCC will fine you if you broadcast it, maybe your boss will fire you if she learns of it, maybe your friends will stop talking to you if they see what you've written, etc. etc. 

This understanding engenders a lot of mostly worthless discussion precisely because it's so broad. Pedants--usually arguing in favor of banning a certain work or idea--will often argue that speech protections only apply to direct, government bans. These bans, when they exist, are fairly narrow and apply only to those rare speech acts in which other people are put in danger by speech (yelling the N-word in a crowded theater, for example). This pedantry isn't correct even within its own terms, however, because plenty of people get in trouble for making threats. The FBI has an entire entrapment program dedicated to getting mentally ill muslims and rednecks to post stuff like "Death 2 the Super bowl!!" on twitter, arresting them, and the doing a press conference about how they heroically saved the world from terrorism. 

Another, more recent pedant's trend is claiming that, actually, you do have freedom of speech; you just don't have freedom from the consequences of speech. This logic is eerily dictatorial and ignores the entire purpose of speech protections. Like, even in the history's most repressive regimes, people still technically had freedom of speech but not from consequences. Those leftist kids who the nazis beheaded for speaking out against the war were, by this logic, merely being held accountable. 

The two conceptualizations of censorship I described above are, 99% of the time, deployed by people who are arguing in favor of a certain act of censorship but trying to exempt themselves from the moral implications of doing so. Censorship is rad when they get to do it, but they realize such a solipsism seems kinda icky so they need to explain how, actually, they're not censoring anybody, what they're doing is an act of righteous silencing that's a totally different matter. Maybe they associate censorship with groups they don't like, such as nazis or religious zealots. Maybe they have a vague dedication toward Enlightenment principles and don't want to be regarded as incurious dullards. Most typically, they're just afraid of the axe slicing both ways, and they want to make sure that the precedent they're establishing for others will not be applied to themselves.

Anyone who engages with this honestly for more than a few minutes will realize that censorship is much more complicated, especially in regards to its informal and social dimensions. We can all agree that society simply would not function if everyone said whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. You might think your boss is a moron or your wife's dress doesn't look flattering, but you realize that such tidbits are probably best kept to yourself. 

Again, this is a two-way proposition that everyone is seeking to balance. Do you really want people to verbalize every time they dislike or disagree with you? I sure as hell don't. And so, as part of a social compact, we learn to self-censor. Sometimes this is to the detriment of ourselves and our communities. Most often, however, it's just a price we have to pay in order to keep things from collapsing. 

But as systems, large and small, grow increasingly more insane and untenable, so do the comportment standards of speech. The disconnect between America's reality and the image Americans have of themselves has never been more plainly obvious, and so striving for situational equanimity is no longer good enough. We can't just pretend cops aren't racist and the economy isn't run by venal retards or that the government places any value on the life of its citizens. There's too much evidence that contradicts all that, and the evidence is too omnipresent. There's too many damn internet videos, and only so many of them can be cast as Russian disinformation. So, sadly, we must abandon our old ways of communicating and embrace instead systems that are even more unstable, repressive, and insane than the ones that were previously in place.

Until very, very recently, nuance and big-picture, balanced thinking were considered signs of seriousness, if not intelligence. Such considerations were always exploited by shitheads to obfuscate things that otherwise would have seemed much less ambiguous, yes, but this fact alone does not mitigate the potential value of such an approach to understanding the world--especially since the stuff that's been offered up to replace it is, by every worthwhile metric, even worse.

So let's not pretend I'm Malcolm Gladwell or some similarly slimy asshole seeking to "both sides" a clearcut moral issue. Let's pretend I am me. Flash back to about a year ago, when there was real, widespread, and sustained support for police reform. Remember that? Seems like forever ago, man, but it was just last year... anyhow, now, remember what happened? Direct, issues-focused attempts to reform policing were knocked down. Blotted out. Instead, we were told two things: 1) we had to repeat the slogan ABOLISH THE POLICE, and 2) we had to say it was actually very good and beautiful and nonviolent and valid when rioters burned down poor neighborhoods.

Now, in a relatively healthy discourse, it might have been possible for someone to say something like "while I agree that American policing is heavily violent and racist and requires substantial reforms, I worry that taking such an absolutist point of demanding abolition and cheering on the destruction of city blocks will be a political non-starter." This statement would have been, in retrospect, 100000000% correct. But could you have said it, in any worthwhile manner? If you had said something along those lines, what would the fallout had been? Would you have lost friends? Your job? Would you have suffered something more minor, like getting yelled at, told your opinion did not matter? Would your acquaintances still now--a year later, after their political project has failed beyond all dispute--would they still defame you in "whisper networks," never quite articulating your verbal sins but nonetheless informing others that you are a dangerous and bad person because one time you tried to tell them how utterly fucking self-destructive they were being? It is undeniably clear that last year's most-elevated voices were demanding not reform but catharsis. I hope they really had fun watching those immigrant-owned bodegas burn down, because that’s it, that will forever be remembered as the most palpable and consequential aspect of their shitty, selfish movement. We ain't reforming shit. Instead, we gave everyone who's already in power a blank check to fortify that power to a degree you and I cannot fully fathom.

But, oh, these people knew what they were doing. They were good little boys and girls. They have been rewarded with near-total control of the national discourse, and they are all either too guilt-ridden or too stupid to realize how badly they played into the hands of the structures they were supposedly trying to upend.

And so left-liberalism is now controlled by people whose worldview is equal parts superficial and incoherent. This was the only possible outcome that would have let the system continue to sustain itself in light of such immense evidence of its unsustainability without resulting in reform, so that's what has happened.

But... okay, let's take a step back. Let's focus on what I wanted to talk about when I started this.

I came across a post today from a young man who claimed that his high school English department head had been removed from his position and had his tenure revoked for refusing to remove three books from classrooms. This was, of course, fallout from the ongoing debate about Critical Race Theory. Two of those books were Marjane Satropi's Persepolis and, oh boy, The Diary of Anne Frank. Fuck. Jesus christ, fuck.

Now, here's the thing... When Persepolis was named, I assumed the bannors were anti-CRT. The graphic novel does not deal with racism all that much, at least not as its discussed contemporarily, but it centers an Iranian girl protagonist and maybe that upset Republican types. But Anne Frank? I'm sorry, but the most likely censors there are liberal identiarians who believe that teaching her diary amounts to centering the suffering of a white woman instead of talking about the One Real Racism, which must always be understood in an American context. The super woke cult group Black Hammer made waves recently with their #FuckAnneFrank campaign... you'd be hard pressed to find anyone associated with the GOP taking a firm stance against the diary since, oh, about 1975 or so.

So which side was it? That doesn't matter. What matters is, I cannot find out.

Now, pro-CRT people always accuse anti-CRT people of not knowing what CRT is, and then after making such accusations they always define CRT in a way that absolutely is not what CRT is. Pro-CRTers default to "they don't want  students to read about slavery or racism." This is absolutely not true, and absolutely not what actual CRT concerns itself with. Slavery and racism have been mainstays of American history curriucla since before I was born. Even people who barely paid attention in school would admit this, if there were any more desire for honesty in our discourse. 

My high school history teacher was a southern "lost causer" who took the south's side in the Civil War but nonetheless provided us with the most descriptive and unapologetic understandings of slavery's brutalities I had heard up until that point. He also unambiguously referred to the nuclear attacks on Hiroshmia and Nagasaki as "genocidal." Why? Because most people's politics are idiosyncratic, and because you cannot genuinely infer a person to believe one thing based on their opinion of another, tangentially related thing. The totality of human understanding used to be something open-minded people prided themselves on being aware of, believe it or not...

This is the problem with CRT. This is is the motivation behind the majority of people who wish to ban it. It’s not because they are necessarily racist themselves. It’s because they recognize, correctly, that the now-ascendant frames for understanding social issues boils everything down to a superficial patina that denies not only the realities of the systems they seek to upend but the very humanity of the people who exist within them. There is no humanity without depth and nuance and complexities and contradictions. When you argue otherwise, people will get mad and fight back. 

And this is the most bitter irony of this idiotic debate: it was never about not wanting to teach the sinful or embarrassing parts of our history. That was a different debate, one that was settled and won long ago. It is instead an immense, embarrassing overreach on behalf of people who have bullied their way to complete dominance of their spheres of influence within media and academe assuming they could do the same to everyone else. Some of its purveyors may have convinced themselves that getting students to admit complicity in privilege will prevent police shootings, sure. But I know these people. I’ve spoken to them at length. I’ve read their work. The vast, vast majority of them aren’t that stupid. The point is to exert control. The point is to make sure they stay in charge and that nothing changes. The point is failure. 

[sansmania]

its o VER WHY WAS THIS SO LONG? 

part 1 | part 2 | art that goes with the fic

Title: Your Man

Ship: Boss [ @bonelyheartsclub ]/ GN Reader

Descrip: take it im drifting out to sea because HES GONNA BE A COWBOY thE END

Willie had taken his time to take in the damage done to the beloved boots, tutting and frowning at the holes and shredded leather.

"Oh yeah, I can fix 'em for ya, but it'll take a few days, Mr. Boss. That lil' dog did a number to these." Boss exhaled through his nasal bone with a silent nod. It seems 'Toby' had also managed to dislodge some of the pins that held the heels in, which would mean the boots needed to be completely stripped and rebuilt from the sole up.

"That is fine, I suppose. They mean a great deal to me, so take the time you need to get them back to perfect condition." He seemed a bit emotional about leaving the boots behind, and you gently assured the skeleton that they were in skilled hands. Leaving his contact information, the two of you turned to leave. 

Until a bony hand grabbed your neckline again.

"You said this store specializes in leather and boots, correct?"

"Yes?" You held the word out longer than necessary, red pinpricks looking down at you, then to the fluorescent shoes between you.

"I would like to peruse them, then. It would not hurt for me to have a few more sets, anyway. And I am beyond done with these sneakers. I feel like one of those fictional circus clowns."

You bit your tongue at his presumption, knowing Boss wouldn't listen to a word you had to say on the subject, and accepted your fate in the tobacco and wood lacker scented hell.

After a bit of searching, pausing only to laugh at some of the ridiculous 'southern fact' signs they had decorating a shelf, the pair of you found the boot section of the large store.

"Human, I highly doubt if Texas were real, that it would home ninety percent of the planet's spider population." You couldn't help the snort that came out at Boss' comment as he walked over to the wall of shoes.

His eyelights were transfixed on the detailed stiches in some of the leather boots. His phalanges traced over a pair that had some gaudy gems placed into them- a pair that had studs- red stained leather- black snake skin. He was strangely silent as he looked over each set with wonder.

You didn't think any of them were Boss' style, to be honest. They were about classic as classic cowboy boots get- you could have sworn you even spotted a pair made of alligator skin.

"These." He finally spoke, pulling down one of the only sets that seemed to be ankle high. They were a deep maroon, black stitching along the sides and folds, and a very obvious steel toe embedded inside. There were a few gold embellishments and you felt they were gaudy as all hell.

But, that expression of wonder in Boss' eyes made him look like a child on gyftmas morning.

It was cute.

He was cute.

"I mean, sure, if you're into red, black and gold-" The skeleton flicked his eyes towards you, making your mouth snap shut. He took a seat on a nearby bench, listlessly kicking off the offending accessories to try the new boots on.

Boss became silent once again, taking in the shine of leather as he tilted his feet and legs to get a good look at them.

"There is a mirror over there." You mention, pointing a few feet away, and he stood up to admire the shape of the shoes. And while he did so, you also found yourself admiring him.

Boss was very tall- even without the help of his stiletto heels- and his broad shoulders squared in perfect posture made almost anything he wore look breathtaking. His choice of attire today fit snuggly against his ribcage, tapering down his spine- making Boss look, pun intended, skeleton thin. Tight, but soft, leather pants hugged his narrow hips and bony legs, perfectly shaping his body.

"Hmm. A bit lower than what I am used to, but they are quite fetching on me. What do you think, human?"

He caught you staring, once again, in the mirror- just as your eyes had been slowly trailing down his legs, brain becoming grey mush. You curse quietly, turning your head away with a mutter of agreement.

"Sadly, they do not match the rest of my attire. I should see if they have apparel here to compliment my figure and accessories." He made an amused sound when you cocked your head at the suggestion, cheeks burning with new fervor.

Oh. He knew exactly what he was doing now. Boss wouldn't even play with the idea if any of his family was around, but since it was just the two of you, he was going to continue his sadistic game.

When you had first met Boss, you would have sworn he didn't have a playful bone in his body- the serious tone and way he carried himself made it seem he was all work and no play. But, as you got to know him, his true colors seemed to blossom forth. Yes, he hated puns, that didn't mean he had no sense of humor. His humor was dry and a little cynical- and you had nearly soiled yourself in laughter when he cracked his first joke around you.

He also found Blue and Nox's rivalry amusing, egging them on at times just to get under their skin.

And when then two of you were alone, he was much more relaxed, allowing more of his jovial side to come out. Sometimes it was a welcome blessing and sometimes it was not.

As it was at your expense today, it was one of those times that his sense of humor didn't delight.

"Uh, s-sure. Why not? Let's find you a nice pair of chaps-" Boss' amused smile caught you off guard as he held a hand up to stop you from moving. You had hoped he would allow you to help, maybe in a way save yourself from this horrible fate.

"No, I believe I can handle dressing myself just fine. Though, I will listen to your opinion after I have chosen an outfit." The smirk didn't go away as you made a noise of disdain. The skeleton sauntered off on his own, leaving you to scream internally at being caught red handed and was going to make you suffer for it.

When he turned a corner, you were on your feet- tossing the old converse in your inventory- and did your best to sneak around the store behind the him. Occasionally, Boss would turn his head out of suspicion, causing you to duck behind a shelf, while he thumbed through the racks of clothes.

He was enjoying teasing you like this, smirk still apparent on his face. You were by no means subtle, so Boss knew you were tailing him around, and that only added to his amusement.

You peeked over a row of jackets that were fastened with tassels while Boss sifted through some button up shirts. His foot tapped along to the music with perfect rhythm, though, you were more shocked when his low voice was barely audible.

He was quietly singing along to the tune.

Boss Gothic Serif.

Was singing country.

And he knew you were watching and listening.

The next time he glanced over his shoulder, Boss caught your reddened face as a devious smile curled on his skull. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Human, I have picked out a suitable ensemble. Feel free to wait there for me to change." You didn't hide this time when he spoke up, accepting defeat, stepping out to follow the monster towards the changing rooms.

You knew from the first day of meeting these skeletons that they would be the death of you. You just didn't expect it to be in a dime store cowboy shop in the city.

Flopping down on another bench, you waited for death to finish his wardrobe swap and drag you to the dark depths- knowing now that he was going to be dressed like a cowboy with Shania Twain playing gently to send you off.

The shuffle of cloth behind the barn themed doors caught your attention, the soft click of bones on wood as a lock was lifted and the doors swung open.

Words choked in your mouth as it hung ajar, Boss stepping out of the small room with the most smug look on his face you had ever seen him muster.

His head was tilted down ever so slightly, burning red eyes shaded by the black hat atop his skull. Your eyes dragged down to the crisp maroon and black button up, gold skull bola tie strung in the collar and rested on his nearly bare breastbone.

The shirt was rolled at the sleeves, showing off his battle scarred hands and arms, and the tail tucked neatly into a pair of tight black dyed jeans; adorned and held up by a red leather belt that had a large gold skull buckle to keep it all together. The jeans hugged the skeleton's frame all the way down to the coordinated boots.

Boss leaned against the doorframe, taking in your reaction with sadistic glee; How you couldn't form a single word in appreciation to his wardrobe selection. How your face was red enough to put his shirt to shame. How your eyes lingered over the single undone button at his clavicle.

How your reaction made his soul thrum with pride.

"Comments?" He finally spoke, beyond amused at the way you startled to his rough voice- dropping it an octave or two, successfully getting further reactions out of you. Finally, you managed to swallow the hard, dry lump that formed in your throat, tearing your gaze away to look back to Boss' expecting eyes.

You coughed and looked away

"Yee. Haw?" Was all you could manage as he stepped forward, boots loudly clacking against the hardwood floor. The terrifying skeleton you called a friend, and obviously waxed red towards, stopped mere feet before you, dragging your attention back to him.

"Is that all you have to say? I would appreciate some feedback, maybe I should make another selection if this doesn't suit me-"

"No, don't!" You found your voice as Boss turned heel to find something else to fluster you with. He quirked a brow ridge at your outburst, returning to his previous position, arms crossed as he awaited to hear your real feelings. 

"You. You look good, Boss." You did your best to hold your voice steady as his gaze made you shrink into the bench, like you were going to become a permanent fixture in the store.

"Just ‘good’?" Oh, he was going to make you suffer. Breathing hard through your nose, you looked back up at him. Boss already knew how you felt, so this was just torture to feed his ego.

And you may as well feed it.

"Fine." There was a pause as you found the words. “You look amazing. Handsome. Stunning.” You could feel your face and neck darkening with each admission- at this point, had you even been referring to just how he looked now? He seemed to preen at each compliment, all too pleased to drink in your words of praise.

"Then I do believe I will purchase these items. They may be in start contrast to the rest of my wardrobe, but some variety in life never hurts."

It was interesting to watch Boss fannagle with the cashier about buying all the clothes items while he was still in them- but he managed to do it, and in style, if you were honest.

With his boots squared away, clothes tucked into his inventory, and you at his side, Boss literally strutted out of the store- leading you both back to his car.

"Human, you make it so easy to fluster you, you do realize that." Boss' smile from before had not left his features, even as you pulled into the culdesac in which you lived.

"Yeah, I'm aware, Boss." You heaved a final embarrassed sigh as the car came to a stop at your curb. Gathering your belongings, and what little bit of pride you had left, the car door swung open and you turned back to him. "Tease the human that has feelings for you. Ha, ha."

"But, uh." You pause, leaning on the door to look Boss in the eyes.

"Have fun getting into your room before Red or Stretch see you, Cowboy."

#bhc #kisa writes #bonelyheartsclub #theres a reason i dont write fanfic anymore

[qqueenofhades]

*respectfully* another request for Russian Revolution fivan? 👉👈😶

That winter is the worst that Fedyor can possibly imagine. It turns out that for a band of idealist socialist revolutionaries, overthrowing the old system and planting your flag in fiery triumph is a hell of a lot easier than building a functioning alternative in its place, and in the meantime, everyone is going to suffer. The Bolsheviks are victorious, yes, but now they're fighting with fellow socialists, the White Russian counter-revolutionaries, other militants, and the entirety of capitalist imperialist Western Europe, who view their success with horror and are desperate to stop the Red plague from infecting their own war-weary, restless-minded populations. There is famine and cold and death at every turn, and Fedyor sees things that he will never be able to forget. Russia is a war within a war within the Great War, which itself is still raging, though the new Bolshevik government has promised to get them out of it as fast as possible; the country's ruinous losses have fueled their support. The capital, for that matter, isn't even Petrograd anymore. It's Moscow. Everything has changed.

Fedyor battles to get home to Nizhny Novgorod, where he finds his family alive but deeply shaken. They have never been wealthy, but they're comfortable, and the first time he has to see his father stand in a bread line, it rattles Fedyor too. The idea of trying to just keep their heads down and hope this nonsense blows over seems ludicrous. But now his older sister Katya is sick, can't stop coughing, and it's that, if nothing else, that galvanizes Fedyor to return to the civil war and the racked-apart world that awaits him out there. "I have... a friend," he says to his worried parents. "In the Red Guard. If I can find him again, he might be able to help."

This is, of course, a lie in almost every imaginable way. Ivan Sakharov isn't his friend, just a man who didn't kill him in the Winter Palace and sheltered him from the immediate aftermath of the sack. Fedyor has no way of knowing if Ivan is still alive, if he is in any position to procure medicine for Katya, or anything else. But everyone is desperate, and the Kaminskys are in the same boat as everyone else. His parents give in, hug Fedyor tightly, and wish him Godspeed.

Finding Ivan is the next challenge. All Fedyor knows is his name and that he is (probably) from Siberia, so he travels to the headquarters of the newly-formed Siberian Army in Yekaterinburg and asks there. This is a mistake, because the Siberian Army, while originally founded in sympathy with the Bolsheviks, has now fallen out with them, and Fedyor barely gets out with his skin. But he boards the Trans-Siberian Railway, rides aimlessly east, has a chance conversation with a fellow passenger, and is told to ask in Krasnoyarsk.

Krasnoyarsk is a beautiful city in southern Siberia, and if Fedyor was here under other circumstances, he would like to look around. But he confirms that there is indeed an Ivan Sakharov from around here, who is a member of the Red Guard, and who might be posted to the Bolshevik regional headquarters in Chelyabinsk. It's worth a try. It's advancing spring, the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk has been signed (ceding a sizeable chunk of Russia to the Central Powers, but Lenin views it as an acceptable compromise en route to worldwide socialist revolution) and Russia is technically out of the Great War. If this is true, Fedyor can't see it.

He arrives in Chelyabinsk in March 1918, a fortnight after the treaty. Travels to the Bolshevik headquarters, asks, and --

"Fedyor Mikhailovich," the voice says, sounding genuinely stunned. "Is that you?"

Fedyor's heart skips a beat. He wasn't sure that the other man would remember him, that he would find him at all, but it's Ivan Ivanovich, looking grimmer and grumpier and more hard-edged than ever. He stares at Fedyor, who stares back at him. They move convulsively, clasp each other's hands, draw into an embrace like old trenchmates stumbling on each other unexpectedly. Ivan says, "What are you -- "

"If you ask me what I am doing here one more time," Fedyor interrupts, "I will smack you."

Ivan stops short. He looks like he might not object to that, and something hot and shameful and sweet curls warm in Fedyor's stomach. There's something else in their eyes, distinctively so, when they look at each other. Then Ivan says, "Why are you here, then?"

"My... sister." It sounds foolish, flimsy, when he utters it aloud, but no matter. "Katya. She's sick."

Ivan frowns. "With that Spanish influenza? They're saying it's particularly bad this year."

"No, I don't think so. I was just hoping... someone like you, that you might be able to find medicine for her. Or a hospital."

Ivan's eyes flicker. Then he says, "Are your family sympathizers to the cause? That would make a difference in what I was able to find."

"We're desperate," Fedyor says roughly. "We can be Reds, Whites, Greens, whatever you want. After your lot have come in and shot everything straight to hell -- "

"And is it better for the Americans, the British, the Japanese, the French, all interfering in Russia and trying to overthrow the will of the people?" Ivan snaps back. "The capitalists are terrified their own people will do the same to them as the Russians, so -- "

"It's not important." Fedyor has not come here to have a political argument. He has come to save his sister. "Can you help?"

"I don't know." Ivan spins restlessly on his heel. "Maybe."

"Please," Fedyor begs. "I will do anything."

For a moment, their eyes catch, hearing a certain and unmistakable subtext in that, that he does mean anything, and might not object. Then Ivan says, "No. I will not take that."

Are you sure? They both know what he's referring to, plain as day, without another word exchanged. Fedyor takes a step. "Ivan Ivanovich," he says. "I am... at your disposal. If you help her."

Their eyes continue to lock. Fedyor is burning from head to toe, and with something he can barely articulate. Then, brusquely, Ivan shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, I will not do that. Goodbye, Fedyor Mikhailovich. I hope you find arrangements elsewhere."

"Ivan -- please -- "

It's too late.

The door closes.

Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov, once again, is gone.

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #fivan #fivan ff #(trying to go back and tag my fics with that eventually) #(so i have a designated sub-category) #also i apologise #but uh in my defense nobody thought this was going to be happy...? #sparklingrainbowdragon #ask #russian revolution au

[f0xfordcomma]

re:union (kataang week 2021) DAY SEVEN

prompt: the sea and the sky

re:union

chapter seven: reunions

rating: T

words: 2529

summary: "He had fought hard for this unity. Had spent countless hours in courtrooms and offices arguing with dignitaries and representatives about the benefits of a United Republic. He had spent long nights drafting up documents and looking over contracts. He had dreamed of finally seeing this day, finally seeing this unity. All he could see tonight though, was a yellow flower drifting around the crowded room on an intricately braided head of ochre hair."

read it on ao3

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chapter seven: reunions

By the time Aang had handled Councilman Zhu’s dumpling crisis, he had lost track of Katara.

“She went to get changed for the feast,” a familiar, though deeper than he remembered, voice sounded from behind him.

“Sokka!”

“Hey buddy! It’s good to see you.”

They squeezed each other in a bone-crushing hug. The first one, Aang realized, he had gotten since his return. Aang held on a little harder at the thought.

“Where’s Suki?”

“Getting ready with the rest of the warriors. They are playing a special part in the performance tonight.”

“Wow! I can’t wait to see that!”

“Heh—yeah, me too.” Sokka’s voice went somewhere dreamy. “But, uh, I think it’ll be hard to watch with your head buried in my shoulder like this…”

“Oh right! Sorry… just happy to see you.”

“I missed you too buddy.” Sokka squeezed Aang’s shoulder reassuringly. “Now, you should go get ready! Can’t have the guest of honor stinking up the place tonight.”

“Guest of honor…” Aang grumbled, rolling his eyes in exasperation at Zhu’s exuberance. Still, he broke away from Sokka, giving him a nod as he made his way towards the room’s egress.

“Oh, and Aang?” called Sokka from near the food tables where he was stealing an hor’s d'oeuvre from under a cloche. “She’s not seeing anybody, in case you were wondering.”

Aang stopped still, his ears burned, his head swam. He hadn’t realized how much the question was plaguing him until he had heard it vocalized. She’s still single. There’s still time. He had let her go once, had regretted it every day since. She’s still single. He had no idea if she still wanted him the way he wanted her. But she’s still single. He resolved to try and change that fact by the end of the night.

He opened his mouth to speak but only a low whine came out. He cleared his throat but ended up coughing around the words as he forced them out. “I—is that… is that so?”

“It is.” Sokka snorted.

“That’s uh… thanks Sokka!” Aang shouted in salutation as he rushed out the door, needing to hide his burning blush and, as everyone had insisted, finally get cleaned up.

⬭

He wore a new set of robes. The pants dyed a dark amber with northern saffron. The belt and sash a sunny terra-cotta color that complimented the blue of his tattoos.

He surveyed his face in the mirror, taking in the scruff along his jawline, the tan around his temples, the laugh lines near his lips. He hadn’t spent much time looking at himself over the past few years, hadn’t had a mirror at any of the temples. The only time he would look at his reflection was when shaving his head, and even then, the refraction of the water made it difficult to examine his countenance with any detail.

Aang had never much minded the way that he looked--hadn’t had much use for vanity when living with the monks, hadn’t had much time for insecurity when running from the fire nation, hadn’t had much need for self-consciousness when being loved by Katara--he’d always thought his face was friendly enough, his body was strong enough. Something about looking at himself now though, fully a man, strong and steady and serene in a way that he’d never seen himself before, made his chest swell with confidence.

“I look good, huh buddy?” He directed the question to Momo, who had joined him in his room after an afternoon spent swooping around Cranefish City in search, no doubt, of sweets from strangers.

In reply, the lemur flew over to perch on his shoulder, scratching through the stubble on Aang’s chin with a squawk.

“You really think she’ll like it?” He scratched Momo between the ears and produced a plum from the pocket of his pants.

Momo took the fruit eagerly between his paws and greedily gobbled it down.

“Aw buddy, you flatter me.”

“Well babe,” a feminine voice dripping with thinly veiled amusement sounded from behind him, “it looks like we’ve officially lost him.”

“You’d think so, but he’s been talking to the lemur like that for as long as I’ve known him.”

“So what you’re telling me is, he has always been insane?”

“Pretty much.”

Aang’s face was beet red (he had lost count, at this point, as to how many times this had happened today) as he spun on his heel to face the Firelord and Firelady, who were standing in his doorway in their formal robes and appraising him with mirth-filled expressions.

“Uh, hey guys… how, uh… how long have you been standing there?”

“Oh, long enough, hot stuff.” Mai shot him a wry smile with a raised eyebrow before turning and pecking her husband on the cheek quickly as she took her leave. “I’m going to go make sure the kids are ready. We leave in ten, boys.”

Once Mai was out of earshot, Zuko burst into laughter and walked over to throw an arm around Aang. “Anything you want to talk about there, Aang?”

“Yeah! Why is it that I don’t see any of you for three whole years, and the first thing anyone does is tease me.”

“That’s not true! The first thing I did was put you on babysitting duty.”

“You’re not funny, Zuko.”

“Hey! Now who’s teasing whom?”

Aang scowled. Zuko, trying to school his face into a slightly more serious expression, straightened up and stalked a few paces across the small room.

“I’m going to give you some unsolicited advice because Uncle isn’t here to do it for me.” Zuko pantomimed stroking his beard and affected a strong accent that, ultimately, sounded nothing like Iroh. “Follow your heart.”

“Follow my heart? That’s it? No tea metaphors? No floral imagery? You make a pretty rotten Iroh, Zuko.”

“Hey, I tried.” Zuko shrugged. “I don’t know, man. You’re still in love with Katara, right?”

Aang flushed but nodded his head, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Are you going to do something about it?”

Aang met Zuko’s eyes determinedly and nodded again.

“Good. You’d better.”

“Thanks Zuko.”

“Any time. By the way? I agree with Momo, the beard really suits you.” At that, Zuko strode out of the room, chuckling softly to himself.

⬭

“So, Sugar Queen,” Toph plopped herself on Katara’s bed with a huff, swinging her bare feet up to rest on the adjacent wall so she could still feel what was happening. “You seemed pretty cozy with our Prodigal Son back there. Locked that down yet?”

“Toph!” Katara spluttered, pulling her paintbrush away from her lips.

“That’s a no, then?”

“Wha--no, not a… he just got back! And I don’t even know if… it’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Right, right. So you guys haven’t talked about your feelings, like, at all, yet? What the heck was all that flirting on the beach then?”

“What flirting? We were just hanging out. As friends! Being friendly! We were friends before we were ever anything else, Toph. You know that!”

“Uh huh, uh huh. Good point, Katara. Your definition of ‘friendly’ has always been a little bit off when it comes to Aang…”

“Toph! I will kick you out.”

“No, you won’t. Want to know why?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“You know me so well, Sweetness. And you aren’t going to kick me out because I know you very well and if I’m not here in, oh, seven minutes when you inevitably start second guessing yourself, to give you one of my patented Toph Beifong pep talks, you are going to freak out.”

Katara grumbled something crass under her breath and scowled at Toph’s reflection in the mirror, but ultimately, she knew her friend was right, so she obliged the company while she finished putting on her makeup.

Katara rarely wore makeup. It hadn’t really been a custom among the women in the Southern Water Tribe growing up, and during the war there hadn’t been time to worry over such trivialities. Afterwards, though, she had been the victim of many a makeover by Ty Lee. Had been the guest at many formal galas that required a bit of dressing up. Had been gifted a set of Kyoshi warrior paints by Suki. Had spent an afternoon wandering around the market in Caldera hunting down the exact right shade of lipstick with Mai and learning everything that she could possibly hope to know about knife maintenance.

Aang had always gotten incredibly flustered around her when she wore makeup. That was, perhaps, her favorite part of the process.

It had been years since she had put any makeup on her face. Her face was different now. Her eyes crinkled a bit at the corners when she smiled, her cheeks were less plump, more defined, her lips were fuller—perhaps the lipstick made her lips look too full? Perhaps it wasn’t the same color that she had used that one night in Omashu when Aang had ended up wearing more of it than she had? Perhaps she should wear something pinker? Redder? What had Mai said about skin undertones?

“You look fine.”

“You really think so, Toph?”

“No idea.” Toph deadpanned. “But I’m sure that even if you look like an armadillo-hog, Aang will still forget his own name when he sees you. That is your goal with the facepaint, right?”

“Uh…”

“Of course it is, don’t try to lie to me, Sweetness. Listen, I know two things: that boy’s heartbeat has always only ever been impacted by you, and a lot of other men have also had hammering heartbeats when they talk to you. Wanna know what that tells me? You ain’t ugly. In fact, I assume you’re pretty hot. So, chin up, shoulders back, let’s go get you your man back.”

Katara spluttered and blushed. “Oh… uh, okay.”

“You don’t sound confident yet. You are still in love with him, right?”

“Yes.” She whispered.

“Obviously. Then get your pretty little butt out of here and go do something about it. Chop chop, girly!” Toph, still laying on Katara’s bed, started snapping at her while she squared her shoulders in the mirror and gave herself one more once over, nodding at her reflection and resolving to talk to Aang as soon as she had the chance.

“Right. Okay. I can do this. Thank you, Toph.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Eh, yeah… I told Yugi to meet me here so we can head over together. Or wait… was it Satoru? Toklo? I don’t know, some guy is picking me up. Can’t show up to a stuffy formal function without someone to talk to all the boring people for me, now can I?”

“You do know all of your friends are going to be there tonight, right?”

“I said what I said.”

Katara rolled her eyes as she hurried past Toph and prepared to leave. “Whatever, just lock up when you leave, okay? Mrs. Shao is out tonight so I’m the last one in the house.”

⬭

The ballroom was lavishly decorated. The colors of all four nations draped around the room in every detail. Tapestries hung on the walls with the new seal of Republic City, flanked on either side by the insignias of the four nations. The tables were lined with dishes from across the world. The floral arrangements featured regional blooms from all over. In a ballroom in a government building in a sleepy corner of the Earth Kingdom continent, the entire world was united in one beautiful display.

He had fought hard for this unity. Had spent countless hours in courtrooms and offices arguing with dignitaries and representatives about the benefits of a United Republic. He had spent long nights drafting up documents and looking over contracts. He had dreamed of finally seeing this day, finally seeing this unity. All he could see tonight though, was a yellow flower drifting around the crowded room on an intricately braided head of ochre hair.

From his seat onstage next to Zuko, he watched her make her way around the room hugging and smiling and laughing and chatting. Her sleeveless blue dress was modern but carried traditional nods to her water tribe roots. Her lips were a dark cherry red. Her hair was braided. He had braided it. A yellow flower sat at her crown and winked sunshine at him whenever she turned her head. She was beautiful. Of course, he already knew that. But she was beautiful.

“Aang? Hello… Aang??”

“Huh, what?” Aang was drawn from his stupor when Zuko nudged him with his elbow.

“You’re up.”

“Oh.”

Zhu introduced him. He somehow made a speech. There was roaring applause.  Her eyes were blue, her lips were red, the flower was yellow. She was blushing.

He took his seat next to Zuko. Her eyes were blue . There were performances. Her lips were red . Suki shot finger guns at him in greeting as she and her warriors took the stage. The flower was yellow. Music started up and the gathered crowd dispersed to make way for dancing. She was blushing.

“Excuse me.” He rushed off-stage and into the crowd, chasing a glimpse of yellow in ochre, a swish of blue chiffon. She was pushing her way through the crowd, too. Her eyes were blue. “Katara, I--”

“Dance with me?”

She was offering him a hand. The tsungi horn rang out a familiar song. He took it. “Of course.”

They knew this dance by muscle memory. It was as familiar as their own names, as each other’s name. He flew around her in swirls. She swam around him on waves. They were the sea and the sky and there could not be one without the other. He lifted her, she spun around him. He dipped her, she glowed. She was the sun and he was the moon. She illuminated his sky. He compelled her tides.

The music ended. They were breathing heavy, faces inches apart, hearts still hammering the now silent drum beat.

“Can we go somewhere?”

⬭

The sound of the party flooded the streets of Republic City. Everyone seemed in good spirits, bustling about in a dance as they went about their evening errands. The cicada-crickets sang along to the Tsungi horn. The air was hot, heavy with humidity. They watched the waves from a rooftop. Their hands were intertwined.

Out across the bay, the sea and the sky collided in a canvas of colors. The green and yellow and red and orange of twilight reflected on the water’s dusky blue blue blue. The colors blurred together, obscuring the horizon line, obscuring the separation between their two elements. Out here, there was no sea, no sky. No air, no water. No Aang, no Katara. Just them. Just together. Just finally.

They made promises to each other. They held on. They did not let go.

“Sweetie?”

“Hmm?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

He had to lean every so slightly down to kiss her.

Her hands in his hands.

Blue. Grey.

Sea. Sky.

Their city had a new name.

They were here.

They were home.

⬭

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It's done! It's done!

So sorry for the delay in posting this! I could've squeezed it out yesterday but didn't feel like doing so would wrap up all the things the way that I wanted to so I needed to take a bit more time on it and, obviously, this chapter grew to be quite a bit larger than the others.

I have had SO MUCH FUN participating in Kataang week this year and hope to do it again next year maybe? Also I /might/ have a little storm brewing for Maiko week so... be on the lookout for that at some point?

The love and support that I've gotten for this fic this week? OH MY GOD like wow it's been so lovely! Thank you all for reading.

And a million thanks to @foxy-knowledgeseeker for being an absolute angel and beta-ing this sucker for me. I'm gonna apologize for my choas just once more. (Sorry! Thank you!)

Bwah! Okay, time for a nap <3

@kataang-week

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

#kataang week 2021 #kataang #ao3 #foxford writes words #avatar the last airbender #atla #katara #aang #zuko #sokka #mai #toph #momo #the sea and the sky #re:union

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 5: Reunion

Here we go! The big one! Honestly I feel like this chapter might be even more emotional than chapter 65 when they finally get together. I hope you enjoy and are now forgiving me for that last cliffhanger! 

(and also disclaimer i do NOT ship jon/sansa, that photo was just the right Vibe™ so please no one come for me) 

word count: 5956

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan tensed, the blood in his veins spiking with apprehension. The laughing group was just down the street, only a few blocks away from him. But they were hidden from his sight by a thick blanket of fog.

However, that meant that he was also hidden - so Rowan could take his time.

His senses strained as every sound, sight, and smell from within a quarter mile came streaming into him. He could hear everything, from the drops of fetid rainwater off a nearby gutter, to the whipping of the wind around a sharp corner, the pattering of rats’ paws in the alleyways, the snoring of an old man, warm in his bed, and the giggling of his daughter as she stayed up well past her bedtime, her soft hands rifling through a well-worn book.

Then there were the scents of the city. Rancid and foul place that it was, there were still some pleasant things to be found – such as the soft clouds of flour from a corner bakery just beginning to wake for the morning rush, burning sage and melting candlewax, a lavender sprig wilting in a nearby window, and –

And then he tasted it. The barest hint of jasmine, lemon verbena, and flickering embers. The scent of home.

The oath in his chest seemed to purr with delight.

Aelin was here. She was right here –  

But she wasn’t alone.

Rowan could hear the quiet steps of one– no, two others. The first was small and light-footed, probably a young mortal woman, who smelled of mint and some kind of southern spice…almost like pepper and fig leaves. The other was a male, perhaps a young demi-Fae. Though his movements were quiet, his steps were far heavier, marking him at over 6 feet.

There was also the scent of blood about the male, which had Rowan’s hackles rising. But it was old and sour – likely an old wound whose infection had only just begun to heal over. And as their movements were light and unhindered, their conversation free and open, Rowan wasn’t particularly worried that a fight was brewing. But still, his guard stayed up.

The man’s true scent spoke of warm furs and roasting chestnuts and…and something else, something almost…familiar.

His thoughts distracted, trying to place the strange smell, Rowan unthinkingly shifted his stance, causing the soft scrape of leather on stone to echo through the fog.

And the tension in his body ratcheted to new heights as he felt the group fall abruptly silent.

All was still. Rowan’s hands began to sweat.  

What if she wasn’t happy to see him? What if she ordered him back to Wendlyn?

Rowan did his best to rally his thoughts, as he slowly made his way forwards through the mist. Making sure that each of his movements were choreographed far in advance. He didn’t want to surprise them, particularly that strange male, whose scent he still could not place…

And then Rowan was breaking through the fog, and he could finally see them, could finally see her. Vaguely he heard the male and the young woman say something to each other, but Rowan couldn’t tear his eyes or ears away from the cloaked woman standing stock-still barely a dozen feet from him, her lovely scent billowing with shock.

Aelin’s face was covered with a hood, so he couldn’t see her reaction to him, couldn’t know if she recognized him. But then she was taking a hesitant step forwards and loosing a shuddering breath and a small, whimpering noise that was almost a sob. And suddenly, Rowan felt all of his worries disappear as easily as the morning snow beneath the midday sun.

It was Aelin. And of course she didn’t hate him, of course she was as relieved to see him as he was to see her.

And then she was running, running straight into his arms and Rowan could feel his every muscle, his every bone all the way through to his soul, sighing in relief. Relief that she was here, that they were together again. Relief that he was touching her once more.

Rowan grabbed Aelin and pulled her into his embrace, his arms wrapping completely around her small frame as she buried her head into his neck. He curled around her, breathing in her scent as if it were the last drops of water in a blistering desert, as if it were a life-saving elixir. As if her scent alone would take him from the brink of hell.

Rowan didn’t realize truly how much he’d missed her until that moment.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Rowan registered that she was crying.

“How did you get here? How did you find me?” Aelin pulled just far enough away that he could see the edges of her face beneath the hooded cloak; the pointed chin, the delicate nose, those beautiful, upturned lips –

Rowan slowly found his voice. “You made it clear my kind wouldn’t be welcome on your continent. So I stowed away on a ship. You’d mentioned a home in the slums, so when I arrived this evening, I wandered until I picked up your scent.”

As he spoke, his eyes scanned over her, carefully assessing.

She was changed. Even though only a month or so had passed since he last held her, Aelin seemed different. Older. She carried herself with more weight, more authority.

His mouth tightened. “You have a lot to tell me.”

She only nodded, gripping his shoulders even harder. And Rowan couldn’t say he was displeased with that.

Rowan carefully raised his right hand, and brushed it against the softness of her cheek, tucking a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “But you’re not hurt,” he said softly, needing to make absolutely sure. “You’re safe?”

Aelin just nodded again, burying her face in his chest.

Rowan felt as though the city could fall apart around them, and he would not move one inch. He would never be able to hold her for long enough.

“I thought I gave you an order to stay in Wendlyn.” It was almost a tease.

“I had my reasons, best spoken somewhere secure.” He didn’t like to evade the question, but he couldn’t speak of Lorcan in such an exposed place. So instead he changed the subject, “Your friends at the fortress say hello, by the way. I think they miss having an extra scullery maid. Especially Luca – especially in the mornings.”

Aelin laughed lightly, squeezing him once again. As if making sure he was real.

But tears still streamed down her cheeks, and Rowan found that he couldn’t keep his worry down any longer. Perhaps she was injured, and was keeping the truth from him, trying to keep him from worrying –

“Why are you crying?” he asked, trying and failing to push her back far enough so he could read her face.

She refused to move a single inch.

“I’m crying,” she sniffled, “because you smell so rutting bad my eyes are watering.”

Rowan let out a roar of laughter, the sound so wild that he heard the vermin in the alleys go silent. And the gaze of Aelin’s two companions really started bore into him.

But Rowan payed them no heed as Aelin finally pulled away from him, a wry smile curving her lips. “Bathing isn’t an option for a stowaway,” he said, finally letting her go, but flicking her nose before she could sidle out of his reach.

Aelin shoved him right back.

All Rowan wanted was to push her in return – to touch her, poke her, prod her, until she was snarling and writhing and snapping her teeth.

But the demi-Fae male at the other end of the alley was eyeing him carefully, his scent a potent mix of worry and aggression and protectiveness. And Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be patient for much longer.

“Are you just going to make them stand there all night?” Rowan asked.

“Since when are you a stickler for manners?” Aelin slung an arm around his waist, as if she was worried he would disappear on her. Neglecting, of course, to remember that it was she who disappeared on him, and not the other way around.

But instead of fighting the point, Rowan just put his arm around her shoulders as together, they turned and walked back to where her companions were waiting for them.

As they approached, Rowan fully turned over his attention to the two strangers, carefully cataloguing their every move, scent, and sound. Taking note of the muscles they favored, each blade hidden beneath their clothes.

The woman, an archer if ever he’d seen one, looked out of place. As if she were desperate to get out of their hair. The male, however, looked as though he wouldn’t move for all the world.

His every gesture thrilled towards Rowan, his instincts screaming at him challenge him, to measure himself against him. And as Rowan drew closer, he finally placed that familiar piece in his scent – or at least he thought he did.

The demi-Fae smelled of Aelin, the scent layered and complex. His first thought was that they were sharing a bed, an idea that clanged through him, uncomfortably. But the scent was too old, too deep – and once Rowan spotted that golden hair, that fair skin, he knew that he must be looking at the face of Aedion Ashryver.

Aelin’s cousin.

His face was mostly covered, but from what Rowan could see, the bones were strong and sharp. Unforgiving. But the male was young, barely into his twenties, and he was still coming into his power.

The Fae blood in his veins was strong, stronger even than Aelin’s in some ways. Rowan couldn’t tell if he could shift – but if he could, Aedion Ashryver might even be strong enough to rival any in Maeve’s court. Perhaps strong enough to rival even him.

And Rowan knew that Aedion wanted to find out. Wanted to challenge him. To prove himself, to Rowan, to their queen.

Rank would have to be established.

No matter the male’s strength, he was still but a boy. And though he was reportedly a fine warrior, Rowan was one of Maeve’s war-torn lieutenants, was Aelin’s bloodsworn. Her Second.

Aedion would have to find his place. Rowan could only hope that he would do so gracefully, without bloodshed. He doubted it would much endear him to Aelin if he killed her cousin in some ill-begotten contest.

Aelin pinched Rowan’s side, and as he hissed in response, Rowan realized that the two of them had been locked in a stare. So Rowan casually broke their gaze and pinched Aelin’s shoulder right back.

He had been playing these games for a long time, had been playing them well before Aedion’s grandfather, and his father, and his father before him, had been more than a flicker in his mother’s womb. Touching Aelin so informally, refusing to acknowledge that challenge burning in Aedion’s eyes – they were signs of dominance, attempts to put the boy in his place.

And Aedion knew that. But he didn’t say anything as Aelin turned back towards the group, saying, “Let’s get inside.”

But the other woman, the archer, was edging away from the group, her eyes flickering between him and Aedion. “I’ll see you later,” she said, not seeming to refer to anyone in particular. And she barely waited a moment for a reaction before sidling into the shadows and out of sight.

Rowan stored his curiosity away for another time as Aelin pulled him forwards through the mist, and they headed deeper into the slums. Aedion fell carefully into step behind them, and Rowan could sense that the male hadn’t given up. Far from avoided, their confrontation had been delayed, allowing the roiling tension between them to build and build and build.

Rowan tried to keep himself from looking forwards to it. To ridding the boy of his arrogance, and cementing his own place with their queen. He didn’t succeed.

Together, the three of them walked through the night, Rowan keeping careful note of every sound, every flicker of movement, every strange scent. And this far into the slums, there were many of those. He did his best to ignore the rot and filth and vomit.

He also tried to keep himself from focusing too much on that empty space between his body and Aelin’s, the way that it seemed to crackle with energy. The way that he wanted to make it disappear.

No matter how many resolutions he made, how many times he told himself that he couldn’t pursue her, that it would be a mistake to let themselves get any closer, it all seemed to go up in flames the second her eyes locked with his. The second her scent curled in his nostrils.

But he didn’t have a choice – he had to keep control of himself.

They walked together until they came upon an unremarkable wooden warehouse, and Aelin fell to a stop. For a moment, they paused while Rowan examined it – making note of every entrance and exit, every window, every dimension. Only once he was absolutely sure the building was empty did Rowan step aside, allowing Aelin to unlock the rolling metal door and enter.

Tugging him by the hand, she led him through a large storeroom, mostly empty besides a few stacks of wooden crates that smelled of ink, and towards a wooden staircase that led to the second level, where Rowan guessed they would find her apartment.

But whatever expectations he had unconsciously formed, once Aelin turned the lock on that bright green door and revealed her home to him, Rowan knew that there was no way he could have ever anticipated this.

The apartment was fit for a king. Plush, luscious couches, mahogany furniture, hardwood floors topped with soft woolen rugs, a carved marble fireplace, and just so many books. They were everywhere, on the large dining table at one side of the room, stacked on the floor by the couch, on shelves framing the fireplace, atop the mantelpiece – even piled high on one of the soft armchairs.

Aelin had carved out an oasis for herself, right in the middle of the least likely place imaginable.

While Rowan examined the apartment, Aedion had moved in from behind them and was now standing beside the fireplace, his hood still up, hands within easy reach of his weapons. Not that it would make a difference.

From what Rowan could see, there were at least two bedrooms and a kitchen in addition to this larger, shared space. But before he could make a thorough survey of the building, Aelin was tightening her grip on his arm and saying, “Aedion, meet Rowan. Rowan, meet Aedion. His Highness needs a bath or I’ll vomit if I have to sit next to him for more than a minute.” Then she was dragging him into the next room and shutting the door behind them.

For the life of him, Rowan didn’t know why it made a difference, this being alone with her. A simple closed door. But it did.

They were now in what Rowan could only suppose was her bedroom. Aelin was leaning against the closed door, and he could feel her studying him.

Rowan turned, studying her right back. Her lithe body was clothed in some tight-fitting material, though much of her silhouette was still obscured by that damned cloak. Along with most of her face.

But he didn’t miss it as Aelin bit her lip.

Against his will, Rowan’s eyes slid to her mouth, his blood running hot as the space between them went taut.

“Take off your hood,” Rowan said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Aelin crossed her arms. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, Prince.”

He pursed his lips, then yanked back his hood. “From tears to sass in a few minutes. I’m glad the month apart hasn’t dimmed your usual good spirits.”

“Your hair! You cut it all off!” She rushed towards him, pulling off her own hood as the distance between them closed. And it took all of Rowan’s self-control not to reach out and touch her again.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Rowan didn’t know if that was due to a fault of memory, or if she actually had become more stunning during the month separating them, but he didn’t much care.

Her gold-and-turquoise eyes still pierced him through, and even though she no longer had her magic, they still seemed just as molten. But for some strange reason, she had decided to dye her hair a flat, uninteresting shade of red. It was dull, and did nothing for her pretty skin.

He wanted to scowl at it.

“Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.”

“Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head, her eyes dangerous.  “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. Aelin barely kept her laugh in.

Rowan tried to change the subject, turning to look over the lavish bedroom. “You weren’t lying about your taste for luxury.”

That was an understatement. The space was beautiful and warm and welcoming – and not only because it was filled to the brim with her scent.

Candles dotted every surface, casting a soft warm light. The bed was in the corner, beside the entrance to an attached bathroom. And Rowan was sure that it would be more comfortable than any bed he had ever slept in. Across the room was another marble fireplace, the door to a very large closet, and a window gracing the adjacent wall. Along with yet more books.

“Not all of us enjoy living in warrior-squalor,” she said, grabbing his hand again. Rowan gave up on conversation and instead closed his fingers around hers. Another moment passed while they just looked at each other.

Those eyes – they were full of secrets. Of stories.

Rowan opened his mouth to demand that she explain everything, to explain why her cousin was here, why she seemed so heavy with worry, why the city was teeming with Valg – but Aelin cut him off before he could speak, pulling them into the bathroom.  

She flitted about the room, lighting a few candles by the sink and on the ledge above the tub, saying, “I meant it about the bath.” She twisted the faucets and plugged the drain. “You stink.” She bent to grab a towel from the small cabinet by the toilet.

Rowan was starting to worry that she was purposely avoiding telling him what had happened this past month. His voice was flat as he said, “Tell me everything.”

Aelin was silent, grabbing a green vial of some gritty power and another of what he thought was an oil, and dumping generous amounts of each into the rising bathwater, turning it milky and opaque.

“I will, when you’re soaking in the bath and don’t smell like a vagrant.”

“If memory serves, you smelled even worse when we first met. And I didn’t shove you into the nearest trough in Varese.”

She just glared at him. “Funny.”

Rowan’s face almost split into a grin. “You made my eyes water for the entire damn journey to Mistward.”

“Just get in.”

Chuckling, Rowan obeyed her, and began the long process of undressing. Before he could wonder whether she would be staying to watch him strip, Aelin turned from the room, shrugging off her cloak and unstrapping her various weapons. But she neglected to shut the door behind her.

Rowan stripped anyways, discarding his clothes carelessly on the floor and placing his weapons atop the cabinet, next to all those mysterious bottles and vials. By the time she was done with him, she’d probably have him smelling the like a gods-damned flower shop.

Rowan just sighed, lowering himself carefully in the tub and shutting off the faucets. He had to keep himself from groaning at the delectable warmth – the hot bathwater was almost as pleasant as the relief of holding Aelin had been.

But only almost.

A few moments passed as Rowan began the sorry task of scrubbing away at the thick layer of dirt and grime covering him. All the while trying desperately to keep himself from listening too closely to the sounds of cloth on skin coming from the bedroom, as Aelin pulled off that tight black suit of hers and changed into something more comfortable.

It made Rowan wish that Aelin had drawn a colder bath.

By the time Aelin returned, the water was so clouded by soap and dirt that he doubted she could see anything beneath.

He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, her eyes flowing over all his exposed skin. But Rowan didn’t acknowledge her, instead continuing to scrub at his check and shoulders, splashing water on his face.

She only handed him a washcloth, saying, “Here.” And he wasn’t sure, but her voice almost seemed rougher than usual. Rowan just dunked the cloth in the water and began rubbing it over his face, his neck, his chest.

Aelin was still looking at him.

Another moment passed, and then she mutely handed him some lavender soap. Rowan sighed in resignation, accepting his fate. He would just have to smell like a flower shop – Lorcan would be shocked to see him now.

Then Aelin sat on the curved lip of the porcelain tub and began to speak.

She told him of her journey across the ocean, of the plans she had made and of losing her magic. Of arriving in Rifthold and immediately setting after Arobynn, and learning of what had happened here through the spring – of Dorian and Chaol and Aedion, and what they’d lost in the wake of the king’s wrath. How she’d discovered that Dorian was now possessed by a Valg. How she’d failed to kill him, but managed to save Aedion from certain death. She told him of meeting Nesryn, the woman from earlier, who was a pretty great shot. And of getting to know Lysandra and Evangeline, who were still trapped under Arobynn’s thumb.

She spoke very little of Chaol, and whether she had let him back into her life. And she said nothing at all of her plans for the future. But Rowan knew that he would have to be satisfied with what she did tell him. At least for now.

By the time her story of demons and danger and deceit was done, Rowan was nearly finished washing himself, and the bathwater was considerably less warm. Once again, Rowan found himself mourning their missing magics. Aelin would be able to keep the bath warm with less than half a thought.

Rowan absentmindedly raised the soap to his head, thinking to wash his hair with it, when Aelin squeaked. “You don’t use that in your hair!” she hissed, quickly standing up and rifling through the cabinet of bottles and vials.

Rowan scowled, seriously considering dolloping the lavender soap on his hair while she wasn’t looking. But patience won out.

“Rose, lemon verbena, or …” Aelin sniffed at the glass bottle. “Jasmine.” She squinted down at him.

Rowan just looked back up at her. Do I look like I care what you pick?

She clicked her tongue. “Jasmine it is, you buzzard.” She moved to stand just out of sight at the head of the bathtub, and before he really realized what was happening, Aelin had already dumped some of the sweet-smelling tonic on his head and her hands were brushing the top of his head, rubbing in the soap.

Rowan knew that he was supposed to stop this, knew that this was far, far too intimate. Knew that this was coming very close to breaking all of those careful rules he had set for himself.

But the second he felt her touch, all his resistance crumbled to dust.

Her fingers weren’t rough, but they weren’t too gentle, either. Aelin found exactly the right amount of pressure as she massaged the soap into his scalp, moving from his hairline to his ears to his neck and back again.

The scent of the oil wafted down towards him, mixed in with her own scent. And without thinking, Rowan took in a slow breath, luxuriating in the scent. It felt as though his face was being caressed with the taste of night-kissed jasmine.

Aelin’s fingers began playing with his hair. “I could still probably braid this,” she teased. “Very teensy-tiny braids, so – ”

Rowan growled, more out of habit than real irritation. He couldn’t help but lean into her touch, closing his eyes as he felt his whole body relax.

“You’re no better than a house cat.”

Rowan couldn’t even summon the will for a rebuttal. Instead, he let out a low noise in his throat, a sound of pure pleasure. It might as well have been a purr.

Rowan hardly cared.

He knew he’d probably yell at himself for this later. But Rowan also knew that he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything. And no matter how upset he might be in a few hours, he knew he would never regret it.

Just as Rowan was beginning to wonder whether Aelin’s fingers were starting to prune, she spoke up. “You haven’t said anything about your magic.”

He tensed, and Aelin’s hands stilled. “What about it?”

Rowan felt her lean down to peer at his face, her hair sliding from behind her shoulders to stroke the back of his neck. It sent a warm shiver down his spine.

“I take it it’s gone,” she said. “How does it feel to be as powerless as a mortal?”

He opened his eyes, his brow falling into a scowl. “It’s not funny.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“I spent the first few days sick to my stomach and barely able to move. It was like having a blanket thrown over my senses.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m dealing with it.”

She poked him in the shoulder. “Grumpy, grumpy.”

Rowan snarled in annoyance – but it was more at the fact that she had removed her hands from his scalp than because of her teasing. Aelin only pursed her lips and pushed down on his shoulders, silently asking him to dunk his head underwater.

He did so, and by the time he emerged, Aelin was standing and holding out a bath towel for him to use. “I’m going to find you some clothes.”

“I have – ”

“Oh, no. Those are going right to the laundress. And you’ll get them back only if she can make them smell decent again. Until then, you’ll wear whatever I give you.”

“You’ve become a tyrant, Princess,” he said, taking the towel from her.

Aelin just rolled her eyes, turning away from the bathtub just as Rowan stood up, water sloshing everywhere. She didn’t look back at him, moving straight across the bedroom and directly into the huge closet.

Rowan was somehow simultaneously disappointed and very, very relieved. He didn’t know if he would be able to control himself if she saw him – her long looks were already heavy enough as it was.

But still, there was that other voice. The one that wanted her to see all of him. Just as he had already seen all of her.

Rowan shook himself slightly, then began toweling off. Thinking cold thoughts.

Once he was mostly dry, Rowan wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and walked through the bedroom, and into the absolutely massive closet. Only to find Aelin crouched on the floor, staring at the open drawer in front of her.

For a moment, Rowan just looked at her in confusion. But then he remembered.

All those years ago, before the king, before Endovier, Aelin had lived in this apartment with Sam. Right before he had been killed.

These must be his clothes.

“You don’t have to give those to me,” Rowan said, soft as he could.

Aelin started anyways, twisting in place to face him. For a moment, she only stared at him. And Rowan wasn’t sure if it was because of the scent of the dead boy swirling around them, escaping from the dresser full of his old clothing, or because Rowan had taken her off guard, but Aelin’s look was dazed. She looked completely at a loss for words.

She swallowed, then finally spoke. “Clean clothes are scarce in the house right now, and these are of no use sitting here.” She pulled out a pale shirt and held it up. “I hope it fits.”

Rowan looked at it apprehensively, then took it. Sam had been an eighteen-year-old mortal when he died, and his clothes definitely reflected that. Rowan had his doubts about ‘fit.’

Aelin quickly looked away from him, her face carefully blank as she rifled through the drawer for undershorts and pants. “I’ll get you proper clothes tomorrow. I’m pretty sure you’ll start a riot if the women of Rifthold see you walking down the streets in nothing but a towel.”

Rowan huffed a laugh that he hoped didn’t sound forced. He knew that Aelin would never stop mourning that boy, no matter how long she lived. But it was different now, being here. Where she had last seen him living and breathing.

It made it so much more real. That she had loved, and lost. Just as he had.

And Rowan couldn’t help but feel as though he were intruding.

But instead of pulling away, and leaving Aelin to wallow in that guilt and sadness alone, he stepped forwards, under the pretense of examining the contents of the closet. Thinking to help her the only way he knew how – with distraction.

But soon, he found himself entranced by them. So many luscious fabrics, exquisite embroideries, soft furs… “You wore all this?” He looked at her with wonder.

She nodded, quietly getting to her feet. Rowan flicked through a few of the garments, eyeing the tunics and dresses and shirts – some of which were the finest he had ever seen. “These are … very beautiful,” he admitted.

Aelin’s voice was soft. “I would have pegged you for a proud member of the anti-finery crowd.”

“Clothes are weapons, too,” he said, remembering all those times he had been stuck at court dinners, parties, festivals – with all that careful maneuvering. Fae playing games with each other for centuries, whole generations.

He continued searching through the closet, but then paused when he glanced a luxurious gown of pure black velvet. Its sleeves were made of tight, sheer silk, the neckline skimming just below the collarbones. And while the font was completely unadorned, the back nearly took his breath away.

A great, golden dragon roared down the spine of the garment, rendered perfectly in glittering metallic threads. Spraying a torrent of golden fire up to the neckline where it poured over the dress’ shoulders. It was so detailed that each scale was perfectly visible, as the serpentine dragon curled down the skirt of the dress to rest on the hemline, where the tail swung around the edge of the garment, as if lazily brushing the floor.

Rowan loosed a breath. “I like this one best.”

Aelin reach out a hand to brush to soft velvet sleeve. “I saw it in a shop when I was sixteen and bought it immediately. But when the dress was delivered a few weeks later, it seemed too…old. It overpowered the girl I was. So I never wore it, and it’s hung here for three years.”

As she spoke, Rowan ran a finger down the golden spine of the roaring, furious dragon, marveling at the rippling texture. “You’re not that girl anymore,” he said softly. “Someday, I want to see you wear this.”

Aelin looked up at him, meeting his gaze. The gold in her eyes just as molten and burning as the flames of that golden dragon.

“I missed you,” she breathed.

And the vulnerability, the pure openness he could see in her eyes made something in his gut clench tight. This was exactly what he was afraid of. Why he made all those gods-damned rules in the first place.

“We weren’t apart that long.” His voice was cold as ice.

Aelin scowled. “So? Am I not allowed to miss you?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, and guilt was already swirling in his stomach for the lie he knew he had to tell. “I once told you that the people you care about are weapons to be used against you. Missing me was a foolish distraction.”

Aelin’s face darkened. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”

When Rowan didn’t say anything, Aelin swallowed and pushed the clothes into his arms. “You can get dressed in here,” she tossed the words at him like a blade, walking out of the closet without another word.

Rowan made sure she didn’t see the way her tone had cut into him.

He breathed deep, shoving away those emotions to deal with them later. It didn’t matter if she thought him cold, or heartless. Not if it kept her safe.

So Rowan breathed again, and began trying to worm his way into a dead man’s clothes. Trying not to let that bother him too.

As practical as he was, the last thing Rowan wanted to do was put on the clothes of the mortal man Aelin’s had loved, and who loved her. It was like forcing himself into someone else’s love story, the unwelcome addition. The replacement that nobody wanted.

He stretched the undershorts over his thighs, and then carefully shrugged his way into the pants. They were too short, but they fit. Barely.

The shirt however was another story. Just looking at it Rowan knew that it would be too tight. So instead of risking tearing it, Rowan figured it would be better to go barechested.

He walked back into the bedroom to find that Aelin had gone into the bathroom. From the sound of it, she was washing her face. But this time, she had closed the door.

Rowan tried not to read too much into that gesture.

When she returned, her face darkening at the sight of him in the comically-small pants, he held the shirt out to her, saying, “The shirt is too small. I didn’t want to rip it.”

Aelin took it from him gingerly, then just looked at it for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I’ll go out first thing,” she said softly, then breathed in through her nose, quick and sharp. “Well, if you don’t mind meeting Aedion shirtless, I suppose we should go say hello.”

Rowan shook his head ever so slightly. “We need to talk.”

Aelin’s hackles instantly rose. “Good talk or bad talk?”

“The kind that will make me glad you don’t have access to your power so you don’t spew flames everywhere.”

“That was one incident, and if you ask me, your absolutely wonderful former lover deserved it.”

Rowan’s lips twitched, remembering. Remelle had certainly deserved it. And if Aelin hadn’t intervened, Rowan might have ended up doing something he would have regretted. Like murdering Remelle.

On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t have regretted it so much.

Aelin just sighed, “Now or later?”

“Later. It can wait a bit.”

She pursed her lips, then nodded, turning towards the door to the great room. Where Aedion was waiting for them.

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[a-queer-seminarian]

Amy-Jill Levine on the Parable of the Good Samaritan, Part 4:

Providing historical context about the Samaritans, to push against interpretations that imply Samaritans were oppressed by Jews (in Jesus’s time, neither group had systemic privilege over the other — both were subjugated by Rome & their enmity for one another was mutual).

...A Samaritan, who was on a journey, came to where the man was. But when he saw him, he was moved with compassion. The Samaritan went to him and bandaged his wounds, tending them with oil and wine. Then he placed the wounded man on his own donkey, took him to an inn, and took care of him.The next day, he took two full days’ worth of wages and gave them to the innkeeper. He said, ‘Take care of him, and when I return, I will pay you back for any additional costs.’

- Luke 10:33-35

The Samaritan’s compassion then becomes, for many of today’s interpreters, the hook by which the sermon functions. In a number of settings, the parable serves as a warning against prejudice; for example, the two who walk by are a pastor and a choir director, while the Samaritan is a gay man, an “illegal immigrant,” a person on parole, or any other victim of bigotry.

The point in this reading is that “they” are really nice, that “we” sometimes fail in our obligations to help, and that “we” too should “have compassion” on those who are mistreated. ... But to understand the parable as did its original audience, we need to think of Samaritans less as oppressed but benevolent figures and more as the enemy, as those who do the oppressing.

From the perspective of the man in the ditch, Jewish listeners might balk at the idea of receiving Samaritan aid. They might have thought, “I’d rather die than acknowledge that one from that group saved me”; “I do not want to acknowledge that a rapist has a human face”; or “I do not want to recognize that a murderer will be the one to rescue me.” ...

[Historical Context: Origins of the Samaritans]

As the Bible recounts, the Samaritan people originated after the twelve-tribe United Monarchy ruled by David and then Solomon split into two independent states. ...

The Northern Kingdom, called both Israel and Ephraim (after Joseph’s son; see, e.g., Isa. 7.9; Jer. 31.9), was conquered by the Assyrians in 722 BCE, and many of its citizens were carted off to places unknown. …The Assyrians then moved residents from other conquered nations into the region. …The resulting population took its name from the capital, and so the Samaritans as a nation were born. ...

During the next century, Babylon conquered Assyria and then in 587 BCE conquered the Southern Kingdom, Judah, and took the remaining Davidic king as well as many of the country’s leading citizens into exile in Babylon. In 538, Cyrus of Persia conquered Babylon; one of his acts was to repatriate the Judahites to their homeland. Some stayed in Babylon; others returned, and they did so with plans to rebuild not only their nation, but also their Temple. It was over the construction of the Temple that a new enmity between Jews who had returned from Babylon and Samaritans would develop. ...

In the early fourth century (ca. 388), the Samaritans constructed their own temple on Mt. Gerizim, and following the conquests of Alexander the Great in 333 Samaria was rebuilt as a Greek city (polis). Enmity with the Jews in the south continued.

The Jews who rebelled in 165 BCE against the assimilationist policies of the Seleucid king Antiochus IV Epiphanes and his allies in the priestly establishment resented the Samaritans for not coming to their aid. The Jewish king John Hyrcanus attacked Samaria in 128 BCE and burned down the Samaritan Temple on Mt. Gerizim. It was rebuilt by Herod the Great, who also rebuilt the Jerusalem Temple.

From the Persian period in the late sixth century BCE to the time of Jesus, Jews and Samaritans remained at odds. Each claimed the true descent from Abraham, true understanding of Torah, the correct priesthood, and the right form of worship in the proper location.

...

To look at the Samaritans only through the perspective of the biblical tradition is to tell only half the story. The Samaritans’ own self-designation is Shamerim, meaning “guardians” or “observers” of the Law. …Samaritans traditionally view themselves as descendants of Joseph, and thus of his sons Ephraim and Manasseh, and as possessing the correct interpretation of Torah, which had been promulgated at the Northern sanctuary in Shechem.

As for the Jews, according to ancient Samaritan tradition, they got off track at the time of Samuel, when the priest Eli set up a heretical sanctuary at Shiloh. Errors continued, from Solomon, who, incorrectly in their view, erected a temple in Jerusalem; to Ezra, who in their view rewrote the Pentateuch with a Judean bias; to Rabbi Hillel, who corrupted the tradition with his innovations regarding the interpretation of the Torah.

…According to Matthew, Jesus enjoins his disciples, “Enter no town of the Samaritans” (10.5). Luke even ensures that readers unfamiliar with local politics understand the enmity. In the chapter preceding our parable (9.51–56), Luke recounts that a Samaritan village refused Jesus hospitality “because his face was set toward Jerusalem.”

…

According to his Antiquities, at the time of the Roman governor Cumanus (ca. 48–50) it was the “custom of the Galileans” to travel through Samaria on their way to the pilgrimage festivals in Jerusalem. Samaritan residents in a village called Ginea attacked the Galileans and massacred a number of them. Other Galilean Jews sought the governor’s help in punishing the murderers, but, as Josephus recounts, the Samaritans bribed Cumanus to do nothing. A number of Galileans, “much displeased,” ignoring the warnings of saner voices, and opting for vigilante justice, “plundered many Samaritan villages.” The Samaritan leaders accused the Jews not only of plunder, but also of setting their villages on fire. The political crisis, which arose in part because of both Jewish and Samaritan reaction to Roman rule, ultimately required the emperor Claudius’s intervention.

…

Finally, with the rise of postcolonial and liberation-theological readings, negative stereotypes of Jewish-Samaritan relations coupled with negative stereotypes of Jewish purity laws combine.

When biblical interpretation functions to enfranchise people, name systems of oppression, or inspire change for the better, this is all to the good. When, however, the means by which these concerns are facilitated include negative stereotyping, then the ends are compromised.

For example, in his “‘Dalit Theology’ and the Parable of the Good Samaritan,” M. Gnanavaram maps the Dalit (untouchable) onto the Samaritan, and the priest and the Levite correspond to the “high-cast non-Dalits.” The Samaritan is the “outcast,” although the only person cast out in the Gospel in relation to Samaritan issues is Jesus, who was refused lodging in a Samaritan village (Luke 9.53); the Samaritan is “oppressed,” although according to the parable he has freedom of travel and economic resources.

Readers will need to determine if the end, the passionate call for liberation, justifies the means, if the means turn out to be a negative caricature of Jewish culture.

...

Despite numerous sermons to the contrary, that the Samaritan is not a social victim. He has money, freedom of travel, the ability to find lodging (more than what Jesus found in the Samaritan village), and some leverage with the innkeeper.

The parable, in its original setting, is not about the type of prejudice that creates people on the margins; it is about hatred between groups who have similar resources.

- Jewish Scholar Amy-Jill Levine in Short Stories by Jesus: The Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi (2014)

#good samaritan #the good samaritan #parables #short stories by jesus #unpacking antisemitism #readings #samaritans #posting this early and out of order because i wanna share it with someone...sorry!