#all it does is shift power from one branch to the other branches

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

Well maybe now congress will actually do its job and pass laws.

that's a HUGE maybe. congress is dysfunctional and inefficient and unwieldy. it is constantly mired in petty politics, mindless bickering, and perpetual gridlock. Really smart leaving the day-to-day regulations that govern the nation up to them! Then, when they eventually do get around to passing oppressively narrow regulations y'all will complain about how impossible it is to remove said regulations.

[globalnewscollective]

U.S Added to a Global Human Rights Watchlist

Why You Should Be Worried About America’s Declining Human Rights Ranking

When you think of human rights abuses, you might picture authoritarian regimes, not the United States. But according to a new report from CIVICUS (source), the U.S. is now officially categorized as a "narrowed" democracy—a status shared with countries where free speech, protests, and civil liberties are increasingly under attack. The U.S. joins the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Pakistan, Chile, Slovakia, and 37 other countries with "narrowed" civic freedoms. That’s the kind of company America is now keeping.

What Does This Mean for You?

Your Right to Protest Is Under Threat – Laws restricting peaceful demonstrations have been ramping up, making it easier for authorities to criminalize protests they don’t like.

Censorship and Press Freedom Are in Decline – Journalists covering protests or political corruption are facing more harassment, and state-level laws are making it harder to report the truth.

Targeting of Activists and Marginalized Groups – The crackdown on civil rights groups, LGBTQ+ organizations, and racial justice movements is accelerating.

Legal Attacks on Voting Rights – Gerrymandering, voter suppression, and efforts to limit ballot access are all symptoms of a democracy that’s backsliding fast.

What’s at Stake?

If the U.S. keeps trending in this direction, basic freedoms—like the ability to voice your opinion, challenge authority, or even vote—could become privileges instead of rights. Young people, activists, and minority communities will be the first to feel the impact, but make no mistake: this affects everyone who believes in a fair and free society.

The Bigger Picture

This is not just about one bad policy or one election cycle—it’s about a systematic shift toward authoritarianism. Through executive orders, Trump has sought to consolidate power in the executive branch, making it easier for him and his allies to monitor and control departments and agencies to ensure they are only carrying out Trump’s agenda. The more people accept restrictions on speech, protests, and voting, the easier it becomes for those in power to tighten their grip. This is how democracies die: not with a single dramatic event, but through a slow erosion of rights, one law at a time.

What Can You Do?

Stay Informed – Know what’s happening at the state and federal levels.

Speak Up – The more people push back, the harder it is for leaders to silence dissent.

Vote Like Democracy Depends on It – Because, frankly, it does.

The U.S. has long claimed to be a beacon of democracy. But that light is fading—and unless we fight for our rights, it could go out completely.

[fenrislorsrai]

Justice 40

Joe Biden is boring and often bad at tooting his own horn, but by god, he is good at process.

Justice 40 is simple but powerful application of that. its a shift in how the executive branch works. 40% of money from a bunch of existing programs should go to census tracts that are overburdened with pollution, at higher risk for climate change, and have been historically underserved.

The shorthand here is basically "communities that don't have enough internal resources to deal with long term problems". So yes, communities that had been redlined for decades, ones that have Superfund sites, ones that have high rates of asthma from air pollution.

and this is by census tract. Not city. census tract. So parts of New York City qualify... but other parts don't. And the city HAS to use the money in the targeted part. it doesn't go into the communal pool. it's for THAT tract specifically.

Also all land federally recognized as belonging to a Native American tribe and all Alaskan Native Villages qualify, specifically.

And again, this is for existing programs that are already running and have existing staff and budgets. They're supposed to prioritize grants and projects for those areas specifically. And that's everything from Department of Agriculture, to FEMA, to Labor, to Environmental Protection.

Does it instantly get rid of all the baked in racism from decades past? No, not even close. But it puts in a countermeasure that has a concrete and measurable goal to aim for rather than a nebulous "suck less." even if the administration changes, many of those changes will stick.

And as things improve, some tracts may come off the list! Some may go on that weren't there before!

You can see a map here. Blue highlighted tracts are "disadvantaged" so qualify for that extra assistance! Check and see if you live in one or part of your town does. Because if you've been hearing constantly "we can't afford to fix X problem..." and you're in that tract.... there's money available. For you. Build that sidewalk, fix those lead pipes, get that brush truck your volunteer fire department has been asking for.

And tell your local officials that! "did you look at Justice 40 for funding". And even if they're doing their best, particularly people in little towns.... being a government official isn't their full time job. They may have missed it. Just asking them about the program may suddenly open a world of possibilities.

[mediumgayitalian]

Will thinks night jogs are underrated. Probably because they're stupid, and, statistically, what is going to kill him one day. Soon.

But sprinting from the harpies is kind of a high, and the woods are cool at night. And he always feels safe under the moon, even though he knows that's a dweeby thing to say.

He slows down as he is swallowed by the shadowy forest, angry bird-lady screeches fading behind him. He manages not to smirk as he has filled his hubris quota for the day. (It is a close thing though.) He notes the sound of his slowing footsteps echoing, enjoying the sound bounce off the trees, relishing in the night so still that everything seems louder, wholler. It is hard to hear in camp, where every sound seems to compete, and fall through his ear like loose netting. Here, though, under the light of the stars, he can hear his own breathing, and owls, somewhere to his left, and monsters, growling, pacing, but keeping distant pace of him. Feeling the green smoke tingling at his fingertips, maybe, wary of the shameless pound of his heels.

Will gives in and smirks, a little. It feels good to make others nervous, for a change.

He's not here for that, though. He has been, before -- there have been nights of seething rage and stomping feet, of grass dying under his toes, of plants shriveling in his path, in his wake -- but tonight the air is sweet, and the leftover vestiges of daylight warm him nicely. Today he woke up slowly, and there was pineapple -- his favorite -- at breakfast, and Nico was up early enough to join them. Today he bit his lip and ditched his shift at the infirmary, because he dreamed it would be quiet, and spent his afternoon hiding in his secret spot in the Big House, dicking around on his guitar. Today was good.

He missed his mom, a little. A lot. He kept thinking, as he made up random bullshit in between chords, that his own voice sounded lonely, and writing songs was not as fun without the four pencils always stuck in her curls near poking him in the eye, or the constant tap of her shoes against the wall. She's touring, now. Busy. Happy. Not plagued by constant monsters who won't leave them alone.

Will sighs, and kicks a rock. Sometimes being a demigod sucks major ass.

...But other times.

He spies a shimmer of liquid silver light up ahead, and picks up speed; cracking his knuckles to light his trekking way as he weaves through stray branches and tripping roots, hops over long-forgotten armor and veers to avoid stepping on plants and bushes. In no time at all he stumbles across the moonlace patch, tiny little sprouts rustling in the slight breeze, glowing like little spots of glittering mirrors. Will grins.

Sometimes being a demigod is cool.

He stoops low, careful not to step on anything. He doesn't need many -- a little goes a long way, and the leaves are potent when dried and ground up -- and is careful to leave enough stem and root on each plant he takes from so that they will regrow the following night, and the night after. He gathers them carefully and tucks them, rolled into one another, in the specially lined pouch he has with him, sitting loosely in his medbag. The milky secretion from the stems stings, slightly, as it leaks onto his bare hands, but his skin is so scarred already that it does not make much of a difference. It will take a lot more for him to flinch.

Another demigod benefit, he supposed. Kinda.

He wipes his hands on his shorts, as he stands, ignoring how the worn fabric smokes, slightly, and begins to burn away. His hands start to sting a little more so he frowns at them, put out, and mutters a hymn under his breath -- he should not be using his powers on himself, not really, but the acid burns are so minor and he is feeling good enough today that he is only a little bit woozy afterwards. He is well enough to walk, anyway, if not jog, and enjoy the trek back to camp, bag thumping against his thigh with every step.

The walk is nice on the way back, too.

It's a little different hearing the swelling sounds of camp get louder. Even at witching hour, there's noise -- Will can hear the harpies, of course, and the sound of Hermes children shrieking as they are chased and attacked. (That will be a problem for future him. He's not handling that now. They need to learn. If they're going to sneak around at night, they need to be better at it Christ alive.) He can hear the sound of pacing and quiet, murmuring arguing in the nocturnal Athena cabin, of muffled piglet oinking at Hecate -- gods, he doesn't want to know about that, either. He slows down, as he approaches, hesitating at the border of the woods. Glancing backwards, at the inviting darkness.

He could, like...disappear.

He's pretty good at finding ways to feed himself, honestly. He knows the local flora like the back of his hand, memorizing the book that has been passed down from head counsellor to head counsellor, and that he worked on with Cass, and then Lee, and then Michael, for generation of Apollo children, with medicinal as well as edible plants stretching back as far as medieval England, parchment and ink faded to dust in the spine. His grandpa taught him, years ago, how to set a snare with the gnarled wire wrapped around the ring on his middle finger. He's a good climber, and is chatty enough with the dryads to be allowed to spend his nights among their branches, away from predators. He could do it. Honest.

He smiles, slightly, rolling his eyes at himself. As if. He peeks over either shoulder and steps forward when it's clear, sticking to shadows between cabins, behind trees. Pausing every time he hears a feathery screech, holding the leather strap of his bag tight to his chest, so the bottles of pine sap he gathered don't clink as he breathes.

He couldn't leave camp behind for all the peace in the world. Not really.

Yes, it's noisy. And annoying. And needy, more than anything, and one of these days Will really is going to go on strike, and then what. What're they going to do. Have a little less attitude when he orders them to a cot, maybe. Or at least the good grace to keep the attitude to themselves where he can't hear it. He's a very busy person. He does not have time to entertain whining and complaining. Even if it's funny, and arguing gives him something to do. And he wins, usually. He's actually quite good at the bossing-people-around part, but that doesn't have anything to do with anything. Camp is irritating and he is the poor soul inflicted with its ridiculousness.

He grins, pushing open the long-broken window latch in the back of Cabin Seven, tumbling in head-first, somersaulting across the creaking floorboards. Yeah. Totally. Completely above it, he is. Because he is an angel. A poor lone angel in a sea of miscreants. That's him.

He stashes his med bag in the hidden slot under his bed, and wraps up in the covers. Sometimes being a demigod is a pain in the ass. Sometimes he is up to three in the morning sewing individual fingers back onto hands, because fools don't have the impulse control to keep their limbs out of hellhound mouths.

And sometimes he is up to three in the morning gathering an entire supply of a mild neurotoxin, special for the way it makes you moony and dream-giggly, to sell to Cecil for five hundred dollars worth of Twizzlers and good Mountain Dew from Tennessee.

He burrows into his blankets, cheeks aching with the force of his smirk. Sometimes being a demigod rocks.

-- -- --

@willsolaceweek day one: will, by himself

[bonsiii-art]

Please blab about the dynamic changes between Anon and Longan, we're all sat and listening OwO

ALRIGHTY ( •̀ ω •́ ) [ TL;DR bc omg this is long: Anon and Longan's relationship power imbalance goes crazy but they're both kinda into it. Warlord route is where things get rocky and it ends in a messy breakup, where Anon crumbles Longan. Emperor route is where everything is fine and they have a happy wedding :) ]

So, with Longan's new costume, it outlines three possible timelines that all branch off the main one, all starting from the outcome of the final confrontation between Longan and Gingerbrave and co. Establishing Longan and Anon's relationship before the branch-off point, while it's romantic, there's a huge power imbalance. Longan sees Anon as something that's theirs, body and soul. And this results in them having lots of control over Anon's activities especially where they go.

And Anon surprisingly does not mind it... as much at least. Their reasoning why is up to anyone since I like to keep my Anons as blank as possible. In this instance, set up is inevitable <:D. Back to this, I believe that while they are okay in their role that Longan's given them, they hope that the old dragon becomes more sentimental and trusting of them. So that Anon won't be just a cookie to them, they'll be their cookie, their one and only.

During the final battle, Anon would be in Longan Shaman's care, flying around with them in their wyvern form to stay out of danger. So, that's how they are currently and whatever happens in the story 2 months from now will help me decide what goes on from there for the main timeline! >:P ( @snipersiniora since this does answer your question. uwo quick answer is both!)

Now the two routes, starting with the Warlord of Eternal Rest path! As said, this is where everything went super wrong for everyone. The battle raged on until all the dragons were on their last legs. Longan would've hoped that the three dragons' struggle would make them falter but their resolve proved stronger than that. So, it was either them or Longan... and Longan won, killing all three. Lychee had also fallen during this due to having a change of heart and protecting Rambutan from falling debris, getting mortally wounded in the process. The destruction from the war was so great, it would scar the world for years to come. And due to Longan being pushed to their limits, the elimination of cookiekind was not perfect, as in a few survivors still remained, hidden from the dragon orbs. After the initial chaos, Longan attempts to preserve what's left of the islands and their palace. This takes years and their relationship with Anon suffers for it as the ivory dragon spends less and less time with them. Anon still loves them so they try their best to comfort Longan. However, once they saw Anon looking slightly older due to age, the reality of their cookie's mortality hits them and they panic, turning Anon into stone. (Btw, this is going off the idea that Longan can reverse the effects of turning one into stone via their power.) Finding that the world was in ruins no matter what they do, they shifted focus to finding a way to make Anon into a dragon to lengthen their lifespan. Now that they're truly alone, Longan realizes how much they took their companionship for granted and becomes unhealthily obsessed. Insert a small scenario during this period where a surviving cookie somehow sneaks into the palace to find a way to defeat Longan. That cookie finds an altar where Anon's statue is kept and in getting caught by the dragon, ends up accidentally knocking it over. The statue breaking in places sends Longan into a rage, quickly killing the intruder. The dragon's able to fix the statue with the life powder from the fallen cookie and other materials so it's cool for now, I just like angst :) Whether it's through magic or medicine, Longan finds a way to turn Anon into a dragon! So Anon wakes up, extremely sore (from being broken as a statue) but now a proper dragon. They're in a lot of confusion and unease, with their new form and the fact that Longan is much more doting than they remember. Since the dragon is less restrictive of where they go now, Anon travels around Earthbread. Things happen and they end up befriending cookie survivors. This friendship plants the seed of doubt in Anon, seeing the cookies don't deserve to live in these conditions. This all culminates in Anon creating a plan to get rid of Longan. The plan ends up being successful. All in exchange for the heartbreak Anon endures for the rest of their life, reliving the moments before the end and remembering how Longan did not fight back...

And now the Emperor of Eternal Paradise path!! This is where Longan got eeeeverything they wanted. In the final battle, they were able to get Pitaya, Ananas, and Lotus to submit defeat (or at least get them to a point where they can no longer fight on.) Once they quelled the rebellion, they set out all of their dragon orbs to take out the rest of cookiekind. After getting everything settled, Longan promises to formally be with Anon once they find a method of turning them into a dragon. And with endless resources on hand now, this takes almost no time at all (and no statue era for Anon 😔). In a new paradise, sprawling with nature and dragons, Longan and Anon vow their love and loyalty to each other. (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) To the other dragons, they'll never shake that feeling of something missing in their lives now. But for Longan, It's nothing short of perfect.

Sorry I didn't write much here; It's a bad end where everyone's completely boned. Except Longan. :D If you read all the way to the end, I'm sorry and thank youuu qwq

[sunseed-fandump]

Witch's Castle Headcanon Time Because I Said So

Since, in my own works, I imagine the Witch's Castle and Kingdom settings do exist in the same world (the games themselves taking place in different timelines) I've kinda developed a few headcanons revolving around life in the Castle itself! Y'know for funsies. :>

The Witch's Castle itself is rather isolated, this is because when the Witch of Light first built it she wanted it to be a safe haven for herself and her Coven-sisters. I imagine due to their powers and normal humans' general feelings towards witchcraft, they wanted to make sure they wouldn't be hunted down or have a random stranger stumble across their sanctuary. (Or like in the case of the Witch who would become First Grain Cookie, they didn't want anyone who would try to exploit them discovering their hiding place.)

The castle itself is huge because these are 13 witches who had to be entirely self-sufficient. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a wing for each Witch to have space to conduct her own branch of magical research. Not to mention space needed to create basic necessities like a greenhouse for food, a water pump for plumbing, etc etc etc. Even by human standards, it's ridiculously massive and very easy to get lost inside of.

Because the castle is so big yet so isolated, this has had an interesting affect on those who call it home. By Cookie standards, the castle could be considered a small continent in and of itself. There's a multitude of settlements and what could be considered independent city-states scattered throughout.

A common insult around the Castle is "Your batch should've burnt" not just between desserts but its used between non-baked residents as well, this little idiom has stuck in the common Castle vernacular even long after the Witch of Light and her coven-sisters vanished.

SPEAKING of the residents of the castle, as we've seen in the game, not all of them are desserts or food items, they're animals! But while some of them make sense like mice and chipmunks, other creatures should be way too big to fit in castle walls; like the Stag brothers and the Marlin Chefs. They don't LOOK like desserts, so I don't think they were baked, but if they're not desserts, what are they? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if they're a result of whatever Life Powder experiments were being conducted in the castle. When it comes to the Mice, the Life Powder might've given them heightened intelligence. And in the case of the animals that SHOULD be bigger, I personally headcanon that they started off as small things like figurines or toys that were brought to life via Life Powder; made "real" like Pinocchio but retained their small stature.

Most food and water in the castle does not have Life Powder in it. Where on Earthbread, it can be found everywhere, it's a lot more of a precious resource in the Castle. That's why the residents need a constant supply of Life Potion, since it's one of the few resources in the castle that contains Life Powder. Cookies on Earthbread don't need to worry about going stale from not drinking Life Potion consistently, because Life Powder is in the rain, the crops, everything! Life Potion still exists on Earthbread, however it functions more as a typical RPG Healing Potion.

The food grown in the Syrup Garden and the Temple of Abundance are a few exceptions to this, their goods are full of Life Powder, hence why crops grown in those places are so heavily sought after and their well-being is so vital to the Castle overall.

Unfortunately, there are very few left in the Castle who were around during the era of the Witch of Light. As such, when the Shadow Witch moved in, the mood towards Witches shifted from reverence to fear.

So don't say anything like "Witch's Blessings be upon you" in the Castle, you'll get some weird looks.

Most residents within the Castle are active at night since that's when it's considered "safest". As in: the Witch and other dangers SHOULD be asleep. Unfortunately for everyone, the Shadow Witch has a terribly inconsistent sleep schedule.

She's also a massive workaholic. Which does work in everyone's favor, because typically she's too tunnel-visioned on her work to notice little things.

Castle residents don't like being out in wide open spaces, as being out in the open means it's all the more easier for the Witch or her minions to find you.

[kingkruell]

STARLESS, STILL | GOJO SATORU

SYNOPSIS - gojo satoru, the untouchable sorcerer, wasn’t supposed to remember that morning. but he does—because that’s when you arrived. transferred from kyoto with only rumors and silence, you walked into jujutsu high like you belonged. you didn’t flinch at his name, didn’t glance twice at the strongest. and that, more than your quiet strength or the strike that left him breathless, unraveled him. slowly. with every silence, near-touch, and word unspoken, you began to undo the boy who thought he’d never feel again.

CONTENT- gojo x reader, gojo yearning, longing, tooth- rotting fluff, slow-burn, love-sick gojo, emotional intimacy, unspoken feelings, subtle romance.

WORD COUNT - 2.970

I: AUTUMN 

that morning was supposed to be just another morning. same gravel path, same cicada-drunk heat, the slow almost numbing drag of time between missions and training and whatever else counts when you’re eighteen and cursed.

but that morning somehow laced itself into the fabric of his mind—wasn’t it supposed to be just another morning?

he still remembers it clearly.

the courtyard is quiet, unusually so. 

there was no grand ceremony, no announcement. 

yet, he remembers clearly the sound of your steps.

it was late autumn when you walked through the gates of the tokyo prefectural jujutsu high school. late enough that trees had already surrendered and the air tasted like endings. thought strangely enough, he felt that something was just beginning to happen. in that split second you reach the top of the stairs and bowed down to yaga, he felt an unnamed tension charged and clinging upon his shoulders, and he swears—in that same split second your back straightened up, he saw your slight acknowledging glance towards his faltering vulnerability that even he couldn’t name. and that was the only time you looked at him on your first day. 

a new third-year, they say. most of what he knew of you was passed from the hushed whispers he wasn’t certain was even true. y/n, transferred from the kyoto school after what can only be assumed was a particularly ruthless disagreement, or so they say. others say they had sent you away because you didn’t flinch towards authority, you just fought too well, or that you didn’t learn the proper way to bow. all those things doesn’t matter much to him, as all he could remember is the way you carry yourself like someone who’s never had to ask for space, like someone who learned long ago that the world bends, eventually, if you keep walking forward. he remembers it, it’s been imprinted in his mind—the way you didn’t even look at him, didn’t pause when you heard his name. you just nodded once, briefly, and shifted your eyes to the courtyard as though there was something more interesting than the strongest standing three feet away.

he stares at you for longer than he should.

and for the first time in a long time, gojo feels something unnamable tighten in his chest.

ever since that morning, he would see you in hallways, in the midst of training, in the back of the class. for reasons unknown to himself, he couldn’t quite reach you. he could just walk up to you, like he always does with anything else—with certainty, with no invitation, but he would find himself immobile, like if he did one wrong move everything will bound to go wrong. and even then he was wondering: why did he even care?

“from tokyo,”

“word is she fractured a special grade and walked away without a scratch.” shoko murmured, eyes following y/n’s body.

gojo raised an eyebrow, head tilting lazily as he leaned against the vending machine. the sun cast soft, flickering shadows through the branches overhead, dappling the courtyard in gold. he popped open a can of cola with one hand, the faint hiss of carbonation slipping into the air.

“so?” he said around a quiet sip. “sounds like a bedtime story.” 

power like that wasn’t rare, maybe rarer in girls with such indistinguishable expressions and quiet steps. still, he wasn’t sure that impressed him. power didn’t mean much when you stood where he did, miles above the rest. limitless. untouchable.

from across the quad, you stood alone beneath the slant of light spilling from the training hall. a loose thread of your uniform fluttered near your wrist. you didn’t look back at them. didn’t glance up. didn’t even seem to notice the tension that followed your entrance like a second shadow.

no curiosity. no subtle glance. no reaction at all to the fact that the strongest sorcerer was watching you.

gojo blinked.

“is she blind?” he asked flatly.

shoko smirked. “maybe just not into celebrities.”

he snorted. his eyes stayed on you, narrowing just slightly. there was something about the way you moved — not hesitant, not seeking approval — just... deliberate. like you already knew where you belonged, and it wasn’t anywhere near the center of someone else’s stage.

“who sent her here?” he asked, more to himself than to shoko.

“principal says she made the request.” a pause. “kyoto didn’t argue.”

gojo hummed low in his throat. that told him enough.

you turned then — not to him, not quite. you gaze flicked across the courtyard, catching him only in its periphery. your eyes didn’t meet. but for a moment, he imagined you had felt it — that subtle weight of being observed by someone who wasn’t used to being ignored.

you didn’t falter. just turned back and kept walking.

he watched you go, the edges of your silhouette folding into shadow.

shoko exhaled a soft laugh beside him. “you’re interested.”

gojo sipped his drink again, thoughtful now. “not yet.”

another second of silence. the can in his hand cooled his palm.

“but I might be.”

later, he will remember the way you looked at him — not with awe or suspicion, but with the indifference of someone who had already learned what not to be impressed by. there’s no challenge to your gaze, no performance, only a slight narrowing of the eyes as if gauging a weather change. and he, all blinding charm and constant noise, finds himself uncharacteristically silent.

II: BURN

gojo can feel the heaving of his own chest and his ragged breath after the blow you landed that he was sure could’ve shattered a lesser sorcerer’s ribs. 

it happens on a rain-slick afternoon when the sky is bruised with thunder and the field smells of damp earth and ozone. you’ve been at jujutsu high for nearly a month, a third-year transfer cloaked in rumors and defiance, and already, gojo satoru has taken an interest. not openly, never that. but with the kind of curiosity that flickers behind his glasses, in the way he leans against doorways a second longer when you walk past, or the way he stays silent when others mock your cold precision.

the others watched from a distance. nanami with his arms folded, shoko with a cigarette she wasn’t supposed to have. anticipation sits in the air, taut like wire.

no one expects much. a third-year transfer is still a transfer, and gojo satoru is gojo satoru. everyone watches, but not closely.

except they should’ve.

you don't shy away when he beckons you with two fingers. the smirk on his lips is infuriatingly confident.

“just a friendly spar,” he says, like a lie draped in silk. his glasses are off today. 

“unless you’re scared of getting a little bruised.”

you didn’t answer. you stepped in.

it started easy: an exchange of feints, dodges, a quick rhythm on the edge of real violence. you were fast. not just fast for a third year, fast like you’d lived with a blade pressed to your spine for years and learned to move before the blow ever came. he liked that. liked the way you didn't hesitate, didn’t ask for permission to be dangerous.

ten minutes in, you ducked under a feint, slid close enough to smell the clean, crisp ozone of his cursed energy crackling faintly in the air and land a blow that cracks like thunder. then it happened, too fast for the spectators to track. a flicker of cursed energy, a pivot, a calculated opening in his Infinity. a risk he took out of arrogance, out of curiosity—and you were there. your palm slams against his ribs with the kind of force that could’ve shattered bone in anyone less than him.

the room went still.

he staggered back, coughing once. the taste of copper bloomed in his mouth. It didn’t break bones, his reinforcement had absorbed the worst but it shook him.

“you’re fast,” she says, her voice quiet but edged with something unreadable. “not invincible.”

satoru stared at her, winded and just for a breathless moment, speechless.

then he laughed. not the sharp, mocking sound he used to keep people at arm’s length, but a soft, delighted one. “you planned that,” he said. “you knew i’d drop Infinity just long enough.”

you weren’t just interesting anymore, you were dangerous, and that makes all the difference.

ever since that day, something shifts.

it isn’t abrupt, like dawn slipping in beneath the blinds before you know it’s morning. gojo doesn’t speak of it, because he doesn’t know how to name it. not yet. not when it’s so easy to pretend he’s only intrigued. not when his hands still remember the echo of your touch, how his body had folded, stunned and grinning like a boy seeing lightning up close for the first time.

you brushed past him the next morning on her way to the hall. didn’t spare him a glance, but the hem of your sleeve brushed his knuckles, and he held his breath like it might happen again.

he started appearing wherever you were. not by design, he tells himself, just coincidence. the training hall. the library. the edge of the rooftop at dusk where the wind smells like rain. he made himself impossible to ignore, lounging in her periphery, throwing off quips like sparks. you deflected them without flinching.

III: THE FALL

gojo satoru found himself seeking you out in the quiet moments he used to waste on silence.

at first, it was curiosity, the kind that nestled just beneath his skin and scratched softly when you weren’t in the room. he’d glance over his shoulder when you passed through the training fields, eyes catching on the trail of your shadow, the careless way you wiped your hands on the hem of your jacket after a match. you walked like someone used to solitude, self-contained, and he supposed that’s what drew him in.

because gojo had spent his entire life at the center of gravity—dazzling, blinding, burning too bright for anyone to stand near for long. but you didn’t seem interested in orbiting anyone but yourself.

it unsettled him. and then it intrigued him. and then it started to feel a little like affection.

your conversations began in the margins. grunted comments after missions, a nod across the courtyard, a faint, reluctant smirk when he cracked a joke dry enough to be clever. he teased. you tolerated. he pushed. you didn’t bend. it became something like ritual. you would be sitting on the edge of the roof, knees drawn up, half-listening to the wind, and he’d plop down beside you with a dramatic sigh and a ridiculous story about some low-level curse with a vendetta against vending machines.

you never laughed loudly, but sometimes you'd smile into your sleeve. and that, somehow, made it feel like the joke had landed in the right place.

gojo starts to notice things. the way you touch your left shoulder before every mission, like a ritual. the way you linger near nanami when he's quiet, offering presence without words. the way your eyes soften, almost imperceptibly, when shoko hands her tea in the mornings, steam curling between your hands.

he starts showing up more often. lurks near your training sessions under the pretense of stretching. offers you juice boxes and strawberry pocky like bribes for attention. you never ask why. never sends him away. he lets you beat him in cards. leaves his scarf on the bench when he knows you’re training late.

there’s still a haze around him, always has been, ever since summer cracked open and never quite closed again. after riko died. after suguru left. he hasn’t been the same, and everyone knows it, even if they don’t say it. even if he pretends they’re wrong. he laughs louder now, fights harder, wins faster. but there’s something to it, like he’s been carved down to something pure and bitter. the world can’t touch him anymore, and that’s the problem.

but you did, and it scared him. 

and that one night, starless and still— he realized that love—though he didn’t even quite understand what it truly meant— when it comes, doesn’t announce itself.

that one night on the old moss swallowed steps behind the dorms, you found him there.

gojo sat on the highest step, long legs folded carelessly, his white hair is a little damp from the misty air—stirred faintly by the breeze. there’s a far-off look in his eyes, like he’s reading a memory too faint to speak aloud.

he knew it was her from the familiarity of her presence, never heavy, never forced. a familiar weight he’s only just started noticing, like the shape of his name when she says it.

“ever think about leaving?” he asked into the dark. “running, I mean.”

you didn’t answer immediately. he expected that. you rarely speak without meaning it.

eventually, you voice comes, low and unhurried. “sometimes. but then I wonder… if leaving would really change anything.”

gojo hums, the sound caught somewhere between thought and agreement. the truth is—he’s tried running. not physically, not quite. but in other ways. in the bravado. in the way he chases laughter like a shield. in the way he keeps things spinning too fast to be caught.

but tonight, with the air so still and her voice so near, he feels the ache of stillness.

he turns his head, just slightly.

you had your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them, hair loose—falling over your collarbone like soft waves. moonlight sits gently on your skin and for a moment he forgets to breathe.

you are just so beautiful

you don’t hide in the ways most people do. the are no sharp deflections. you guard yourself quietly, like a window with curtains drawn, not slammed shut, but carefully measured. and yet…you came up here. you stayed.

that means something. he knows it does.

a wind lifted and tangled a piece of your hair across your mouth.

without thinking, he shifts onto his elbow and reaches over, brushing it back. his fingers lingered against your temple, your cheek, the edge of your jaw. you don’t flinch. didn’t pretend you haven’t noticed.

instead, your eyes met his. not a glare. not a dare. just you, looking back.

it disarms him.

he’s not used to being looked at like this. not for the strength or the blinding weight of his last name. just him—satoru, all sharp edges and hidden tiredness.

and she’s still looking.

“you’re not scared?” he asked, voice barely a murmur.

“no.” you said.

you didn’t ask what he meant. you never do.

he understands, suddenly, in a way he never has: love doesn’t have to tear through you like a storm.

sometimes it arrives like this.

a pause in the dark.

a shared silence no one else knows about.

a girl with blood on her knuckles who wiped it away and told him he wasn’t invincible, but never once looked at him like he was broken.

he’s still staring when he realizes how close you are.

his breath is caught somewhere between his mouth and his heart.

“i’m glad you’re here,” he says softly.

you smiled, warm and steady

“i know.”

and without a rush, as if he was offering something, not taking, he leaned in.

he kissed you softly, with such cautiousness, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s finally been laid bare. his lips meet yours with a certainty, as if this is the only place he’s meant to be. not in battle. not in glory. not behind his glasses, untouchable and far above it all. just here. with you.

and maybe that’s the truest thing he’s ever known.

your hand curled into the fabric of his uniform—not to pull him closer, but to anchor yourself to the moment, to remind yourself it’s real. that he’s real. that the boy who walks like a god and smiles like he’s untouchable is kissing you like you’re something sacred.

that you’ve undone him, not with power, but with patience. that he’s seen the sharp edges of you, the quiet defiance, the weight you carry without complain, and chosen to stay anyway.

that in a world that demands masks and distance, you are the one thing he’ll never look at from afar.

you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, and for a while, neither of you moves. the is only the hush of wind and the distant, sleeping world, and something blooming between you.

he brushes his thumb along your cheek,

“you scare the hell out of me, you know,” he murmured, almost smiling.

you tilted your head, “because I hit hard?”

he laughs, soft and breathless. “no. because you make me want to stay.”

and he does. in this moment, with you—he isn’t the strongest. he isn’t a weapon, or a shield, or a symbol.

he’s just satoru.

and he’s yours.

[juvinadelgreko]

The Lynch Family was a Cult.

The Lynch family was a single family cult. Niall Lynch was the cult leader. His children are cult survivors. Buckle up, because I’m about to pick this bitch apart like a pomegranate.

TW for discussion of Ronan’s canon suicide attempt, mentions of human trafficking, and child abuse.

This realization hit me the other day and I’ve been chewing on it since. Recently, I discovered the work of cult and extreme group scholar Daniella Mestyanek Young (on TikTok & Instagram as KnittingCultLady - I highly recommend her). She has made a wealth of videos discussing the cult of MAGA in the US and the mechanisms of manipulation and coercion used by cults and extreme groups. She has a list of criteria she uses to define a cult:

Charismatic Leadership & accompanying Skinny White Woman

Worldview shift that brings you under the Sacred Assumption

The Transcendent Mission

Self-sacrifice of members

Limited access to the outside world

Distinguishable vernacular

Us vs Them mentality

Exploits members' labor

High entrance/exit costs

Ends justify the means mentality

It's easier to see these traits in the cults we know of throughout history - Children of God (in which Young grew up), Jonestown, Branch Davidians, etc.

But she points out in one of her videos that cults aren't all large groups. They can be single family, or even one on one. Many abusive relationships fit the bill of one on one cults. Looking back on my life, I'm pretty sure I've been in relationships that would fit that bill.

Anyway: the Lynch family, as they're written in TRC & especially TD3, is a single family cult. Here's how they fit the criteria. 1. charismatic leadership & accompanying skinny white woman

According to Young, cults always form around charismatic chosen-one types. an ever present accessory is the skinny white or otherwise conventionally attractive, docile, and subservient woman.

niall’s charisma and good looks are discussed ad nauseam, how he could charm anyone into anything, how he passed his good looks on to his sons, etc. a charming, handsome rogue.

the skinny white woman is clearly present in aurora—pretty, docile, agreeable, aurora. that he dreamt up to replace his combative, unyielding first wife. he literally custom built himself a housewife. enough said.

2. worldview shift that brings you under the scared assumption

in typical cult leader fashion, niall builds a myth around himself: that when he was born, he broke the mold—so forcefully that it registered on the richter scale! he’s special.

he’s been telling his sons this story forever. hell, he ever has the newspaper clipping from his birthday confirming that there was an earthquake in northern ireland that day. from day one, they’re told this story about how their father is literally so special and powerful that the earth shook when he was born. how could anyone not line up behind that?

more importantly—as soon as his children become aware of their family’s dreaming abilities, they are told to keep them secret. this secrecy implies that they are separate from the rest of the world, hence: “you are made of dreams and this world is not for you.”

3. the transcendent mission

niall lynch is constantly leaving and returning with trinkets galore. he inserts himself, his wife, and his sons into old irish folktales to teach them lessons. he paints them as grand, fantastic heroes. when declan does this in cdth, ronan immediately shuts up and pays attention to him (“are you going to be quiet?”)

niall is a master at what i call the Divorced Dad Gambit ™️: every time you fuck up with your family, pull a rabbit out of your hat to make them forget about it. the bmw, declan’s moth, hell—the entire barns property!

the ability to pull things out of his dreams literally makes niall a god. and by never explaining the mechanics of that ability to his sons, he maintains his position on pedestal above them.

4. self-sacrifice of members

exhibit a: declan lynch’s entire life.

exhibit b: ronan suffering under the weight of an ability he didn’t understand because niall insisted he keep it a secret.

5. limited access to the outside world

exhibit c: the barns.

we’re told straight up in tdt that niall lynch only gave his sons three things: obscure irish music lessons, trust funds, and the ability to box.

the lynch brothers were not watching clifford the big red dog on saturday mornings. they were listening to niall yap. they were not playing tee-ball. they were being taught to box. ronan was never allowed to have sleepovers (for obvious reasons, but the point stands). all of their literary intake is filtered through their parents. even alice in wonderland is a selection of niall’s. which, by the way, definitely wasn’t an accidental selection. he wanted ronan to see himself as an intrepid traveler in his own dreams—not as their commander. niall is the only one who’s allowed to know how to command dreams.

again, they’re told ad nauseam to keep their father’s work and their dreaming a secret. they can’t share their true lives with anyone. this is why declan dates a series of nondescript ashleys. why ronan can only be friends with gansey, someone who also has their toes dipped in magic. even then, when his dreaming almost kills him, ronan would rather allow gansey to believe he’s attempted suicide (and hospitalize him as a result) than broach the pact of secrecy he made with his father, even after his father is dead. if that doesn’t scream cult to you…i don’t know what does. ronan is literally less afraid of the psych ward than he is of dishonoring his DEAD cult leader. like. i shouldn’t have to provide further evidence than that.

(semantics aside, that was a suicide attempt. ronan practically says it to gansey outright when they fight the night horror together at monmouth. he quotes seneca to gansey: “the sword is a never a killer, but a tool in the killer’s hand.” translation: i wasn’t entirely sure i wanted to live anymore. those impulses took root in my subconscious which in response created monsters designed to kill me).

6. distinguishable vernacular

i’ve pointed to this already, but most of niall’s communication with his sons existed in folktales and stories, metaphors and riddles. it’s not so much the words themselves, but how they’re delivered. see again, niall “breaking the mold so hard the ground shook” when he was born. niall as an earthquake. metaphors.

i think this quote ties up this point and the last one really well:

7. us vs them mentality

by isolating his sons from the outside world and instilling in them a sense of grandiosity, niall naturally sets them up for “us vs them.”

there’s declan, who’s been through so much shady shit with niall that he’s suspicious of everything with a pulse and is terrified to let ronan out of his or gansey’s sight for too long for the entirety of trc. declan, who recognizes bryde for what he is and tells ronan “not to chase” bryde.

there’s ronan the misanthrope, who despises school and most of his peers because he can’t relate to them. see: “fuck washington!” and “ANARCHY” and “litigation is a farce.”

(i also think some of this rooted in the fact that ronan is, like me, a neurodivergent person with way too much intelligence, emotion, and creativity for the conventional school system to handle, but this isn’t that essay).

that’s without mentioning the ecoterrorism bender. i think ronan’s unconscious manifestation of society-hating-tear-it-all-down-rah-rah bryde is actually one of the most compelling cases for ronan being a cult survivor because:

1. cult survivor ronan, without a proper understanding of what happened to him, is naturally going to look for another leader when the previous one dies.

2. the us vs them/transcendent mission/ends justify the means mentality is absolutely present in bryde as it was in niall. see again: “you are made of dreams and this world is not for you.”

8. exploits member’s labor

i mean. do we even need to go over this. niall used declan for pretty much his entire life as his assistant for all of his dealings in the fairy market. things no child should’ve been exposed to to begin with, but declan was never compensated in any way. niall always knew he could be murdered or otherwise disappeared for crossing the wrong person, but he didn’t care because he knew declan would clean up the mess.

he didn’t care about advertising his own son, the greywaren, as an object for sale—because he knew that even if he didn’t give ronan up, whatever the consequences of that were, declan would handle them. he made declan executor of his will, his brothers’ only keepers in the event of niall’s death. he forced declan to do the uncomfortable parental labor of protecting and raising his brothers after he went off and got himself whacked because he falsely advertised one of them for sale.

and, hello. offering a person for sale is trafficking, whether niall intended it to be or not. he either a) didn’t see ronan as human (which is supported by the fact that he was prepared to kill him and only declan’s humanity stopped him) or b) was fine with trafficking his son. either way, exploitation and dehumanization. he intended to sell ronan’s labor as the greywaren and pocket it for himself. and even if he never intended to give ronan up: he always expected declan to clean up the resulting mess.

9. high entrance/exit costs

i mean. look at ronan, matthew, and declan’s lives. look at their choices. they’re pretty screwed. look at mor. she was flawed, sure, but she recognized what she’d be giving up if she stayed with niall. she didn’t want to be his skinny white woman. she didn’t want to give up her autonomy to stay in his inner circle, so she left (honestly, you could probably make the argument for mor as her own kind of cult leader but again, essay for another time). the entrance costs were too high.

declan, ronan, and matthew were freed from niall, but at a ridiculously high exit cost. they can’t go home. they’re being hunted. they can’t live authentic lives. declan’s cooking at least 10 stress ulcers in his gut. ronan attempted suicide. matthew has an identity crisis. none of them have any clue how to form healthy relationships. they all nearly die numerous times. the list goes on.

10. ends justify the means mentality

there isn’t much to say here that i haven’t already said, except:

niall (and mor) was so allured by power that he dreamt a magical entity into being without consideration of the consequences. he then became so afraid of this creature’s power that he’s willing to kill it, to kill his own son, in his bed while he’s asleep. the fact that declan loving ronan stopped niall from killing him doesn’t necessarily mean niall gave a shit how declan felt. it means he knew declan being angry with him would be inconvenient. it also didn’t stop him from trying to get rid of ronan—niall couldn’t kill ronan, so the next best option became selling him.

it makes perfect sense: keep ronan dumb enough that he can’t use his power against you, fawn over him relentlessly so he never has a reason to hate you, and when the time comes, make a pretty penny selling him to the highest bidder. except you can’t get rid of him that way, because declan will hate you, so instead, you’ll scam the buyer and let him send a hit man to kill you, removing you from all culpability in the situation. which brings me to:

bonus round: the cult leader’s precipitation of their own apocalypse.

Young also frequently notes in her work that cult leaders often precipitate their own apocalypses (see: jonestown, branch davidians). they spend all this time building up to something, there has to be a grand finale! a transcendence! the end times!

and here’s my piece de resistance: i think niall wanted to be killed. he realized he’d backed himself into a corner with ronan and declan and the only way out was to die and dump all the consequences of his schemes on his sons. so what did he do? he tried to sell ronan, realized it wouldn’t work, so he scammed greenmantle knowing greenmantle would off him and move on to declan and ronan next.

it removes niall from all responsibility. his dreams will all fall asleep. declan will pick up the rest of the pieces. ronan will hopefully crash out. problem solved, neat little bow on top.

so what happens when the cult leader dies? a few things. the cult typically fractures, with some members gathering around a new leader. but it’s never the same.

case in point: when niall died, the lynch family cult fractured. aurora fell asleep. the barns was locked up. ronan had a mental breakdown. declan stepped up and tried to lead, but it didn’t matter because the cult was fractured. ronan wouldn’t get behind him because declan wanted to be a parent, and the only parent ronan wanted was niall.

it makes sense that it fractured along the lines of the brothers. they all had very different experiences. declan was outright abused and reacted accordingly—stepping up and attempting to clean up the mess. internalizing everything and accepting that he’s going to have to be bad cop, do the hard emotional labor.

ronan was manipulated—abuse trojan-horsed in fawning over the favorite son. it’s all he’s ever known. of course he’s going to look for someone else to please, to garner attention from. gansey. adam. bryde. fortunately for ronan, gansey and adam actually care about him, and adam actually respects him enough to hold him accountable for his own life. bryde is, as i said, a direct manifestation of the hole left in ronan’s emotional stability with both gansey and adam whisked away to the ivy league.

matthew is…matthew. because he was dreamt to be the perfect little brother, he’s never had a chance to be anything else. when he gets that chance…it’s a lot. of course he experiences some anger at his brothers for not telling the truth sooner.

in greywaren, ronan completes some of the cult survivor healing arc. he finds his own inner strength independent of another person or entity (“he had never once decided for himself” and then he does). he finds purpose and friendship and community with other dreamers. he begins to mend fences with his brothers.

but the last piece? the last piece is ronan accepting the fact that niall abused and exploited him and never, ever gave a damn about him. this would be very hard for ronan to accept, understandably. it would upend everything he thought he knew about himself and his childhood. but it’s a vital step, and i’ll always be a little disappointed we didn’t get to see it in greywaren.

it’s an inevitable confrontation, with mor and the new fenian lurking around the barns (ew) and declan sitting on a bag of memories. no one in this family has communication skills so there’s door slamming and silent treatments aplenty. it’s ugly but they get through it because they have to.

TLDR: the lynch family was a cult. niall lynch was their cult leader. declan, ronan, and matthew are all cult survivors who have a lot of healing to do. like a lot.

[vigilskeep]

Do we know enough about how Crow succession and talonship works to believe it would be possible for Viago to take the seat of first talon either through some sort of non-violent coup in the absence of an heir to house Dellamorte or through marrying his kid (rook) off to Lucanis? Asking because I really don't know and would love to write something in that direction...and you seem a crow enthusiast...also love your blog

THEORETICALLY. yes.

we haven’t seen the talons shift directly, but they do shift, with regularity. house arainai was first talon in living memory and then fell slowly downwards to their current point where they’re struggling in and out of eight talon like a drowning man who keeps finding his way to air for just enough breath

the eight talons system, if you’ll allow me the tangent, is a really fascinating choice of fantasy hierarchy because it is such a clear hierarchy. among a bunch of ambitious killers whose prime goal is notoriety. you can only hold each position here if everyone below you is too afraid to do anything about it. what an anxiety trip it must be to decide whether to push someone down just one rung or to try to destroy them entirely; do you want to leave your rival with more opportunity or more motivation? but crow power is also all about theatre, all about perception—you are first or fifth or seventh talon primarily because everyone agrees that you are—so making a failed gambit for a higher talon has got to be incredibly damaging. which is a risky setup. it discourages attempts, but when someone does make an attempt, they will not be fucking around

anyway ignore all that we’re talking about soft takeovers today. okay so house dellamorte has a dying core family, theoretically. we’re making the assumption that no surviving young children from any branch of the family are mentioned because none exist. we have two heirs, neither very acceptable (my apologies to caterina’s delusions), both men in their 30s with (again, assumed) no children, and neither making much progress in that regard. (arguably dependent on player choice when it comes to lucanis, but since he can fall in love with and express his undying devotion to any kind of rook, we can at least say he’s not making that much effort.) within a generation the core family may die out. but that is a LONG TIME to wait. you still have to deal with the current ones, they’re pretty robust

lucanis is the current first talon as of the end of veilguard. can he be convinced to give this up and hand first talon over to someone better suited? i do believe it. mostly because i need to believe, for my mental health, that we can get him out of there. but he also now has a fairly bulky support system full of people who love him and will notice how bad this is going to be and convince him he deserves things like a life he doesn’t hate

as always your main problem is caterina. caterina is not going to allow a takeover, soft or otherwise, while she is still alive. caterina didn’t give up first talon when they murdered her children. there’s probably an emotional plot in here where she can be made to accept what she’s done to her family, far too late, but with time left to save just one by letting him go. on the other hand, i’ve also been experimenting with plots in my mind where she tries to quietly get rid of viago or romanced rook for having too much influence, with the added benefit on hopefully being able to steel & refocus lucanis on defending the house against whoever she frames. or plots where she blames lucanis trying to leave and not being the boy she remembers on his, you know, demonic possession, and attempts to forcibly remove or destroy spite. so. there’s potential ups and downs, here.

i don’t know how helpful rook de riva/lucanis is. most of your problem here is that everything that sets this ending up by giving the de rivas more power, and by giving any rook more power over lucanis, is something that in my mind would crank caterina’s wariness all the way up. house de riva surely has to move up from fifth already after the events of the game and look more like a contender, and i don’t think even caterina’s delusions about lucanis’ suitability for first talon could make her blind to the effect rook can obviously have. i definitely think she would delay on a marriage and have the power to do that

i think it’s worth saying that rook de riva at any point bringing up to lucanis the idea of handing things over to viago would be a hell of a conversation. i know lucanis never remotely suspects rook of any agenda and trusts them completely, and i know i agree with rook here, but you’ve GOT to see how “i love you and having power is bad for you and what you should do is hand it all over to my talon” sounds. i truly could not blame him for a bit of doubt here especially if caterina was around to suggest it

sorry this is a completely messy and disconnected response. i don’t even know if i had a point. you might have to wait for caterina to actually die? is that my point? i can see rook de riva/lucanis being helpful to ease a transition of power to house de riva then. i also think it’s worth pointing out that teia might be the better contender for all this out of the two lovebirds. what quietly makes teia probably the most dangerous talon in the crows, if she ever chose to be, is that everyone likes her. i’m not joking or trying to handwave crow politics, it’s a form of soft power and the result of her cultivated skill that nobody ever suspects teia of anything. even caterina treats her gently, and literally a talon who tried to murder all the others in tevinter nights was delaying murdering her because she was his favourite. if anyone can handle a gentler transition like what we’re talking about, maybe it’s more likely to be teia

[delicateperspective]

Hi, if Simon Jones is bad at his job, then why did Louis keep working with him after leaving Sony? The only reason I can think of is BBG.

And speaking of Sony, I used to think they retained Louis because it was a way to control Harry, but now that he's no longer with them, do you think that was the reason he was sabotaged? He is even banned from radio stations by Sony CEO's brother. Don't you think Harry could do something to prevent it if he's their golden goose?

i have... theories. but let me try to stick to the facts first.

we don’t know exactly what L signed when he re-signed with syco/sony after the band’s hiatus. but it’s very possible that while he was eventually released from that label in 2020, he signed a separate PR deal with simon jones around that time. simon’s company isn’t sony—he’s PR. and that kind of deal can exist independently of whatever label he’s signed to.

also: it makes a twisted kind of sense that the man who helped build the closet would be the one “trusted” to navigate it now. simon jones invented the het-louis narrative. he knows exactly how to play that role in public because he wrote the script. and while i loathe that, i also think it’s why he’s still around—because he’s familiar, and because he keeps L’s public image contained.

as for actual music PR? that does not appear to be simon. matt and chris seem to be the ones handling L’s music rollouts and strategy. simon’s job is broader image management.

now onto sony: most major labels have “right of first refusal” clauses—meaning that when the band went on hiatus, sony had first dibs on any solo contracts the boys might sign. unless another label came in with a significantly better offer, they basically had to say yes to sony. so it’s not just about choice—it’s about leverage.

this is where i veer a bit into speculation:

i do think rob stringer (sony’s global CEO) wanted both H and L—H as the frontman, L behind the scenes writing songs for other people. and i think L might’ve been okay with that because he loved writing in 1D... at first. but in AOTV he talks about how conversations with his mom helped shift his focus. he decided he wanted to make his music.

so instead of sticking to rob’s plan, he went back to simon cowell and started crafting his solo career. and i think that pissed rob off.

(reminder: simon cowell’s syco was a branch under sony. rob stringer is sony’s top exec. there’s some weird power dynamics here that aren’t easy to unravel, but they absolutely impact what happens to artists under their umbrella.)

as for the idea that H could’ve stopped the sabotage? honestly, no. in 2016–2017, H wasn’t the global powerhouse he is now. he was just a boyband member trying to go solo—a gamble, not a guarantee. labels drop solo acts all the time. the idea that he could’ve waltzed into sony’s top floor and made demands about how L was treated? that’s not how this works. that’s not how any of this works.

and even now, i doubt he’d have that kind of pull. sony’s top brass doesn’t answer to their artists. they answer to shareholders.

plus... we don’t know what H said or did behind the scenes. maybe he tried. maybe he couldn’t. maybe he wasn’t allowed to speak on it. we simply don’t know.

but suggesting that he should’ve stepped in assumes that L would’ve wanted him to. and that’s where i personally draw the line. L has fought tooth and nail to stand on his own as an artist. the idea that H should’ve swooped in to save him reduces him to “harry styles’ partner” rather than a full artist in his own right.

[harksness]

No Going Back

Summary: An incurable illness plagues you, something one of a kind that has never been seen before. It corrupts magic, leaving you unable to use your powers without risking death or worse. Someone wants all of your unused power themselves, and a reluctant Agatha Harkness is convinced to keep you safe after some bribing.

A/N: aaa I've had the idea for this for like 2yrs now!!! I'm super excited to be finishing it and posting it finally!! It's my first in depth, planned fanfic and I'm super excited to share it I hope you guys like it <3

(Also lowk paranoid that some of the creative decisions I made for this fic are gonna end up being explained in the show so just nevermind that if it happens we're just here for some fun romance and smut with Agatha ok)

WC: 3k

Anxiety gnaws away at your insides as you flick on your blinker, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel as you turn down that familiar dirt road that you hate so much. That long, winding dirt road that also leads to the house that you hate so much.

You try the breathing exercises your therapist taught you. The slow, calculated inhales, the holding your breath, and slow calculated exhales, but it does nothing to relieve the feeling in your chest that’s suffocating you. 

The cars headlights cut through the darkness, thick layers of tall, old trees swarming each side of the road as their branches bow overhead. You can’t even see the night sky through the thick layers of leaves.

You’re positive that if you had consulted your therapist about this little visit before coming, she would have told you that it’s not a good idea. That reopening old wounds after basically being no contact for four years would undo a lot of healing and hard work. 

But, when you listened to your fathers urgent voicemail, you knew you needed to come. You had no choice. The deal you made with him before leaving was more than fair. He agreed to leave you alone and only contact you if it was a necessary emergency. And you agreed to that more than fair deal.

He wanted you to be as far away from him as possible, and you wanted the same thing. To be far, far away from him and any reminders of what happened to you, your childhood and the toxic magical community you grew up in.

You’re sure that you were only able to get away because of your little defect. And because after your mother died, he immediately remarried and your father didn’t waste time popping out plenty of new babies, pureblooded heirs that could flawlessly wield their old blood magic unlike you.

If your father called you back home you know it’s a serious, urgent matter. And that only makes your chest grow tighter as you turn the last bend and your childhood home comes into view.

“Well.. Here we go..”

You grumble to yourself, the tall, menacing house looming over you amongst all of the trees. The night sky actually cuts through these parts, the moonglow illuminating the house and its surroundings as you pull up to the front door. Immediately you kill the engine and shift your car into park, leaning forward to peer up at the house.

The pristine white under the moonlight makes it look like it’s glowing. It stands tall and proud and perfect, no chipping or dirt in sight. A black roof sits on top, perfectly black framed windows spread along the sides of the house, and not a single one is lit up with evidence of life. Curiously, you keep peering, checking for a sign of anyone being in the house. With a deep breath you grab your keys and your bag and exit the car.

It’s dead silent, save for the sound of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the trees when a soft breeze blows through. You pause as you take a deep breath to steady yourself. Cautiously, you walk around to the other side of the house, leaning over and peering just enough to see if any lights were turned on. 

Nope. Nothing. All of the windows are black as pitch. You groan, pinching your eyes shut as you try to soothe yourself by rubbing your fingers on your forehead.

Whatever. You’ll just go inside and call your father. You’d be dead meat if you left without his permission, anyways. He sounded very urgent. Deathly urgent. With a deep exhale pushing past your lips, you walk back around the house, the wind chilling your cheeks as you start to make your way up the front steps. 

No door handle, just a block of smooth painted wood that looks like a door. A wave of exhaustion overtakes you as you press your palm to the smooth center of the wood, your features dropping as an electric blue glow flows in ripples over the door before it parts for you, splitting down the middle and swinging open.

The main hall is eerily dark and you have to force yourself to move forward. The moonlight is bright enough to where you can see, but everything is shadowed. The hall stretches out far, down the length of the entire house before leading to the wide, open stairs that would take you up to the expansive second level. 

A hard, loud slam echoes through the halls and shakes the house. It’s enough for you to let out a scream and jump as you fling yourself around to the source of the noise, noticing the front doors are sealed closed. Your face scrunches in confusion at the sight. It should just.. Close like a normal door as soon as you are comfortably in the threshold of the house. Never have you seen it linger or slam like that before, not even in your years growing up here.

You sigh, deciding to brush it off even though you know something is wrong, more so because you know that you’re incapable of protecting yourself like a normal witch would be able to so gaslighting yourself is just the easier option for now.

Besides, whatever’s wrong can’t be life endangering to you. The property is warded and safe, it’s basically impossible to get through to the house let alone inside of it. Hundreds of years of magical wards and barriers make sure of that. So, you grab your phone out of your coat pocket, your fingers cold as you pull up your fathers contact and press the call button.

You raise the phone to your ear as the sound of the monotonous chimes ring through the silent rooms as you pass through them, cautiously walking into the family room. The sound of your boots is muffled by the thick carpet as you walk over it to peer out of the window. The wind rushes against the side of the house, the echo of the noise whispering through the silent halls of your childhood home.

“Okay, I’m at the house. What’s going on and where are you? Please… Just call me back.”

Lowering the phone with a tense sigh, you drop it back into your coat pocket before turning back to the window. You decide to analyze the treeline for any sign of something being off, and you see something that makes your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.

One of the protective runes carved into one of the trees has been singed off. You can tell by the sizzling burn marks that it was magic, the bark of the tree burned all the way through and to the wood underneath, leaving no sign of the runes that were previously there. Your throat dries up.

Whoever did that had to have broken through two other protective barriers on the property. It’s tough magic and in order to break through it… You’d need some scarily powerful magic on your side.

There’s only been a few times over the decades since the house was built that someone has been able to break through the protective barriers. The last time was when your mother was assassinated and you were left for dead when you were a child.

You can’t stop the panic from bubbling in your chest this time, not knowing what to do or how to protect yourself. Your mind is frantic as you search for a solution, your hand moving to fist the pendant hanging from your neck, but something catches your eye and you freeze. In the reflection of the window you see her, a woman reclining in your fathers favorite chair. The back of the extravagant, plush red chair reaches high, the woman is slumped down in it, her black heeled boots dangling over one armrest of the chair as she gently swings her feet back and forth, the fabric of her purple skirt swaying with each movement.

Her body is twisted just a bit so that her front is tilted towards you, her chin resting in her palm. She’s donning a very traditionally witchy getup. Her wild, brown curls fall off of her head in crazy waves as it cascades over her shoulders. Her lips are quirked in the snarkiest smirk you’ve ever seen, your chest tightening even further when you notice her bright blue eyes are planted right on you. 

You whip around to face her, your eyes widening when you see her with your own two eyes and not in the window's reflection, confirming this is real and not a figment of your imagination.

“Oh my goodness! It took you long enough to notice me! If this were a horror movie, or if I actually wanted to kill you, you would’ve been dead the second those doors slammed shut, sweetheart.”

The woman's smooth voice has a taunting edge to it. She swings her feet over and around and they land against the carpet with a dramatic thump! before she pushes herself out of the chair and onto her feet.

“Thank god I don’t want to kill you.”

Her smirk drops into a warning smile, her voice doing the same. You’re gripping your pendant so tightly that you can feel it cutting into the skin of your palm.

“What do you mean? What do you want?”

You ask, your voice shaky and soft. She drops her gaze to your fist, pointing at it.

“That’s what I want.”

Her eyes meet yours again as she takes a few steps towards you. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and give it to me? Or do I have to take it from you?”

She holds out her hand, and that’s when your gaze catches on the pendant on her neck. Your eyes widen in horror, taking a slow step backwards.

Every witch knows about Agatha Harkness. About her long list of crimes, both magical and not. Especially those of you connected to the elder families. She’s successfully stolen from some, even killed a few. She was a suspect in your mothers murder and your assault, but was ruled out for having been out of the country at the time.

“Why do you want it?”

You stutter through the sentence, trying to distract her for a moment as you mentally prepare yourself for what you’re about to do. You just keep hoping, praying to whatever god is listening, that you can get your magic to work right just this once.

“Stop stalling, honey.. You know exactly why I want it.”

You take her words as your signal to call on your magic, and it appears in a sickly blue-ish yellow glow, enveloping you as you feel it wash over you, turning you invisible. You start cursing internally, knowing your magic won’t last long enough to keep you safe. But you have to try something. 

You don’t know what to do. Just run to your car, which probably won’t work, hide, which also probably won’t work, or somehow try to distract her which is your best bet but also probably won’t work.

So, you start booking it down the hall, the hard thumps of your feet on wood rattling through the old house as you dart for the stairs. Your fingers wrap around the bannister and you start running up the steps, taking them two steps at a time as you desperately search your mind for a good place to hide. 

“It’s funny you think you can hide, sweetheart.”

Agatha calls after you, and you can already hear her making her way up the stairs. She’s taking her time as she follows after you. You bolt down the hall, finding your old bedroom. When you throw open the door you’re not surprised to see that they renovated it, it seems to be an art studio for your step mother now.

You step back into the hallway, remaining invisible as you quietly move out of the way. Agatha is making her way down the hall, her robes and long hair flowing dramatically behind her as she approaches the door you flung open.

“Oh, come on.. Just make this easier for the both of us and come on out.”

She laughs as she sticks her head into the room, surveying it. She must be suspicious that you’re not actually in there. You take the opportunity to do something you’ve never tried before, something stupid that could kill you- and you call on your magic.

You raise your hand, closing your eyes as you carefully begin to draw your power from the pendant around your neck. It’s unstable in its pure form like this, your anxiety bubbling in your chest as you draw it into your hand, feeling it crackle and pop like a fire. You feel the invisibility spell wash off of you like water, your fingers flicking backwards in time with the powerful bursts of magic.

You build the magic steadily, higher and higher as you wait for her to turn around.

When she finally does, you twist your arms, using all of your strength to fling the yellow-blue ball of magic right into the woman. She flies backwards, and you hear the crashing noises as she falls right into all of the easels and canvases.

Peering through the door, you see her in a clump on the floor with the broken and tattered art supplies. She blows a long piece of thick brown hair that hand landed in her face out of the way with a dramatic puff of her lips.

“I thought you couldn’t use magic..”

Agatha grumbles as she climbs to her feet, dusting herself off. She pauses, an uneasy look overtaking her face.

“What.. What was that?”

She groans, wrapping her arms around her stomach where your magic had landed. You let out a breathy, surprised laugh. 

“What did you do to me!? I thought you couldn't use magic!”

Agatha yells at you, rage seeping through her voice as it booms in the halls of the house. Fear grips you again as you straighten up, not bothering to give her an explanation.

She groans out in pain behind you, and you start running. Your feet heavy thumps as you book it down the hall, thinking you finally got a chance.

Not only does she need to realize what's happening to her, she needs to purge it from her body. Someone that powerful shouldn't have an issue dealing with it, but fighting it out should stall just long enough for you to get away.

Or so you thought.

Something hits you so hard that you fall to the ground, landing roughly on your right arm. The force of your body hitting the hard wood beneath you causes your head to snap against the floor too, a loud yelp of pain pushing out of your throat as pain shoots in hot flashes across your skull and down your arm.

A few seconds later you’re blinking dumbly as you try to regain your senses, your head ringing and vision blurry from your hard fall. Your eyes roll in your head, a groggy groan escaping your lips as you desperately try to pick yourself off the ground.

Your right arm is stuck. Shoulder to hand, as if it’s superglued to the wood beneath you. Desperately you pull on your arm, trying to sit up to no avail as you hear the woman approaching you from behind.

You’re basically a bug that walked into a sticky trap, helpless as you watch your impending demise approach you. You turn your head to the sound of boots on the wooden floor, seeing Agatha sauntering towards you, purple skirt swaying around the ankles of her black boots. You’re just barely able to make out a coherent thought through all of the pain and fog clouding your mind- you’re fucked.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your head throbbing in time with every beat as the woman crouches down before you. You’re unable to focus on her features, desperately wincing and pinching your eyes shut to try and get rid of the pain. Her fingers wrap around your jaw, biting softly into your cheeks as she focuses your lolling head on her gaze.

“I’m sorry.. I didn’t mean for you to hit the ground that hard. Don’t wanna risk damaging that pretty face, hm?”

You blink rapidly as she starts to come into focus. You try to gargle out a response, but find yourself unable to as pain shoots through your skull. She coos at you with wide eyes, raising her free hand to run softly over the top of your head.

“At the very least, there’s gonna be a bump. At the very most, a concussion.. I really am sorry, but I needed this-”

Her hand is reaching towards your neck. Panic spikes in your chest when you realize she’s going to grab your necklace.

“N-no!”

You force the word past your lips in a desperate stutter, your voice echoing through the long hall so loudly that it surprises you. The witch before you even seems a bit taken off guard, curling her fingers back as she retreats her hand only slightly.

“What’s wrong with your magic..”

She asks, her voice soft and firm as her eyes narrow at you in curiosity. Panic is bubbling in your chest, rising in your throat.

“I don’t know.”

You whisper in return, before that all too familiar flash of blue-yellow magic lights up between the two of you. Agatha raises her hands, manifesting a wide, purple shield the exact moment your unstable magic collides with it. A loud noise sounds right when it collides with hers, shaking the house and echoing loudly in your ears. Your head flies in the opposite direction at the force, smacking against the floor once again as your vision goes black.

[sikyulioness]

Could you do one that's reader and Ashborn, something that's kinda fluff. Where like, reader introduces Ashborn to positive physical interaction. (He's been through so much I just want to hug him! 😭)

Aww that's so cute 🥺

______. ._______

A Touch of Light

Ashborn was not accustomed to touch.

In his long existence, hands had only ever reached for him in violence. Grasping, tearing, demanding—always seeking power, never offering warmth. Even before he became the Shadow Monarch, before the heavens cast him down, he had been a god of destruction. Untouchable. Distant. Alone.

And yet, there you were.

A mere human, standing before him without fear. Your presence was as soft as the wind that passed through the ruins where he often lingered, a place long abandoned by time. You were nothing like the beings he had known before. You were not made of divinity, nor of monstrous power. And yet, somehow, you unsettled him more than any warrior ever had.

It started small.

The first time you touched him, it had been an accident—your fingertips brushing against the edge of his armored gauntlet as you reached for something beside him. He had gone rigid, shadows curling instinctively around him like a beast prepared to strike. But you had only blinked at him, unafraid.

"You’re colder than I expected," you murmured.

He did not respond. What was there to say? He had not known warmth in centuries.

The second time, it was intentional.

You had found him sitting beneath the remnants of an ancient tree, its branches long dead but still standing. He often stayed there, watching the sky, lost in thoughts that spanned eternity.

"You look tired," you said.

He did not answer. A god does not grow weary. But something in the way you frowned at him made his chest feel... heavy.

Before he could react, you reached out, resting your palm against his forearm. Not in battle. Not in reverence. Just touch—gentle, warm, grounding.

He did not move.

No one had ever touched him like that.

"You’re really cold," you murmured again, rubbing his arm absentmindedly, as if trying to bring warmth to something long since frozen. "Does it hurt?"

He stared at you. The question made no sense. Pain was an old companion, one he had long since stopped acknowledging. But this? This strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through him? He did not know what to make of it.

And yet, he did not pull away.

Over time, it became a pattern.

Small, fleeting touches. A hand brushing against his when you handed him something. The press of your palm against his back as you walked beside him. One time, you had even reached up, brushing stray strands of his dark hair away from his face without a second thought.

He did not understand.

Why did you do these things?

Why did you not recoil from him, as all others had?

One night, as you both sat in silence beneath the ruined sky, he asked you.

"Why do you touch me?"

You tilted your head, as if the question itself was strange. "Because I want to."

He frowned. That was not an answer.

Seeing his confusion, you sighed and shifted closer, your knee brushing against his. "You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?"

Alone.

The word settled over him like a weight. He had never considered it before. He had been beyond such things, beyond the need for companionship. Or so he had believed.

"You don’t have to be," you continued, voice softer now. "I don’t know what you’ve been through, Ashborn. But... you don’t always have to be untouchable."

Untouchable. That, too, had been a truth he had never questioned.

Until now.

Without thinking, he reached out.

It was awkward—hesitant, almost clumsy. His hand hovered near yours, unsure of how to proceed. He had wielded power beyond comprehension, had ended civilizations with a mere gesture. And yet, the simple act of reaching for your hand felt... foreign.

You noticed. Instead of waiting, you closed the distance yourself, intertwining your fingers with his.

Warmth.

A slow, quiet thing. Not the fire of battle, nor the blaze of destruction. Just warmth—steady, certain, human.

"You see?" You smiled at him, giving his hand a small squeeze. "Not so bad, right?"

Ashborn did not answer. He only stared at your joined hands, at the quiet miracle of it.

And for the first time in countless centuries, he felt something shift deep within him.

Something fragile.

Something warm.

---

The change was gradual.

At first, Ashborn remained still whenever you touched him, as if uncertain whether he should allow it. Then, slowly, he began to accept it. He no longer flinched when your fingers brushed his, nor did he tense when you leaned against him on colder nights.

But an embrace? That was different.

You never forced it, never pushed him beyond what he was ready for. But one evening, when exhaustion weighed heavy in your own limbs, you found yourself dozing off beside him, your head naturally resting against his shoulder.

He froze.

For a long moment, he did nothing.

Then, cautiously, he shifted—not away from you, but toward you. The movement was small, hesitant, but unmistakable. You felt the tension ease from his frame, the weight of his presence settling more comfortably against yours.

It was the first time he had ever let himself be held.

And it would not be the last.

---

One night, the stars burned bright, casting silver light upon the ruined world around you.

Ashborn stood beside you, watching the sky, silent as ever.

Then, without warning, he turned to face you fully.

You blinked up at him, surprised by the intensity of his gaze. "What is it?"

He did not answer.

Instead, he reached out—deliberately, purposefully—and cupped your cheek in his hand.

It was the first time he had ever touched you on his own.

His palm was cool against your skin, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they traced the curve of your jaw. It was as if he were memorizing the sensation, committing the warmth of you to memory.

You leaned into his touch instinctively, eyes softening. "Ashborn..."

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. A quiet exhale left him, something close to wonder flickering in his expression.

"I did not know," he murmured, voice almost reverent.

"Did not know what?" you whispered.

"That touch could feel like this."

You covered his hand with your own, pressing his palm more firmly against your cheek. "And how does it feel?"

He hesitated, searching for the right words. Then, at last, he answered.

"Warm."

A slow smile spread across your face. "Good. Then we'll just have to make sure you get used to it."

And for the first time in centuries, the Shadow Monarch let himself believe in something other than war.

He let himself believe in your warmth.

___

The End

[chaaistained]

☕️ hold on ! let it simmer as it should ≈≈

here are my assortment of teas !!

.

.

.

🗝️ you’ve now unlocked my brewery—would you like to sample the different flavours of chaai?

+ also !! make sure to check out my cuppa queries for extra goodies aka advice + ask game responses !!

— PINNED :

≈ hazy fairy lights and the thought of schedules ; a five second shift || kpop dr

≈ maybe you’re gonna be the one that saves me ; a sleepy shift || arrowverse dr

≈ what’s in my bag || kpop dr

≈ somewhere between lumos and leviosa; wand breakdown || marauders dr

≈ the breath that passed from you to me; amortentia breakdown || marauders dr

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

— MULTI MIX : ideas/posts that include multiple drs

≈ linked at the wrist

≈ signature concept

≈ adding flowers to my hair

≈ my pets

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

•*. comfort brews +°.

tea leaf garden

waiting room

☕︎ my solitary paradise, a modest manor with hardwood planks and jali carved furniture, with varnished floors and warm oak tones, the casually elegant atmosphere conceals my ingenuity if i may say so myself as i’ve imbued this reality with just enough advancement to make my life easier — this is my go-to vacation, my number one choice to spend anywhere from five minutes to five months, it is an island just for me and mother nature, where the presence of another is entirely dependant on whether or not i open a green sparkly door (to be explained unless you’ve seen the good place then you know what i mean)

— my waiting room; intro•°

.. house tour ..

.. island princess ..

.. toe beaned friends — an introduction to my animal companions ..

.. this is the bad place! . it’s not ..

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

steeped to perfection

better cr

☕︎ after hiccuping cries and nights drowned in tear stained pillow cases, i decided to make a life for myself where i can actually feel alive, where i can breathe a little lighter, plant my feet a little softer, take my steps a little slower and admire the beauty of dappling sunlight through curtain branches, without feeling the twist of a knife to my chest that is the fear of existing, in this life i’ve found happiness, success, family, friendship, love, so much so that it overflows the stone barricades of sadness and pain that will always be there but will never be in power again, this is it for me—i may rave about my other lives and take pride in the work i’ve put into them, but above them all, this is the one

— my better cr; intro•°

.. what's in my bag ..

.. room tour ..

.. this is so ! — what others associate with me ..

.. ℳ and 𝒜 belong together — red strings i've scripted with my s/o ..

.. my hobbies [[ moodboard + desc ]] ..

.. girls trip to sicily [pt 1] ..

.. my internship : page turners ..

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

laced with firewhiskey

hogwarts » marauders era

☕︎ born of sunlight and moss water — i take a different name in this reality — as james potter’s younger sister, the mischief runs in my blood and the adrenaline bursts through the balls of my feet; with every bounding step i take, the heels of my boots clack against the cold stone floor of hogwarts castle, and i smile with blackberry sheened lips, knowing that i will leave a mark on this world, regardless of whether it’s by virtue of self or status . i mean, being gryffindor’s seeker does have its perks, but so does being a prefect hihi

— my marauders dr; intro•°

.. subjecting you to my opinions on subjects ..

.. patronus vs animagus + what i've scripted ..

.. somewhere between lumos and leviosa; wand breakdown ..

.. the breath that passed from you to me; amortentia breakdown ..

.. visual brew; julia potter [[ moodboard + desc + playlist ]] ..

.. tea for two; julia x regulus [[ moodboard + desc + playlist ]] ..

.. potter family [[ moodboard + desc ]] ..

.. hogsmeade renewed ..

.. desired reality vs fan fiction — how my marauders dr is different to my fic (based off of it) ..

.. changes made from canon ..

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

cc jitters

dc » the flash / arrowverse

☕︎ amber crackling firelight burns in the depths of my throat, itching to let out a guttural scream, my path is one that’s forged on survival — with a new identity (aka i’ve got another name in this reality too . to really embrace the lore i guess?) i don the tigers skin and camouflage into the concrete jungle of central city until lightning strikes and my world shatters into a kaleidoscope colour storm of new feelings, new people, new purpose, a new life.. one that can replace the old and heal the wounded cub inside

— my arrowverse dr; intro•°

.. maybe you’re gonna be the one that saves me ; a sleepy shift ..

.. lady sher — the legend of the ambush ..

.. my wardrobe ..

.. visual brew; gwendolyn thomara [[ moodboard + desc + playlist ]] ..

.. tea for two; gwen x barry [[ moodboard + desc + playlist ]] ..

.. a chemical imbalance causes a combustion of the lovesick heart; falling in love with barry allen ..

.. desired reality vs fan fiction — how my arrowverse dr is different to my fic (based off of it) ..

.. changes from canon ..

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

claritea

kpop » own girl group

☕︎ pattering footsteps adorned with paayal, glittering down hallways at the mere age of three, dancing to the melody of rain falling against glass windows, or singing to the tune of wind whistling through the metal wind chimes, i was born to perform and everyone knows it, the stage lights up with i arrive — the firecracker of clarity, the siren voice of the 4th gen, the diamond maknae (this is such a self indulgent dr . zero shame though also,, new name pt3) i’m living my best life in one of the most successful girl groups in the world, i get to do what i love for a living (pt 1) — clari brings the clear view of success~~

— my kpop girl group dr; intro•°

.. hazy fairy lights and the thought of schedules ; a five second shift ..

.. anecdotal thoughts / ideas ..

.. clear view ! clarity (+ an explanation for my secrecy) ..

.. lore unlocked — a work in progress ..

.. i came here to have a good time (rewriting the code of the world) ..

.. house tour ..

.. clarity friendship intro [[ moodboard + desc ]] ..

.. what jungwon and i find beautiful about each other ..

.. cute couple things ..

.. mina and jungwon pre-relationship (brief) ..

.. what’s in my bag ..

•*. occasional brews +°.

pumpkin spiced

hogwarts » modern era

☕︎ desc

— my modern hogwarts dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

bat bakery homebrew

dc » gotham academy

☕︎ desc

— my gotham academy dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

kansas apple cider

dc » smallville

☕︎ desc

— my smallville dr: intro•°

.. the city i protect (brief summary) ..

.. insignia , suit , amulet (details) ..

.. public perception of me ..

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

vogue's bonus recipe

fame

☕︎ desc

— my fame dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

sponsored by sweet tea

youtuber/author

☕︎ desc

— my youtuber dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

eywa's elixir

avatar » pandora

☕︎ desc

— my pandora dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

yak dung tea, very aromatic

httyd

☕︎ desc

— my dragon rider dr; intro•°

•*. delicacy brews +°.

pandora express

avatar » modern era

☕︎ desc

— my modern avatar dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

steeped in rose petals

barbie (modern era/barbie roberts ver.)

☕︎ desc

— my barbie dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

web-slinging special

spiderverse

☕︎ desc

— my spiderverse dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

paradise in a cup

outer banks

☕︎ desc

— my outer banks dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

hot leaf juice

avatar: the last airbender

☕︎ desc

— my atla dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

mid-wilsher paper cups

the rookie

☕︎ desc

— my rookie dr; intro•°

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

eden college tea time

spy x family

☕︎ desc

— my spy x family dr; intro•°

don’t swallow the tea leaves ! for they leave you a message 🍂

(although unfinished) this is my aromatic archive of the various realities that i call home !! i'm very excited to keep updating the post with the many ideas that i wish to explore »∻*

i have more dr's that i haven't mentioned on here, niche ones, underdeveloped ones, abandoned ones—i'd be happy to add them at some point~

i will also be taking requests on different topics for posts !! (simply come have a cup of tea with yours truly . aka: send an ask ☕≈≈)

the setup of this masterlist is inspired by the lovely @hrrtshape and her formatting , i found it really easy to navigate and i like the idea of adding a little blurb before the list of posts !! anyway, ib; emma xx

i hope you found something here to your liking <3

spilled chaai; ingredient list — explore the recipe for chaai

cuppa queries; order in — ask responses

chaai ponders; ring stained pages — on loa/shifting/manifestion/creativity

2024 © chaaistained

[plaidpajamallama]

(You scared me) RHEA RIPLEY X JEY USO

Chapter 20

_________________________________________________

Jay was sitting on his couch watching TV. He kept glancing at his phone lying down beside him.

He hadn’t talked to Rhea since Monday; he had called her yesterday, but she didn’t answer. He figured she wouldn’t.

He let his head hit the back of the couch.

He hated fighting, well, arguing rather. It stressed him out, the back and forth, the yelling. He hated it, especially arguing with Rhea.

He was tired of fighting; he wanted to be able to talk to his damn girlfriend.

Fuck Roman and what he thought about it; he was a grown-ass man, and he could do whatever he wanted in

He picked up his phone, texting Roman that they need to talk before standing up, grabbing his keys, and walking out, slamming the door.

Rhea dropped her trowel on the ground. She had just gotten out of the shower. She had put on one of Jey’s shirts. She didn’t bother putting pants on; she was about to go to sleep anyway.

The rain outside hit against her window.

She lay down on her bed, grabbing her phone off the nightstand. Seeing another missed call from Jey, she rolled her eyes; she was tired of going in circles with him. It always ended the same, and she was too tired for that tonight.

She heard a loud knock on her front door.

She stood up and grabbed her robe off her door, thinking about who would be at her door at this hour.

She walked over to her door; she looked through the peephole, but it was being blocked. She tightened her robe before hesitantly opening the door.

Jey was standing there, his clothes soaking wet. Can we talk please?

She stood there for a moment before moving out of the way, letting him in.

You came all this way just to talk, she said, shutting the door.

Well, you wouldn’t answer my calls, so he moved his wet hair out of his face.

If you came all this way just to fight with me, I’m not in the mood. Jay She crossed her arms.

I’m not either. I don’t like fighting with you, but if you don’t answer the phone and you don’t talk to me,

I’m only playing the game you made.

I’m done playing that game with you, Rhea. I shouldn’t have started it.

Mmm-hmm, she shifted on her left leg, sticking her right leg out some.

I was out of line. I shouldn’t have ignored you. You're right; you are my girl. You should be able to talk to me no matter if Roman finds out or not. You come first.

I already told you I’m not going to let you tell Roman just because of this. You should tell him because you want to.

I do want to tell him.

She rolled her eyes. Jey, you have spent our whole relationship worrying about Roman, and now you're just fine with it?

When we got together, he and I weren’t on the best of terms; now things are different.

Are they!? He still hasn’t said sorry; he still hasn’t taken responsibility for his actions-

And he won’t! He sees nothing wrong with what he has done to him. To him, I’m the main event, Jey USO, because of him I got the name when it was just me and him in the thunderdome. He’s not going to apologize for something he doesn’t think is wrong.

So you're just going to sweep everything under the rug; everything that he has done just doesn’t matter anymore.

No, it does it to me, but to him he doesn’t give a damn.

So you’re just gonna tell him and hope for the best, hope that everything you were scared of doesn’t happen?

I told you then I would handle that if it happened; I would never let anything happen to you.

Yeah, she had heard that one before she thought As he took another step towards her, just inches away from her

I want to tell him for me, not because you're mad at me. He's my cousin. We grew up together. We've always been there for each other. I want him to know that I’m happy he took her hands in his.

That I lo-

Thunder roared outside, causing the light to flicker. The wind blew harder, causing tree branches to hit the window.

shit I hope the power doesn’t go out. She is looking around at the lights.

Don’t worry; I’ll go outside and flip the breaker if that happens, babygirl.

Ok, I guess you're staying it's stupid going outside in the rain right now.

Alright, I can stay on the couch or in the guest room or whatever.

Or you can stay with me in my bed.

If that’s what you want,

Yes, it is what I want, but first we have to get you out of these wet clothes.

Ok, what do you want me to do with them?

I’ll put them in the dryer, and you can put them back on after

Alright, thank you, baby.

She chuckled. You don’t have to thank me. It’s fine. You’re my boyfriend; it’s the least I can do.

She grabbed his hand, leading him to her room.

Damn, your house is nice, baby.

You like it?

Hell yeah, it’s better than my place, that’s for sure.

They walked into her bathroom.

Take off your clothes.

Damn, calm down, baby, he said, grinning.

She giggled. Not like that. I mean take them off so I can dry them.

Shit, I shouldn’t have said anything, huh?

Just hurry up.

Ok, ok, so pushy, he took off his hoodie and shirt in one motion.

She rolled her eyes at him before shifting her gaze to him, watching as he stripped his clothes off. Her gaze followed his tattoos; they covered his whole body. She loved them.

He stood there in his underwear. Fuck, your house is cold.

That’s just because your hair is wet. Here she grabbed a towel from underneath the sink and handed it to him.

He bent over, drying his hair with it.

She picked up his wet clothes and took them to her laundry room to dry.

When she walked back into her room, Jey was sitting on her bed on his phone.

She walked in front of him; he put his phone aside, looking up at her. Yes?

She placed a kiss on his lips. You tired? She ran a hand through his hair.

Yeah, he moved up the bed, resting against the headboard, and walked around to the other side. She took off her robe, letting it hit the ground before climbing into bed. Will you get the light?

She asked, pointing at the lamp on the nightstand.

Yeah, he got under the covers before turning off the light.

He rolled over, looking at her; she moved closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head. Good night, babygirl.

Good night.

__________________________________________

Rhea rolled over, still half asleep. Her hand fell on nothing. She half opened her eyes. Jey wasn’t there; the bed was empty.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. She sat there for a moment before throwing back the blanket and moving her leg off the side of the bed.

She stood up, walking over to the door. It was half opened. She could smell bacon.

She walked down the hall into the kitchen. Jey standing there in his gray sweatpants at the stove cooking

She walked up behind him, kissing him on the cheek.

Hey, babygirl, I’m making us some breakfast.

Ooo, thank you. Did you sleep well, baby?

Yeah, that could have just been because of you, though, he said with a grin, moving his hand around her waist and placing a kiss on her lips. I’m sorry—

No, I’m sorry. I was scared and hurt, and I’m sorry.

Rhea I wasn’t thinking about you when I was ignoring you. I never meant to hurt you, and if I scared you, I’m sorry.

No, it wasn’t you; it was just—I’m sorry too, baby.

She moved away from him over to the kitchen island, hopping up on it.

Rhea You know you can talk to me, he said, looking over his shoulder.

I know it’s just last time a boy ignored me and only messed with me outside of work, it didn’t end very well, you know.

“Rhea,” he put the fork down on the side of the pan and walked to her Rhea, I would never do that. Dom is a fucking idiot for doing that.

I would never do that. I have been chasing you for years. You really think I would cheat on you?

You're amazing. You're the best shit that has happened to me. Babygirl, he moved closer to her, getting in her space.

I would be an idiot to cheat on you, Rhea. I promise I would never do that, he said, putting his hand on her cheek. Rhea I love you.

She felt her heart stop when those words left his mouth. When it started again, it felt like it was beating out of her chest. She tried to speak, but there was a lump in her throat.

A worried expression came across his face as he pulled his hand from her face. I’m sorry. You don’t have to say it back, he said, stuttering over his words, backing away from her.

She grabbed his hand, pulling him back to her.

His face just a couple inches away from hers

She pulled him into a deep kiss, feeling his hands grabbing her hips, sending a warm feeling up her spine. I love you too, she said against his lips, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

He picked her up off the counter, lifting her into the air. She loves me! She loves me! He shouted out as he carried her around the kitchen, making her giggle. Yes, yes, I do! She shouted, echoing around the kitchen.

She placed another kiss on his lips. I love you.

You still hungry or...? He said in a very familiar tone, letting her know what he meant.

We’re hungrier after she giggled.

I like the way you think, baby girl.

She giggled as he moved his hands down to her ass. I did should have missed you, babygirl.

Did you really miss me or something else? She muffled against his neck.

Can’t I miss both? He said, sitting her down on the edge of the bed.

I guess as long as you show us both how much she spread her legs sitting back on her elbows,

Oh, I can do that, babygirl.

He sat down on his knees, placing kisses up her legs up to the top of her panties.

He grabbed them with his teeth; pulling them down, the cold air hit her pussy; her head falling back as his tongue touched her.

He grabbed her legs, putting them on his shoulders as his tongue teased her entrance.

She hand-gripped the pillow above her Jey… please…

His hands moved up her thighs under her ass, pulling her closer.

She let out a moan as he started lapping at her faster.

Fuck, she said breathlessly, wrapping her legs tighter around him.

He could tell she was close, by her breathing He reached his hand up her body and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

They played this game before; it was usually her forcing him to look her in the eyes, basically telling him to beg for his release. He figured that it was his turn.

She could tell his sick ass was smiling by his eyes. She knew what he wanted her to do, but it would take more than that to make Mami beg.

She smiled back at him, letting her tongue piercing catch her teeth.

His tongue pressed against her clit, making her arch her back. Fuck Jey! She moaned as she clawed at the sheets.

He didn’t let up attacking her clit; he moved his hand down her body, grabbed her breast under her shirt, and rolled her nipple in between his fingers.

Fuck! She slammed her hand down on the mattress as a painful wave shot up her body.

She felt a warm feeling building in her stomach; she was close, so damn close.

Fuck Jey! Please, she sobbed.

Oh, you can do better than that, baby girl.

Mmm, just... just please, baby, She looked down at him. Please, please.

Her legs closed around his head as she came hard, leaving her legs shaking.

She relaxed her legs, unwrapping them and letting them fall beside him.

He climbed up his face, meeting hers, his beard covered in her silk

Next time I tell you to beg, you beg, or you won’t cum understand baby girl?

He said with a look in his eyes, a look that she could tell he meant it.

Yes, I understand.

Good, he stood up, taking off his pants, his cock already hard and dripping pre-cum. She threw her shirt to the side

He flipped her over on her stomach, grabbing her hips and pulling her back onto her hands and knees.

He groaned as he pushed into her; she let out a deep moan as she felt herself stretching around him.

Fuck I missed this pussy, babygirl, he said, thrusting in and out of her.

He brought down a hand on her ass, making her yelp. Jey! She yelled as she squeezed around him.

Mmm, seems like you like it, babygirl, he said. bring his hand down again, rocking her body forward

She moaned as he picked up speed, going down onto her elbow, taking him in deeper.

Damn, babygirl, his hands grabbed her hips, pushing her into a deeper arch, allowing him to hit her spot repeatedly.

She moved her body forward, trying to get away from the attack, but he gripped her hips, pulling her back onto him.

You're all mine, babygirl; you don’t get to run anymore. Her moans echoed around the room as he bottomed out.

He brought his hand down on her ass again, this time much harder than before. She let out a choked moan as the pain turned into pleasure.

I wonder how many it would take to leave your ass red to leave my hand on it, he said with another slap.

Fuck Jey! She yelled, pushing back against him.

He rubbed the sore spot on her ass, making her hiss in pain.

It’s okay, baby girl, you can take it, can’t you?

Her words were stuck in her throat; she couldn’t think of a sentence.

He fucked into her harder and faster; he groaned as she squeezed him.

She could feel the warmth in the pit of her stomach coming back, telling her she was close.

Babe, I... I—

You know what you have to do to get it, babygirl.

She groaned in frustration; god, he was a dick.

Fuck you, she shot back at him In response

He chuckled. And I can stop anytime, so I would start begging.

She felt him begin to pull out of her

She slammed back against him. Wait, wait! baby please don’t she sobbed

Come on, babygirl, you can do better than that, he said, slapping her ass.

Fuck! Please, Jey, I can’t—

Yes, you can if you want to cum; you will, babygirl.

Jey, please, I’ll—mmm, fuck, please

Her hair was sticking to her forehead with sweat, her mouth open; she let her head fall against the bed. “Please, please. She could feel the warmth in her stomach getting bigger and a weird sensation to pee.

Jey, I have to—

I know, babygirl, but let me hear you one more time before I let you cum.

Fucking shit! Please, baby, please let me... please, please, Jey. She sobbed, turning into a loud moan as her orgasm washed over her harder than she thought. He fucked her through it. “Shit, baby, he moaned, finding his own release.

He pulled out of her, letting her body relax, falling down on the now wet bed.

He placed a kiss on her shoulder. Damn, baby girl.

Did I just? She said, looking back at him, breathing heavily.

Yeah, I think so. You haven’t done that before? He said with a grin.

She smiled. No, no, never.

Well, it won’t be the last time, babygirl; I’m sure of that, he said, placing a kiss on her lips.

She giggled, I bet so

I’ll go get you a towel and then go warm up our food, okay?

Ok, thank you, my love.

_________________________________________________

I told y’all it was a long one but I think it was worth it especially for chapter 20 -🖤

( I don’t even know why I put up a poll I knew the answer 😂 )

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Erodaemon

CR 11

Neutral Evil Medium Outsider

Bestiary 6, pg. 70

At some point, every single branch and breed of Outsider realizes that more or less every form of mortal life has something in common: lust. Be it viewed as a means to joyousously and passionately display emotions and form of bonds among the celestials, or as a method of corruption via reckless and harmful pursuit of pleasure above all else common among fiends, pretty much every Outsider species (with very few exceptions) regardless of personal alignments or philosophies tends to have some specific species dedicated to swaying mortal opinions via the (second) most basic desire of all life. Even the daemons get in on the action, though their reasons are actually quite unique; rather than being directly created to exploit lust, Erodaemons arise from souls who perished because of love.

Personifying death through heartbreak specifically, Erodaemons are the hate-filled souls of anyone who perished as love was torn from them. Perhaps they lost their partner to another lover, to death, or to boredom, or perhaps they were injured or slain by their partner; whatever the case may be, a nascent Erodaemon lost someone they once loved and they began to use the jagged shards of their shattered heart as a weapon, either before or after they died (or even both!). After congealing in Abaddon for a few decades, the resulting fiend lives to destroy relationships and string along those desperate for affection and warmth.

Where a Succubus lives to have fun and spread corruption for its own sake, an Erodaemon makes cruelty the #1 objective in its doings. All daemons exist to spread their own misery and death to others, so these fiends eschew shapeshifting into any old Jane Doe and instead become Objects of Desire, their shapeshifting powers tied directly to their at-will Detect Thoughts (which should, in my opinion, be Detect Desires). When they read a victim's mind, they can then instantly become whatever Humanoid being their target desires the most, their disguise so flawless they get a +20 to Bluff and Disguise checks to imitate that person... which carries their Bluff and Disguise skills from an already-imposing +33 and +24 to an unbeatable +53 and +44, assuring their disguise is essentially unbreakable, even if the victim knows their target intimately (which would normally confer a +10 bonus).

While this incredible stat boost SHOULD make them undetectable and unstoppable, it carries with it some pretty pronounced weaknesses. They lack Change Shape and any form of disguising magic, relying wholly on Object of Desire's full-round shift to become the dream girl/boy to one specific person, and they have to make their act work from there if they want to get results! Erodaemons cannot go walking around outdoors in disguise like a Succubus can, and if their disguise is broken they cannot instantly shift into another in an emergency. This is more of a hazard than it seems, because not only can their disguise be dispelled, it breaks the instant they attack any other creature for any reason and through any means, which forces them to be peaceful, demure, and harmless in every situation lest their disguise shatter the instant they so much as throw a punch, or try and fight off someone attacking them! This limits them even further, forcing them to always choose victims whose ideal lovers aren't combative or aggressive and likely forcing them out of any city where gladiator games are common.

They still have things they can do without breaking their disguise, though, such as the ability to cast Unnatural Lust at-will to immediately set up some pretty disturbing domino reactions, usually creating enough of a kerfuffle to let them quickly teleport away or slink into the shadows with their +22 to Stealth. Unnatural Lust is bad enough in the hands of a daemon, and worse still in the hands of one so devoted to ruining established relationships and shattering bonds between friends and lovers alike, but it doesn't stop there: the Erodaemons can also use Quickened Suggestion 3/day to give out sadistic orders or set up a tragic scene (or simply avert unwanted attention), or curse a single target 1/day with Utter Contempt to turn even the most kind-hearted and loving human on the planet into a complete bastard for 14 straight minutes. Utter Contempt is especially dangerous in an urban setting, because it turns 'indifference'--the most common attitude for a normal person to feel towards another in an urban setting!--into hostility, serving as yet another potential distraction or another method for the daemon to force an otherwise normal person into a potentially reputation- or life-destroying situation.

Their most dangerous ability in or out of combat is their Wilting Kiss, a mind-warping curse they can unleash as a free action against a willing, helpless, or grappled target. Anyone who fails a DC 23 Will save becomes supernaturally obsessed with the daemon and does everything in their power to stay near them, suffering 1 Charisma damage each and every round they spend further than 30ft from the fiend that cursed them... which can potentially be lethal if it teleports away! Another DC 23 Will save can save someone from this damage, and succeeding the save twice in a row breaks the curse, but most commoners simply can't succeed a save that high, and many low-Will PCs will find themselves longing for the fiend's poisonous presence so much it may literally kill them. This ability CAN be a double-edged sword, as the daemon has no control of HOW this obsession actually manifests, but it's got ways to keep its victims under control, and most creatures it's going to be using this ability on are no real threat to it anyway, even if it kisses an entire crowd of people one at a time to make them fight over it.

Capping their emotional manipulation off is a 3/day Crushing Despair to blast an entire crowd with sudden, sickening sadness, and at the very top of the pyramid lays a 1/day Modify Memory, a spell dangerous enough in a normal caster's hands, let alone a daemon with a modus operandi as sadistic as an Erodaemon! Whether it's erasing the daemon's terrifying initial appearance before it slipped into its Object of Desire disguise or making some unfortunate sucker believe they committed the murder they've just discovered, there's a thousand uses for Modify Memory... especially when the daemon starts combining its spells, filling a target with artificial sadness and hate via Despair and Contempt before implanting a memory justifying both feelings.

And we've spent six entire paragraphs talking about what happens before an Erodaemon enters combat! Though they prefer to stay out of a fight until they're primed to pounce on a heartbroken victim and devour their soul, Erodaemons are far from the helpless handmaidens they're forced to pretend to be. Their primary threat lays not in their two claws (1d6+5), but the serpentine tail which makes their bite attack, dealing 1d8+5 damage... and 1d4 Charisma drain. Succeeding on the DC 22 Fortitude save against this drain doesn't negate it, but simply lowers it to 1d2 damage. Still, this means the average party frontliner can take two, maybe three good hits from this bite before they're simply rendered insensate, though this is only if they don't cut the daemon down first.

Defensively, Erodaemons have DR 10 that's bypassed by a Good or silver weapon, and a party hovering around this level should have access to one or both for everyone planning to bash, slash, or stab. Indeed, hurting one with magic is a lot harder, as they have SR 22, 10 Resistance to Cold, Electricity, and Fire, as well as outright immunity to Acid damage. Like all daemons, they're also immune to death effects, disease, and poison, though this is unlikely to truly come up... unless their partner is trying to kill them subtly, in which case they might think it's cute. Even WITH these defenses they're more resilient than they appear to be, as they can use Enervation 3/day to shave a chunk of stats off anyone trying to hit them, their Quickened Suggestion to keep anyone capable of hurting them off their backs, and Unnatural Lust to force someone to skip their turn by making another party member extremely uncomfortable... or forcing someone to run up and accept a Wilting Kiss and fall head-over-heels in love with the thing trying to kill them, putting a haplessly smitten shield between the daemon and the party desperately trying to blast it.

You can read more about them here.

[animationnut]

Stealth, Cunning, and Cupcakes

Day 9: Any Other OWCA Agent

All right the prompts are beyond late at this point but luckily it's always Phineas and Ferb Spirit Week in my heart.

Ao3 link here!

...

For Peter, a successful mission requires a solid plan. When Pinky needs rescuing from a mission gone wrong, Peter does some recon. Two things become very obvious.

The goons like Fireside Girl cupcakes. He needs a distraction. And he just happens to know a Fireside Girl.

...

Peter the Panda reclined against the pink cushions of his computer chair. Unlike most evil scientists, his nemesis didn’t have a scheme every day, which meant he often had office shifts. He didn’t mind working alongside Admiral Acronym’s desk agents, but the task he’d been assigned that afternoon was horribly boring.

He was on monitoring duty, which meant combing through the transactions made by his division’s evil scientists. Whenever he came across anything suspicious, he flagged it, and Carla would compile all flagged items and the evil scientist who purchased them into a report for Acronym. The problem was that there was a fine line between suspicious and weird, and every single evil scientist in their database was weird with a capital W.

He was in the midst of debating whether or not an order for two hundred bottles of ghost pepper hot sauce was evil or weird when the interior of the computer lab was drenched in bright red light and the monitors vibrated with the force of the blaring S.O.S. alarm.

One of their own was in serious trouble.

Peter raised his wrist and tapped on the emergency alert flashing on the screen. Pinky’s agency headshot blinked on the display, followed by his last known coordinates. He accepted the rescue mission and the lights went back to normal, and silence fell.

Agent F, sitting three computers away, frowned in concern. “Do you want backup?” he croaked.

It was very rare for the S.O.S. alert to be triggered in Danville’s O.W.C.A. headquarters. Peter understood Frederick’s concern, and while worry twirled in his gut, he was very good at remaining calm and collected. He took a breath, easing back the knot of anxiety, and stood.

“I’ll call for backup if I need it. Can you please look up satellite images of the coordinates and sent them to me? As detailed as possible.”

Agent F nodded. “You got it.”

Peter hurried to his lair and powered up his black and white hovercar. It made less noise than the jetpack, and he always believed stealth was key to mission success. The roof parted open, letting in streaks of sunlight, and he flew into the warm afternoon air.

He typed the coordinates into his GPS and followed the twisting red trail that was produced. After several minutes, the suburbs and cityscape of Danville disappeared, replaced with rolling green fields and dark clusters of trees. Nestled amongst the greenery were cabins, acres apart, and Peter frowned.

Agents were only aware of their own respective missions. Peter knew Pinky’s nemesis was Professor Poofenplotz. But a lair deep in the wilderness, without indoor plumbing, was not at all her M.O.

Peter landed his hovercar amongst the trees, hiding it within the foliage. Agent F had sent him the requested satellite images and he leaned against the trunk of a pine tree, studying the pictures carefully. He was about two football fields away from Pinky’s last coordinates, which appeared to be one of the cabins tucked in an alcove of trees.

The cabin was made of dark wood, two stories high, with arched windows. It seemed the cabin was built into a hillside, and there was a long wooden staircase leading to the front door. The cabin seemed to be quite a distance from the dirt road. There was only one access point by vehicle, but Peter mapped out a route through the thicket. He sprinted over emerald leaves, jumped over gnarled roots, ducked under low-hanging branches, and side-stepped pointy rocks.

He reached the edge of the road a few miles from the slope that led to the cabin. He looked right and left, but the road was silent. He darted across, quickly taking cover within the forest once more, and made tracks in the direction of the cabin.

When the tip-top of the cabin’s roof was within view, he scaled the tallest tree he could find. When he was high enough to have a perfect view of the sprawling compound, he activated his goggles, which slid out from the seam of his fedora.

The green lenses pinpointed every heat signature on the property. He immediately focussed on the Chihuahua-shaped red blob and switched over to X-ray vision.

Pinky was chained to a wall, but he had regained consciousness, and Peter sighed with relief. Pinky’s head was lolling, his eyes half-lidded and full of hatred. From the way his body hung in the restraints, he was weak, and was going to need assistance to escape.

Peter turned his attention to the tall, skinny man with wiry brown hair and Coke-bottle glasses. He was tinkering with some sort of helmet, which had several sharp tentacles coming out of the sides. Frowning, Peter tried searching the database, but there was no picture recognition. Whoever this guy was, he was new.

Talk about making a debut.

As physically-inept evil scientists tended to do, there were several dozen muscled goons crawling around the compound like ants on steroids. All of the windows were barred and the front door, the only door, was blocked by a bald man sharpening a large steak knife.

Peter’s eyes strayed to the fifty or so cupcake wrappers thrown carelessly on the property. They were stuck on branches, crushed into the grass, and floating in the river that cut behind the cabin. He used his goggles to analyze the ingredients and determine what exactly these hired henchmen were gorging on.

Fireside Girl cupcakes.

Peter had two thoughts at the same time. The first was that he knew exactly who he needed to cause a distraction so he could get inside and rescue Pinky. The second thought was that after Pinky was rescued and had recovered his strength, he was absolutely going to murder him. But Peter was fairly confident he could take on Pinky in a fight.

Looks like I’m picking up a recruit from Maple Drive.

…

Squeals of excitement erupted from the Flynn-Fletcher backyard, and judging by the towering purple and yellow spiral structure casting a shadow over the yellow house, Peter figured he knew where Isabella was currently located.

He peeked over the wooden fence, spotting Isabella sitting on a pink lounge chair, toweling off her long black hair. Buford and Baljeet were rocketing down the slip-n-slide, casting a spray of water over Peter as they passed overhead. Peter picked up an acorn, aimed it at the back of Isabella’s head, and chucked it.

“Ow!” Isabella exclaimed. She rubbed the pulsing spot and looked over her shoulder. “What the—?”

She paused as her eyes landed on Peter, who waved her over. She shot a quick glance to make sure Buford and Baljeet were still occupied before darting over to the fence. She hopped it expertly, landing in a crouch next to the panda.

“Hey, Peter, what’s up?” the fourteen-year-old asked.

Peter held out his notebook, where he had prewritten his plan.

Pinky has been captured by an evil scientist. He’s okay! For now. We need to rescue him quickly, and I need you to be a distraction so I can get to him. I can’t promise it’ll go smoothly, but I’ll make sure you’re protected. Will you help me?

The alarm in Isabella’s dark eyes as she started reading turned into a cold fire when she reached the end. “Absolutely,” she said, straightening. “Let me get Phineas and Ferb. They’re inside. Perry got home early—”

Peter shook his head rapidly. Isabella furrowed her brow. “No Perry?” she said in surprise. “Isn’t he, like, the best agent ever?”

He absolutely was. Peter wouldn’t ever dispute that. But Perry was dramatic, sometimes. He used too much force. Peter liked missions to be executed with minimal fighting, as quickly as possible. Rants and monologues? Prolonged fight sequences? Not his thing.

He removed his pen from behind his ear and Isabella peered over his shoulder as he wrote.

This mission is going to require stealth, cunning, and cupcakes.

“Fireside Girl cupcakes?” Isabella clarified. When Peter nodded, her eyes narrowed with determination. “How many do you need?”

How many boxes can you carry at once?

“Oh, honey, more than you could ever imagine,” said Isabella with a smirk. “Let me get changed into my uniform.” Her expression faltering slightly, she whispered, “You promise Pinky is okay right now?”

Yes, but we have to hurry.

“I’ll meet you at the Bonfire Lodge. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

…

Six minutes later, they were flying back to the remote compound in the woods. Isabella’s wet hair was twisted up into a ponytail, which whipped around as they sliced through the summer air. She was in her Bonfire Girls uniform, given to Fireside Girls who aged up to the next branch. The colour scheme was similar, the only difference being the red skirt and red hat. Her sash was draped crosswise over her torso, and sandwiched between her feet and the dashboard of Peter’s hovercar was a monstrous cooler bag.

Isabella could just barely see over it. It contained a whopping hundred boxes of cupcakes, and she had been right. That was more than Peter had imagined any person could carry at one time.

He landed the hovercar a tad closer to the dirt road, knowing time was of the essence. Isabella was out of the vehicle first, slinging her cooler pack over her shoulders. She tucked the taser Peter had given her into the waistband of her skirt and let her shirt fall over it, concealing it from view. The night vision goggles he had also given her were hidden under her hat, and the smoke bombs were tucked into the side pocket of her cooler pack.

Her brow was wrinkled and her fingers clenched the straps of her cooler pack. Peter tapped her leg and, when she looked down at him, he mimed taking a deep breath. She obeyed, closing her eyes and inhaling. She held it briefly and let her breath out in one long rush.

“Okay,” she said steadily. “Let’s do this. But let me make something very clear. If we show up and Pinky isn’t…isn’t all right, I will kill the asshole who hurt him. Do you understand me?”

Her eyes flashed with steel, her voice hard and unforgiving, and Peter felt a shiver run down his spine. For such an adorable teenager, she was terrifying. He nodded and her expression eased slightly.

“Lead the way.”

They cut through the foliage, their footsteps quick and quiet, and Peter admired the ease with which Isabella navigated the terrain. He had heard endless stories from Pinky about Isabella’s talent, especially when it came to nature survival skills. He wasn’t a panda who was impressed by much, but Isabella was earning it in spades. She hadn’t freaked out when he told her about Pinky, she had gone with him into dangerous enemy territory without a second thought, and it seemed like the forest was bending to her will, from the way branches and roots stayed oddly out of her path.

They reached the dirt road and Peter pointed to the right, where the driveway to the cabin was located. Isabella nodded. “Got it. I’ll head out when you give the signal.”

Peter gave a thumbs-up and sprinted across the road. He darted through the forest, tips of branches scratching against his fur as he hastily weaved around them. He breached the property, where the trees became sparse, and the lower-level of the cabin came into view. He hid behind a trunk, made sure he had a clear view of the driveway, and used his watch to project the sound of a sparrow.

It echoed amongst the trees and the goons didn’t pay it any mind. Peter got himself into a fighting position, just in case he needed to launch into action ahead of schedule, and gazed at the driveway.

It took two minutes for Isabella to appear, her smile bright and cheerful, and the goon manning the gate quickly approached her. Peter studied the man’s posture, looking for the tick that would indicate any agitation of aggression.

But his instinct had been spot-on. Isabella’s Bonfire Girls uniform automatically put the goons at ease, and when she unveiled her boxes of cupcakes, the goons hurried towards her, digging dollar bills out of their pockets.

He had a straight path for the cabin, and the door was unguarded.

He moved like lightning, zipping across the grass and up the wooden steps. He opened the door and slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. He took a moment to listen intently, but all he could hear was his own breathing.

He hurried for the basement steps and took them two at a time. He entered the concrete space to see Pinky thrashing feebly in his chains, and his eyes went wide with relief at the sight of his colleague. “Dios Mio, am I glad to see you! This guy is insane!”

“They usually are,” replied Peter, A tiny buzzsaw emerged from his watch and he used it to cut Pinky’s chains. “What happened to you?”

Pinky dropped to the floor, his knees buckling upon impact. Peter grabbed his arm and helped him to balance, putting his arm around Pinky’s skinny shoulders. “Esmerelda is sick today, so Admiral Acronym sent me to investigate a string of thefts of alarm clock batteries. Turns out it was a ruse. Dr. Zenrich—” When Peter looked at him in confusion, Pinky shrugged. “No idea, compadre. I just know his surname and that he’s proper evil. He said that he knows about O.W.C.A., and how we look into the most ridiculous of crimes and acquisitions. When I caught the bozos stealing the batteries, I got hit with some kind of sleep gas. I woke up here, without my watch, and he started telling me about THAT monstrosity.”

He pointed to the metal helmet with half a dozen drills bolted to the exterior. “It’s an information extractor,” said Pinky darkly. “He was going to drill into my brain to get info about our colleagues and their host families.”

Peter, who did not have a host family, but empathized with the amount of pain this revelation would cause, cracked his knuckles. “This is the fun part.”

He grabbed a hammer from the worktable shoved into the corner of the basement. He went up to the helmet and slammed the head against the helmet with all his strength.

ZAP!

An electric current charged through his body and he went sailing back to Pinky. He hastily shook himself off, his teeth chattering and his fur standing on end. Pinky frowned. “He booby-trapped it.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, rushed and panicked, and Pinky quickly removed his gas mask from his fedora. Peter followed suit and positioned himself at the end of the stairs. Green-coloured gas flooded the basement, the sleep gas that no doubt rendered Pinky unconscious earlier in the day.

A shadowy figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs and Peter launched into a flying kick. He hit Dr. Zenrich in the jaw, a satisfying crunch echoing off the concrete. Zenrich cried out in pain, stumbling backwards. Peter went for a punch, his paw colliding directly with his nose, and the back of Zenrich’s head struck the concrete wall.

Zzzzt! Zzzt! Zzzt! Zzzt!

Peter experienced a rush of déjà vu as the interior of the basement turned crimson. The alarm blared across the compound and Zenrich grinned maniacally. “There’s a button implanted in my skull, and you just activated it, Panda. You’ll never escape my henchmen!”

Peter jumped onto Zenrich’s head. He gripped the edges of the man’s gas mask and ripped it off. He leapt over to where Pinky was standing, watching warily as Zenrich, with blood pouring from his nose, tried to crawl towards him.

“Give that back, you foul creature! Give—give it…”

He collapsed to the floor, facedown, and Peter reluctantly turned his chin so he would not drown in his own blood. “We have to get out of here.”

“The gas will keep them away,” spoke Pinky. “It’ll dissipate, but until then we can figure out a plan.”

Peter walked several steps away before turning back to Pinky. “Isabella is here. I asked her to be my distraction. She’s outside.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Pinky had stopped computing. His face was frozen, his jaw hanging open, his eyes blown wide. Peter counted to five, and when he finished Pinky exploded with rage.

“YOU BROUGHT MY GIRL HERE?! Peter, I’m going to kill you! She’s—oh mierda. Isabella!”

Peter thought he might try a host family one day. The speed with which Pinky went from being incapacitated to being fueled with adrenaline was fascinating. Barking Isabella’s name, Pinky charged up the stairs, viciously pummeling any goons who appeared in his path.

Peter was on his tail, neck chopping any goon who tried to get back up. They burst out into the summer sun, where Peter stopped in his tracks.

The driveway was filled with thick black smoke. He summoned his night vision goggles, which allowed him to see through the haze. There was Isabella, wearing her own night vision goggles, moving like a dancer and twirling her sash like a ribbon. She used it as a whip, lashing out at the goons who charged blindly through the smoke. The material sliced across their faces, breaking open skin, and as they howled with pain Isabella lunged forwards like a fencer, striking them in the side with her taser.

“WHERE’S MY DOG?” she screamed.

“Isa!” shouted Pinky.

He sprinted into the smoke and Peter followed after him. Together, the three of them made quick work of the remaining goons. When the smoke thinned, Peter retracted his night vision goggles and removed his gas mask.

He gave the property a sweeping glance. All of the goons were on the ground, either unconscious or paralyzed with pain. Pinky was in Isabella’s arms, the fourteen-year-old holding him close to her chest, nuzzling his cheek as he licked her face frantically.

“I’m okay,” said Isabella, her voice choked with emotion. “Are you okay?”

Peter politely looked away, using his watch to summon the O.W.C.A. clean-up crew. The last thing to take care of was that atrocious helmet in the basement. He filled his fedora with water from the river and carried it inside the cabin. Zenrich was still out cold, the blood now drying to the concrete. Peter crossed the basement and poured water onto the helmet.

It immediately began to spark and hiss. It shook violently for a few seconds before exploding, sending bits of metal and wires scattering across the room. Peter dusted off his paws with satisfaction.

Another mission well executed.

He returned to the outside, shaking his head at the sight of Isabella rubbing Pinky’s stomach. Maybe he wouldn’t try for a host family, after all. He just couldn’t imagine being treated in what he considered to be an undignified manner.

“We’re all clear here,” he called, and when Isabella glanced at him, he tipped his hat. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

“No problem,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll do anything for Pinky. This was actually kinda fun!”

With the intense bliss of knowing his girl was safe and sound from Zenrich and his henchmen having faded, Pinky’s eyes narrowed into slits. He hopped out of Isabella’s arms and motioned in the direction of the road. He took out his O.W.C.A. I.D. card, tapped the logo, and mimed driving.

“The O.W.C.A. forces are on their way and you want me to wave them down?” Isabella asked. When Pinky nodded, she smiled. “You got it, Pinky!”

Peter knew what was coming once she vanished down the driveway. With an expression like a thundercloud, Pinky turned slowly to face the panda, cracking his knuckles. It intimidating, sure, but Peter thought he could take some notes from Isabella’s book on how to be truly threatening.

“You brought my girl into this cesspool, and that pisses me off,” growled Pinky. “But Isa told me your plan, how you equipped her with what she needed to successfully defend herself, and how she was the one who attacked the goons when the alarm triggered, not the other way around. If it were any other agent, I’d never work with them again, and certainly never forgive them. But we have history, and I’m willing to let this go. But listen to me well—you EVER bring my Isa into a mission without my permission again, we’re done.”

“I hear you loud and clear,” said Peter, crossing a paw over his heart. “But if you forgive me, why do you look like you’re about to beat me?”

“Because I am. You’re not getting away from this that easily.”

The mission had gone off pretty much how Peter expected. But he had been very wrong about one thing—he absolutely could not take Pinky in a fight.