#and like. I know that it's hard to be both simple and accurate but. we need that. we desperately need strong and clear communicators

[summersfirstsnow]

Quick accuracy check for the tweet!

As far as I've been able to find out, the tragic collision in DC, assuming that's the crash that they're referencing in the tweet (the only collision between two aircraft in the US in recent weeks), has not been attributed by investigators to the recent firings. It sounds like air traffic control at the airport was understaffed, but this has so far been attributed to a per-existing, long-term problem (x) (x).

Trump was definitely the reason that the US didn't have an FAA administrator to address the press & public, though, and hasn't done anything to fix the under-staffing in air traffic control rooms since, despite pressure and several other fatal plane accidents.

Possibly a short but also more accurate (if less punchy) way to make this connection:

"That plane crash happened when the ATC was understaffed, and Trump firing what most of the staff there are will make that way worse."?

or maybe ''Trump's unfounded accusations distract us from the fact that an even more understaffed ATC is going to make more and worse mistakes''?

Keep your messaging simple:

“Trump fired everyone in charge of airplane safety, and a week later planes started crashing into each other.”

That’s it. That’s the messaging. Don’t get bogged down disputing Trump’s false claims. Just blame him, in short and repeatable sentences.

[thedarkestrivernymph]

A Heart Of Gold

Platonic! Y! Royal Child x Cruel/Uncaring! Royal! Mother! Reader x Y! Mistress! of cheating husband x Y! Brother in Law

-> part 2 here

word count: 11,5k (probably one of the lengthiest fics I have ever written haha)

warnings: mention of abuse (both verbal and physical), neglect, infidelity, unhealthy relationship dynamics, murderous thoughts, morally gray! reader, paranoia, harassment, unconsenual acts, kissing, mentions of death(s), killing, breakdowns/meltdowns, generational trauma, unhealthy mother/child dynamics, obsessive behaviour, classism, misogynistic views, homophobia, not completely accurate historical depictions!

©Copyright - 2025 - thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

Author's note: Boy this got lengthy, still I hope you enjoy it! :) So let's dive into it, shall we?

“A heart of glass shatters, but a heart of gold melts into something newer and sturdier. Into something dangerous and menacing. It molds to a new life of cruelty, while the heart of glass is swept away, its pieces discarded and forgotten. I don't want to travel with the wind, fleet in one blink, I want to be reborn, experience freedom for the first time in my life. I want to have a heart of gold.”

Do you know the feeling of an itch that no matter how much you scratch, how incessant you drag your nails over that patch of skin, you can just never get rid of? That was motherhood, but worse.

For you, at least.

The life of a commoner was jarring, a constant battle for life, that most, no matter how hard they tried to intimidate, would never succeed in defeating. Most died young, early thirties or fourties, with nasty diseases of all kinds being the reason—and yet they always seemed so lively compared to nobility. The nobility with all of their masquerades and dramatics. They never were allowed to let the intricately crafted mask crack, even for a second, if they valued their life that is.

Perhaps that's why you had envied those mindless pigs most of your life—working away until their bones cracked and fell into themselves. That mindless devotion and that foul language they could use whenever they pleased, the sheer stupidity in believing in something higher and more valuable than the crown, was so vastly different to your own complex persona. Your life was quiet, filled with studying, tea-parties that never reached deeper than surface level of conversation and endless long nights where you would raise your gaze to the heavens above and just stare at the stars, as if the answers you desperately longed for were written in them.

You were like a man deprived of water, thirsting for something to quench your endless need for freedom. Any kind you could get your hands on, you clutched on—wether it was the question of if you maids were to dress you in blue or white or rather in violet and yellow, or something simple if you wanted to wander around in the gardens that day; you loved all these small luxuries. Even the pearls of your mother's, now hanging from your neck like heavy cobblestones on a string, felt nothing compared to the little escapades you were allowed. And the needle you were embroidering with in this old moaning manor pricking you gave you some semblance of joy, that at least in some shape or form there was something under your control.

Until even that had lost its taste—like your once most favoured dish that had reminded you of childhood in your youth, the fields, the servant's children that you would play with after repetitive lessons and so much more, one day none could comfort you anymore. As many others, you grew out of your juvenile thinking much too soon and in a way that was far too shattering of an experience.

Sweet seventeen and the marriage with the crown prince was held. You had known before, it was to be expected, you had anticipated the dreadful day when you would have to give up your freedom in exchange of legacy and reputation, yet actively knowing and actively being were two vastly different states one could experience. So as the princess you had been, you had bowed down to everyone in power; to your mother with her stern gaze and even harsher words, to your father with his cane as sharp as his gaze was, to the king of a different nation, you had only visited once in childhood who was nothing more than a distant memory at this point in time and lastly to your future husband, who would not reign yet, but still hold enough power to crush a small country with just his fist.

So you bore the stranger a child, one not out of love, but out of duty to the crown, to your family—to everyone who had invested in you as a powerful tool as the key to peace between two neighbouring kingdoms. “He’s pretty. His eyes are like mine,” were his first words upon seeing the crying infant still caked in blood with you drenched in your own sweat. The world had crumpled in that moment, only to rebuild itself a second time in your life as you remembered that nothing ever was out of love. Everything was done out of ego. At least concerning nobility and royalty. And you were royalty.

That’s when the curse had started—the deep loathing for something that didn’t deserve it.

“Mother!” you frowned, determined to keep your gaze on the embroidery in your hands.

“Mother!” another high-pitched cry and you swore a vein on your forehead was about to just pop open and deflate like a par of lungs you wanted to slice through with a scarpel.

You glanced at the door, counting the steps and sure enough it took the little demon thirty-two before bursting right in as always. “Mother! There you are— look, look mother! Misses has just taught me how to..” you tuned out after the second word, already feeling another headache bloom between your brows, subtly ushering your maid closer so that she could take care of the chaos. Ignoring the way the boy protested and cried as he was led out with the excuse that his dear mommy was tired and in need of rest.

That had been ten years ago—in fact you were just melodramatic and liked to revisit your past, thinking about how foolish you had been to ever belief love was more than a myth. Sighing you took another bite from your steak.

“Mother, have you heard? I won this year's tournament again.” the deep voice startled you.

“Oh, you have?” another bite and it would be over soon, another bite and you wouldn't have to talk any more than necessary.

“Yes mother, has father not informed you?” no, don't let your thoughts get bad, he didn't mean to mention his father.

“Mother, you and father haven't been talking much, have you now? How utterly disappointing. I had assumed that he at the very least would share my achievements with you, mother dear.” you were losing it again, because you could swear he was doing it on purpose, he was rubbing salt in your wound knowingly. No, no he wasn’t, you were just paranoid, instead why not focus on the flower motive on the egde of your plate or the rich red swirling in your cup or—

“Mother? You seem rather pale. Would you like me to call your maid?”

He isn’t doing it on purpose.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He didn't ask to be born, he was just here because he had to—as you were, as the worker ants and the pigs were, as the common folk were.

Just breathe.

“Mother—” no you couldn't just breathe.

Your fists slammed against the dinning table, causing silverwear to clink against porcelain and wine to spill. It dripped to the floor and with it your last nerve.

“Don’t you dare, Nicholas! You and I, as well as any other resident in the palace, are very much aware of your father's open infidelity—and to incessantly remind me of it, is just unacceptable! When will you grow out of your boyish theatrics and take life seriously? You should concern yourself more with your studies and yourself than my matters!” you were standing, you didn't even know when you had stood up, but now you were face to face with your son for the first time in the duration of the entire dinner—and you tasted bile. Luscious chestnut coloured hair, forest green eyes and fair skin with an oval face; he was the copy of his father, quite literally and everything in you felt deeply disturbed by it. Or perhaps it was because of the way he would stare at you, even as a baby, with this sort of hunger, this all-consuming need to take and take, without giving back, like a parasite in your guts, feeding off whatever you consumed.

“Mother, you wound me." he had the audacity to jest, smiling that bone-chilling smile. Sometimes you wondered if that really was your son and not just a demon that had slipped into his skin at birth. “I am your son, mother. I worry for you. You’ve had such a weak constitution since my childhood, I cannot help myself.” devil. You shuddered.

Beyond yourself and all responsibilities that came with being bound to the crown, you stormed off. Your maids rushed behind you but you swat them away, yelling at them to leave you be, that you just needed fresh air and throwing what other excuses you managed to come up with at them. And they were quick to listen—even though with great reluctance scattering like baby ducklings would, while the guards stationed in front of the dinning hall were watching you silently. Everyone was, constantly.

You huffed, hands gripping your gown like the talons of a bird clung to a mouse and you ran—perhaps if your mother could see you now, she would claw her way out of her grave to berate and scold you like the child you were behaving as, but you couldn’t stop your legs from moving forward, even as your feet started to ache and you felt something warm run down your shoe.

“Your Majesty?” you halted.

“What is the matter? You seem upset?” Charles. Your gaze softened, something that happened far too little. Soft brown curls with a matching chocolate brown gaze all dressed up in a relaxing blue. He was like a gift wrapped in a blue bow.

“I was just walking by. All council members were called.” he was blunt and clipped as always—comfortingly so, gazing at you in thinly veiled concern.

Before you could spout whatever irresponsible nonesense that your mind could conjure up, he had clasped a hand around your wrist, quick to check for curious eyes that would misinterpernt the rather narrow distance between you two, before pulling you both aside into an empty chamber nearby—the room not much bigger than a closet, obviously something forgotten.

You opened your mouth ready to speak but he beat you to it.

“Is it your husband again? He’s a fool. To think he can feel free of guilt when his lovely wife has to suffer because of his childishness.” you felt his hand cup your cheek and you melted, the darkness and slight chill of the room suddenly secondary, as warmth from your very insides bloomed.

“I don't know anymore, Charles,” you sighed, head against his chest. You found a steady rhythm there, something unlike your life.

“He brought her here. Here! Into the castle. He wants to make her his second queen, his second queen! That's unheard of but he's so stubborn and he won't listen. Not to me, not to his advisors—he just doesn’t listen.” there was some relief in sharing your pain, some relief that at least someone would listen to what you felt and thought.

“It's a scandal.” he admitted in a whisper, now rubbing your back in gentle circles. “To have a mistress for all the world to see and to want to elavate her status to yours. He’s crazy. You deserve better, much better.” he consoled you and reassured you, making you feel more at ease with your teenage-like outburst. You ought to pull yourself togehter, (y/n). Be quiet and strong. Don’t cause a fuss, men don’t like that. Yeah, mother, you did everything right, but father still had three bastards he brought home.

Exhausted you groaned, embracing the very chest that Charles has been offering you since the first day at the palace. Sometimes you would wonder what would’ve been if you had married Charles instead of your husband, but you never thought too long or too hard about it, because to be tuthful the prospect that you could’ve lead a happier life depressed you.

Something wet rolled down your cheek.

You pulled away.

“Thank you, Charles. You’ve always been very understanding. But I should return to my chambers. It’s late. Where were you headed to again? You should make haste.” you were quick to dismiss as usual. It was unheard of that in-laws were so close with eachother, especially when the gown you were wearing once had been your husbands gift. It was like his cruel paw extended time and place to even shackle you in place here in the furthest corners of the palace, alone with the man that you had— in your younger years at least— occasionaly thought about at night, when your husband would be working or have his occasional trysts with some courtesan.

He was quiet for a second or two, letting you spiral furhter into the dark place that had a permenant residence inside of your mind, only to startle you with a squeeze to your shoulders. “Are you certain? You still appear unwell and I would feel like a terrible brother-in-law if I just—” you didn’t let him finish.

“No, no need. I am absoloutely capable of returning by myself. Just you go.” and with that escaped before you could cry your eyes out in front his brother, even when he was the only human in the family of festering little demons, you would rather not let him catch you off guard. He was the apple Eve was tempted with only to fail the test, but you were better than that, you were a noble, not just any you were a royal, you wouldn’t fall for fate’s cruel tricks.

You rushed through the halls, your heels clicking with each step, as the night only turned darker and your thoughts only more frenzied. Finally you reached your chambers, your skittish maids, breathing out in relief, rushing towards you to check in on you and your trembling state. You waved them off, barking again to be left alone, only this time they wouldn’t. Suspiciously so.

“Why won’t you let me enter? Speak.”

“My queen, we would never think about witholding you from returning to your own chambers, but there is an issue of sorts, you see..” the oldest of the bunch spoke up, the same age as your mother would be if she was still alive and well.

With slits for eyes you glowered, now more persistent in your demand, even if it was one of your most loyal of maids, you wouldn’t be leniet enough to let them off the hook so easily. “Speak.”

“My queen it is that—”

Oh.

Staring at you so incredibly smugly, as if you couldn’t wipe the floor with her visage if you wanted to, was the twenty something mistress of your husband, of the the king, Maria.

How ironic of a name.

“Oh? If that isn’t the first queen. How delighted I am, to meet the woman the king adores as much as he adores me. And how beautiful of a woman you are! So graceful, even at your age, with a child that’s nearly old enough to build his own family! You must be proud! Certainly, you’re so lovely.” you felt your eye twitch. She was utterly shameless standing in the doorway to your chambers while dressed in nothing but a chiffony nightgown and black hair like the streaks of tint on paper. How utterly depraved and sick.

As she smiled too, you probably turned red in the face.

“I am so happy to finally meet you! I heard a lot about you—all he does is talk about you. I am glad you’re my opponent I can vie for the king’s affection with. Anyone else would’ve been bland in comparison to you.” her fingers brushed away a strand of hair in your face and it probably took all of your self-restraint not to snap and bury your fingers in her scalp to pluck away some of that inky black. “I am truly grateful.” her blue eyes were worse, piercing and clear like the streams of fresh waters—truly a horrible colour to be gifted to such snake, undeserving of such beauty.

“Why are you here? This isn’t the king’s bedroom, girl.” you were cold, slapping away her hand and trying to undermine her presence with the fact that you were older and more experienced, yet she just giggled. Was it wrong that she reminded you of your son? The both of them certainly were the same level of vile, making you feel uncomfortably unauthorative in their presence.

“Oh it isn’t? My mistake, your Majesty. But you can just call me Maria, no need to be so distant. Or you could get used to calling me Queen Maria. Pardon—is it a sensitive topic? You’re glaring at me so intensely, I am uncertain if I should fear for my life.” on second thought maybe being thrown into prison for bashing in the king’s mistress’ head against a wall didn’t sound so appaling. No, pull yourself together.

“I ask of you to move. These are my chambers. So move, now.” one more minute of this and you were sure you would end up growling like an animal, but thankfully she finally took the hint and brushed past you but not without a flying kiss your way. “See you soon, your majesty.”

At the end your maids held you back from tearing her apart like a rabid dog the moment she turned to walk away. Thankfully, they were also able to pull you into your chambers before fleeting before your outburst. Vases were flying—clothes ripped apart and you burned the single strands of black you found, above your lamp’s little flame. All while you stared up at the night sky, like you used to, asking the heavens why they had cursed you. Why a god couldn’t have let you be born as an empty-headed piglet, why you had to be able to understand language, why you just couldn’t rip anyone’s head off that treaded too close to you.

At the end of your breakdown you found your mother’s pearls scattered on the checkered tiles like the stars that mocked you from above. You pursued your lips into a smile. It was somewhat symbolic.

Mother was dead. Father too.

But you weren’t, not yet at least. So why waste it with stupid things such as deceny? You had desired for more than superficial workship of your body—you wanted real love, something to take your mind off your duties. And if the king was allowed such a thing, then you would just aquire one too.

Charles had always been friendly to you. Why not pay the favour back? After all, he was such a good brother-in-law.

The imaginary gods truly scorned you, didn't they? Because why else would you be dining with your husband, his mistress and your son. Were you truly nothing but the butt of the joke? Your presence meant nothing—all the years of hard-work, serving the crown and greater good, for what?

For Maria to wink at you and mock you in broad daylight, with even your son doing nothing but quietly watch. Father like son. How true that statement was.

Were you disappointed though? No, you didn't expect much of demons festering off others.

The eggs were cooked into gooey soft richness, just as you liked it, giving you some semblance of comfort. Today you were dressed in rich velvet purple; truly a gown for special occasions and this particular day probably was the most special out of all. It was the day you had anticipated all these upcoming weeks with nothing but an ache deep in your chest whenever you thought of it.

Today he would announce when the law would be finalized—and with its finalization the death of your dignity.

Maria would officially be the king’s second queen, not consort, not mistress—not even the occasional courtesan he liked to fuck, no, she would be of your status, when she was nothing but a count’s daughter. It was laughable really, you stabbed at the beacon on your plate as if it had committed a crime against you.

From childhood until your marriage to him, you as a royal princess had been kept endlessly busy with tutoring of all kinds; writing and reading first and foremost then state affairs, french, latin, philosophy, politics, how to properly sit and talk, embroidery and so much more that at eight you had started wishing to be born a pig, kept fed until slaughter.

“As you all know,” all heads drifted in his direction, sitting proud at the head of the mahogany table, “The law will be legalized by the end of the month and to celebrate this joyous occasion. I ask my first wife, to prepare a banquet for my love.” he probably didn't even see you as a human, only as a political ally.

“Of course, your Majesty. I would love to.” nevertheless you replied as if you had a choice in the matter anyways, flinching as soft hands snaked up your arms. “You will? That's wonderful news! I cannot share just how honoured I am that you will be planning this! Anything you make must be nothing short of astounding beauty!” was she trying to gain even more of the king’s favour? It certainly seemed to work on your lovesick husband, who only leaned back in his seat, the cushions were red—a colour worthy of a king and let his lips curl up into a tender smile, with moss greens that seemed to scarily soften up.

Had your husband ever been capable of such a look?

You couldn't remember him ever staring at you so lovingly. It was chilling to say the least. Perhaps even repulsing.

You were quick to look down at your plate again—wishing for nothing more but to peel her fingers off of you, hopefully with so much force that one of her fingers would clean-cut break into two. It wasn't a question of love nor jealousy after all; but a matter of respect, and she was downright waddling her tail in front of you in victory. As if she deserved your just title as much, if not more than you. Slut.

“Mother,” this time it was the voice of your son calling out to you, “it seems you will be occupied for the time being with the courtesan's banquet,” he sighed, “and I here I was anticipating to spend some time with you after my exams.”

Had he just—

Silence.

Even the servants could do nothing but stare at the prince wearing such a proud expression, as if what he did was the right course of action. As if he just didn't insult his father's current obsession with the occupation she had before he brought her into the castle.

Everyone knew not to mention it, not even in the passing. Just hinting at it could cost you lots yet here was the crown prince doing what he knew not to do.

Oddly enough, while electricity zapped through the air, something destructive brewing beneath the king’s icy cold gaze—you could nothing but gape in fascination at your spawn. Were you imagining it, or was he protesting against his father? If you didn't know it sny better, you would've thought he did it to defend your honour. But that was laughable.

It seemed the young prince had grown up, when you had no clue, but sometime ago probably, with the way he held his chin up high, no fear visible in his gaze all while holding his father's glare.

You would be lying if you said you weren't weirded out. Hopefully him acting out wouldn't put you in bigger trouble than you already were in. He could at least grant you such a favour.

“What���what did just leave your mouth?” the king practically spat, your husband rising a hand decked out with hefty golden rings.

“I said, father,” you internally groaned, this child was just determined to cause you misery, “Courtesan. Because that is exactly what she is. Isn't that right, Maria? Before father married you, you were nothing but a whore with your legs wide spread open to please—”

Thwack. The king loomed over his own son, like God, – if he existed – probably had over Lucifer to berate him one last time before he would've earned his fall from grace.

“Enough! One more word and I will forget myself entirely!” the threat rung through the entire dining hall, it rung so deep it seeped into your bones.

Nicholas’ cheek was left marked with imprints of fat rings that managed to slice through skin and leave one side of his face a swirl of red and slowly forming purple. He hadn't just hit his son, but he had done so, with such force that his head was moved out of your sight.

Yet he still talked; spat out words like they burned his tongue.

“What, father? Can't handle the truth—”

“Edwin! Oh dear!” Maria’s fingers only now left your arm. She was rushing to the man that was supposedly your husband, to stop him from actually killing the boy he had wanted so badly. Immediately she latched onto him, practically throwing herself at him, dotting on him, doing her best to calm his wrath and somehow it worked. While all you could do was watch in stunned silence.

Your cousin, what was her name again— ah, yes, Lilian— would’ve surely snorted out a laugh at the scene. She found everything dark and morbid to be fascinating, perhaps that's why she had married a duke that would occasionally beat her into a bloody pulp?

Getting sidetracked again, weren't you? Point is you could accept much, but this, this was crossing a thin line that needed to be kept up for the balance of all things holy to the crown. If a mistress managed to throw everything out of order, then you truly had failed all your marital duty as a partner and as a queen.

Perhaps mother had been right? But then again, father had never been the big romantic, you were sure the man had been incapable of falling in love—obviously different to the Edwin you thought you had known all those years. He seemed enamored and it was truly terrifying.

The meal ended shortly after with the King storming off and his mistress right with him. Now, you never enjoyed being affectionate with Nicholas, however even you had to admit that you should probably offer the boy some words of wisdom.

Even if you liked to think of him as a little gremlin with a copy of his father for a face, you knew he wasn't exactly the same as him. Sometimes, it was hard to admit, your son did manage to spark some motherly affection in you, as scary as it was. So sighing, you rounded the table and your gaze landed on the brunette boy.

“Come, let's get you cleaned up.” was the most affectionate mumbling you forced out from between your lips. Only to turn around almost immediately, not waiting for him to collect himself as you wandered out and away from the dining hall. There was a short burst of laughter—probably, you weren't sure, you hoped it wasn't crying. You hated seeing him cry. He was an ugly crier. Then you heard footsteps behind you and soon passing by a few of your family portraits, the irony not lost on you—your life in contrast to the perfectly crafted deception painted onto these canvases—you found yourself in your study.

“Sit.” your words were always clipped when you talked to him, weren't they? It was hard to remember.

Nevertheless you rummaged through your drawers, the subtle scent of wood mixing with the incense that you were quick to ignite.

Funny, so that's what your study looked like? It was organised and thoroughly dusted, with each book and document in different neatly arranged piles. He remembered never been allowed in here as a boy, only able to take sneak peaks at you at your desk while the door closed in behind his nanny's somber face. Now it made sense, you feared a child would ruin your precision and need for perfection. Oh, mother, is that the reason you shun me so?

You felt that unexplainable chill again, which would always travel down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. See that look in his eyes? Those soulless green orbs you swore would burn a hole into your face from how intensely he was staring at you as you sat down in front of him. That's exactly why you didn't want anything to do with him, he was just—so peculiar.

“Close your eyes.” was your next command, not being able to stand the abyss you found in your own son’s gaze. You waited while you prepared the cotton through soaking it in alcohol.

And thankfully he listened. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Mother” he spoke. “Mhm,” you hummed.

“Mother, aren't you mad at father?” you paused, inhaled, already unnerved before continuing to pat his cheek gently.

“It's not in my place to question what the king does, neither is it yours Nicholas.” a soft sigh escaped you, “You ought to behave yourself. The little stunt you pulled at dinner tonight was dangerous. He may be your father, but before all else he is the king. And you should respect him until the crown is yours. Or do you wish to ruin your future just because?”

“It wasn't just because—” you chuckled, letting your hand fall away from his cheek as he forced the words from between his teeth.

“Oh?” you used the same look your mother always gave you—a scoff and a frown combined to make the one on the recieving end feel disgustingly guilty. You shook your head at him, youth.

“The reason isn't of any importance, what is of importance however is you ascending to the throne. And you cannot do so if your father hates you so. You may be older and of pure blood, but if the new woman at his side falls pregnant with a boy and you continue to be foolish, then you can just stand and watch everything being ripped away from you.” were you getting emotional, describing your future too while trying to warn him? Maybe. You didn't realise it until your son threw himself at you, alright, maybe not literally but he embraced you, as if you were the child and he the parent.

You stilled.

When had been the last time you hugged your son? You couldn't remember. The moment was peaceful, oddly so and just for a split second you forgot of your revulsion towards that child and let him clutch onto you.

“Mother,” he breathed against your shoulder, startling you, “Mother he’s openly betraying you. While the whole nation watches. You don't deserve this mother, you deserve a better man. If I had been my father I wouldn't have—” you immediately pushed him away.

Did you mishear?

“Don't—don’t ever talk like that again!” you declared, instead of questioning it further, immediately assuming that the fault lied in your twisted mind. You must've misunderstood you must've—

Something was brewing beneath his exterior, you could tell. Something dangerous flicked in his gaze, something that you knew justified your fear towards your own spawn. Now, any minute, you swore he would burst and unleash his inner demons.

“Mother,”

“I apologise.” he smiled. You felt yourself release a breath, one you weren't aware you had been holding.

“I didn't think about my words, I am truly sorry.”

You quickly wrapped things up after that and it was not long before you send him off on his merry way. If he continued to talk about his father as if he wished for him to be only a memory and his skeleton six feet under the earth, then he would only spiral into a world of trouble and take you with him.

Besides—since when was he this rebellious? You sighed, feeling pain bloom between your brows.

Was this some sort of mockery?

To shame you continuously?

Or why for god's sake was this bitch in your chambers again?

“Your Majesty!” she chirped and you wished you could claw your eyes out and stuff them into her mouth so she would finally shut up.

“Child…”

“Maria, it's Maria, your majesty!” she huffed, then pouted, again clad in nothing but her nightgown, underwear really; silk that fell over her shoulders and reached down to her ankles.

“Besides—,” she pouted and you started to question the sanity of this woman, “You're not much older than me, your Majesty. Mhm, like an elder sister! How about I call you queen sister? Since we both will be queens!” she giggled.

Had she been dropped on her head at birth? You couldn't help but stare wordlessly, as she interlinked her arm with yours.

“Again. This is not the king’s chambers.”

“But queen sister—”

“Don't call me that.”

“But—”

“I said don't call me that!” you screamed.

Great. Now you were causing a scene in the hallway, with your maids and the guards watching. Great.

However you hadn't been prepared yet for the grand finale—suddenly she bursted into tears. Graciously of course, she was a lady, a lady with many tricks up her sleeve that is. She was crying, seemingly an endless stream, sobbing and quivering, staring up at you with big puppy-dog eyes.

If there was a god in heaven, you were certain that he hated you.

“My queen” she was still sobbing, now leaning forward so her cold lips could brush against your ear.

“You scream at me again and I’ll tell the king that you insulted me to my face.”

You gasped, this cocky little—

Yet what could you do? You knew one of her words amounted to a bar of gold to him; something to be treasured, possibly sacred. But you, he never had viewed you as such, you were the mother of his child and the queen yes—but your presence, —you knew as much as that— never has been valuable besides those two strong points. He saw you as an ally, a friend of sorts, a political fawn; someone with an intellect, but nothing more.

You didn't want to imagine his anger at even just daring to belittle what was rightfully his, that you, the queen in his little game of chess, would've mustered up courage that bordered on dangerously life-threatening.

So you sighed, with liquid anger pumping through your veins and your face flushing from the pressure of it. Your temples hurt again. Your head hurt again

You didn't register her leaving with a shit—eating grin on her face, nor the fact that one of your maid, Leslie, was half-carrying you inside your chamber, having to sit you down on your bed before feeding you your medicine in form of a brew.

It was funny, like your memory was wiped clean—as if your mind was a clean slate similar to how it had been when you were a drooling infant. Everything around you eased, the tension, the worries—what even was there to worry? You hummed, even purred in satisfaction as you drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

You hated waking up. Peace never existed beyond a deep slumber void of dreams. You hated dreams, you hated being dragged up and dressed like a doll and hated the sky. Especially the sky with its sparkling stars all mocking you, calling you as you were; defeated.

Utterly so.

Your reminisced about your beloved husband calling you to discuss something urgent with him. What could've been this urgent matter, one may ponder? Well, it was Maria.

“Have you started your preparations for the ball, yet?” his tone was colder than usual.

“No, but I am very much in—”

“Then haste. It will be held soon enough.”

You nodded politely, not wanting to aggregate his nerves further. So he waved you off and dismissed you, until he abruptly spoke up.

“And make sure that boy learns some manners.” his glare was so sharp it cut into your nape.

“Will do, husband.” you fled the room after that.

Perhaps you did not actually flee, but you certainly felt inclined to do so. Sometimes you did fantasize about escaping to a lone island, one that would resemble the paradise your nanny had always spoken so fondly of. What was her name again? You didn't remember, you couldn't, no matter how hard you tried because all you called her was Mommy—obviously only behind closed doors, away from any eyes or ears that could rat her out to your real hag of a mother.

She had been the only thing close to a mother's loving embrace which you so frequently would read about in books; fairytales and romances. An angel with crooked teeth and a hunchback, but an angel no less, with a softness to her that you never were able to replicate no matter how hard you tried. She was simply of different blood that wasn't blue nor red but gold; she wasn't like the rest of them. But you were like them, hiding behind a mask, no matter how terrible life whipped at you to reveal the truth—you wouldn't, you were trained to not give in after all, drilled from a young age.

And she had been so adamant to free you, telling you stories about juicy fruits with tastes rivalling that of honey, a sky that never darkened and greenery that never faded—if you narrowed your eyes to slits, you could imagine the royal garden spread out in front of you to be the paradise she so often spoke about.

You sighed again. Those were just childish fantasies. Something she had made up to bring you happiness, even if your shared wonder only lasted two years before she was caught being too affectionate with you and discarded.

As a chubby five-year old you had been devastated and confused, wondering why she had left you behind to fend for yourself, alone with the wolves. But as you matured, as your own son's nannies came and disappeared, you realized it had never been her fault in the first place. They had been at fault.

“Your majesty!”

Some of your days were good, tranquil even, but some—some were either destructively evil or somberly empty.

“Your majesty—” and today you wanted to be somber, away from everything. But fate didn't want this. Of course it didn't, fate despised you as you did your mother. So even if you had promised to betray fate instead and experience an adventurous tryst with the man in front of you just out of spite, you felt no desire to speak with him or anyone else, after the short but life-threatening conversation you had had with his majesty.

“Has he upset you again?”, Charles sighed, his initial enthusiasm fading, “It seems every time we converse you're miserable.”

Now that he mentioned it—he wasn't wrong. He was like some sort of saviour, someone that reminded you of your nanny so long ago and your hardened heart softened again. You didn't want to push him away, not Charles, not the man with soft-features, a tender look in his eyes, with his dashing looks and personality—not when he was only a few years younger than you. So little in fact, it wouldn't matter at your age anymore.

“Seems so.” you muttered and you couldn't hold your hand back from outstretching to pull him down besides you on your little white-painted bench placed in the shades, with another piece of embroidery in your lap. For a moment he was silent, stunned by your fingers wrapped around his wrist for all eyes to feast on—and continuing to hold it even as he sat.

“It seems you're always there for me, Charles.” was this a fever dream? Or why else would you, the queen, tempt him so, seductive as always, yet bolder than ever, calling him so intimately out here—hopefully out of the ear of onlookers to the spectacle; your maid and a few guards scattered around.

And then you even fluttered your lashes at him, so blindingly beautiful that it hurt. Tantalizing with your lips that he was certain were sweeter than sugar, and the new heart-robbing smile on those soft pillars of warmth. The slope of your nose, the apple of your cheek, everything about you was sin incarnate and he was just helpless to the devil’s calls. Just what if he leaned down and—

“I thank you.” god you teased him.

“It's my pleasure. As a devotee to the crown.” he managed to finesse and gloss over his little stammer with a bright smile and you, thankfully, let it slip.

Or at least he assumed so.

Actually you were giggling in your head like one of those young village girls, when a boy would ask for a dance—you had watched that spectacle occur one time out on the countryside for some respite after mother's passing.

What a time it had been, so beautifully peaceful with only the birds to yap away— similar to now, the only difference was that now you were holding his hand, and nothing, not even the king could prevent you from enjoying this moment to the fullest.

“Charles. How long have we known eachother?”

“Fourteen years and counting, your Majesty.” he answered, with warmth in his eyes. The day was warm—the sun blazing and at its peak, with the garden neatly trimmed, sitting beneath the proud tall that was probably older than both of you combined, the shade provided you would with protection from her rays.

“Thank you, Charles, for always consoling me in times of need.” your fingers slithered between his own, entangling your hands under lingering eyes, yet in that little moment you found yourself not caring. Life was short, so why shouldn't you be able to enjoy life to the fullest as his majesty. If it came and he would hear of this, you would accept whatever punishment, because you were sick of not being free.

Then again you felt freedom spread her wings above you with Charles by your side.

You smiled, softly, gently, tenderly even. A smile not even your son had ever earned from you—something he probably never would, no matter what he tried, because he was still that man’s son with motives behind his façade that you could never figure out. He was still the baby that terrified you with the ravenous hunger in his soul reflected in his gaze.

And that very son, was plastered against one of the castle windows, his glare bearing down on you both, if possible, it would have burned a hole through your face from the sheer intensity of it. You had always viewed your child as creepy—unsettling to be around for too long. But you had never possessed any evidence for it—you knew not to blame a seedling, something that had sprung from you, but you just couldn't stop yourself from feeling dread when meeting his eyes.

Unbeknownst to you, this silent horror was not completely irrational.

Actually it was simple survival instinct.

Especially when the heir to the kingdom craved nothing more but your motherly love and seeing you give affection to his uncle, of all people – his enemy — he couldn't help but trash your favourite vase. Actually he wasn't that different to you in that sense—he needed chaos and destruction to satisfy the inner barbarian in him.

“Mother,” he slammed his fists onto your desk. He had been snooping around your study—his favourite past time activity since he had managed to steal the second pair of keys to the room you viewed as sacred and safe. If you just knew, Mother.

“You give, Mother. To everyone but me.”

he was trying to maintain his composure, to not burst into a jealous rage from seeing you intertwined hands, the close proximity you shared—the smile plastered onto your face much more similar to that of a young maiden experiencing her first love than the queen with a heart of ice.

The moment his uncle dared to lean forward to brazenly press a kiss to your knuckles, was the moment he snapped. Destruction reigned over your study, his desire for carnage so raw, he treated craftsmanship like flesh and blood, strangling them as if they owed him an apology.

Then finally it was over.

As it was, peace settled over his silhouette, drenched in his own sweat in the stifling hot room, panting like a rabid dog.

“Mother,” you both were gone now from his view, he should haste, he knew, but he couldn't leave without these last words.

“If you won't give me your love willingly, as a mother should. Then I will take what is mine to own. I will overthrow father, be the king. You won't be able to escape, me, your son. You won't shun me no longer, mother. I won't allow it.”

Mother I will own your leash.

When you finally parted—you felt light and airy. Freedom was on the tip on your tongue, and butterflies danced around your hollowed out chest. Summer lingered on your skin, warm and sandy, reminding you of beaches you had never visited and tropical fruits that run over the back of your hand when you squeezed tad too tightly.

You hadn't felt so giddy in a while, nothing could ruin your good mood, not your husband, nor his mistress and neither your son. Cotton clouds were wrapping around you and you would be damned if you wasted time to not mock the stars back, staring up at the bright sky with a sneer. See, Mother? I will have my freedom too. I won't end like you, heartbroken by a man that never learned to love.

How foolish you were. Unassuming even. Years of living on this earth, shackled by fate and you still dared to dream.

So when the door to your study gave in and you entered to discover—

nothing amiss.

You sighed, you were being paranoid again, weren't you? How silly of you. Why would anything be out of order—children and most servants were forbid from entering. You handled delicate matters, events even; such as banquets and balls, carefully writing out invitations to selected guests, curating the invitations. Also you were responsible for all of your servants and the choices they made.

Before the old king’s unfortunate death you had been responsible with his care. He had deteriorated into a bad mental state in the last two years of his life; so much so that he couldn't recognise his son anymore. You had shared your husband's pain then, younger and naïve, a decade ago.

But you didn't, not anymore, not after so much you suffered through and with him only for him to sought out a courtesan and bend the entire law for her, risking even a coop!

You approached your sleeping quarters as always, while thinking about Maria, which granted you with a pulsing headache—in the literal sense. You should ask one of your maids, maybe Leslie, to brew you, your medicine once again.

“Maria." you greeted her dryly, the routine familiar now.

“Your Majesty!” she chirped as always and you had to control the twitch of your eye—or the twitch in your hand to slap her.

You opted to just silently stare at her, agitated by having to encounter her each night in your chambers, dressed in a nightgown you didn't want to imagine the king peeling off of her skin. She was trying to shame you, in front of your closest servants and in front of the guilt-stricken guard—that couldn't deny her request because in fear of attracting the king's anger.

“Your Majesty! I have waited and waited, just where have you been?” she was active as a child—but her eyes mirrored that of a snake, just searching for one of your weak points, so that she could torment you further until she managed to properly get rid of you.

“Maria please move. I would like to rest.”

“Then let's rest together! I am terribly tired—you know how tiring the king can be! So ravenous.” she snickered, much to the horror of your servants around you, “Oh..my apologies. Am I hurting your Majesty’s feelings?” her slanted gaze drooped, pity and amusement lingering in their depths.

Oh.

She did not—

That bitch!

“Leave!” you roared. Not towards her but to everyone around you, needing to feel her scalp beneath your fingers. You knew what you would be doing now was going to wind up ruining your just newly acquired saccharine taste of freedom, and probably destroy your life—but your anger gripped your by your shoulders and slapped you on your back as you roughly shoved her inside of your chambers.

Darkness shrouded the room in thrilling mystery of what to come—at least you thought Maria found it to be thrilling judging by her giddy following, excited to play a sick and twisted game of cat and mouse in the privacy of your chambers.

Your burst came all too soon and familiar—stripping you of any royalty, drowning out all the voices in your head trying to shackle the beast you would become when allowed. Usually you were only to do so in private, behind your doors—with only your servants to be subjected to your other face, but this time you wanted to indulge Maria. Show her heavenly grace and what it meant to be of royal descent.

You strangled her.

Everything unfolded in the blink of an eye, you couldn't stop or control yourself before tackling her causing her to stumble over your carpet in shock, crashing with into your nightshade, lamp shattering the moment it embraced the marbled floors while she embraced you as you both tumbled into your bed.

“Have the king! Have him all you want—like all the other men that you had between your legs. Warm him at cold nights! I urge you, please do.” hissing you leaned down to continue. “But know that you will never be able to be loved as much by the court, by the people, by everyone else. You won't survive this for too long. Even if I am beheaded after this.” you snarled while noting that she was indeed oddly calm beneath your palms. You were uncertain. Maybe it was the sheer shock? Perhaps she was weaker than you had assumed?

Or, she had died.

Panic surged through you. You weren't ready to be her murderer just yet! The thought alone made you flinch as if it branded your forehead in big bold letters in crimson. As if everyone could already bear witness to your crimes.

And suddenly you stood in front of the court.

Fingers pointed at you, screeching out blurts of sentences you couldn't make out, while you were dragged away by your own son, his grip on your hair so tight that you swore your scalp would peel off any minute now.

Kicked to kneel in front of the king, you begged and pleaded but mercy was foreign to the man that robbed you of your youth, and that you robbed of love and his sword swung high and far before—

You convulsed, gagging only at the thought, letting loose of her neck instantly, falling off of her onto the silken covers.

“I am sorry—” you mumbled, scrambling away from her, stubbornly looking away from the assumed corpse.

You were about to flee, kicking away the covers, dazed by the turn of events, trying to claw yourself back to your feet.

Run, Run, Run. It chanted inside of your head, and you surely would’ve managed to do so, if Maria’s fingers didn't clasp around your arm like a python’s jaw.

“Where are you going, your Majesty? We just started didn't we.” you shrieked, her hoarse voice genuinely startling.

Slowly you turned around to face the woman, with wide-eyed panic still clear on your face. “Let go of me!”

“Why? So you can take flight? Escape? Your majesty, even if you run, Edwin’s underlings will still catch you.” she was grinning, a feverish rush on her cheeks, mania clear and deep in her icy blue stare. “There's no one to run to, your Majesty. No where to hide. Embrace it. You're a monster. Old and greedy, craving things that no longer are yours.”

Was the bed coming closer? Or were you being pushed down? Because soon enough you laid on your bed, another headache, so potent it nearly blinded you with its pain—left you at the mercy of her cruel words.

“The king doesn't love you. He never has. Never will.” she muttered, with purple blooming on her throat like blossoming tulips, “You suffer for naught, your Majesty. Why do you worry for someone with such little regard of your person?” it was a bitter pill to swallow the truth in her words—and even if you wished to protest, you couldn't.

You were tongue-tied from the agony, with suddenly lead instead of bones, only further sinking into the open arms of your bedding.

“You're a fool, your Majesty.” a laugh ripped free from her throat. “For ever agreeing to be alone with me, don't you fear what I could be? Don't you fear my hands on your cheeks? Don't you fear the lust for blood in my gaze?” her voice like a melody, like a drug to aid to your wounds—it worked better than the mix of herbs you usually downed to find relief.

“Will you kill me?” you asked, only to earn another boisterous laugh that felt like a whip on your soul accompanied with slanted eyes that slithered over your form.

“No, far worse,” she paused, gaze smoldering.

“I will love you and you will love me.”

Pause.

You gawked. What was she saying?

“What?” you spat, puzzled.

She was completely deprived of sisterly love, or so it seemed. This was bizarre, downright weird—had she gone mad? Now you feared whatever her sick mind conjured next.

Something morphed and shifted until a smile so daunting, that if it weren't for the pulsing agony between your brows, you would've slapped it off her face and gladly so, while simultaneously increasingly feeling as if you were trapped in the coils of a snake.

“Edwin doesn't see you, as I do, your Majesty. He cannot see the madness in you, as I can. The insanity in your eyes, the very same one I crave to have. He doesn't love you, he doesn't. Not like I do.” your brows scrunched up, puzzled, she truly spoke like a madwoman.

Maria only chuckled. Her gaze narrowed in on your lips, in a way that twisted your stomach in discomfort; the way a man leers at a woman he desires. What foolishness! She couldn't possibly mean such an atrocity! It was never heard of a woman with a woman—

And as if to prove you wrong, tear your worldview apart, she leaned down with heavy paws pressing onto your shoulders. Your corset seemed tighter. The air or the lack of it was stifling. She wouldn't, right?

Fate truly had never been kind to you—and now it proved itself to be only more cruel as her lips crashed onto yours.

She was feverish with soft lips and scraping teeth, her tongue poked and prodded as if she tried to hollow out the warm cavern of your mouth. Her scent lingered in your nose so strongly it made your eyes water—lavender mixed with something you failed to recognise as she smashed her mouth against yours over and over again, until you were convinced that she was trying to strangle you with the wet muscle in her mouth instead of her hands.

The moment she let go off your figure, as stiff as a board , she was smirking deviously, as if she won a prize in a competition. As if the prize was you.

“I promise—” she leaned down, languidly slow, as if she had all the time in the world with no concern for the ravenous chaos she had just unleashed inside of you, “that even after Edwin’s reign, you will stay queen by my side.”

A bone-chilling cold kiss pressed to your damp temple.

“Goodnight, my queen.”

Sleep was not kind enough to visit you that night or the night after even though Maria had abruptly stopped with her nightly visits after that faithful encounter—still, your head was a buzzing beehive of thoughts. You were overwhelmed and at a loss for words at the strangeness of it all. For her to kiss you and demand—No, you refused to ponder about it further.

Nevertheless as if fate wished to humiliate you further —the stars in the sky hiding behind the light of the sun at daytime mocking you — your son was glued to you for the past half an hour or so, even had send all your servants away and no matter how much you tried to pry him off he would have an excuse prepared smoothly evading all your accusations. It was creepy. Has he sensed something? He never was so persistent.

Nevertheless you still couldn't fathom why she had did, what she had done.

Even days later, it just didn't make sense. What benefit could she reap from forcing her mouth onto yours and behaving like a man? You shuddered just at the thought, everything about this situation was odd, vile, repulsing and something else. Something you wished to keep buried deep in you and left unexplored.

“Mother, look! It's a swan with ducklings.” he pointed out the window, at this very moment behaving much more closer in age to a child than to a man. “Yes, Nicholas. How grand.” you muttered dryly, eyes kept steady on the embroidery in your lamp while indulging him slightly, after countless failed attempts and of hushing him away, you had tired and the pounding headache that wouldn't relent didn't make you any more awake.

“Swans mate for life. Do you believe this one is mated?” your brow twitched in frustration, eyes kept steadily on your needle, going in-and-out of the tight fabric.

“I do not concern myself with such matters, perhaps you also shouldn't.” you muttered abrasively, watching the motive of a purple tulip come to life, something about it eerily similar.

“I believe that it was mated. Then rid itself of its mate. It knows it doesn't need one. Just look mother— all the cygnets that follow without her mate in sight. They all seem so happy. Especially the mother swan, the way she—” red obscured your vision.

Something warm and human dripped down your hand. You didn't move, didn't even breathe, all you did was stare at the needle sticking out of your hand.

“Mother?—” a gasp, “Mother!” his footsteps were overwhelmingly loud, even louder than his ramblings that were grating on your nerves.

“Oh Mother.” the condescending attribute of his tone was sharp and rung in your ears. “What have you done? Your beautiful skin,” he was mumbling again. God, when would this child stop mumbling beneath his breath! And his eyes full of fake pity concealing something much darker made you just want to pluck the needle from your hand and ram it into your throat, perhaps then the scornful look on your mother's face would finally stop haunting you every living moment.

“Mother, you're upset again, aren't you? You're always upset.” Nicholas face fell as if genuinely distraught, taking your wounded hand in his, prodding at the damage you caused. “Father doesn't know how to care for you, he is mean and brutish. To scold you for informing him that you can't possibly prepare the banquet because you're unwell and getting mad at you. He’s audacious, a fool. He doesn't deserve you—no one deserves you Mother. No one but me.”

You yelped as he pressed down onto the needle, causing further damage to your hand—the pain unbearably uncomfortable. For days your head was a dizzy spur of thoughts, paranoid and refusing to meet Charles and now, you couldn't even be properly be enraged about your son's foolishness. At least the mind-numbing headache of yours lessened thanks to the one in your hand.

Suddenly he was much closer, eyes a combination of bright and hopeful and sick. There was something manic about his gaze too, something that made you swallow thickly, alarm you once more to not stare at the demon dressed in your son's human’s shell.

“Mother, I will be a fair king. I will be good. And I will take care of you in a way, no man or husband can. So just endure it for a while longer, I know you carry all this pain with you—and all of it is the reason why you can't love me fully. But if father, his whore and everyone else that upsets you dies—then you will be free. Then you will be free to love me how much you want. We can finally be happy mother.”

You were about to puke. Was this what you had allowed to grow? Over all the years, no matter how much you detested spending time with the little copy of Edwin, you had made sure he only had the best nannies, a great governess and tutors at hand. All for him to spew out such nonsense.

But you had known. Known since the day he was born, that Nicholas was not sane. And right now it both angered and chilled you to see your worst fears manifest in flesh and blood.

“Get lost. Out of my eyes.” you hissed, bathed in cold sweat. You had to get up and out. Needed to flee before you were given the moment to acknowledge that you were raising such cruelness beneath the facade of a noble. Perhaps what amplified your dread was that he—the look of insanity in his eyes, the hatred, yet longing mixing into a destructive love— and you weren't so different after all.

That you both craved motherly affection so intensely you both had spiralled, into different lows, but spiralled nonetheless.

“Mother—you don't mean that.” he smiled. Yet not calm anymore. He wouldn't hide it no longer. You deserved to know that he forgave you, that he saw your pain and ache and that he would ease it for you. Just let him destroy the world only to rebuild it in your name, so that you could finally love him.

“No.” you breathed. He didn't relent, clutching your hand as if it was sacred.

“No! Let go!” you shoved him away this time, crying out in pain, as the needle’s head now pierced through your palm. You were trembling. The creatures lurking in the shadows would now find you. Freedom was a dream, happiness equally but at least you used to have peace, at least you used to have Charles, but this new reality of yours, with your son as the same maniac you were in your youth, would destroy it all. He will take from you, as he always had.

Your anger boiled over.

It was a mistake—he was the heir for god's sake, no matter how foul his mouth had gotten!

Nothing changed the fact that it was done though.

You slapped him right across the face, as his father had done, startling him into a stunned moment of silence. He was as if frozen, shocked that the verbal abuse you inflicted on him would actually one day turn physical. For a moment everything halted, the particles of dust in the air, the chirping of the birds, the soft footsteps echoing around the castle and only shock remained.

Then he smiled.

“Mother—”

And you fled.

You scrambled to your feet, rushing out of the room in such a hurry, you still held your embroidery in your hand while out in the hallway, running pathetically slowly. This wasn't your son. Even after years you still refused the truth, you didn't ask for this! Fate was cruel, but it couldn't be this—not this! You were a queen now, your mother would've been proud, the same mother you had thrown off the balcony.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, sick to the stomach. No, not now! You couldn't cry now, not when duty and responsibility always came before being and feeling and living and— Before you even realized you plucked the needle from the back of your hand, throwing the embroidery against one of the oil paintings hanging nearby, hoping your blood could lay curses and if it actually could,

You hoped to curse this entire castle.

Everything should’ve changed after her death! You should've been free, should’ve lived a better life than her—but you were following into her footsteps, the same miserable marriage only used as a pawn, with the same excuse for a husband caring even little for his heir. You hated it, hated it so much you could burst!

“Your Majesty?”

“Charles,” you muttered, lip between your teeth. You groaned, stumbling forward, dressed in red—the colour which had adored your mother as she had laid lifelessly on the ground. Life was funny indeed wasn't it?

The man has been your angel for so many years, once more spread his wings embracing you in all his glory, letting your red taint him with the evil your mother, you and your son bore. It was in your blood, in your very DNA, you were bred to be a demon—perhaps that's why your son's eyes had always send a chill down your spine, not because he possessed the same potent green of his father, but he held the same wickedness in it. The one you recognised.

“By god!—”

And speak of the devil and he rushed towards you, immediately growling at his uncle that held you in his clutches. Yet before he could step further forward, the doors to his father's study opened, the room one of the largest and proudest and with its opening the king stepped out with Maria as always glued to his side.

All of them and the servants—all were staring at you, while you couldn't help but let your tears flow; your pounding headache, the blinding lights and the blurry edges in your vision everything you could focus on, all were maddening.

You were dying weren't you? This was probably the divine judgment for all your sins. Perhaps the stars were right to scorn and mock you; you were indeed pitiful, a creature born out of neglect and the same abuse you instilled on others now.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the king demanded as proud as ever, before the world was replaced by a void and swallowed you whole and the chaotic cries around you dimmed, until your own stopped.

Until you were no more.

Hopefully this time you would be reborn as a bird with fully fleshed-out wings.

[auren-zagarra]

I don't know if it would be possible considering how limited info wise we have of Malleus even after book 7 ending, but would it be possible to get an analysis of him?

Malleus Draconia: A Psychological Analysis

Disclaimer: Although this post is written by a professional psychologist, it is not intended to serve as a formal diagnosis. Rather, it is a character analysis of Malleus Draconia, created out of personal interest and passion for world-building. In psychological practice, accurate assessment should never be based solely on external observation.

Malleus Draconia is portrayed as powerful yet profoundly isolated. In canon, his aura and regal demeanor naturally intimidate others, so he seldom forms friendships beyond his guardian Lilia and a few like Silver and Sebek. In Book 7, Malleus' story reaches a breaking point: driven by intense anxiety about losing Lilia, he unleashes his signature magic to put the entire island into an enchanted slumber. He even proclaims a “wonderful future” in dreams - “Give in to slumber, and a thousand years will pass… you’ll become the protagonists of your own fairy tales” – rather than face reality. 

Personality

Malleus presents a study in contrasts. Outwardly he is aloof, reserved, and intensely formal. Descriptions emphasize that he speaks quietly and “doesn’t get too friendly,” even when conversing. His powerful, intimidating aura naturally pushes others away and most students avoid him, and even those who admire him (like Silver or Sebek) find it hard to approach. This suggests low extraversion and high conscientiousness: he is dutiful and poised, but he keeps an emotional distance.

Yet Malleus also has a naive, almost childlike side due to his sheltered upbringing. He grew up isolated in Briar Valley and was only recently exposed to technology and the outside world. As a result he often seems curious and earnest - even amazed by simple modern inventions - and can display genuine warmth once at ease. In short, Malleus embodies both a dignified presence and an innocent curiosity. Despite his fearsome reputation, he is shown to be kind and compassionate, with a strong sense of justice and a protective instinct for those he loves. Psychologically, his traits suggest high conscientiousness and openness (curiosity about new things) but also high neuroticism (anxiety about loss). In Erikson’s terms, Malleus appears to have a well-formed sense of identity and duty, but his extreme isolation implies difficulty with intimacy due isolation - since he struggles to form close bonds.

Coping Mechanism

Malleus copes with stress and loneliness through control, avoidance and fantasy. A telling example is his relationship with his virtual pet “Roaring Drago”: he repeatedly hatches and raises the pet to avoid accepting its limited lifespan. This repetitive behavior - a kind of perseveration on a beloved object - suggests denial of loss. More dramatically, when overwhelmed by Lilia’s declining health, Malleus resorts to his greatest power: he conjures a magical dreamscape to escape reality. He tries to solve his emotional crisis by controlling the world - rather than process grief or fear, he offers everyone a painless future in their dreams.

This reliance on magical or fantasized solutions is akin to Freud’s concept of denial and magical thinking. Malleus literally denies death and change by entering everyone into enchanted sleep. He tells his friends not to be “afraid” but to become “protagonists of your own fairy tales”, effectively encouraging them to live in a childlike fantasy rather than face real loss. In cognitive terms, this is a form of avoidance coping: instead of confronting painful emotions, he displaces the problem into an alternate reality. Bowlby’s Attachment Theory helps explain this: Malleus' anxious attachment (especially to Lilia) makes separation intolerable, so his coping is to fix the situation by force. In effect he behaves like a frightened child himself, using omnipotent-savior tactics. As the lore notes, this protective streak can be maladaptive: it drives him to extremes like the Book 7 slumber spell.

A Lonely Dragon

Malleus' life has been defined by solitude. From birth he knew little besides the company of Lilia. In fact, Lilia spent centuries chanting lullabies and telling him stories as he grew inside his egg. When he finally hatched, that support abruptly ended: “after hatching, Malleus was separated from Lilia, his only source of companionship”. His grandmother and tutors provided etiquette but no warm family environment.

Part of Malleus' loneliness stems from being rejected by others. His immense power and dragon heritage make him seem like a monster to classmates. This persistent social rejection - being feared or even hated - has become a self-fulfilling pattern. He expects that if he reaches out, people will flee, so he keeps distance. This is evident when even friendly students like Silver attempt to befriend him and still “fail to get closer”.

The long-term effect of this isolation is clear in the story. Malleus enjoys being alone, but the wiki explicitly notes he “shows signs of loneliness and a desire to connect”. He is socially inexperienced (often awkward with small children, for example) and emotionally inexperienced. Psychologically, extended solitude hindered his social development: he often acts more innocent or childish than his peers. According to Erik Erikson (I hate his name), lacking close relationships can stall a young adult in the Intimacy vs. Isolation stage; Malleus' narrative indeed portrays him as chronically alone despite craving connection. Bowlby would say that without consistent, responsive caregivers, he likely developed anxious attachment and a fear that others will inevitably leave. In practice, his long-time solitude has made him unusually self-reliant in some ways, but deeply vulnerable in others.

Repeated rejection likely fueled his defensive personality. Freud might interpret his regal aloofness as reaction formation - presenting a proud front opposite to any inner insecurity. Bowlby’s theory again applies: early experiences (his kingdom’s attack, being left in an egg) may have instilled a belief that relationships are unsafe. Psychologists might liken him to having an avoidant attachment style - he avoids intimacy to preempt the pain of being hurt. Over time, Malleus internalizes the stigma of being a “monster,” which may lower his self-esteem or drive perfectionistic safeguards. In short, being routinely shunned or feared has taught him to rely on himself, to the point that he nearly welcomes isolation as protection.

Sleep Well

In Book 7’s climax, Malleus casts a magic field of sleeping thorn vines, across Sage’s Island. Once the spell takes hold, every living creature falls asleep (except Malleus himself). He announces there is no need to be afraid, insisting that eternal slumber will grant everyone their heart’s desires. 

Psychologically, this mass-slumber is a dramatic case of denial and fantasy. Rather than face death or separation, Malleus creates a dreamscape where time (and pain) stops. He frames it as benevolent, invoking the bedtime stories Lilia told him as a child. In Freudian terms, he is using a childlike magical solution to an adult reality problem, a form of wish-fulfillment. From Erikson’s perspective on death and integrity, he refuses the natural cycle, trying to preserve a perfect world. Attachment theory would suggest this is a “protest” behavior in the extreme: instead of letting go, he forcibly tries to fix the situation for everyone.

This coping move also hints at possible delusional thinking: he genuinely believes the eternal-dream plan is a “wonderful future”. The narrative notes his fear, yet he willingly condemns everyone to an indefinite sleep to cope. In sum, by putting others to sleep, Malleus attempts to erase painful reality, illustrating the tragic extremes of his grief and denial.

Possible Diagnosis

His extreme anxiety over attachment suggests traits of a dependent or anxious attachment pattern. For example, his frantic declaration “Not losing you!” indicates panic at abandonment, reminiscent of Dependent Personality features (excessive need to be cared for, fears of separation). His tamagotchi behavior (refusing to let his virtual pet die) also shows compulsive attachment.

The Book 7 episode itself resembles an acute stress reaction or brief psychotic/mania-like episode. Casting a city-wide sleep charm and calmly rationalizing it could be viewed as a delusional coping mechanism. In DSM-5 terms, this might fall under an Adjustment Disorder with mixed disturbance of emotions and conduct (triggered by a known stressor, Lilia’s health). Some might even compare it to Borderline Personality (intense fear of abandonment, idealizing others, drastic emotional swings), though Malleus lacks the typical impulse behavior and identity disturbances of BPD.

Alternatively, one could see elements of trauma-related illness: he endured early-life trauma and this late crisis appears to be a pathological grief reaction. Malleus’ pattern - severe anxiety about loss, followed by an irrational, all-or-nothing solution - suggests an acute grief reaction or even acute stress disorder rather than a stable personality disorder. In any case, the DSM-5 would note his difficulty adjusting to the stress of possibly losing Lilia, manifested in extreme fantasy and avoidance (sleeping everyone). 

Autism?

Yes, it's possible to interpret Malleus as having traits consistent with autism spectrum disorder. That said, there are several behaviors and characteristics that align with known clinical features of ASD, especially in Level 1 presentations.

- Social Communication Differences

Difficulty forming peer relationships: Malleus is canonically described as being feared, avoided, or misunderstood by peers. Even though he wants to connect, few people approach him, and he often doesn’t know how to initiate or maintain typical peer interactions.

Unusual speech or tone: He uses formal, archaic speech that differs from his peers. While some of this is cultural (he’s royalty), it also makes him seem socially “out of sync.”

Struggles with understanding social nuance: Malleus sometimes misinterprets modern slang or jokes and needs others to explain things to him (e.g., technology or social situations). This could indicate challenges with pragmatic language or social inferences, a core trait of ASD.

- Restricted and Repetitive Behaviors or Interests

Special interests: Malleus is deeply interested in gargoyles, and he can talk about them in great detail. The way he focuses on this niche interest is consistent with the "circumscribed interests" often seen in autism.

Routine-oriented behavior: His repetitive habit of raising the same virtual pet (Roaring Drago) again and again could be seen as comforting repetition and difficulty with change or loss.

Literal thinking: He sometimes takes statements or metaphors literally, a trait common in autistic individuals who may struggle with abstract or figurative language.

- However, it’s important to note:

Malleus’s behavior may be explained entirely by his status: he’s royalty, raised in isolation, and feared due to magical power. His social awkwardness and speech may be cultural rather than neurological. 

His symptoms could also be interpreted as trauma responses and a lack of proper socialization. Yes, Chapter 7 could be seen as a meltdown, but it might just as well be his repressed emotions finally surfacing.

[rockyyfireee]

How the BLLK boys kiss you

(First post chat, wish me luck 😛)

WARNINGS: Very suggestive, insinuations of dry humping, insinuations of getting hard.

CHARACTERS: Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi, Reo Mikage, Ryusei Shidou

Rin Itoshi

•Rin never really asks. He’s more just about giving you intense glances that he expects you to get what he wants.

•He’s normally subtle when he approaches you, maybe putting a tentative hand on your waist, the other on your neck, sliding up to cradle your jaw as he leans down to kiss you almost sheepishly.

•He’s always nonchalant about it, but the slight pink tint to his cheeks never goes unnoticed by you.

•He prefers to give you short and sweet kisses, multiple soft pecks at a time. But if he happens to be feeling a little bit hornier, he tries not to seem desperate. But he is.

•The signs are there when he clutches you a little bit tighter than necessary when his hands shake slightly, breath a little bit more quickened and pupils dilated a lot more than one would consider normal.

•To be more accurate, his kisses would be messier for sure. Kisses would be a little longer, tongue prodding desperately at your lower lip and once he gets access it’s like he’s completely gone.

•That nonchalant facade ain’t fooling anyone no more once his tongue gets into play. He’s a messy kisser. Saliva carelessly mixing with yours to a point drool slithers down both yours chins, his breathing much heavier and half lidded eyes pathetically wider like he can’t breathe without you and he only really controls himself when you tell him to take it down a notch.

•Bro wants that cookie bad.

Sae Itoshi

•Sae won’t ask too. When you two meet up or happen to be at each other’s houses, kisses are actually not that common between you two unless if you ask, which he won’t hesitate to comply.

•Sae kisses you briefly a quick peck and he moves on with life. Maybe give you a kiss on the cheek once or twice a day on his own accord. But when he’s aroused? Bro is also nonchalant about it, but he on the other hand does not try and hide it.

•He straight up just brings you towards him and presses his lips against yours with an undertone of neediness or he tells you straight up. “I want you.” Just like that.

•His hands are always busy, and he likes to have you on his lap when you two make out. His hands rest on your lower back but we all know sae has an ass fetish, so it makes sense that he massages that majority of the time.

•He’s not a messy kisser, probably likes to sustain a sense of control when you two are intimate in general. His kisses a little bit rougher and more demanding but of coarse you don’t mind.

Yoichi Isagi

•Oh he’s definitely sheepish about it. I think overtime in your relationship he gets more comfortable giving you kisses out of nowhere and vice versa without being stiff and a blushing mess.

•His kisses are not too long and sweet. He pours out just how much he loves and cares for you in a simple kiss, eyes always gleaming at you when he pulls away like how he looks after every soccer game he has.

•On the other hand, I think Isagi does get turned on quite easily so I don’t think it’s that hard to figure it out when you sit beside him, legs draped over his lap and he just stares at you without looking at the tv. His thought getting the better of him as those puzzle pieces run like a storm in his head on how exactly to even initiate kissing you like he doesn’t do it every other day. But he always overthinks when he’s horny.

•He probably is never aware when he physically shows he’s aroused when he’s so deep in thought, especially when you’re on his lap. That imminent poke of something hard beneath you not even a surprise anymore these days, and he always gets embarrassed about it. But hey, it’s always a start.

•He kisses you with neediness on full display, he doesn’t really hold back. He’s flustered and he can’t get his mind to work out what he should do in particular at the moment so he’s always on autopilot, hands everywhere he can touch but always on your thighs. The plump and soft flesh of it is exactly what he loves about you.

•He does get messy-ish with his tongue but it’s controlled and sensual, long strokes along your tongue in a harmony you both like.

Reo Mikage

•Reo is down bad, I think we can just get that out the way. So him being down bad means he really won’t hesitate to voice that out. He consistently compliments you throughout the day, kissing your cheek, back of your hand and lips of coarse constantly without failure.

•He’s charming with his words too. “You look beautiful, my love.” “Not enough money in this world could ever buy you” (huh?) “My pretty girl.”

•When he’s aroused, it would probably become obvious over time. I think he’d be clingy to another degree and always have his hands on you, rubbing your waist or lower stomach. Chin on your shoulder where he can easily press multiple kisses on your neck and cheek which would eventually trail to your lips.

•Would probably pin you gently to the wall because he thinks your delicate like a prize, one hand beside your head the other on your waist as he kisses you with fever, tongue stroking yours in fierce waves that send heat through your body.

•He’s oh so needy and clingy and you love it!

Ryusei Shidou

•Shidou is a freak. Shall I go on?

•Bro is practically teleporting beside you for kisses, making sure to leave a stain of translucent saliva with that irritating smirk of his before walking away like nothings happened.

•On your neck, cheek, thigh, calf and of coarse lips.

•Bro is pouncing on you the moment his horny meter jumps up even a smudge. Even though he’s practically ovulating everyday, those days he decides to do something about it it? We’ll pray for you twin.

•He’d probably dive straight into tongue no questions asked, messy and trailing away from your lips to your neck. Leaving pretty marks on your skin, no matter what colour your skin honestly pretty, trust me he’s leaving a mark.

•I think he’d be more than happy to catch you on the couch, easier for him to rub his obviously growing bulge against you in a way that could counter his clear adrenaline fuelled self. It’s a skilled manner he possesses and he knows it when you wrap your legs around his waist, lips parted to accommodate light pants.

•Just know you’re in for one hell of a night.

(I’m a little down bad for Isagi 💔)

(Requests are open for business, Tilly’s Hotline has officially taken off!!)

[ondeemand]

Transformers One Review

For the sake of convenience, I’ll be referring to the characters as their new names (Optimus Prime, Megatron, Bumblebee) instead of their old ones (Orion Pax, D-16, B-127).

Also, I didn’t grow up with Transformers, so this will be mostly from an outsider’s perspective. I can’t tell what possibly was or wasn’t a retcon or how accurate to the source material it was, but I think the background info on their world held up very well and they were able to explain it clearly to new viewers like me. It definitely would have hit harder if I grew up with Transformers and knew more than just facts from cultural osmosis, but I still enjoyed the movie a lot.

Notes/Things I’m Neutral On

Very weird to hear my name (Dee) being said throughout most of the movie by Chris Hemsworth’s bad American accent.

Also, I forgot that Megatron has transformed into ground vehicles before. I only ever knew him to turn into a jet, so I was kind of confused that he was a tank in this movie. I hope we get to see him get upgraded to a jet in the next one, but the tank is still cool.

Pros/Things I Liked

Simple but effective color theory with their eye colors. Main good guys have blue while Megatron has yellow, sitting between good and bad. Still a friendly color at first, but slowly turns closer to orange and then fully red as his anger and hatred consume him (and after he met the red-eyed Starscream, a cowardly man who ends up enabling Megatron‘s more violent/aggressive tendencies)

○ Also I don’t know if I was just seeing things, but it looked like Megatron’s eyes got more yellow whenever he looked at Optimus which is so sad and so gay.

I really thought they were gonna push a romance between Elita and either Bumblebee (goofy manchild x competent woman trope) or Optimus (male lead x female lead, blue x pink), but I was pleasantly surprised that they didn’t. Sadly, there’s still time for it in future installments, but I can dream.

Not to be gay, but spider woman sexy. Airachnid was so obviously evil that it was funny, but I can’t fault Sentinel for having her around because I, too, would want a deadly goth woman to be my right-hand lady. They felt like the evil, less developed versions of Mustang and Hawkeye. I am in love.

The animation is gorgeousssss. The environments, the character designs, the fight choreography, the transformations, the lighting, the texture, mwah mwah MWAH STUNNING!!!

○ Sorry, I’m never gonna stop talking about this. The way they were able to make square/blocky figures move so fluidly was fantastic (and proof of concept that a fully animated Minecraft movie would have worked). ○ The camera angles were also great for framing both the dramatic, intense, and/or high-action moments like fights or chase scenes, while also adding a lot to the comedic moments. Like when the camera stays tracking Optimus’ face when running through the forest, only for him to suddenly fall down a cliff neither he nor us saw coming, only to then zoom out to the perspective of the guards below, showing them stumbling and falling. ○ The contrast between the mechanical and organic elements on the surface were really cool, and the way it was introduced was able to convey this idea that organic life was this strange, alien thing. ○ The way the surface just rebuilds itself into these jagged, blocky terrains was really unique and interesting! It felt like a glitched computer model because of its rougher shapes which really added to the fear and hostility of the surface.

90% of their jokes landed and they landed hard. The bit where Optimus looks like he’s about to transform and then just fucking books it is incredible. The audio and camera work help add to these as well, like the music building as Optimus pretends to transform, the camera zooming in close to different parts of him, only for all background noise to cut out as it shows Optimus running away. I won’t name every joke and quip I found funny or we’d be here all day, but they’re certainly a highlight of the movie.

I love Keegan-Michael Key, but I wasn’t a fan of him as the comic relief character of Toad in the Mario movie. When Bumblebee showed up I got a little nervous, but I really loved his performance of the character.

I really liked the midpoint pep talk about hope. That’s a really nice reason that Optimus is the leader despite not being as skilled as other people. He has the hope for a better future and it was a core part of his character from the beginning, and I really like the idea that a leader is someone who can envision a brighter future no matter what.

Alpha Trion transforming was SICK AS FUCK!!! I love that he was more animalistic when the rest of the cast become vehicles. His final fight was so cool, and it actually made me kind of emotional to see him at the end with the rest of the Prime ghosts.

The stabbings? The beheadings?? The branding??? The way Megatron tore Sentinel in half and then ripped his heart out on-screen holy shit???? This movie was incredibly brutal and I loved it. It’s such an interesting phenomenon that children’s media is allowed to be about as graphic as they want as long as it’s against robots, even incredibly sentient ones like in the Transformers series.

○ I watched the 1986 Transformers movie for a class earlier this year, and while it also had a lot of brutality in it’s fights, the new movie felt more intense. Part of this could be attributed to me watching the 2024 movie on a big screen vs the 1986 movie in my living room, but there are other reasons as well. The 1986 movie had more upbeat songs playing over the fights, specifically songs like The Touch and Dare, which helped keep the tone lighter and more exciting. The 2024 movie didn’t have anything like that, allowing the action, while still cool and exciting, to take on a more serious tone. This is also emphasized by the graphics of the movie being 3D instead of 2D. While the 2D 1986 movie is a stunning masterpiece, people still view it with the idea in mind that, since it’s a cartoon, the stakes and story will be less intense. The 2024 movie being 3D with very detailed graphics and lighting already has more visual intensity. The characters are still these bright, poppy colors, but they can come across more moody and dark due to the environments, lighting, and textures that the 3D medium more easily allows. And while the painted backgrounds and cell shading of the old movie are great, the CGI backgrounds are a lot closer to realism, so the harsher elements like metal and rock, which make up a vast majority of the environment and characters, look real too.

The way Megatron’s hate consumed him to the point where he started acting more villainous and, while not entirely similar to Sentinel, still ended up hurting innocent people was tragic. Trying to push away and deny everything about a person only to wind up being just like them. This was perfectly shown in the end credit scene where Megatron is branding himself and the new Decepticons with Megatronus Prime’s face. To him, it may be him reclaiming the traumatic experience and literally using it like a badge of honor, as well as thinking he’s honoring Megatronus Prime. But in reality, he’s just inflicting the same trauma done to him onto others, just like Sentinel. Such a cool way to show how every villain is the hero of their own story.

The doomed yaoiiiiii I’m never gonna get over them. The only other Transformers media I’ve consumed is the 1986 movie, which kills off Optimus Prime in the first 25 minutes and Megatron becomes Galvatron, so I never knew the depths of their homoerotic relationship.

I’m a sucker for “the hero and villain used the be friends (and maybe even lovers?)” trope, so Optimus and Megatron’s relationship and the general premise of the movie was already a slam dunk for me.

I’m also a fan of legacy stories like Avatar and She-Ra. While this movie didn’t get as in-depth with the concept, I enjoyed that they played with the idea of legacy and taking up the mantle of the former Primes.

I absolutely loved the end message that Optimus gives us. Hope, freedom, and autonomy are incredibly important things to learn, and as a trans person who very much wants to keep control over what I do with my body, I really resonated with that last one. I think it’s really cool that they included a message like that in this children’s movie about robots that turn into cars.

Regarding the message of autonomy, I love that it gives the term Autobots a new meaning. Auto meaning “automobile”, since they transform into cars, and Auto meaning “self”, as they are now fully their own bots with control over themselves.

Cons/Things I Disliked

Mid vocal performances from everyone except Brian Tyree Henry and Keegan-Michael Key. And as I mentioned before, it was hard not to focus on Chris’ attempts at an American accent, not to mention how recognizable his, as well as Scarlett Johansson’s, voices are.

The plot felt a little disjointed in the first 1/3-ish.

○ Good setup with the main characters being an oppressed working class with one dreaming of better things and the other hesitant to fall out of line or take risks. But then suddenly there’s a race, and then they’re in it, and then they lose, and then their leader wants to promote them. At first it feels like there are hints that he’s a scummy celebrity-type and that meeting their hero is what will spur on the disillusionment with their society. But then some random douchebag that doesn’t like them reassigns them which goes against their leader’s command, and that’s how the plot kicks off? ○ Also, Elita’s involvement felt kind of rushed/hand-waved. They all get stuck on the surface, but instead of trying to make her way back to report them like she was saying she would for the past few minutes, she makes a complete 180 and heads the expedition herself. ○ It all just felt a little strange, but once it got going the rest of the plot felt fine.

Megatron’s descent into “evil” felt kind of rushed. I understand that he feels betrayed and I really love where the character ends up by the end, but it felt like a real 180 without a lot of build up.

Some jokes fell flat or felt annoying and kinda cringe. That’s the territory of children’s movies though, so par for the course.

TLDR

Overall, this movie was a really fun watch and I’d love to go see it again. While some parts fall a little flat, the movie is lifted from mediocrity by its many Pros. From the stunning visuals, to the quick humor, to the tragic origins of two friends driven apart by their ideals, I’d recommend this movie to anyone interested in animation or the Transformers brand.

8.82/10

[dashflashy-arts]

ML x Smiling Critters Au

Students by day! Heroes by... any other time of the day. When people transform into weird creatures and terrorize the locals, it's up to Dogday and Catnap to save the day! And keep everyone alive, of course!... hopefully. Honestly, both Dennis and Theo are just trying to get through the day and attempt to maintain little normalcy that's left in their city

Could there be more to this weird phenomena than just random coincidences? Was this all planned? Will they ever find the rumored Ladybug Miraculous that is said to repair everything?

WELL Y'ALL IDK GUYS BC HONESTLY I ONLY DREW THIS FOR FUN AND AS STRESS RELIEF AND I'M FAR TOO BUSY AND TIRED TO EVEN TRY AND DRAW ANOTHER FANCOMIC JWDJDUDJFJDD

That's not to say I don't have ideas or a somewhat cohesive plot in mind for this little dumb au

Read them under the cut:

Idk if y'all even bothered to see the other post about this Au, but basically it's like a human AU where it's MOSTLY normal like. Playtime Co. didn't rly exist. Orphans were not expiramented. Maybe some grew up and became adults themselves etc. Ngl I haven't figured this part out properly, but basically a family had a hold of these miraculouses which made like, a secret orgs thst tests their abilities or something. Then stuff happens with like whistleblowing and an Agreste(tm) event. Tho to sum up my scattered thoughts on this part: they used to have all the miraculouses, but someone stole it away from them. Unfortunately for them, someone important got rly sick so they're rly desperately finding the others (LB and Cat Miraculous mostly) to cure them and yeah the current butterly user (Harley Sawyer at this point) is carrying his predecessor's wishes, but w/ an ulterior motive of course. Why is he a robot here? Mmm ngl I don't rly have any other reason for it. Just wanted to draw a robot w/ some butterfly motifs

Okay, for the story, the "toys" are just normal people, but they become their "toy" selves upon akumatization. Idk whether to base it more on the toy lore or in-game lore but I might just have to merge them both (but leaning more on toy-lore, hopefully)

There will be like, um, a mix of aging-up here, like the Smiling Critters and Nightmare Critters here are teenagers, but some characters like the human vers. of Mommy long legs is an adult. I am trying to understand the game lore but I won't be very accurate bc again, I' not rly active with it so sorry die-hard fans 🤷‍♀️

Enough of that, here are some thoughts of the main protags:

Dennis Dantes is the likable cheery athlete in school. You could say he's popular, but he doesn't rly hang out with the popular kids for too long. He'd rather spend time with the friends he made since he was young. Dennis is just honest and simple like that. He is a natural leader, but he only lets that shine through as Dogday.

Theodore Grambell is the opposite. He's a loner, troublemaker, and sleepy student that professors dislike to have in class. And yet, he is beloved by his friends, Dennis mostly! While he keeps quiet as himself, he's nearly dead silent as Catnap. He lets Dogday take the lead with saving the day, but at the end of the day, it's his cataclysm that really matters in an akuma crisis. Unlike Dennis, he knows a lot more about the miraculous stuff, thanks to some... shady figure

When the first meeting, Catnap and Dogday weren't sure of each other. It took some time and akuma-fighting for Dogday to actually understand Catnap, and for Catnap to tolerate Dogday's overbearing "as heroes, we have to blah blah blah" mindset. This is ironic, btw, because as civilians, they are both the bestest of friends. Closest. Dennis always pounces at Theo every time he sees him, then talks his ear off, and Theo wouldn't mind, and would just be happy to be with him

Story starts with Dennis getting his miraculous via finding it in his locker. Theo got his few weeks prior (thanks to shady figure). Since this is an alt universe, events went differently, so kwamis like Barkk behave a little differently from canon. Barkk here is a lot more strict with rules and has to asert common sense to Dennis when he gets too carried away by his heart. That said, Dennis and Barkk are good with each other. As for Plagg, he and Theo are awkward AF. I imagine that Theo's not much of a conversationalist in general, so you can guess who does most of the talking. Plagg's also desperately trying to convince Theo that MAYBE idk that the shady guy is??? Not to be trusted?? It falls on deaf ears, unfortunately

There ARE guardians of the miraculouses here lol they just don't have the Ladybug miraculous bc the former user crashed out and dipped. They are searching for it and later on, after Dennis meets them, he helps them search for it

Do their friends get a miraculous? Do the nightmare critters get a miraculous too (then cause mayhem?) Maybe, maybe not. Heehehehehee ( =＾ω＾)

OH also this AU is set in 2005 bc um to match the game setting idk [insert South Arcade - 2005]

[cosmowgyral]

Falling into Sin with the Black Tiger ~ Gilbert's 4th Birthday

▪︎ Chapter 2

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

Gilbert: Ahaha, I was found right away.

The moment I heard a voice from behind me, I was embraced by a cold body.

When I turned around and looked up, there was not a trace of remorse on Gilbert’s face.

Emma: Is work going well for you?

Gilbert: Today my work is to look after you.

Gilbert: But, taking others’ opinions on account while deciding on a present, that’s not good, little rabbit.

(You’ve been watching me all this time.)

I felt both embarrassed and giddy, and my cheeks relaxed.

Emma: But, I don’t know much about gemstones.

Emma: I want to choose something good as it’s a gift for you, Gil. But I don’t know what is good or bad.

Gilbert: Then I’ll teach you.

Emma: That would take the fun out of it.

Gilbert: That’s not true. Rather, you can now go on a date with me, so it’s more fun, right?

(Surely, that’s a possible way to think about it?)

My face becomes sloppier as Gilbert asks me to “enjoy our date”.

(It might be better to wait and see his reaction while choosing.)

Emma: If that’s the case, may I ask you a favour?

Gilbert: Heehee, with pleasure. I’m glad.

Gilbert: I was worried you might try to rely on someone other than me again.

(He really is a troublesome villain.)

I walk through the town, holding Gilbert’s cold hand tightly.

Emma: Which gemstone is your favourite, Gil?

Gilbert: I’ve never considered it.

Emma: Obsidian or something….

Gilbert: Heehee, isn’t that a bit too simple?

Emma: You always give them to me.

Gilbert: I just want to dye you in my colours. It’s not about likes or dislikes or anything like that.

I showed him one gem after another, closely watching his reaction, but there was no change in his refreshing smile.

Gilbert: Which gemstone is your favourite?

Emma: …..When you ask me that, I don’t know what to say.

Gilbert: Right?

(All gemstones are beautiful and sparkly…but my favourite….)

What caught my eye was a rose-red gemstone with a matching blue stone.

(…Maybe I just like Gilbert rather than the gemstones.)

Gilbert: Hey, aren’t you tired from walking? Let’s take a break.

Emma: Uh…that’s right! Let’s do that.

I was so embarrassed that my voice came out higher than usual.

Gilbert gave out a small snort and went to a nearby food stall.

He ordered food so naturally that it was hard to believe he was part of the royal family. Then he promptly received the dishes.

Gilbert: Here you go.

Emma: Thank you. This is?

Gilbert: Dampfnudel…a kind of steamed bread that sells well this time of the year.

Gilbert: There are a variety of sauces but I ordered two kinds, a sweet one and a weird one.

(This is the first time I'm seeing this. It’s a standard thing in Obsidian.)

We sat down next to each other on a nearby bench and I immediately took a bite of the bread smothered in the sweet sauce.

Emma: Mmmm, it’s fluffy, chewy, and delicious!

Gilbert: What about the weird one?

I opened my mouth obediently to take a bite of the bread offered to me by Gilbert, and the sweet and spicy taste balanced well on my tongue.

Emma: It’s so spicy that it warms up my cold body right away.

Gilbert: Heehee, your thoughts are so cute and honest, aren’t they?

Emma: I’d like to hear your thoughts as well, Gil.

To return the favour, when I bring the steamed bun to Gilbert’s mouth, he bites it off all at once, along with my fingers.

(I..thought I was done for….I don’t feel the cold anymore, it’s actually getting hotter.)

Gilbert: They’re delicious, but….I’ve become tamed by your sweets, you know.

Gilbert: Eating street food makes me miss it.

Emma: That’s an honour.

Gilbert: Will you bake me a cake for my birthday again?

Emma: Of course. Not just cake, but lots of other foods too. Do you have any requests?

Gilbert: You’re always like that.

Emma: For your birthday, I want to pack in as many as your ‘number one’ things as possible.

Gilbert: Hmm…..

Gilbert: I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I really think that right now is the happiest I’ve been in my life.

Gilbert leans in and rests his head on my shoulder.

Gilbert: It’s not that I’m being shy or considerate.

Gilbert: But what you want, you want me to be more selfish than this, right?

Emma: That’s right.

Gilbert: To bother me like this…

Emma: I’m sorry. But I won’t say ‘you don’t have to think about it’.

(Gilbert always thinks about his country and other people, but never about himself.)

(That’s why, when asked ‘what do you want?’, I knew you couldn’t answer.)

(People who don’t know how to live selfishly, are confused, worried, and at a loss for words.)

(I want you to be very selfish.)

Emma: I’ll wait as long as it takes for an answer.

Gilbert: Little rabbit, you have a mean look on your face.

Emma: That’s because I’m the fiancée of a great villain.

Gilbert laughed and quietly closed his eyes.

Spending casual time listening to the peaceful hustle and bustle of the crowd was blissful, and yet I felt a little pain.

*scene shifts to the dining room in the palace*

Emma: Lies….

[Chapter 1] [Masterlist] [Chapter 3]

[transmascpalamedessextus]

gideon the ninth characters and their 2025 jobs

harrow: the hardest one on this list tbh. nun’s too simple, religious studies scholar isn’t insane enough. chef is too funny, as is orthopedic surgeon. we’ll go with historic preservationist, specializing in religious architecture and artifacts.

gideon: barista employee of the month, every month, at an inclusive crossfit gym. moonlights at a bar down the street some nights and is known for making sure everyone gets home safe, no matter how many asses she has to kick to the curb (literally)

palamedes: PhD and research consultant with multiple published works (research under his real name, fiction under a pseudonym). what’s the phd in? yes.

camilla: that one friend who can do anything and has done everything. certified meditation instructor? check. semi-professional martial artist? check. volunteer park ranger? check. often credited in palamedes’ works, but you didn’t even know she had a degree. throws mugs and vases in her spare time but vows to never open an etsy store

ianthe: evil woman in STEM (you pick her crime) or chain-smoking actress with a scandalous reputation and horrible interviewing manner but unmistakable talent

naberius: instagram model who is literally always filming sponsored content for a new boutique european hotel or “experience”

corona: so torn on this. either a fellow instagram model that 50% of her audience thinks is fake and 50% thinks is “actually really sweet!” or like a famous marine biologist working to save the turtles or something

jeannemary: young record-breaking olympian/pro athlete. it’s not fencing or martial arts — it’s skateboarding

isaac: internet star with a rising pop punk music career, a la noahfinnce. jeannemary did a viral drop-in to one of his songs

abigail: every gay student’s favorite history (or maybe archaeology?) professor at a world-renowned college

magnus: owner and operator of a charming pub in the quaint town where said world-renowned college is. it’s overpriced but the atmosphere and food are genuinely great

“dulcinea”: chronic illness content creator (later revealed to be grifter)

dulcinea: content creator, artist (painter), and sometimes streamer. candid and humorous about her illness, but refuses to be inspiration porn

“protesilaus”: male podcaster, incel edition

protesilaus: beloved personal trainer who privately trains for american ninja warrior on the side

silas: idk, the cuntiest bitch at the monastery? do we still have monks? can someone be a combo of trust fund baby and monk?

colum: successful practitioner of an age-old craft like blacksmithing. always taking commissions but prefers to help at historic reenactments or even ren faires. exclusively makes historically accurate pieces

judith: cop

marta: cop wait she helped harrow in the bubble so i have to be nice hard-but-fair-and-well-respected fencing instructor at a private school. she might as well be a monk for how little everyone knows about her personal life, but suspicion is rife and all the baby lesbians hope she’s got a wife (bars)

bonus: teacher: cult leader is too easy so we’ll go with “local guy who runs a shop selling crystals he bought from china at a 500% markup. he pretends they’re sustainably/ethically/lovingly sourced and guaranteed to cure your depression/anxiety/adhd but you both know he’s full of it”

[ennas-aesthetic]

What the fuck is Jesus up to in Good Omens season 3?

This is a question I've been thinking long and hard these past couple of days and I have some THOUGHTS SO. Buckle up.

Aziraphale and Crowley watching the Crucifixion (Good Omens, 2019)

First off. The answer to the question posited is relatively simple. What is Jesus up to in GO3? With s2's ending in mind and with the hints we've gotten for 668: Neighbor of the Beast over the years, we know he's descending to Earth to initiate the Second Coming. And that Aziraphale would probably make that happen - or do everything that he can as Supreme Archangel to sabotage it.

But I wanted to examine on how Jesus might fit into Good Omens' overall narratives and established themes - about morality and humanism and free will, and. I'm just saying, there are A LOT of fascinating routes they could do for his character.

(Disclaimer as usual: this is a theory that I obsessed over when I was stuck at the cemetery during All Souls' Day and must be treated as such. In no way am I insisting this should be how canon events must happen. I am just doing this for the funsies.)

The THING about Jesus if you situate him in the world of Good Omens (with the assumption that most of the pop culture Christology mythos associated with him remain intact) is that in this context he very quickly becomes: 1. Adam Young's narrative foil; and 2. an Aziraphale parallel.

Now, the first one is obvious. Of COURSE he is Adam Young's foil, duh. Adam isn't called the ANTICHRIST for nothing. Brought into the world just for the sole purpose of ending it. However, when the time comes for him to fulfill the Will of his Satanic Father, Adam flat out REFUSES.

Both the book and the show attribute this to Adam's human upbringing. He was raised as a human, and because of that he has the trait that the book uses to DEFINE human beings: free will. At the end, Adam had the AGENCY to reject the destiny planned out for him.

'Adam stood smiling at the two of them, a small figure perfectly poised exactly between Heaven and Hell.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm. "You know what happened?" he hissed excitedly. "He was left alone! He grew up human! He's not Evil Incarnate or Good Incarnate, he's just… a human incarnate—"'

- (Good Omens, 1990)

That is NOT what happened to Jesus.

Adam Bond as Jesus in Good Omens (2019)

Like Adam, he was raised as a human -- being a human incarnate was his WHOLE DEAL in Christology. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us... yada yada yada.

UNLIKE, Adam, though, Jesus wasn't able to REJECT his Destiny of Dying Really Horribly and Painfully on the Cross. Narratives in the Bible also made it clear that the Crucifixion was NOT his Will, but that of God's. Like... him begging to be spared from torment but ultimately following God's Will is such an important event entire devotional practices are made out of it.

"39 And he went a little farther, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt."

- (Matthew 26: 39, KJV)

We get a glimpse of that in s1ep3 of Good Omens, too:

"JESUS

(muttering through the pain)

Father, please . . . you have to forgive them . . . they don’t know what they are doing . . .

Crowley, in black, comes up next to Aziraphale.

CROWLEY

You’ve come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?

AZIRAPHALE

Smirk? Me?

CROWLEY

Well, your lot put him on there.

AZIRAPHALE

I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley."

- (The Quite Nice and Fairly Accurate Good Omens Script Book, 2018)

SO. Here we have the character of the Christ whose free will and agency had been STRIPPED from him in the guise of a "noble sacrifice." He comes back again on this Earth to fulfill another "inescapable destiny."

Aziraphale and Crowley need to stop him. The solution the Good Omens narrative offers to "inescapable destinies and systems" (both in s1 and s2) is for the character to realize they have the freedom to choose their own fates. It happened with Adam, and it happened with Gabriel, and perhaps it will happen to Jesus.

(At this point my sister frowned and said: "Are you telling me you think Aziraphale and Crowley are going to help Jesus realize he has agency and that him Dying on the Cross for the 'Great Plan' was kinda fucked up actually?" which sounds crazy when you put it like that BUT NEVER SAY NEVER BABIE.)

Because that brings me to my second point: if this all happens, Jesus becomes an AZIRAPHALE parallel.

In the same way Anathema is an Aziraphale parallel and Sergeant Shadwell is an Aziraphale parallel. Here is a character stuck in a suffocating status quo. To save the world, he needs to know he can escape that status quo and decide for himself. In the same way Anathema has to learn how to stop being a descendant or Shadwell to stop being a Witchfinder, or Gabriel to stop being an Archangel, and Adam to stop being an Antichrist, perhaps Jesus has to learn he can stop being... Well, the Christ, as well.

And this, of course, supplements Aziraphale's journey of letting go of the idea of being an idealized vessel of God, so he could finally enjoy the freedom of personhood and choice on Earth, with Crowley.

Or they could turn Jesus into a cackling villain who Aziraphale and Crowley need to kill in season 3, and I'd probably eat that up, too.

[baphometsss]

i had a galaxy brain moment where i realised that by keeping solas subservient to her in the war as an advisor mythal likely thought (or convinced herself) that she was protecting him from being twisted from his purpose. bc as long as he gives wisdom he's fulfilling his purpose, right??

but obviously she didn't factor in that declaring herself a god along with the other evanuris and doing all the horrible shit she did to the elves e.g: drawing them from the fade, keeping them as slaves, binding them to her will, binding a dragon to her will to preserve her immortality, etc etc, she was essentially twisting him from his purpose anyway bc she was going against the advice he was giving her. and that's on top of the fact that she bade him serve in a war where he would kill and genocide the titans which like. obviously that was gonna corrupt him

then she finally does listen to him and ends up dying bc of it, bc by that point her hubris was so great that she thought she was more powerful than the rest of the evanuris combined. then she spends the rest of her existence as a fragment in the crossroads hating him for going against her in the first place like ??

gurl what the fuck were you expecting really

the problem is that by the time of her death she's a lot more demon than spirit. (and yes i know the delineation isn't that straightforward, but i digress.) demons are clearly not that intelligent and they're even referred to as 'dolts' by the spirit of command in crestwood. solas says that demons are not intelligent enough to change their strategy and so the best method of defeating them is to survive the first few minutes of the fight

it's also telling that mythal wanted to leave the fade when all the lore up to this game tells us that spirits who want to leave the fade are usually demons. (this is largely circle mage talk but i think it's pretty accurate to everything else we've been shown.) ofc we don't get a full explanation as to why mythal wanted to leave, but in the memory of manifestation, mythal talks about how they're the best of both worlds when they manifest. so whatever her full reasoning was, we have to assume that she was dissatisfied enough with her life as a spirit of benevolence that she was willing to take a very big risk by building a body out of lyrium to leave the fade.

it's also... really crazy that she's remembered as the all-mother, that she had this very loving side and preserved at least some of her benevolence. and i do think that at one point she was kind and loving to her people--this is the side of her that solas, abelas, felassan and all her followers loved, whom solas befriended in the fade. but in the end, it mostly boiled down to her being protective over what she deemed to be hers. as she got twisted, she went from benevolence to retribution; her loving nature became a demand to first prove that you are 'worthy' followed by the unleashing of her wrath against anyone who defied that judgement by attacking what she saw as being 'hers' (the worthy). to attack someone she has judged to be worthy is to question her judgement, and as her crossroads fragment shows, she cannot and will not tolerate being wrong or having her judgement questioned.

what i'm saying is that dragon mythal is like one huge allegory for narcissistic rage lol

and i'm not trying to say that this is all she is. she's way too complex to boil down to just one of her manifestations. she is, in effect, a system of personalities at this point, as a lot of spirits and ancient elves were. they were highly emotional beings who, unlike modern elves, had a hard time experiencing more than one emotion at a time. they got tangled up in trying to navigate such an unpredictable emotional landscape when they were used to things being comparatively simple

yeah i just. i guess all the elves had the solas quality where they could be incredibly cunning and smart but still trip up and pull some of the dumbest shit imaginable

[clearlightwired]

i finished almost nowhere by @nostalgebraist!

i think i heard someone at some point describe this as "puzzle box literature" and that is probably the most accurate descriptor. rotating this book in my mind was intensely pleasing. you don't usually encounter sci-fi with fully-explained science that feels like a real thing that exists; not shying away at all from explaining how things actually work is one of the things i enjoy/respect most about what nostalgebraist did in this book, because the explanation was certainly no easy task (and the fact that it came out both understandable to me and in a way that caused me to want to learn more about actual physics is big).

the same things that make AN less approachable are also what make it an intensely rewarding experience imo... it's long and complex and easy to lose track of. but if you like understanding things then it is the perfect challenge. i am very glad it's as long as it is, both because i'm not sure you could fit what needed to be told in any shorter of a book and also because it was so enjoyable to read that i did not want it to end. nothing feels like it is in excess, though everything has the wonderful depth of things that could easily fill three such books, if you really looked into them

the multi-format nature of AN is one of the strong points. it is at times a physics lecture, a play, an annotated manuscript, a console log, etc. and all of these really work for it and are deployed in ways that make the reading experience better

(spoilers/specifics, if you have not read almost nowhere go read it now!!! please it's so good!)

i don't know yet, how i feel about the ending. it's almost simple, compared to the rest of the book, and not really precedented by anything that happens up to that point, though i think it ends up working well. i'll have to let that part sit for a while

i adored the characters in this book. i would be hard pressed to pick a favorite. it might be grant, or grant and azad together; what little information we get about what the mooncrash was like, in both the rebased and original version, has some certain quality to it that tugs at my heart. though watching the divergence of the annes and all the people they become is up there too. and of course the glimpses we get into what it feels like for the vances, knowing they are fictional... seeing into what it was like for hector in the crash with his anime figurines and video games... suffice it to say that all the characters are dimensional and the crashes give a lot of insight into them across situations. this is probably one of my favorite parts

this book is also just really funny. the types of people described on stein's rock and their customs. moon's whole deal. the descriptions of sylvie's halo and what it does. grant's continued role as "guy who sits, confused, while people tell him incomprehensible things". it makes the whole story flow

i have a lot of questions, still, but mostly ones that are at their core "i wish there was even more of this great book": e.g. how and why did sylvie make the transition from "grant's dog" to "sylvie"? (maybe this is answered somewhere and i missed it.) i typed out a long list of questions after that one but am realizing that a lot of them are just that this book is very complex and maybe much would become clear if i reread it in the future -- the prompt to reread chapter 15 towards the end of the book surprised me with how much more understandable it was the second time around, and probably lots of other parts would be similar now that i've seen the story from above.

this is a really great book. i will maybe write more at some point but for now i want to think on it. and then maybe read everything else nostalgebraist has ever written

[betty-fran]

#my fanfiction recommendation column

leave no soul behind by whochick

james t. kirk / s'chn t'gai spock

(i love it genuinely so much, so i even have playlist for it)

There are many reasons why you love stories - some enchant with their beauty, some break your heart with their quiet sadness, some help you get through hard times and believe in miracles, some, especially important ones, irrevocably and forever change your life, and you carry them with you carefully as the most precious treasures in pockets near your hearts, but sometimes, and I love such stories the most, they are simply familiar to you, as if you've always known them, as if they have always been here, and you wear them like your favorite clothes, slightly worn and so undeniably yours.

And if TOS became for me that precious treasure from my pocket near my heart, Leave No Soul Behind is undoubtedly this rare, familiar, very mine story. And besides, by a strange coincidence, this was the main reason why I even turned on the first episode of TOS in early spring. Even before my sister and I found evenings together to watch the reboot, which I had fond memories of since my early 20s, I remembered K/S (my memory was hazy, but I definitely knew that there was some obvious hungry codependency between the two of them) and decided to read something purely out of curiosity. LNSB wasn't even first on the list, but I opened it, and it wasn't until halfway through that I even remembered that I sat down to read it for K/S. Because it was just, damn, why wasn't it released officially? It was so whole, so self-contained, and so tactful in the way it showed us relationships that it was probably the first time I thought I could even show it to my sister, who is very skeptical about fanfiction.

When I think of AOS, I think of LNSB first. This is simply the best reading of AOS that exists, better than AOS itself, to be honest. It's such a well-built world, with a well-maintained dynamic of speed, character relationships, plot drama, and, most importantly, this story somehow manages to take everything that was good in the reboot and make it a serious, psychologically literate thing. It does what AOS should do: explores important themes in TOS through the prism of the lost utopianism of today's harsh reality, and does it with such tenderness, with such love for the original, that it somehow disarms. This is a well-written story of the life of paramedics in a world at war, where things you know disappear with each passing day, and you fall asleep to the sound of a radio that no longer brings good news, and you don't know if tomorrow will come. It's vociferously anti-war, and it's especially familiar to us today. It openly talks about PTSD, and painfully true, and somehow simply, without undue dramatization or attempts to soften it, speaks of SA/DV childhood trauma, as it is, unremarkable, unsightly, shameful, and not heroic at all.

This is clearly the most accurate depiction of AOS Kirk, in his lostness, disrespect for authority, and trust issues. In how he only has one bag to carry his entire life in, an old, worn-out jacket, and paperback books that he sends to a house he can't return to. In how his desire to feel like he belongs is more important to him than any ambition or achievement. And this story is incredibly authentic in its little personal things, in its witty dialogues, in this nostalgia for a non-plastic life with coffee cups and bagels in the city center, for morning runs and long night car rides, for divided breathing in the cramped bed, in this "you and I, we've both been through hell, and in complete disarray and terror we don't want any loud victories, we just want a simple, quiet life". And, yes, the K/S here is something special. Despite all the drama, the constantly high degree of tension, and the roller coaster of the transitions between parts, it's a very concrete, fundamental thing from the very beginning. What's between them, they're building it step by step, they're talking and helping each other on the path to healing, and it's somehow so... right.

Just the way it should be.

And in many ways, this story is much closer to the original series in its essence than anything else, and it's strangely, humanly very dear to me, because we humans tend to get attached to stories. As always, I have a few actually a lot (almost non-spoiler) quotes:

The Vegans have a legend among their kind. It speaks of beings that live in the ocean. Unlike the human mermaid mythos, these water angels sing no siren song to call souls into the dark embrace of death. Far from it. They are said to flock towards the drowning, providing buoyancy, succour and support. The Vegans swear that in the water, no one dies alone.

Luna is one of the few places where such things are still available, along with coffee in paper cups and those little chestnuts roasted over an actual hot plate and served in a paper bag. If he's honest with himself, he kind of likes them, too. They've got a brittle kind of impermanence to them; an honesty and fragility that is hard to find in this mixed up, plassteel, transparent aluminium society.

A strange little thrill runs through him at her words; a frisson of something that he can't quite describe. It feels a bit like fate or destiny, but it could just as easily be the bagel he had for breakfast so he thrusts it firmly out of his mind.

"What made you switch?" Jim thinks of that space-jump, of a fleet torn to shreds, of poor orders from on high, of lifeless floating bodies and planets imploding in an abortive scream. "The dental, mostly."

"Nobody in whom you can confide?" "I'm not much of a confider." They glance at each other, and there's a measure of greater understanding. "No," says Spock.

"Fair enough. How about we talk about something else?" "Okay. I heard Ops are edging out Engineering as favourites in the inter-departmental grav ball championships." "Let's talk about your mother." "Oh fuck no."

"You don't feel like you know your mother?" "Well enough. Better than I'd like to. Less than is healthy."

There were kids down there, Bones. Little spindly kids melted to their play equipment like crispy chicken wings. Fuck, Spock is right, I think I'm going vegetarian. Can you whip up a meal plan for me?

Jim tries not to feel bitter. "I admire your confidence, but in my experience, parents are made to disappoint you." "Strange," says Spock, drawing himself up to his full height. "I have consistently found the reverse to be true."

"Scotty respects you." There are a few moments of uncomfortable silence where he figures Spock isn't going to reply, but then, that quiet baritone voice filters through the transparent aluminium. "And you, Jim?" Kirk feels something lodge in his throat. For a moment, he thinks he's going to be sick again, but it passes. "Yeah, and me."

Vulcan privacy is so important, so fundamental. It might be strange to think that someone as outgoing as Jim understands that need, but he does. There are parts of his own life, parts of himself that he likes kept apart; things that are his and his alone.

"If you have a character flaw, Jim, it is this; you place no value on the word of others." Spock turns away, eyes on the floor, his angular face hinting at a disappointment that is overwhelming. "We spoke of trust, and yet here we stand."

As always, he feels most whole when he's slightly broken.

"Yeah, but it's different when you see it." He swallows, throat suddenly dry. "You can be a thing, but it doesn't have any power over you until you realise that's who you'll always be when other people look at you."

"Somewhere along the way, you and I just stopped speaking the same language." "Mom, we never even used the same alphabet," he says quietly, but his hand flips, his fingers close around hers, holding on.

"I guess," Jim drawls, completely ignoring the escape route, "one day I'd like her to look at me and really see who I am." He turns to Spock, knowing that what he's said doesn't make sense, but still wanting understanding. "Like we're both really here, in this moment, in the present."

Spock acknowledges the irrational desire to melt into the ground, to rest there indefinitely while the planet turns and the seasons pass. He feels old, worn out, empty. It is not rational, but that does not make it less true.

He does not want that life, that realization and that loss. He wants, perhaps, the tiniest portion of happiness; a glimpse of what his father had shared with his mother, not the blazing intensity of love and separation.

Inside, Jim is momentarily gleeful. Sometimes, in spite of long standing protective habit, you actually need to let something in. Bit by bit, moment by moment, he thinks that both of them are learning how.

It's an ugly feeling, reflected in the bare-toothed smile on his face and the adrenaline that sets his hands shaking. He's been here before a thousand times over, the images come crashing down from the inside, pushing relentlessly outwards, made of blood and bone and teeth and boiling anger because it's the only thing between him and heartbreak.

The acceptance is heady and really, Jim can't be expected to show restraint in the face of it. They shift together slowly, lips drawing close, barely brushing in the warmth of shared breath. It's almost a kiss, and the nearness of it should make Jim frustrated, but instead it's simply thrilling.

Intellectually, Spock is aware that adversity breeds fortitude, both physical and mental, but he did not expect to find it honed so finely. Jim's mind is bright and turbulent, as beautiful and filled with destruction as a battlefield.

"Hey," Jim says softly, leaning around the corner of the lab door. "Am I disturbing you?" Spock looks up from the displays stiffly, as though he’s been crouched over them too long. "No, of course not." He can't help the warmth that floods his face at Spock's words, as though his enjoyment of Jim's presence is unconditional. Maybe that fits. Maybe that's what he's always wanted; no fairytale ending, no impossible perfection, just the knowledge that he's welcome amongst the chaotic jumble of someone's life.

"You're as brown as a nut," Pike observes, taking in Jim's face with a slight smile. "Spend your shore leave lying on a beach?" "Actually, down a hole full of bat shit, sir."

"Of all the people, out of everyone, Jim Kirk?" Spock stares at his boots, stares at the door, stares at his hands clasped loosely in front of him. When he finally meets the Admiral's flabbergasted gaze, he very pointedly shrugs. The room is warm with Pike's laughter and Spock catalogues a pleasant buzz of rebelliousness before pushing it aside.

"I do not." His dark eyes are solemn. "However, I do not spend inordinate amounts of time reading military briefings, monitoring Fleet deployments and drawing upon public media coverage of the war for entertainment." Jim laughs a little through his nose. "Yeah, my hobbies are awesome, you can admit it."

So it is that McCoy is the only one paying attention when Spock kneels and carefully gathers Jim to his chest, head bowed, eyes wide open and staring at nothing even as Jim's close in relief and his hands grip the Commander's EVA suit tightly. They don't move for a long time. McCoy makes himself look away.

Let him live, he pleads with a higher power he does not believe in. If he lives, it will be enough. Jim doesn't so much as twitch for the next forty two minutes. Spock counts every breath.

Jim lifts his head, moves his hand, presses the fingertips against the tiny speck of white in the black where Spock is. "Write me." Silence. "Spock, dammit, don’t shut me out!" Silence.

"You are speaking of happiness," Spock infers, his eyes flicking to the side, skittish in the way they would never be during a conversation on reproduction, bodily functions, or any other topic that customarily embarrasses human youths. Sarek allows the barest hint of a smile to grace his lips. "Yes, I am speaking of happiness."

He shifts uncomfortably, fingers knotted in the jacket he holds in his hands, the only other possession he's brought with him apart from the clothes he stands in and the motorcycle parked in the street. "Mom, I need your help." She's very quiet, very still. Only her eyes move, taking him in, weighing him and assessing him. He does his best not to wilt under the scrutiny. "I don't think I can help you," she says finally. "You shouldn't have come here."

It is not rage he feels, or mortification; it is a hollow sense of loss mixed with the rush of realization that this is what Jim does; this careless, reckless prostitution of self. It is ingrained in every illogically brilliant idea, every unthinkingly self-sacrificing action, every moment Jim extends himself beyond the reasonable to save a life.

It's just, the mindmeld and," his face contorts and there's a flash of anger, "I'm not used to having anyone to...I'm not used to having..." Spock steps forward and envelops him in a crushing hug, Vulcan-strong. "Please endeavour to become accustomed."

"Do you mind?" It is an imprecise question. The parameters are not clearly defined. Without elucidation there is a significant risk that Spock's response can be misinterpreted or taken out of context. All these objections and more rise to the surface of his orderly mind and dissipate like smoke on the wind. "I find I do not."

"I'm not as good without you," Jim confesses, and it's hard and bitter to Spock's ears. "I'm less than I can be, when you're not there." The logic of symmetry is undeniable. Spock is powerless in the face of it. "It is the same for me."

What's new is the Vulcan bareness of him, the hard edge in his eyes. He's been pared down and sharpened into something else entirely. The revelation clenches in Jim's gut; Spock can never go back, never be the same; neither of them can.

Spock doesn't care if he's been missed or thought of or worried over. Spock needs to be needed, just as much as Jim himself.

He reaches up, frames Spock's face in his hands, tries to find enough breath to tell him everything, but can only manage to gasp, "tell me I'm not too late!" Spock's satchel slips from his suddenly nerveless fingers. "Stay here, with me," Jim whispers, breathing hard, shaky with adrenaline, and of course that's when security tackle him to the ground.

It's frustrated and desperate and maybe half disbelieving, but it's also pure magic. The taste, the pressure, the sheer audacity of finally admitting the permanency they want leaves them holding on for dear life.

Spock thinks of the mission to Solis-allera and the way everyone else had blinked and grumbled at their sixteen hour entrapment in an escape pod while Jim had slept on oblivious, head pillowed only on the arm of his EVA suit.

Spock reaches behind him to find the back of Jim’s head to cradle it with his fingers, holding the sound of his breathing as close as he can. Jim responds by shifting to press his lips into the hollow behind Spock’s ear, whispering of how needed Spock is, of how much he is loved, of how Jim knows he can live without this, but can’t imagine why he’d want to.

It had never been an issue aboard the Stalwart, with crisis after crisis popping up in the wake of their first, tumultuous coming together. Here, in the bright light of mid-morning, all the potential pitfalls are exposed. Both of them, apparently so ill-equipped for intimacy.

"I have never been more mentally at peace than I am when I am with you." Spock lays it out in such a quietly honest way that it makes Jim suddenly breathless. He's left standing, lips slightly parted, wondering if it's possible to blank his whole life and start over again from right there. "That has to be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

There is green everywhere, almost overwhelming to a Vulcan, and yet it still reminds him of the desert. The landscape is whittled down bare, like glistening bone. Spock can see some of that in Jim in this place, now so hunched and guarded, barely two steps ahead.

"I do not understand why we are here," Spock confesses, examining the neglected house with new interest now that he has inferred the connection to Jim's childhood. "You will." The fear rolling off Jim is clouding Spock's ability to think clearly. Bound by loyalty and a kind of morbid fascination, he follows Jim's tense shoulders into the abandoned house. The rooms are closed and dark, but Jim makes no move to open anything.

Spock wants to say something, but can find no suitable response. Nothing in his life has prepared him for this truth about Jim, or the sudden insight into the nature of intimidation, power and revenge.

He flashes back to that ocean on Vega, the first time he'd met Jim, because this, too, feels like drowning.

There is guilt so heavy it is suffocating and a sense of worthlessness that haunts his every failure. It is not enough to be good at something, he has to be the best. He has to keep running until he finds a place to call home.

The freedom to enjoy things without guilt is another thing he’s never had with anyone else. It's a pleasure that extends from the sauce dripping over his fingers to the way he can take off on his motorbike without wondering if that’s okay. Spock is always there when he gets back, and if he’s not, there's a message in his inbox or a neatly lettered note on the kitchen bench. Once, and Jim swears it wasn’t an accident, Spock left him a haiku in magnetic letters on the refrigerator.

Somehow, amongst all the viciousness of history, they find each other.

[shkika]

So on the topic of iterators playing video games, this:

which is a part of the set of holograms Iggy can show Moon after Rivulet powers her back up. Which based on the colors, grid, and way the tiles change, is probably Moon and Pebbles playing the iterator dominoes

(It's funny to think one of first message Moon sent to Pebbles after hundreds of cycles was essentially "Hey you wanna play games")

(I need Saint playing Dominoes with Moon now)

I'm beyond mentally ill for those two! I'm very aware of their domino shenanigans. If you pay attention to Moon's projections you can see a lot of neat stuff. Actually let's talk about that!

I think them playing together is just so.. fitting and beautiful. It's such a simple way to connect with others. Playing games is one of the easiest ways to build or rebuild friendships. Any kind of games. Something casual you can talk and share while you do. And those two have plenty to talk about.

Aside the games though..

Ramble about a bunch of her projections in Saint and Riv campaigns below! It was very fun!

Moon also remembers her various slug cat companions through the cycles.

She tells Hunter how she wishes she could remember them. And now she can. Moon can remember her savior and remember just how hard her family and peers tried to contact her, to reassure her, to show how they cared. Even this image on it's own speaks a lot. Moon couldn't have taken it, because she was offline before that key ended up in her chamber. So it was Iggy. One of the overseers she no longer has control over yet tried to help her anyway. It's sweet.

It makes it canon that Monk met her and gave her two neurons! A thoughtful and kind creature.

Pet pictures of course! Here is little demon baby.

Moon also has pictures of the local group in the distance! She never stopped trying to look after them and be a local group senior. Checking up on them in the only way she really can. I think that's sweet.

And what honestly breaks me is uh..

These. She also never stopped being Five Pebbles' administrator.. or more accurately his big sister. Checking up on how he is doing and the situation with his rot. It just makes me ache a little. It's been way too long for her to be angry anymore. She can finally talk to him and they both know it won't be for long.

Moon also has pictures of Silent Construct.

Unless I am mistaken of course. But I get the idea that she has trouble reaching him. Or she can't find him. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think Moon's overseers can’t reach Five Pebbles anymore. I don't think she'd stop being his company otherwise. Silent Construct is a place that has crumbled very badly and who knows in what state overseer tunnels are.. especially with the dense scavenger populations, it must be difficult to reach him.

Of course we also have the fallen buildings of her local group in the distance. No longer standing. Their time is over.

And! Something a little more fun is that she has a projection of the Moon. Looks to the Moon alright! How silly and sweet.

Hope you like the view Moonie.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Dear Y/N

Dearest,

There are no words in any language to accurately express what I feel for you. You are the one who holds my thoughts captive with a single smile or a simple touch. You are my dearest love, my most precious treasure, and without you, my life would be empty and meaningless. Every single day, I thank the Gods that I have the privilege of waking up next to your sweet face. Love doesn't begin to express what I feel for you. You are the very breath in my lungs, the blood pumping through my heart, and my reason for living. I treasure every moment I spend with you and long for the moments when we are apart. You are the light that shines in the darkness of my life. You are the star that guides me, the comfort that soothes my soul. You are the only one that I have ever loved with my entire body and soul, and you will always be the most important person in my world.

I love everything about you. Whether it is your laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you're thinking hard, or your tendency to fall asleep on the couch with the TV on, you are the most perfect person in the world to me. You make me feel things that I never thought I could feel before. You give me strength, courage, and a reason to keep going even when I feel like giving up. You are in every thought I have and in every beat of my heart. Your presence brings peace and comfort to my heart, and your very name has the power to light up the darkest depths within me. My love for you knows no bounds and it keeps growing with every passing day. When you're close to me, the world seems to melt away and time itself stands still. Even when we're apart, your smile is always in my thoughts and the sound of your voice is like music to my ears, you are the reason my heart sings. Your warmth and kindness know no limits. You're my safe haven, the one person in this world that I can truly depend on.

Every time you look into my eyes and smile, my heart fills up again. Your laughter is my daily prayer that keeps my faith in love alive. You have the power to make even the most ordinary of days feel like a celebration, and your presence in my life is nothing short of a gift from the heavens. I love you with all my heart, now and for all time. You are the one whom the moon and stars are jealous of, the one with a heart of gold that outshines them all. Whenever you're near, I can't help but smile. Your kisses are like ambrosia on my lips. You make me feel like a hero in the stories; with you by my side, I could conquer any challenge. Even when I'm at my lowest, a single word from you can lift me up. Truly, you are my other half. Your very existence blesses my life in ways that are nearly impossible to describe. Whenever I hold you in my arms, the rest of the world ceases to exist. All that matters is you and me. Your touch ignites a fire within me that can never be extinguished. Every single moment spent with you is a precious gift, and I will spend eternity cherishing each one. Thank you for bringing color, warmth, and joy into my life, my darling.

You are the light that guides me through even the stormiest nights, the voice that calms my fears, and the comfort that brings me solace. Your presence alone is enough to make me feel complete. With every beat of my heart, I love you more and more. You are both my dearest friend and the love of my life. I cherish every moment spent with you and look forward to building a life together. There are no words that can fully express the depth of my love for you but know that it runs as deep as the ocean and as high as the heavens. Your love is a song that continues to play on repeat in my head. Every word you say, every smile, every glance in my direction holds such significance to me that it's nearly impossible to explain. It all fills me to the brim with admiration and joy. I thank the Gods every day for bringing you into my world, and for choosing me to be the one who gets to look upon your beautiful face. With your love, my life has become a symphony.

There is nothing I love more than the sound of your voice as you speak my name. Your presence is like a soothing balm on my soul, bringing comfort and ease to all my worries. The touch of your hand against mine, your embrace… all of it is beyond precious to me. Every single moment spent with you is a gift, something to be treasured and held close to my heart. Your presence has the power to lift me up and make me feel like I'm on top of the world. Your eyes alone hold the power to captivate me and send chills down my spine. The way they seem to peer into my very soul and convey every emotion you feel, it's enough to take my breath away. Every little thing you do, from the way you tilt your head when you're thinking to the way you bite your lip when you're nervous, it all makes my pulse quicken and my heart skips a beat.

I could spend my entire life trying to find the words to describe the love that I feel for you, but I doubt I'd ever come close to doing it justice. As I write this, my mind is filled with thoughts of you -- how beautiful you are, how much you mean to me, and how fortunate I am to hold your heart. So, I will simply end by saying this: thank you. Thank you for existing, being who you are, and for choosing to be the love of my life. You are the beat of my heart and the very air that I breathe. Now and forever.

Your, Tomas Vrbada

[chappydev]

What makes OCPD different from {insert disorder here}?

TL;DR: OCPD is motivated entirely by control. Any perceived overlap is purely due to symptoms and outward behavior; our motivations for why we behave in such a way is fundamentally different from other similar disorders. Read on for more information.

A lot of people ask me how OCPD (Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder) works, and this inevitably leads to hour-long conversations of me trying to explain it. I usually get there eventually, but throughout the process I find myself running into the same problems; the distinction between it and other disorders. If I'm talking to an autistic person, they'll ask me how it's different from autism. An OCD person (note: i also have OCD, you can have both!) asks how it's different from OCD. Someone with NPD or BPD asks how it's different from their PDs. Because it overlaps with all of these and has similar symptoms to all of them.

Like autism, we need clear social cues and rules. We have specific ways of doing things. We need order and organization (though it may not look organized to others; as long as it is organized in our own mind).

Like OCD, we have a deep fear of uncertainty. We seek reassurance, we excessively ruminate and analyze every thought we have. Unlike OCD, OCPD doesn't have "compulsions" (except for compulsively working/workaholicism, but that isn't necessarily the same as OCD compulsions. I have both, and OCD compulsions are definitively different in my head).

Like NPD, we desire perfection. Anything less than that is unacceptable. Unlike NPD, we can be more self critical (I know NPD can be self critical at times, but we are at all times); one phrase I see a lot in the literature is that "People with NPD and OCPD both desire perfection. But those with OCPD don't think they've reached perfection and hate themselves for it, while NPD thinks they have reached perfection, and hate themselves when that is challenged". I don't know how accurate to NPD that is, but it is accurate to OCPD. We also hold people to extremely high standards. If we do something to a specific standard, and others don't work as hard as we do, we get angry.

Like BPD, we can "split". I use quotes because it's not technically called splitting for OCPD; it simply looks the same. While BPD splitting can trigger for emotional reasons (perceived slights, lack of attention, things like that), OCPD lashes out over extremely specific situations. Oh, you stopped messaging me? That's fine, I have work to do anyway. But you're bad at the video game we're playing together? Why are you wasting my time? Are you stupid, or just doing it on purpose? Like BPD, we feel very bad after the fact; however, while in BPD this is splitting, with OCPD it is our conscientiousness catching up to us. We know what we did was wrong, and that makes us feel terrible. The uncertainty of knowing how someone feels about us afterwards is torturous.

And yet, OCPD isn't any of these disorders. I could, in theory, lay out every single difference between OCPD and every other neurodivergence under the sun. But at the end of the day, I find that it's actually quite simple to lay out how it is different from these other overlapping disorders; motivation.

OCPD is entirely motivated by a fear of losing control. Everything else follows from that. Workaholicism? Well, the only way I can be sure that everything will turn out fine is if I make sure my work is perfect. Then, there's no uncertainty. Oh, but there's just one more thing to tweak, gotta fix that, gotta get it back under control.

Rules, lists, and organization? That's easy! As long as I can follow the list of rules, as long as I know the steps, then everything is clear and simple. There's no randomness; it's all if->then logic. Something breaks that rule? Clinging to these rules ensures control.

Fear of uncertainty? Uncertainty means no control. That's why if something bad happens. I have to obsess over it for days and days on end. Until I find the solution, so I know how to avoid it in the future, and thus never let that bad thing happen to me again.

Perfection? That's obvious. Only someone perfect can control everything.

Emotional swings and lashing out? We need control even over how people perceive us. But we also need control over how we do things, which clashes. I want to play a game to accomplish a specific goal; you get distracted or aren't as fast as me. I am no longer able to control the pace of the experience. I become anxious. I become angry. I lash out, because of this. Wait, no. now you dislike me! Now I'm not in control of how you feel about me because I slipped up and now you hate me! I need to fix this to reestablish control!

That's it. Any overlap is merely overlap in symptoms and outward presentation; it's the motivation that makes us different from other disorders. And motivation does matter. Both for understanding ourselves, helping others understand us, and for treatment.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk lmfao this ended up really long.

[lurkingshan]

Japanese QL Corner

This week we begin our farewell to two brilliant shows and welcome a newcomer. Of the shows airing now, all but one are streaming weekly on Gaga and the other is available via fansub.

Takara's Treasure

gif by @my-rose-tinted-glasses This was the final week for the main story (don’t despair, we get a special episode next week), and the show wrapped up our core romance arc beautifully. At its heart this is a simple story between two boys seeking connection and working up the confidence to pursue what they want without fear. We spent the first half of the show grounded in Taishin’s country mouse in the big city journey, and the second slowly peeling back Takara’s layers until we understood just how mutual their affection is. I was so impressed with the show’s steady, patient approach to revealing this character to us, and I love that through knowing and liking Taishin (perhaps even more than 100%), Takara is getting more comfortable with himself, reaching for what he wants, and having genuine moments of joy. I’m also excited for him to get to know Taishin’s family and feel some of the warmth and support he’s been missing. Looking forward to whatever glimpse of their future the show gives us next week.

Happy of the End

gif by @putterphubase

We knew this one was going to be dark, and hoo boy is it. Content warnings for the first two episodes:

Assault, child abandonment, childhood sexual slavery, domestic abuse, family violence, human trafficking, rape, sexual exploitation

We meet our main characters this week and learn the basics of their backstories (though there are still gaps that I expect will be filled in later on). Both of these men have lived hard lives, and it shows. They are not particularly good people, neither of them responds normally to the situations they find themselves in, their emotional wavelengths are often odd, and there is a recklessness to their behavior that speaks to a kind of ambivalence about survival. They recognize something in each other that draws them together, but even as they share their stories and spend time together, there are barriers between them. This story has a fairly bleak worldview, so I don’t expect it will follow the usual romance beats and I’m not counting on a happy ending. @bengiyo pointed out that the show seems to be narrated from a future perspective after the relationship ends, and @illgiveyouahint said the show feels “gently hopeless” which I think is a rather apt description of its tone.

This show is beautifully shot and feels steady and clear about its subject matter, but its themes are not for everyone. Proceed with caution, and ask for content warnings if you need them—I expect there will be difficult content in every episode. This one is dropping two episodes a week on Gaga, and there is also a fansub ongoing from @isaksbestpillow. Siiri’s subs will likely be more accurate, but I recommend at least background streaming on Gaga to make sure the show gets the official views.

I Hear the Sunspot

gif by @heretherebedork

I have already talked plenty about my current feelings of frustration with this show, so I won’t belabor the point. This week Taichi dropped out of university to go work full time at his new job despite his friends’ protests, we got a long Maya flashback and another instance of her clashing with Taichi, Kohei and Taichi continued to not say anything honest to each other as they said their goodbyes, and Kohei confessed without Taichi processing it yet again. The final episode appears to include a time skip, and then maybe they will have the conversation we’ve been waiting on for six weeks. Fingers crossed the finale makes all of this time spent in stasis feel worth it.

Note: I have to get this up early today due to my travel schedule, and at time of posting episode 7 of Mr. Mitsuya's Planned Feeding was not yet available with English subs. I imagine @isaksbestpillow will post sometime soon and I will share when it goes up and include final thoughts in next week’s round up.

Tagging @bengiyo for the anime update.