#or purposely misnaming them

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Whenever

I missed last WIP Wed cause I was taking a break from tumblr. Which was very much needed (i'm still not 100% returned). During that time I wrote a lot! :D

I was tagged by @theoneandonlysemla on Wednesday. thank you 💚

no pressure tagging: @changelingsandothernonsense @hircines-hunter @firefly-factory @dirty-bosmer @scholarlyhermit @captain-of-silvenar @skyrim-forever @yansurnummu @madam-whim @oblivions-dawn @ggghoulish @truth-01001001-liar

[warning: some corpse mutilation] :) As usual, if you see a mistake, no you didn't. And if you're wondering whose fucking corpse, it's a Thalmor dissident. There's not a single good person in this scene, oh wait - I guess the corpse could be considered the only good person 😬 oops

Lilliandra's hands still and her shoulders slump. Giving her mother her fullest attention, she clenches and unclenches her jaw, and says, “Mother, I tire of this. Allow me to finish this first before we get into hypotheticals.” She knows she's running the fine line of being brutally honest and disrespectful now, but her patience has run out. She skipped dinner and easy evening plans to be sitting here, peeling the skin of an unknown mer, answering question after question after fucking question.  Her mother is unamused, but turns her back to Lilliandra, giving unspoken permission to continue the task at hand. Finally. She returns to humming to herself as she works on the hand, exposing the many tendons that sit below the skin. It takes several minutes and rotating the hand this way and that to finally flense the last bit of skin off of flesh. When she finishes, she sets the blade onto the table, returns the now freshly skinned arm back to the mer, and picks up the large sheet of flesh, holding it out in front of herself in admiration of her skill. She likes to think her cutwork is rather smooth, all things considering.  A knock at the door disturbs them. Lilliandra doesn’t care to look who’s bothering until she hears their steps stop behind her and the feel of eyes. It’s unsettling, the hair on the back of her neck rising. With a side glance over her shoulder, she finds annoyingly familiar pale eyes look down at her. She moves her hand to the table and carefully slides her hand over the blade and collects it subtly as she uses the table to support herself. She stands, not out of respect for the mer that joined them, but more to have the upper hand in height. There’s a sense of control regained when it forces him to look up at her.  So she turns and stands there, looking down at Lord Naarifin, a sheet of skin hanging from one hand and an extra sharp blade hidden in the other. She keeps her expression impassive as he looks between her and her obvious work. She’s never liked this mer; she has no specific reason why. She just does.  “I do still stand by my opinion that you’d do well as an interrogator,” his voice monotonous, he speaks his opinion where no one asked.  She hates this is something she can agree with. Between her illusion work and her bladework, she wouldn’t have much issue pulling secrets from victims; it may even be fun. But she simply didn’t care to join this asininity when she could be researching more interesting things. She also didn’t enjoy the company of their young interrogator-in-training. What was his name? She tries to remember as she rotates the blade’s handle in her hand and ignores responding to Naarifin. Over and over the handle turns ― Rellus? No, no. Over and over. Ruliel? Over and over and over. Ruluril? Still not right. You know what? She doesn’t care.  “Lilliandra. You’re free to go,” her mother breaks her train of thought. Though he does a good job hiding it, she can see the way Naarifin’s jaw clenches at her lack of response. She reunites the skin with the corpse, dropping it unceremoniously onto it, but the blade stays in her hand. When she takes a step towards the shorter mer, he does not immediately move out of her way and her mother adds, “Leave the blade please.” She gives a tense smile when he looks to her hand, it’s still turning the handle around. She considers for fun to stab the corpse, but instead throws it onto the table and feels some petty satisfaction when she sees the obsidian chip and break. It’s worthless now. Taking her gloves and leather apron off, she throws them to join the damaged blade and she leaves without a word. 

[icewindandboringhorror]

One of the interesting bits of trying to resume working on the game after so long is looking back at my ancient Draft Placeholder versions of an image from 4 yrs ago trying to remember what the hell I meant back then, to hopefully interpret it into some more final (ish..) form of the same thing .. making slow progress lol

[wild-at-mind]

Also now I'm feeling really shit about not getting to anything for trans day of remembrance this year.

[starryeyedwolves]

Misnaming Malice

Remus prided himself on being logical. Rational. A thinker.

But when it came to Sirius, logic didn’t always win.

Which was why, instead of calmly accepting that Sirius flirted with every pretty girl who so much as glanced in his direction, Remus had developed a habit. A small, petty habit.

It started during their sixth year.

Sirius had swept into the Gryffindor common room one evening, all effortless charm, with a girl on his arm. A Ravenclaw, Remus thought, vaguely recognizing her from the library.

"Moony," Sirius had said, flashing his usual smug grin. "This is Claire."

Remus, without missing a beat, had looked her dead in the eyes and said, "Nice to meet you, Clara."

She had laughed, a light, tinkling sound, and corrected him good-naturedly. But Sirius had frowned. Just a little. The way his brow creased, the slight downturn of his lips—it was almost imperceptible, but Remus had noticed.

And for reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely, something warm and victorious unfurled in his chest.

So naturally, it became a habit.

A game, really.

Every time Sirius introduced him to a girl, Remus got her name wrong.

"Moony, this is Eleanor," Sirius said a few weeks later, gesturing grandly to a blonde Hufflepuff at his side.

Remus hummed. "Elaine, was it?"

"Eleanor," she corrected politely, smiling.

"Lena?"

Sirius exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "Eleanor, Moony. It’s not that hard."

"Of course, of course. My apologies, Ellen."

The girl had only laughed, but Sirius had glared at him for the rest of the night.

Remus enjoyed himself immensely.

The more Sirius flirted, the worse it got.

"Moony, meet Lydia."

"Lisa?"

"Lydia."

"Lena?"

"Moony—"

"Sorry, Leah?"

Sirius had to physically restrain himself from hexing Remus right then and there. The girl, meanwhile, took Sirius’ sudden shift in mood as disinterest and wandered off to find someone more attentive.

Remus bit back a smirk.

It worked every damn time.

James, of course, caught on by Christmas

"Mate," he had said, watching as Remus calmly butchered another poor girl’s name while Sirius visibly seethed beside him, "if you want him to stop flirting with them, maybe just tell him you fancy him instead of psychologically tormenting him."

Remus had scoffed, cheeks warming. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

James rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his skull.

But then, one evening in the dormitory, Sirius finally snapped.

"You’re doing it on purpose," he accused, storming in after Remus.

Remus, who had just started unbuttoning his shirt for bed, raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

Sirius slammed the door shut behind him. "Don’t play dumb, Moony. You always mess up their names. Every single bloody time."

Remus tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Are you sure? Maybe I just have a bad memory."

Sirius let out a frustrated noise. "You remember every fact about goblin rebellions, but you can’t remember the name of the girl I introduce to you? Bollocks."

Remus only shrugged. "Maybe they’re just not that memorable."

Sirius stared at him, and something in the room shifted. The playful irritation drained from his face, replaced by something quieter.

"Or," Sirius said slowly, stepping closer, "maybe you just don’t like hearing their names because they aren’t yours."

Remus inhaled sharply. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Sirius was close now. Too close. The air between them felt electric, charged with something unsaid and undeniable.

"If you wanted me to stop flirting with them," Sirius murmured, "you could have just said so."

Remus swallowed hard. "Did it work?"

Sirius’ lips quirked into a smirk. "What do you think?"

And then, without another word, Sirius kissed him.

It was nothing like Remus expected and exactly everything he wanted. Sirius kissed the way he did everything—boldly, confidently, like he had known all along that this was where they were headed. And Remus, despite all his careful calculations and denials, found himself leaning in, gripping Sirius’ shirt like he never wanted to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, Sirius let out a breathless laugh, forehead resting against Remus’.

"You’re ridiculous," he murmured.

Remus huffed. "Took you long enough to notice."

"So," he said, brushing his thumb along Remus’ cheekbone, "does this mean you’ll stop calling them the wrong name?"

Remus made a thoughtful noise, pretending to consider it. "I suppose. Not much point now, is there?"

Sirius narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Remus."

"What?"

"Swear it."

Remus smirked. "I solemnly swear I will not misname another one of your flirtations."

Sirius blinked. "You what?"

Remus’ smile turned positively wicked. "Well, you won’t be bringing them around anymore, will you?"

Sirius let out a low laugh, both delighted and exasperated. "Merlin, you’re insufferable."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

They stood there in the quiet of their dormitory, the tension between them replaced by something steadier, warmer. Familiar. Like slipping into something that had been waiting for them all along.

Sirius kissed him again—slower this time, with the promise of something lasting—and when they finally climbed into their respective beds, it was with a kind of ease Remus hadn’t felt in years.

And from that day on, Remus never got another girl’s name wrong.

Because Sirius never introduced him to one again.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

The meta text of Vaggie hating when people don't use her name or try calling her by another one THEY think she should use, bc they think her name is too vulgar or demeaning or too silly not to joke about -> and then parts of the fandom doing the same thing, is honestly really hitting home in a queer way

here's a character who we know wants people to use her chosen name.

we know she does because she corrects Adam to his face "Actually, it's pronounced Vaggie" drawing a hard line of NO between the old name he gave her with that soft G and the one her girlfriend uses for her now

her exasperation even during the battle, answering Pentious's call out of Vaggatha but still also tiredly pointing out "Not my name", and

ironically. The second miss-naming hurts me more than the first

the Adam thing makes me hate the guy on a personal level, with his stupid smug little "Hmmmmmm- no. Anyway-" saying Vaggie isn't ALLOWED to name herself something new as if he has any claim over her, as if her name has anything to do with him after he abandoned her

But the Pentious thing almost hurts worse for how well meant and casual it is. How familiar that is.

Here it's coming from a friend and the misnaming is a sign of affection from him, a show of respect. He's not calling her the purple female anymore. This is Pentious and his tick of getting polite and formal when addressing people he likes, him snapping his earnest salutes, him as we saw earlier that episode with his shy "Miss Bomb" towards Cherri.

And the way Vaggie just kinda rolls her eye and takes it from him while still clearly not liking it...

She used to wear a uniform that made her almost identical to the other Exorcists around her, she was given her old name by the man in charge of her, a name based on how useful to him she was, she's still got all that soldier stuff marching through her head making her grab for her spear and leaving her with no idea how to get people to bond other than throwing them bodily into a warzone

It just makes sense that the woman she's in a long term happy relationship with be so normal about her chosen 'vulgar' and 'inappropriate' name

Being together that long means Charlie probably knows this specific frustration her girlfriend has and cares enough about her to just say "Vaggie" like its nothing. Or maybe she just thinks, duh, of course she'll use the name Vaggie tells her to use

Maybe Charlie being that kinda person is part of what Vaggie loves about her in the first place. The amount of trust Charlie places in people, just by default

Because there could be good and bad reasons Vaggie's using a version of her old name after leaving that life behind

She could be doing it to remind herself of the shit person she was and feels she has to still make up for being, it could be tied to her self imposed new life purpose of helping make Charlie's dreams come true, it could be Vaggie keeping part of something she hates (herself) so she can feel a bit of "deserved" pain over it even when she was too scared to admit her past to anyone else- a sneaky way to always be reminded of it by the new people in her new life anyway

but that's her choice. People are allowed to make bad decisions for themselves

there's that ethos of the whole hotel and redemption plan again, Charlie's dreams and ideals swinging back into action even when Charlie maybe doesn't know it

what's the idea of redemption or personal change other than accepting that people CAN make choices for themselves? They can even make shitty ones, and that's not a reason to drop them forever or take the choice away like they don't deserve it anymore

What's the permanent extermination of souls other than saying they forever lost the right to say what happens to themselves?

a gay woman is calling herself after vag while switching out her soldier gear to wear miniskirts and giant as fuck hair bow ribbons while kissing and cuddling her girlfriend. Maybe it's cringe. Maybe it's camp. Even if Vaggie obviously isn't meant to be literally trans, it's that deliberate choice thing again, a kinda switcheroo from Adam naming her Vagina just bc it's something that he likes for how it makes him feel good, to Vaggie saying no this is MY thing now.

The Vagina to Vaggie thing is the difference between putting a name on someone else verses taking it for your own.

and Charlie affirms that choice, that right of Vaggie to be called the name she choses, no matter WHAT it sounds like or how awkward it makes some people feel

like, if someone in real life told you their name was Vaggie, would you use their name for them?

Would you accept feeling a bit weird for their sake?

Or would you do what happens so much in real life, when people who care still think they know better or feel like someone being who they are infringes too much on their own sense of comfort or even on that person's own safety, and with all the good intentions and love in the world, someone hurts someone else without understanding that they're evening doing it.

Like Pentious

Who is really and truly Vaggie's friend. The guy she got off to a rough start with but ends up rooting for, shoving her gf out of the room so he can talk to his own crush in peace. He dies to try protecting his friends, including her, and she misses him when he's gone

and he still thought he was doing a nice thing by calling her the more 'normal' sounding "Vagatha". Either because he assumed Vaggie couldn't really be her full name, or thought she deserved better

Charlie doesn't think Vaggie needs a better name

Charlie says her name all the time like it's her favorite word ever, if only because it belongs to the woman she loves

i feel a lot of things about that.

[gav-san]

Chapter Two

A Lineage of Red Masterlist here

One Piece Masterlist

Masterlist here

Word Count: 6,500+

A Delicate Catastrope

This story is not commendation on slavery, cruelty, sexual assault or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

Themes: enemies to lovers, espionage, too many ballrooms, arranged marriage, forced proximity, Celestial Dragon dynamics, fear, manipulation, mutual hatred, uneven power balance, no redemption, literal war crimes, slavery, and slow burn

Previous/Next

After the debutante presentation ended, the real games commenced.

Noble families reconfigure like chess pieces on velvet, weighing new bloodlines, reassessing dowries, and comparing social capital. 

The jewels of the season: Two homegrown Mariejois beauties, a foreign princess shipped in like a rare wine, and a tight-lipped heiress with too much money to ignore. They were quickly identified and ringed by would-be suitors. They glowed in silks and sapphires, orbiting the gravity of legacy.

The shifting of alliances in low voices was the subject of the night. Nobles gathered in tight knots beneath cascading chandeliers, forming and reforming as rumors passed hands like heirlooms. Introductions were reprised, and family names were weighed like currency. 

You weren’t high enough in rank to promise advantage, nor low enough to be forgotten. You were that terrible in-between, a second-hand debutante. A footnote in every conversation.

But one quiet word from a steward surprised you. You were welcome to stay for dinner. You smiled and played your part.

They fed the girls like pets, seated them at smaller, lower tables, made them wear silk too sheer for winter air, and told them to smile. The men who watched them, fattened by luxury and authority, grazed on their fear more than their beauty.

Your posture was flawed, and you were too shy. You replied briefly and stupidly. You were a foolish, timid little creature, more interested in food than flattery.

“That one,” a nobleman drawled near the head of the room, indicating you with a thick, jeweled finger. “The one with the hair. She’d breed out nicely, but that hair. Do they bleach them after marriage, or are we meant to tolerate the red?”

Another chuckled.

“Low-born dye. I’d pluck the root.”

A third leaned closer, half-whispering, half-snarling:

“I’d wager half my estate on her being a screamer.”

Your spoon stirred gently through the tea, and your face remained blank.

You had trained for this. To endure.

So you circulated. Met as many nobles as possible, to let them see your face and hear your laugh, to appear stupid, harmless, maybe even sweet.

The House Vauntierre considered you a girl meant to be thrown away, that a minor noble might desire your meager dowry. A girl someone could own. The more interest you drew, the higher your bride price might climb, and the more options your family could consider before trading you like a diplomatic gesture in pearls.

The revolution had other goals.

You moved between groups with practiced ease, eyes wide with feigned curiosity. You asked the younger sons of noble houses about their favorite battles, and the older ones about trade disputes. You smiled when you got answers. You asked about the weather in disputed territories, the stability of eastern ports, and the status of lighthouses along the Marelin coast, where suspected revolutionaries were targeting.

“I only ask because I heard a port was attacked recently, but no one seems to know which. Do you suppose they’re hiding the name so no one panics?” They laughed. They answered. They assumed it was curiosity.

You misnamed treaties on purpose, so they’d correct you. You called titles by the wrong forms, so they’d explain them to you. You asked simple questions, but always the kind that invited elaboration.

Your laugh is so childish that it provokes a response.

“You're doing well,” Thorne mutters as you pass, leaving a kiss on your knuckles. “Just like that. Now go hide before the God’s Knights get drunk and bored.”

You rush to the main hall, hoping to avoid it.

It is an unspoken tradition.

The matrons tell the new debutantes it’s a cultural outing—an exclusive tour of the upper galleries reserved for the most ‘promising’ debutantes. 

Unfortunately, you aren’t quick enough, and get shuffled into the mix of tittering young women. You are led past mythic tapestries, glass cabinets filled with ancient, gleaming weapons, relics from the so-called “Holy Age.”

But everyone knows the truth.

Somewhere in the vaulted hush, the God’s Knights linger in the shadows. Dressed in their bright armor and capes, they prowl like stage villains. A snap of boots. A too-loud laugh. A breath at the nape of your neck.

It’s a favorite pastime for them.

Who will cry?

Who will faint?

Who will stammer and beg and flee?

You pause before a towering tapestry—an embroidered epic of the World Nobles’ dominion over the seas. Your head tilts as you examine the stitches, fingers brushing the threads like a mourner at a grave. Bonnet tied. Gloves perfect. You look like something half-forgotten and sad.

“Boo,” a voice murmurs just behind you.

You flinch. But you don’t turn. You keep your head down, bonnet covering all expression.

Instead, you smooth the embroidery with slow, deliberate fingers. You follow the practiced lines for this exact situation.

You don’t look at them, staring at the ground.

“You’ve come to hunt, haven’t you?” You ask softly. “I’m afraid I’m spoken for.”

The air changes.

One of them snickers. Another sounds upset. “Pretty thing’s been briefed. Who tattled?”

“No one briefed me,” you say quickly, catching yourself. Your voice slips, just slightly. “I—I only heard the girls talk—”

Footsteps.

Measured. Clean. The kind of stride that didn’t bother hurrying, because the world stepped out of its way first.

Closer.

You didn’t need to look to know. His presence pulled the gallery taut—something in the floorboards, in the air. Even the chandeliers seemed to hush.

“…the Vauntierre girl.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone through ice water. You couldn’t stop the slight shake of your chin this time, nor did you try.

“The one and only. Can’t mistake that hair,” a knight quipped with mock cheer. “You interested, Commander Figarland?”

The men who had started circling you took a quiet, collective step back.

You didn’t look up.

“Hm,” came the reply. The voice that answered was smooth and sharp, like polished bone. “Looks more like a Fox in ribbons than a lady.”

A few of the knights laughed. Not kindly.

“She might bite,” one of the others offered.

“No, she won’t.” His tone was final. “They don’t raise teeth in houses that breed by debt.”

The laughter this time was louder, crueler. And he hadn’t even raised his voice.

Then it stilled.

He approached. You didn’t flinch, but every nerve in your body felt the proximity. The faint, deliberate brush of fingers at your bonnet knocked a curl free. It fell across your shoulder.

He inspected it like a man might glance at lint. “Hn. Real. Unfortunate.” A pause. Then, dryly: “I like your hair.”

You swallowed.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“I didn’t say I liked it on you.” He snapped back. 

More laughter. Harsher. The kind men offer when cruelty is the expectation. He seemed to enjoy rattling you.

“I wonder what that old man selling you thinks he’s offering the nobility,” he mused. “This one can’t even hold her head up. Tell me—did they send you because all the proper daughters ran off or slit their wrists first?”

Your fingers clenched in your skirt, but your face remained neutral. Nearly.

He stepped closer, circling—not predatory. Disdainful. You were an afterthought in fine fabric.

“It’s rather rude, you know. You haven’t looked at me once.”

“How dare I?” you replied, just above a whisper. The response was automatic, cautious. It didn’t matter.

He chuckled.

“No one here cares what you dare. You’re decorative. Barely that.”

You bowed lower. His boots gleamed beneath your lashes. Still, you didn’t look up.

“You’re not as frightened as you should be,” he observed after a moment.

You didn’t answer right away. Just enough of a pause to make it noticeable.

The pause stretched. His knights watched, waiting for the snap.

“I am simply trained, Commander Figarland,” you said at last.

“Hm.” He tilted his head. “Not well. Hunting dogs obey. You’re just trembling prettily and hoping someone finds it appealing.” 

Then, just as you braced for another blow, his attention seemed to drift. His interest was already fraying. He turned slightly, waving a hand as if brushing you aside from his mind.

“Do with her all you want,” he said, voice light, dismissive as he spoke to those around you. “She’s not worth the chase.”

Your breath caught.

For the first time, your head lifted.

No one answered. They didn’t have to.

His footsteps were already retreating, heading toward another girl. One who was trembling. One who might bark or cry.

A hand touched your elbow. It’s not kind, and you’re not going to end up in a good place if you don’t say something.

“If I’m not worth the chase, Commander,” you finally spoke up, tone even, and daring to snap your elbow away, “why did you still speak to me?”

Silence. Like ice snapping in a pond.

He stopped mid-step.

The room held its breath.

His head turned. Slowly. You didn’t look up, but you felt it, the stillness, the way his eyes narrowed.

One heartbeat. Then another.

A soft, amused sound. Not laughter. Not quite.

“Noted,” he said at last.

Then, quieter, so only those nearest might catch it-

“Escort her out,” he said. Not to you. “She’s not a rabbit tonight.”

Your head lifted, just barely. Enough to catch a glimpse of his absurdly striped trousers. You blinked, stunned.

No one replied.

His attention had already turned—like the sweep of a searchlight—to some other trembling girl clutching the edge of a display table.

A knight’s hand found your elbow. This time, it didn’t grip.

You felt the weight lift. Not his presence, but something subtler. The men no longer closed in. The knight at your elbow adjusted his grip—not a shove, but a guide.

The luck that had saved you from the God’s Knights was short-lived.

You had escaped the upper gallery, but that didn’t mean your evening was over. You and Maria regrouped and decided that you could continue.

But any forward momentum you’ve gained is undone by a quiet misstep born of overconfidence and a drink you didn’t know contained alcohol.

You slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft unraveling, like a single thread tugged loose from an otherwise perfect weave. It began when a waiter offered you a glass of juice. Harmless, you assumed.

You didn’t taste the sharpness beneath the fruit.

Didn’t feel the warmth until it was already coiling in your limbs. And by then, the floor was no longer as steady beneath your feet. You sat near some men, just drunk enough not to notice your own words until they slipped out.

Curled on a velvet settee near the marble fountain, the din of conversation is just loud enough to disguise your eavesdropping. Two lesser Saints were speaking of an incident at sea, of an old skirmish, buried in bureaucracy. Two ships down, supposedly to a storm, but no wreckage had ever surfaced. Pirates, said the other. One of them joked that perhaps the sea had taken offense. 

They more or less ignore you.

The wine bubbles your thoughts.

You smiled, demure and thoughtful. “I suppose that’s what Lafarre meant,” you said lightly. “‘Even the sea resents its chains.’”

The silence that followed was sharp—the kind that doesn’t strike but carves. Cleanly. Quietly.

The younger of the two Saints blinked, slow and confused, a touch too green to catch the moment's weight. But the elder tilted his head, eyes sharpening with something you couldn’t quite read. Not yet.

Your heart thudded once. Just once.

Too late.

Lafarre.

You’d said his name aloud. Carelessly.

A former noble turned philosopher. Executed publicly. His writings were seized and burned, his name scrubbed clean from every textbook and lecture hall in the Holy City. It was illegal to own his work. Treasonous to quote him. Unthinkable for a debutante to do either, especially with such casual, razor-sharp precision.

You recovered with instinctive grace.

“Oh—” you laughed lightly, raising your glass, “I may have misremembered. Wasn’t he a playwright? Or a poet? One of those doomed romantic types.”

The younger saint chuckled, reassured. A pretty girl saying silly things. Nothing more.

But the elder gave you a long, thin smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Indeed,” he said quietly. “History has a way of romanticizing fools.”

Your gaze drifted lazily, bored. Calculating.

You needed to exit quickly, without rippling the water.

And then a shadow slid in beside you.

Thorne.

He arrived without fanfare. No greeting. No smile. No trace of the easy charm he usually wore like a second skin. He leaned down slightly, just enough to offer his arm. A lifeline disguised as routine.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice soft and even. “I believe your next dance was promised to me, unless I’ve lost my memory.”

You blinked once. Just once.

Then you smiled. Smooth, practiced, lovely.

“Hues, I think so?” you said lightly, placing your hand in his with flawless grace. “Of course.”

He guided you away without hesitation. His steps were calm. Controlled. One arm anchored yours. The other hung loose and ready, if needed. He kept his body just slightly between you and the rest of the court.

Only when you reached the edge of the ballroom, where candlelight waned and voices dipped to murmurs, did his voice change. Quiet. Low.

“You quoted Lafarre.”

You didn’t meet his eyes.

“They’re drunk. They won’t remember tomorrow.”

Thorne exhaled once. Almost a laugh, but not. He was quiet for a beat too long. His gaze drifted down—not to your lips or hands, as others so often did, but to the tilt of your wine glass and the way your posture had begun to relax. Too much. Not in the artful, calculated way you usually feigned.

In the real way.

“You’re assuming they were the only ones listening.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “…You’ve been drinking,” he said.

You arched a brow, amused. “I drank what the other debutantes drank.”

“You careless fool-“

You looked away, the flick of your lashes a touch too slow. “It was just juice. The waiter—”

Thorne cut a glance across the room, fast and sharp, scanning the attendants.

Of course.

It wasn’t juice.

You had taken the offered glass without question because that was what you were expected to do. Because it was easier to blend in than refuse. And now, just beneath your composed exterior, the flush in your cheeks and the softness in your eyes told him what you hadn’t noticed yet: the alcohol was working.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice low, his eyes already moving. Calculating. Choosing the safest path.

You blinked. “I’m not—”

Thorne lifted one hand slightly, signaling across the ballroom. A small, precise motion. Just enough. From the far wall, Maria moved. Her gown whispered as she glided through the crowd with the silence of trained grace, expression smooth and unreadable.

When she reached you, Thorne’s voice was gentle, but final.

“Miss Vauntierre needs a moment in the ladies’ parlor then an escort home,” He said, tone polite but brooking no refusal. “Will you see to her comfort?”

Maria curtsied faintly. “Of course.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Thorne was already brushing his fingers over your knuckles. Just once, a silent reminder to listen to him. 

Then he stepped back.

Maria’s hand found your elbow, light but steady.

“Come,” she said warmly, like a friend who understood. And as she led you away, Thorne stayed behind.

Watching. Calculating.

And already planning who to kill for slipping you the glass. Damn these Celestial Dragons and their games. 

The door to the gentlemen’s salon closed behind Thorne with a soft click, sealing off the scent of cologne, smoke, and aged cognac. Velvet drapes dulled the light, and polished glass decanters gleamed like trophies of old blood. Conversation simmered low, but the moment he stepped in, the air shifted.

He was expected.

“Ah,” drawled a knight in silver-trimmed uniform, legs crossed too casually by the fire. “The fox-tamer returns.”

A low ripple of laughter rolled through the salon.

Another, broader knight leaned forward, swirling amber liquid in a heavy crystal glass. “Heard you had to drag her off before she started quoting heresy and throwing up poetry.”

Thorne poured himself a drink without looking at them. “Some idiotic fiend spiked the punch, and now half the girls are babbling. She’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s very well,” A younger Celestial Dragon said. He was Saint Shepard Sommers, a prominent God’s Knight, and was lounging across a chaise like a hunting dog. “That red hair alone suggests a certain… temperament. No wonder you’re so taken.”

A pause. Thorne didn’t look up.

“Come on, gentleman,” A handsome man, Lyonel Carienne, joked, waving his hand and showing off his rich coat. “Let the man have a rest.”

The nobles chuckled, like they would at a pet. Lyonel is tolerated not thanks to his status, but because he is the golden boy of Mariejois’s fashion and textile economy, a charming aesthete with a mercantile brain sharper than most swords. 

But the eldest of the Gods’ Knights in the room, older, with a white streak in his hair and a permanent sneer, set down his pipe with a hollow clink of porcelain. 

Saint Diente DonQuixote.

“You know, I remember when her family still begged for court recognition. Dirt under their fingernails. That hair of hers? Common. Bordering on vulgar. Isn't that right, Lewis?”

The man next to him, Deronne Lewis, nodded slowly. The man is pragmatic, precise, and composed to the point of suspicion, and a favorite of older Celestial Dragons for his ability to bring whatever they want from wherever, quick as a dream.

“Can’t say that I respect it, Thorne.” The men give each other long looks. “The color is too much.”

“It’s the color of rust,” someone offered helpfully.

“It’s the color of scandal,” said another.

Thorne took a slow sip of his drink.

“And you,” Saint Diente continued, voice dropping with that special edge reserved for righteous mockery, “Your own fortunes are finally rising, but you're looking to marry a vulgar little peasant. What is it, Thorne? Are you hoping to polish her into something fit for this court? Or do you just like the idea of having something wild in your bed?”

The room stirred with cruel amusement.

Thorne finally lifted his gaze. Calm. Unmoving.

“I wasn’t aware courtship was a crime,” he said.

“It’s not,” the eldest knight replied smoothly. “Poor taste, however, is treason of its own sort.”

More laughter.

But Thorne only gave a faint smile.

They circled Thorne like old comrades too familiar to be safe. Holy Knights and Celestial Dragons he’d made acquaintances with, drunk with, and sold good liqueur to. Their camaraderie wore the brittle shine of old brass, warm in tone, but sharp at the edges. Gleaming with just enough history to cut. He was never as noble as they, but he'd do, for his product was exquisite.

Their voices rose, not by chance. Never by chance. Just loud enough to draw the attention of those nearby, the curious and the cruel alike.

“So, you’re actually serious?” Laughter rippled behind the words, but the barbs gleamed underneath.

A man from the far end of the room came forward, leaning next to Thorne, and making him sigh.

“Miscaviage.” Thorne acknowledged. Elias Miscaviage gave him a long up and down, ending with an open grin.

“Didn’t think she was your taste, Thorne,” someone said, eyes glinting over a half-filled glass. “I always took you for cold steel and careful lineage. Not… impulsively crimson. You know I could sell her hair for you when you’re done.”

Thorne sighed.

“You're going to have to give me at least a month ruining her before we start talking about auctioning off her hair.”

“Scarlett’s a bold choice,” added another, lazy and sharp. “Louder than most pedigrees would tolerate. But it would sell.”

They were teasing, yes, but also probing. Testing the tension. Watching for weakness. Waiting to see if he’d rise to defend you, or pretend you were nothing.

Thorne smiled.

Mild. Easy. The way he might smile at a junior officer about to embarrass a governor.

“You’re right,” He said, lifting his wine to his lips. “She’s not a diamond.”

A few chuckled. Others leaned in, scenting more.

He let the pause stretch, just long enough to feel effortless, before adding casually. “Too inquisitive. Loud when she should be quiet. Lacks the refinement to carry herself before the right people.”

Elias raised a brow. “Like you?”

“Exactly,” Thorne said without missing a beat. “Terrible judgment.”

That drew real laughter. For a moment, the tension dissolved into amusement. But one of them, sharper, more sober, pressed further.

“So why waste your time?” Deronne asked. “There are a dozen other girls this year with quieter mouths and better blood.”

Thorne shrugged, light and pleasant. A man among friends. No stakes.

“I want to see if the hair matches everywhere.”

Silence dropped like a stone.

Then the laughter erupted, louder this time, but edged with open mockery.

“He does share Figarland's taste, then. Red and ready to be ruined.” Murmured Shepard Sommers. “Though I didn’t say that.”

“God help us if they fight over her. The palace would burn in three days.” Lyonel joked, clicking his glass against Sommers.

“Thorne would lose,” Deronne said, slouching deep into an armchair. “Figarland doesn’t tolerate competition.”

Thorne laughed with them. Relaxed. Charming. A little too practiced.

“I’ve no plans to challenge anyone,” He said with a wave. “Especially not someone like him. I doubt Commander Figarland would be interested in her. She's half-feral with nothing but vulgar hair to her name.”

That line earned sharper laughter from a few—and, from others, a subtle shift. A beat of stillness.

The door clicked open.

Saint Garling Figarland entered.

He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to.

His presence unfurled through the salon like a pressure drop before a storm, silent, total, unmistakable. The warmth bled from the air. The fire seemed to flicker low. Chatter faltered mid-sentence. Laughter thinned into brittle echoes, unfinished and half-swallowed.

He didn’t look around. He didn’t need to.

The God’s Knights and World Nobles adjusted their stances with the unease of old dogs scenting a wolf. Some stood straighter. Others subtly stepped aside, clearing his path without thought, because thought had nothing to do with it.

It was instinct.

Figarland didn’t speak.

Not yet.

He simply moved, unhurried, unbothered, like the room belonged to him and always had. His gaze slid across the velvet hush, past wine-dark glasses and loosened cravats, past the cluster of courtiers still pretending to be comfortable.

He carries himself like a man who’d never been told no.

No herald, retinue, or flourish. Just the cold certainty of someone who was in authority and didn’t share.

A glass clinked too loudly. Someone cleared their throat.

The commander's eyes swept the room once, disinterested in the men, the goblets, the smoke-thick gossip, before landing on Thorne at the far end.

The he stood alone, cradling A half-finished wine glass with a poise so seamless it might have passed for indifference. But Figarlands' assessment was clinical, a lion watching deer. He saw the subtle tightness in his hand, the way his chest rose just a shade too slow. 

The men had done half his job for him.

Then, finally, Figarland spoke.

“Thorne.”

No title, no respect, just acknowledgement. 

The name dropped like a blade.

Conversation died instantly, collapsed like a tent slashed from its center pole. Glasses were lowered. Voices clipped off. Attention shifted, fast and collectively.

Thorne turned without a rush, his face unreadable, carved into the same calm mask he wore in committee halls and war briefings.

“Commander Figarland.”

It was the first time they had spoken to one another.

But both knew the other by reputation and watched from opposing corners of the same stage. Thorne, the lesser noble, was looking to salvage his title. A man with clean boots and a sharp tongue, always circling the edges of true power. Figarland, the executioner in silk, the old law given breath and muscle and judgment. The blade behind the throne.

Commander Figarland's voice was light, polished. But his eyes were knives.

“Word is you’ve taken an interest in the little red fox.”

Thorne didn’t blink.

“Yes,” he replied, tone even and cold. “I need a breeder. She fits the bill. Cheap, disposable. The usual qualities.”

Figarland’s brow barely moved. “She’s got quite the mouth for a witless breeder.”

“The champagne ruled her tongue tonight,” Thorne said with the faintest shrug. “She’s not usually so loose. Just…” he gestured vaguely, dismissively, “Foolish. Quoting whatever nonsense her peers think sounds revolutionary this week.”

Figarland's smile appeared, but it was hollow. An expression with the shape of amusement and none of the substance. “She quoted Lafarre.”

The silence in the room deepened.

“She misspoke.” Thorne offered. “Someone spiked the punch, and now all the ladies think Verde is Vermello.

Figarland's steely eyes didn’t soften.

“Misspeaking here has consequences. Do you think she understands what that means?”

Thorne let the silence stretch. Not long, just a fraction longer than it should have. Enough for weight to gather in the pause.

“I think she knows enough to regret it,” he said quietly. “And enough to avoid it again. Though she isn’t clever or intelligent, she can learn.”

Figarland tilted his head, slow and deliberate like a scholar eyeing something rare beneath glass, uncertain whether to admire it or dissect it.

“You helped her,” he said. “Redirected her and tucked her away.”

Thorne didn’t look away.

“I value discretion, Commander Figarland. I didn’t want the evening spoiled by a girl trying too hard to seem clever.” A pause. Then a faint smile, touched with something bitter. “Besides… her family won’t entertain a match unless I look suitably possessive.”

The Commander stepped forward. There was no threat in the motion, yet the space between them vanished as if the walls had shifted. He moved like someone used to claiming rooms and silences alike.

When he spoke, it was lower now—not quite a whisper, but near enough to tighten the muscles in Thorne’s throat.

“Very well.”

They stood there, still. The fire crackled softly in the background, but neither moved. Two men who had never spoken before, now watching the same ember smolder from opposite sides of the same dry field.

Thorne didn’t flinch. Didn’t yield. Held his ground.

Figarland’s mouth curved. Not into a grin, not quite.

“I wish you patience, Thorne.” The words were smooth, almost cordial. “You’ll need it.”

Thorne’s pulse cooled by instinct, but his chest burned because he knew.

Figarland didn’t poke. 

He pried. He pressed. He mapped the soft places in a man’s armor not to strike them immediately, but to know exactly where to apply pressure when the time came. That was his key: timing.

Thorne gave a nod. “I’m much obliged, Commander.”

A flick of Figarland’s eyes. 

A breath of disinterest. And the machine around him moved.

One knight stepped into Thorne’s path with a sudden inquiry about trade routes in the southern territories. Another shifted toward the corridor, shoulders angled to quietly obstruct. A servant arrived with fresh wine and a practiced murmur about a missing entry in the guest registry—urgent, of course.

By the time Thorne turned his head, Garling was already retreating into the crowd.

The fire stoked. An unfortunate wild card entered the game, and an unwelcome guest was in the play.

The morning after the mixer dawned pale and cloudless, too clean, too still. The sort of morning that pretended nothing had happened.

But in the borrowed parlor, the illusion didn’t hold.

You sat curled into the window seat, knees drawn up beneath your borrowed nightgown, a cold cup of tea forgotten at your side. The slim poetry volume lay open on your lap, untouched since you cracked the spine hours ago.

The silence in the room was not restful. It hummed.

You heard them before they knocked, footsteps familiar now, steady, distinct.

A maid opened the door, face drawn, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. She said nothing.

Thorne entered a moment later.

His uniform jacket was folded over one arm, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned just enough to imply he’d dressed fast, but precisely. He looked freshly shaved. Unruffled. Clean.

But his eyes were tired. Watchful. Calculating.

The maid quickly bowed and left, off to get a suitable chaperone.

Thorne didn’t greet you.

He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and studied you with a single, slow sweep. Silent. Measuring.

“Our little romance has a few more issues,” he said mildly, “Thanks to your careless catchphrase.”

He crossed the parlor, poured himself a second cup of the now-cold tea, and didn’t bother to drink it.

“I apologize,” you said, and meant it. “I’ll make sure to bring my own drink next time the lemonade is spiked.”

He didn’t respond right away. He was watching you, eyes narrowed in thought.

“I know you don’t have much experience,” he said finally, “but this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to discover just what these damned Celestial Dragons are hiding. Temper yourself.”

You looked up at him—really looked.

He was angry.

But he was strategizing.

His stillness wasn’t calm; it was pressure, neatly folded beneath a composed exterior. He’d seen how power moved when it decided to take something. You recognized it now, too.

You lowered your gaze.

“How bad is it?”

Thorne’s voice came quieter this time.

“That was a warning. Figarland doesn’t offer many.”

Before you could speak, the door creaked open again.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” came a dry voice. “I brought pastries.”

Maria.

Your official chaperone. Unofficial spy. Reluctant den mother. Lifelong professional menace.

She swept in with a tray balanced expertly in one hand—bread, fruit, and something that still steamed faintly. She set it down with more ceremony than necessary, raised a brow at both of you, and folded herself into a chair like a judgmental cat.

“So,” she said, tearing a piece of bread. “Shall we talk about how one of the most dangerous men in the world looked at you like a man choosing a pair of gloves?”

You groaned. Thorne sighed.

“Maria—”

“No, no, I’m the chaperone,” she said sweetly. “My job is to observe. You lot thought I was going to sit around gossiping? Please. I’ve been indentured here longer than both of you combined.”

She popped a grape into her mouth, chewed, and turned her gaze on you like a scalpel.

“You made enemies last night,” She said, matter-of-fact. “Two daughters of House Ferrendo, who’ve been eyeing Thorne for months, and one Celestial Dragon, who was this close to speaking for you before he realized you quoted Lafarre. In a room where the walls bleed.”

Your face burned, a blotchy sting crawling up your cheeks.

Maria shot Thorne a sidelong glance.

“And you, sir, just declared war wearing silk gloves. Let the others laugh in the salon if they want—I heard how the commander of those dreadful Knights tore into you.”

Thorne didn’t flinch. “Worth it. I slipped messages to the Archivist while they were too busy posturing. If I had to scuff that blond rat’s polished shoes to do it, so be it.”

Maria’s smile faded.

“Don’t make a game out of crossing Garling Figarland. He’s not like the others. There’s a reason even the monsters here give him space.”

She paused—then added, quieter,

“And whatever you’re after, don’t let him think it’s something he should want.” Maria narrowed her eyes as you folded your arms over your knees.

That hit harder than you expected. You looked down.

Thorne said nothing.

Maria leaned back with a sigh and jabbed her bread at you like a weapon.

“So, here’s the situation. Depending on what happens at the Juniper Ball next week, this mission either succeeds or implodes.”

She pointed the bread again—this time directly at you.

“You need to be as stupid and boring as humanly possible. No wit. No flair. Powder your hair if you must. Heaven knows how inbred these men are, thinking your color is exotic.”

You wrinkled your nose. “But—”

“Not. A. Word.” She cut in, sharp enough to silence the air.

“Depending on Commander Figarland’s mood—suspicions, more like—your entire social stock will either fold or triple. If he even looks at you again, expect offers. Dozens. Half these houses bid against his just to prove they can.”

She set the bread down with finality. “Let’s hope you bore him to death.”

You stared, heart climbing into your throat. “What—?”

Maria didn’t blink.

“Welcome to court.”

Then, with false cheer, she added, “Don’t worry. We’ll decline most of the offers. Elegantly. But maybe stop quoting philosophers who were dragged from their homes and executed in public, hm?”

You swallowed hard.

Unexpectedly, Maria smiled. A small thing. Real.

“You let Thorne do what he does best—pretend not to care. And you?” She nodded toward the window seat. “You smile. You drink your tea. You act harmless. You let the Holy Knight believe he’s winning… by not being interested.”

Your heart thudded behind your ribs.

Thorne rose at last and crossed the room until he stood beside you, hands in his pockets, eyes on nothing in particular.

He looked down at you with the weariness of a man fighting hard to survive an idiot.

“You drank alcohol,” he said flatly. “You quoted a forbidden revolutionary. Attracted the commander of the God’s Knights.”

A beat.

“…You’re lucky I don’t have a better option.”

Maria choked on a grape.

You blinked up at him, caught somewhere between offended and flattered.

“Was that meant to be reassuring?”

“It was meant to be accurate,” Thorne muttered, already turning back toward the cold tea. “You’re a walking liability in petticoats.”

Maria grinned into her pastry.

“Gods help us all… he’s starting to like you.”

[zeravmeta]

"the missed potential of arc v is how it fucked up the ending/didnt expand on the yu boys or bracelet girls/didnt last long in the xyz dimension/ didnt do whatever-" shut up. the true missed potential of arc v is that it did not fully capitalize on how fucked up the dynamic between yuya, serena and shun could have been. shun is hanging out with two people who look exactly like the two most important people in his life but one of them killed his best friend and the other one was part of the organization that destroyed his life. yuya is stuck facing the ire of someone who is incredibly justified in his anger and at the same time barely understands how it even happened while also around serena who shares yuzu's face and is here Because yuzu sacrificed herself to let serena escape. serena has to deal with the fact that both of them wish she was someone else and for all intents and purposes they are stuck with her and she hates the situation just as much as they do but they'll die if they don't work together, and its not easy when you look like ones childhood friend/girlfriend and the other ones sister. like immediately after learning about the dimensional counterparts they are fully 100% in the know for which is which and yeah they have different clothes + hairstyles but like you're telling me that they didn't ONCE accidentally misname yuya or serena in a fit of rage or sadness? how can shun be angry at serena when shes the spitting image of ruri who was kidnapped. how dare yuya wear yutos face and steal his monster, hes not the best friend shun has been through hell and back with. yuya grieving over how yuzu was taken and some part of him cant help but blame serena, which is even worse because she looks just like yuzu. yuya having to actively cooperate with shun who wishes he were dead. serena once again being minimized by the people around her only instead of the professor trying to recreate the image of his daughter, shes stuck with two guys who cant even look her in the eyes for wildly different reasons. its a complete and total clusterfuck of projection, unhealthy coping, grieving, maybe selfcest?, and it could have been everything.

every argument on arc-v's missed potential shut up forever you will never be THIS missed potential.

[darkmaga-returns]

Efficiency in the Imperial City? Elon and Vivek will start out as the two most unpopular guys in DC, and it’ll be all downhill from there. Will anyone even take them seriously? Well, there’s a twist to this story that could lead to some serious results. But first:

Donald J. Trump

@realDonaldTrump

I am pleased to announce that the Great Elon Musk, working in conjunction with American Patriot Vivek Ramaswamy, will lead the Department of Government Efficiency ('DOGE")….

Nov 12, 2024, 6:46 PM

What will they do with the “IRA”? The very title, Inflation Reduction Act, is a cynical political joke, but the question is, could the stuff of this act end up hitting a fan operated by Elon and Vivek?

A Looming Political Earthquake City Journal ^ | 4 Nov 2024 | Mark Mills

If it weren’t for the election season swamping news coverage, odds are more people would be talking about the revelation that, to quote a Bloomberg headline, “The World Bank Somehow Lost Track of at Least $24 Billion.” In fact, that may understate the reality: the World Bank’s “accounting gap” could be as big as $41 billion. The missing funds in question were for “climate finance” projects, “financed by taxpayer dollars from its member countries, the biggest being the US.”

According to the Oxfam report that was the source for the Bloomberg story, “There is no clear public record showing where this money went or how it was used, which makes any assessment of its impacts impossible.” It is possible that much, maybe even most, of the missing money went to the intended people and purposes. But only the hopelessly naïve would dismiss the probability of rampant waste, malfeasance, graft, and outright theft as explanations for that “gap.” Spending of such magnitude and velocity with sloppy oversight is an invitation to thieves.

But the oversight scandal at the World Bank is chump change compared with the U.S. Inflation Reduction Act (IRA) and its massive planned “climate finance” program. The misnamed IRA is, in the words of its advocates, the “largest climate policy in US history.” [emphasis added] The law’s ambitions dwarf those of the World Bank. By various estimates, the IRA will lead to some $3 trillion in direct spending on grants, subsidies, and the like, plus another $3 trillion in related spending induced by mandates and rules. For perspective, that’s far more than the cost of Obamacare, and even more than the $4 trillion the U.S. spent (inflation adjusted) to fight World War II.

(Excerpt) Read more at city-journal.org …

Chicago alderman Paddy Bauler famously said, “Chicago ain’t ready for reform yet.” That was on the occasion of the election of Richard J. “Boss” Daley in 1955. He was right, of course, and nothing has changed. Same goes for the Imperial City on the Potomac. But there could be an exception when it comes to the IRA. If I were in the shoes of Elon or Vivek my idea would be to ignore most of the institutional graft and corruption to focus on the IRA, which should offer a wealth of targets. The reason this strategy could work is because they just might get the backing of the party that controls all the levers of power and has a lot to gain:

[musical-chan]

for the wip's game: Time's revenge!

It's a sequel to "You Want to Talk to Link, Right?" It was suppose to be funny but then it got serious and I wasn't sure what to do with it. Someday, I swear, I will finish this one.

**

Okay, maybe they went a little too far.

But none of them were waking Time up with the song.  They weren't distracting him in combat. Just, you know, asking him completely pointless and unnecessary questions, that's all! That wasn't so bad, was it? And of course, the more they knew they shouldn't be playing or singing or even thinking his song, the more it came to mind. Wild hummed it at the cookpot one night, completely innocent, and when the sound of his slate turning on startled him, he glanced over at the older hero, who was glaring at him as if to dare the Champion to touch it.  He laughed nervously and went back to preparing dinner, hiding his face with his free hand.

Of course, Legend enjoyed doing it on purpose. He suddenly had the ocarina on him at all times.  Any of his instruments would work but for some reason, using that particular one always made Time the most annoyed.  Everything would be normal and suddenly the notes would float out of the woods.  Somewhere Time would swear under his breath and somewhere else, you could hear Legend asking the hero if everything was okay, oh no problems, just checking in!  It's very useful being able to talk from a distance, isn't it?  Yes, it sure is.

Four walked around camp almost perpetually jumpy. He knew he had started it.  He knew there would be revenge.

Things settled down. Legend was right; it would take a while for Time to figure out if they even had songs, much less what they were. None of them knew; some of them had music they played but all of them suddenly decided they were not going to do that at all, at least for a bit.  Wild would still hum around the cookpot but the tune was nothing much and when Time eventually figured out the notes, nothing had happened.

But he was watching them.

And he was playing music every night.

Sure, all the Links knew Time enjoyed music. He hummed, he played the ocarina. He even had that guitar that Wind absolutely adored and wanted to steal for his own.  The older hero had even mentioned using music to travel around in his era, though they hadn't seen it.  But he had never made a habit of playing that often.  Now it was all the time.  Some of them were songs he said were from his own adventuring days.  A bolero, a nocturn, a prelude.  About half of these, Twilight would look startled at and give Time a particularly intense look at but the older hero never commented on it.  One particularly hot night, he played an upbeat, spinning sort of song and suddenly it began raining.  Several of the Chain began to wonder if perhaps the Hero of Time had been misnamed; he certainly seemed to have used a lot of music in his past.

They got used to his playing.  Nothing had happened and even Legend got bored with contacting Time just to pick on him and everything returned to normal.

Almost.

Maybe Time was more chatty? He asked questions about the things they had gone through.  That wasn't terribly unusual. It was nothing particularly intrusive, more like how they had started, what it had felt like going off on some grand adventure.  Everyone started talking more about their experiences, even the old man.

New music began to show up in Time's repertoire around the campfire.  And one night, he played something that made Legend's toes tap along unknowingly.  He nodded his head to the beat; it was a brave sort of song, heroic, and it resonated somewhere in Legend's head in a way he didn't recognise.  He didn't notice when Time stopped, nor the smile on the man's face as he put his ocarina away for the night.

It became easier to collect songs after that.

[skyfallscotland]

❤️✨💕 for the writing asks and 🎁 if you want!

Hiiii! 👋👋

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

"Love me in return and you'll never be alone again."

✨️ Out of the comments you’ve received on your fics, what are two or three of your favorites?

I couldn't possibly choose, (and the ones that mean the most might be too personal to other people to share) but I always feel really touched by the ones where people let me know they resonate with my characters, particularly Remi. I can't even explain how it feels when someone affirms that I'm representing their lived experience in a way that makes them really feel.

I've also had two people so far tell me they've read ACOTAR because of me, just so they could read my fics, so I really appreciate that 🥹😂

💕 What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

This is so hard, it's like asking me to choose between my children. I feel like I have to say Fear & Flame at this point, just because of the sense of community and everything else it's brought me, but Fury & Siren hold a really special place in my heart.

ACOTAR fics don't get a lot of readers if they're not featuring certain pairings, but I feel like I really cut my teeth on writing fanfic and worldbuilding with that series and Fury was the first thing I ever finished, so it's really special to me and Siren was where I really cut my teeth on writing smut, so there's that too 😅

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

“That’s not what you told Dean.” He counters, a smug smirk on his face.  “Dain,” I correct automatically.  “Yes, Dan.” He says, clearly on purpose and I roll my eyes.

Poor Dain, destined to be misnamed by cocky assholes in every piece I ever write.

[soulless-angel25]

31 days of Ficmas - Doctorrose, day 31. Prompt: Twinkle @doctorroseprompts

Despite the coldness in the air Rose had insisted on them going out to look at the stars, which glimmered in the air above them. The Doctor was focused on her though, the air that froze when she breathed out- the red in her cheeks from the cold.

And her eyes, which seemed to reflect entire nebula's. He watched her look up at the stars, craning her neck to take them all in. As she turned back to him she pulled her jacket closer around her body, a smile on her face as she came back to him.

Standing by his side she wrapped an arm around him as his settled around her shoulders, looking at him with that same breathlessness she asked a question, "Where do you want to go after this? I think we should go to Barcelona- the planet, not the city. After all, several centuries later and we still haven't gone!"

The Doctor smiled at her, "Barcelona sounds wonderful sweetheart, and how about after that we go visit Martha and Ricky?"

She gave him an unamused look at his purposeful misnaming of Mickey, but she still smiled. This him wasn't as inclined to spending time with other people as his previous self had been- sure he was a professor but he taught when he wanted to.

Humming she leaned further into him as she looked back up at the stars. Even after so long she couldn't help but find them beautiful, sparkling above her. Each one with a different kind of adventure.

Each one as a chance to have more fun. But even here, on Earth watching over Missy- it wasn't miserable. They had each other, and that was all they needed.

[ilikekidsshows]

Yeah, like, what even is this? How does something this egregious even happen? Did the writers plan to tackle Chloé's trauma and then change their mind and are downplaying what actually happened? Were we supposed to always find Chloé's mistreatment in her mom's hands funny and cheer at Marinette "winning" for getting more respect from her?

Or is it actually true that Astruc was just out of the room whenever people wrote Chloé in season two so he never realized there were multiple episodes making Chloé sympathetic and a clear victim of mistreatment and when he came back he told everyone to keep writing like these scenes never happend? What, did he have insane diarrea for the entire two years that season two was in production so he was always out and never noticed them give Chloé trauma?

Like, either he's a hack gaslighting people about an aborted story arc he put in the series, or he's a hack gaslighting people about a story arc he didn't approve of because he was too incompetent to notice it being produced under his nose.

Or, you know, he's an abuse apologist who thinks only hitting a child counts as abuse. Timothy Albatross thinks a parent constantly and on purpose misnaming their child isn't abuse or damaging. I guess, since he thinks it's so harmless, we don't need to call Tatertot Ambulance by his real name anymore. Since, if a parent doing it to their child is okay, a bunch of strangers doing it to him will not even be remotely upsetting.

tweets by @Thomas_Astruc / audrey & chloé bourgeois, style queen & queen wasp

[rauthschild]

What happens when you kick over a beehive?

Tons of worker bees scramble and sting the threat -- whatever the threat is -- causing the attacker to retreat, or in some cases, kill the attacker.

This is the same thing that happens when we attack people's homes.

Sooner or later, the worker bees come and answer the attack.

This is why jihadists are attacking Bethlehem. This is why they are attacking Christians in Syria.

They and their culture and their homes and their people have been mercilessly attacked by Jews, and at least in terms of governments, the purportedly Christian governments of the west are helping the Jews commit genocide in three different directions at once.

The British are flying reconnaissance and spy missions for them; British diplomats are burning the midnight oil for them; the Bank of England is paying off all and any debts for them in secret and extending vast amounts of ill-gotten Rothschild credit to them.

The Americans are sitting on their hands, drooling like big, stupid dogs, and selling Israel "mo'better" bombs, and tons upon tons of all the misnamed "defense armaments".

Nobody here believes the standard narrative about poor beleaguered Israel being forced to defend itself.

What we see is yet another British MI6 False Flag set up, Israel acting as the British Bully Boy, lashing out in a lot of pre-emptive strikes against its Arab neighbors, while the House of Saud and Kingdom of Jordan and the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt smell the whiffs of a promised Oil Boom (unleashed in an attempt to stave off the advent of free energy) and curiously, don't lift a finger to defend the once vibrant Muslim-dominated but secular governments of Lebanon and Syria.

Christians could live in these countries and have homes and businesses like anyone else, but thanks to the ham-fisted British policies foisted off on Syria by the US Sock Puppets of Westminster, there was never a way for Syria to recover and have a decent life

Even though we now know that these things masquerading as our governments aren't actually our governments--- they are commercial corporations in the business of providing government services, instead ---- other people still imagine that Donald Trump is the President of our National Government, instead of the "President" of British Territorial Corporation and a "nation" of British Subjects who are our employees.

These business interests have neither the powers nor the integrity nor the purpose of actual governments, but they act "as if" they were governments and they "assume" the powers of governments under color of law, and they "appear" to speak for us ---- even though they don't.

So the jihadists are striking back because they have been stopgobbered by Israel for no apparent reason other than blind irrational ethnic and religious hatred, washed down with lots of greed and lust for unjust commercial enrichment from oil and seaways and artifacts that, oops, through no fault of their own, belong to Arabs.

What happens when you plant corn?

You get corn plants, and eventually ears of corn to eat.

What happens when you plant carrots?

You get carrot plants, and eventually carrots to eat.

All these things are so commonplace, so observable. Why should we even have to discuss The Law which applies to all of Nature?

What do you get when you plant hate and fear?

Hey, pay attention! --- You get a crop of hate and fear.

Which then self-seeds and creates what? More hate and fear.

Britain and France sowed the Nazis at the fake Treaty of Versailles and the Nazis sowed the Holocaust and the Holocaust empowered the Zionists who are Jewish Nazis. So they work on the principle that one good holocaust deserves another.

What they are doing right now will solidify Arab hatred of the Jews and regional violence for years and years to come. And that is precisely what the meddling bloated British pinheads want: create the mess and let the Arabs and the Jews kill each other and never give the region any rest, until every drop of oil is drained out of it.

Then, suddenly, when Big Oil goes the way of Whale Oil, peace will reign. Free energy will put an end to all the motives and games.

What fools we are, to let this "narrative" play out.

The Bible dictates that "before the end" Damascus in Syria must be laid to waste and left uninhabited. So the Do-It-Yourself cynics who hope to profit themselves and come to power by "fulfilling" Bible prophecy, are intent on razing Damascus. The whole once-beautiful city will now be bombed into oblivion. Those who cannot or will not flee, will be genocided for poor, little Israel.

The House of Saud will do nothing, because they are being blackmailed. Their secret is even more explosive these days than being counted among the endless supply of murdering pedophiles.

They are Jewish in origin. Relatives of the Sassoons and Kahlounis.

The Kingdom of Jordan is similarly compromised by western influence and is too small to think about doing anything but save its own hide.

Egypt? After some good intentions and saber-rattling over the genocide in Gaza, Egypt has retreated, spooked by the sudden entry of the Turkish Army into Syria and the lure of a fat cut of the so-called "New Oil Economy".

So what finally moved Erdogan off his thin dime? Was it love or money? Money. And where did the money come from to launch the Turkish Army into Syria. From Constantinople, of course, from the Eastern Orthodox side of the Catholic (Universal) Church. And where did they get such wealth? From Pope Francis, of course.

As his Creditors warily approach, Francis has turned his pockets inside out. No money left at the Vatican. What gold wasn't sent to The United States under the watchful eye of the British Territorial U.S. Military, was collected up and then moved to Constantinople, where it has been used to launch a Muslim on Muslim Crusade.

While we hear about all the unbelievable actions of the Israeli Defense Forces, nobody talks about the million-man Turkish Army suddenly deployed as a mercenary force in Syria in support of the Israelis.

If you had a million Turks going in front of you and cleaning up behind you, you'd be able to do some pretty incredible things, too.

Reminds us of all the unbelievable exploits and success stories surrounding British WWII General Montgomery, who always managed to show up first at the Victory Party and get the most photo opportunities, even if the rest of us, the Russians included, had to wait for three weeks for "Monty" to show up.

Now that we know that the Brits, the Templars, and the Roman Church are at the bottom of the dog pile, such well-paid supporting actors as the Turks are no longer confusing.

Once they have utterly destroyed Damascus for no real reason, other than their plan to "fulfill" Biblical prophecy and profit themselves from the narrative ---- they'll wheel and head for Mt. Herman and Balbek --and come back through the Plains of Armageddon. The only thing spoiling their little historical tableau is the recalcitrance of the Russians and Chinese to play their parts as Gog and Magog.

Maybe they can get Zelensky to play both parts for them.

[guywithaguy]

you ever think about how “shower thoughts” are so misnamed?? like they make it sound like you’re standing in the shower, deep in philosophical debate with yourself, solving world hunger or figuring out how time travel works. but in reality, you’re just standing there like:

• “if I eat soap in the shower, do I technically become cleaner?”

• “why do my toes exist. like really exist. what’s their purpose. do they even have a plan?”

• “did I use conditioner already or am I about to have the silkiest hair known to mankind?”

• “if two people each use one of those two-in-one shampoo/conditioner bottles, does it become a four-in-one by proxy?”

and NONE of these thoughts are profound. they’re just dumb brain static happening because you’re a wet, naked mammal with too much free time while sudsing up.

and then you forget every single thought the second you turn the water off. like the shower just absorbs them. that’s why you never hear anyone go, “oh yeah, I had this genius shower idea and it changed my life.” no. instead, it’s: “wait. what was I even thinking about in there? why am I holding a loofah like a weapon?”

shower thoughts are a SCAM. they’re not about the shower. they’re about your brain short-circuiting because it has too much time and not enough stimulation. call them “soapy spirals” or “prune-brain ramblings.” stop making them sound smart.

[jackhues]

Sid purposely misnames Bee’s boyfriend and gives him nicknames based on his actual name (ex. I dated a guy named Troy who went by his middle name but my dad still called him Wildcat like from HSM (never to his face though))

loll, it's sid's way of feeling superior. like bee will tell sid what her bf's name is, she'll remind him not to misname him, but sid doesn't listen. the second he sees the guy he's like "oh you're (incorrect name)". like if his name is brandon, he'll call him braydon or smth.

sid goes all out for those nicknames. he'll base them off of their name or a haircut or something sid finds ridiculous. it's so funny bcz bee's like you know his name, why are you still doing this? it catches on, and eventually nate and aunt taylor and sid's parents are referring to him as whatever nickname sid made up for him loll

[fatehbaz]

“[R]ecognition slips easily into a surveillance maneuver”: “What if misrecognition -- or ‘ghosting’ [...] -- facilitates resistance?” [...]

Opacity, multiplicity, and refraction unsettle many [...]. Here I must reveal myself as someone who loves deviance and mischief. [...] The word furtive delights me. A quick [online] search for synonyms yields other poetically inspiring words: secretive, surreptitious, clandestine, covert, conspiratorial, oblique, and shifty. [...] We must fold these small acts of love and creativity and play (and laughter and irreverence and whimsy) into other resistant projects against white supremacy [...].

To cite Kevin Quashie in his beautifully titled The Sovereignty of Quiet, “The outer world cannot be avoided or ignored, but one does not have to yield to its vagaries. One can be quiet.” One can also be loud [...].

In 1980, as Audre Lorde warned us: “The need for unity is often misnamed as a need for homogeneity.”[...] My [...] project continues my exploration of colonialism’s damages, and especially the ambivalent ones. I [...] chart a study of the aesthetics and poetics of the so-called boonies or hills in the extended Caribbean, by which I mean to include great swaths of the eastern United States. [...] [A] boonies imaginary is also an anagram of what race has come to mean in the Americas. In various trans-American imaginaries, the boonies are raced as nonproductive land inhabited by people who are not fully part of the Western episteme. I contend that to imagine the hills or the boonies is to imagine portals into other ways of inhabiting this planet.

Caribbean(ist) people are familiar with el monte, the hills, or les mornes.

El monte is always just around the corner, encroaching, sprouting persistently like fungi amid the rubble of hurricane disasters or abandoned plantation and industrial sites. In the United States, the hills have been virtually ghosted from most US imaginaries, remaining tellingly in the space of horror films and folklore.

The hills, like much of our hemisphere, are sites of damage containing the residual energy of violence, or what Anne McClintock calls the “places of irresolution.” I forage through these spaces of psychic disturbance with curiosity. I turn over rocks and push thorny vines to the side to find wet dirt, small creatures, and, perhaps, delightful hidden treasures such as mushrooms. I open my hands so that these and other surprises “jump into [them] with all the pleasures of the unasked for and the unexpected” [...].

Remaining open to these gifts of the nonhuman natural world might provide a key into how we must be if we are to live in a more radically equitable planet. A planet that decenters the human. What can we make possible when we make room for the unexpected in the midst of ruin. [...]

[L]et us be foragers nurturing “landscapes -- with their multiple residents and visitors -- rather than a single species.” How much ruddier might we be against the multiheaded hydra of white supremacy as “a world of mutually-flourishing companions” instead of “a single species” forcibly homogenized and easily destroyed?

---

All text above by: Dixa Ramirez D’Oleo. “Mushrooms and Mischief: On Questions of Blackness.” Small Axe (2019) 23 (2(2)), pages 152-153. Published July 2019. DOI at: doi dot org slash 10.1215 slash 07990537 dash 7703392 [Some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.[