#servitude and NOT ELABORATE ON IT

[a-friendly-dumpster-fire]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Link & Rauru (Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom), Link & Steward Construct Characters (Legend of Zelda), Link & Link's Family (Legend of Zelda), Link - Relationship Characters: Link (Legend of Zelda), Rauru (Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom), Steward Construct Characters (Legend of Zelda), Link's Mother (Legend of Zelda), Link's Father (Legend of Zelda), Link's Family (Legend of Zelda) Additional Tags: Angst, Friendship, POV Link (Legend of Zelda), POV Rauru (Legend of Zelda), Artificial Intelligence, Grief/Mourning, Link Makes a Friend (Legend of Zelda), Ethics Debates on Artifical Intelligence, exploration of humanity, Author Cannot Tag for The Life of Them (This is a Cry For Help) Summary:

LINK: Have you ever died before?

THE CONSTRUCT: I am a construct, Link. We are not born, and we cannot die.

[The campfire whimpers and sputters. They both turn to stare at the empty husk of another deceased construct rotting nearby.]

THE CONSTRUCT WHO IS NOT BORN AND CANNOT DIE: …we cannot die in the same way our creators did.

LINK: But surely it must be similar.

THE CONSTRUCT: I wouldn’t know. Can a machine die like a heart stops beating?

[terribletrollstbh]

MAN SO THE BALL SNUCK UP ON ME OOPSIES

luckily i had Chiloa and Pietri finished early! Combining several motifs, these two Venetian inspired costumes draw upon these themes:

Comedy and Tragedy masks

Dark Chocolate and White Chocolate

Vampire and Victim

Nobility and Servitude

Please open in a new tab to view all the details!

Chiloa belongs to @cloudbattrolls

[glaciergore]

love how jop's hallucination epitomises his dynamic with crozier — not only the perceived abandonment of the present, but his invisibility leading up to it.

I mean, how many times has he been in this position?

stewardship grants him access to command (and a face of crozier) that others are denied, yet it comes at the requisite of servitude. he's close enough to see, but too low to touch; allowed to listen, but not to speak. he's a background piece; a half-thing with a decanter while the real people talk. he's communicated at (rather than with) using a nod or shake of the head, a 'yes' or 'no' to whatever he's offering, in brief asides to conversation — which he can witness but not partake in.

then there's the fact that, when jopson confides in crozier about his mother, it's completely unknown to his captain. it's the first time he's confiding in him (according to garrigan), likely the first personal thing crozier learns about him. and crozier has to prompt him to talk about it, since he doesn't raise the subject or elaborate of his own volition.

when crozier tells him a story, though, jopson is already familiar. he knows how it ends, remembers its details (like names). he's probably heard it countless times before, around those tables, unseen but still listening to words meant for other people. and when crozier asks if he wants to hear it, he says yes anyway, because it's the first time he's performing it for him — talking with (not to) him, looking at him, touching him. he is his sole audience member now.

all that to say: jopson's role as steward positions him as watcher/listener (passive) and carer/informant (active) to crozier. the power differential there says that he may touch, but only in servitude — to attach epaulettes, to sew cuffs. he may share a story, but only when invited to speak. he may act if it's for someone else. but, for himself, he cannot even ask, let alone have.

so jopson crawling on that table, that's not just him crawling to a man he thinks has abandoned him. that's all the time he's spent watching someone who's looking away. that's him abandoning the silence of servitude and asking for himself. it's more or less his only request.

and it goes unheard.

[jadewolf22]

Gentle Hands

Ambessa Medarda x Female!Reader

Warnings: Emotional burnout, hurt/comfort, non-sexual intimacy, etc.

Summary:  For a woman used to war, there’s nothing she values more than a pair of gentle hands to catch her when she needs to fall apart.

A/n: This is my first time writing for Ambessa. She’s one of my favorite characters from Arcane so I hope I did her justice.

Word Count:  1,092 words

Ambessa didn’t feel the weight of her armor until she stepped through the door.

The grand hall of her estate greeted her in silence, long shadows stretching through the columns like arms trying to pull her deeper into the dark. The heavy thud of the front doors shutting behind her felt like the final nail in a coffin. 

She stood still for a moment, just breathing.

Her shoulders ached. Her back twinged with the deep-set stiffness of a day spent on edge, sitting through endless council posturing, war-talk, and political theater so contrived it might as well have been staged. Even her jaw hurt—from clenching too tightly, from swallowing down too many things she wanted to say. Things she should’ve said.

Her chest was too tight. Her body too heavy. Her mind too full.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or collapse. She didn’t know which.

But instead—

“Welcome home,” your voice came from the far end of the hall.

Ambessa looked up.

You were standing near the stairs, barefoot in a soft linen robe, holding a cup of tea and watching her with that expression she couldn’t name. Not quite worried. Not surprised. Just . . . knowing.

You always knew.

“I made stew,” you said, voice warm. “It’s on the stove. Still hot.”

She didn’t move.

You crossed the space between you slowly, heels soft against stone, and reached for her armor with a familiarity that made her stomach loosen.

“Let me,” you said, eyes on the buckle near her collarbone.

Ambessa didn’t stop you.

You unfastened the chest plate first, then slid it carefully over her head. The pauldrons followed. Then the gauntlets. Then the belt. Piece by piece, you peeled the metal away from her body like you were undoing a shell. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until her breastplate hit the marble with a soft clunk, and she let out a long, trembling exhale.

“You look tired,” you murmured.

“I feel worse.”

You cupped her jaw gently. “Then come sit. Let me take care of you.”

IN the past, Ambessa han never let anyone help her undress. She was too proud. Too used to self-reliance. But with you, it wasn’t about need.

It was about trust.

So she let you pull her gloves off finger by finger. Let you help her step out of the boots. Let you untie the tunic from her hips and slide it from her shoulders.

She stood in the quiet of the bedroom, finally unburdened, stripped down to her skin and the weight of her exhaustion. You handed her a glass of red wine and guided her to the bed.

She sat with a groan, muscles aching in places that had no name.

You didn’t sit beside her.

Instead, you picked up her armor—now neatly stacked—and took it to the corner where you always cleaned it. A soft towel. Oiled cloths. A basin of warm water.

Ambessa watched from bed, sipping slowly.

You didn’t speak at first.

You never did.

You let the act itself be the comfort—the intimacy. It wasn’t servitude. It was devotion. Ritual. Reverence. Your hands were sure and steady, wiping away the grime of the day, the ash from the forges, the smears of council ink and sweat.

You cleaned her armor like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

“What happened?” you asked quietly, not looking at her.

She was quiet for a moment. Then:

“Mel.”

You didn’t ask for an elaboration. Just kept working.

Ambessa turned her head toward you, voice quieter. “I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I don’t need her forgiveness to keep moving forward. But…”

“But?”

“It does matter,” she admitted, almost ashamed. “More than I’d like.”

You glanced at her, soft around the eyes. “That doesn’t make you weak.”

“She sees me as the monster,” Ambessa said. “The war dog. The one who made her childhood a battlefield. And maybe I was. But gods—doesn’t a mother deserve the chance to become something else?”

You set down the chest plate and came over, crawling onto the bed beside her.

Ambessa reached for you without thinking, one hand finding your thigh, the other resting on your hip. You leaned over her and brushed her hair from her face.

“You are so much more than what people expect you to be,” you whispered. “Even her.”

She closed her eyes.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to her forehead, before slipping behind her. Your hands went to her shoulders—strong, calloused, slow, and you started kneading the knots loose, digging your thumbs into the rigid muscles that made up Ambessa’s entire existence. She groaned, low and quiet.

“I hate that I can’t fix it,” she murmured.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” you said. “Right now, your only job is to breathe.”

She did.

She let your hands move lower, over her spine, across her lower back, down her arms. You massaged her biceps, her forearms, even the sore pads of her palms. You kissed each knuckle like you were rewiring something in her.

Eventually, she flipped onto her back, and you moved to straddle her hips, reaching for her hair, untwisting the braids she'd left half-undone earlier.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

This, too, was something she only let you do.

The way you toyed with her curls, combed your fingers through the thick volume, gently tugged the tension from her scalp. It made her feel human. Mortal. Not a weapon. Not a statue. Just a woman in her lover’s bed.

She could feel herself melting.

Piece by piece.

Until her arms draped loosely over your thighs and her head lolled back into the pillow and she whispered, “Stay with me.”

You leaned down and kissed her lips—soft and slow and steady.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

She believed you.

---

 Later, with the armor cleaned and her body finally relaxed, Ambessa lay under the covers with you pressed against her side. You stroked the inside of her wrist absentmindedly, your nose buried in the crook of her neck.

Ambessa stared at the ceiling, voice slow and worn. “If I’d had you back then…”

You kissed her jaw. “Back then, you wouldn’t have let me in.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I would’ve needed you all the same.”

You hummed, running your fingers down her stomach. “You have me now. That’s what matters.”

Ambessa turned, pulled you against her, buried her face in your chest.

She let herself be held.

Let herself be cradled.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to earn it.

[yeonjuns-beanie]

In Odio Est Amor

warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, descriptions of blood and violence, some exhibitionism, lustful/cathartic sex, angst, mutual pining, talk of death, oral(f receiving), think that’s it

summary: in a trade gone bad, you’ve been sought out by macrinus due to your animalistic combat skills. stuck in the camp of gladiators, Hanno is assigned your sparring partner. your existence is a bitter reminder of what he lost but in hate we find love. 

a/n: saw gladiator for a second time and i felt compelled to write, seeing as i CANNOT stop thinking about lucius/hanno. he’s just too hot. considering the historical timeline, this is a little inaccurate, seeing as gladiatrices were banned in 200 AD. hopefully, this will be up to par with the rest of the amazing writers in this tag. hope you have a great day! 

lucius verus x female!reader 

word count: 7.4k

Being the only woman in the camp of gladiators left you feeling like a chewed piece of communal meat that was too tough to swallow. Stuck in a loop of forever being spit out, only to be soon placed in the mouth of another slobbering animal. 

Anything beat the damnation of being a courtesan. 

The life you lived before was that of sexual servitude, left to your own meticulous devices of survival. Even with your promiscuous occupation, you found ways to be exceedingly picky. It was the only way you could save the last bit of dignity that you had left. Caracalla, saw a means to see an end to your persnickety nature when you denied him of the favors he requested. After the exile and potential murder of his late wife, most of the other courtesans never denied his requests, but when you were placed between his legs and met with unsightly sores as the base of his shaft; you couldn’t find the gall to risk your health. Especially, not for some entitled tyrant who was destroying Rome for all that it was worth. 

You told yourself that this would be one of the few clients you’d swallow your pride for but instead, you forced him to vomit his. Your refusal birthed a mirage of embarrassment and shame shrouded in anger and a battle cry for your death. After being whisked away by his servants, you were foolish to think that this would be the end of the interaction. As you walked the path home, you were overcome with wilting anxiety. In the moment where you felt you might be able to make it safely back, you were bombarded by royal guards. 

Pummeling you to the ground, your fists connected with as many faces as possible. When your coiled hands of fury and fright failed you, you resorted to more primal behaviors. Using your teeth to stall your enemies, shreds of crimson skin stained your mouth, but alas–you were severely outnumbered. One man struck the back of your head and covered your face with a burlap sack. Feeling metal cuffs being placed around your wrists, you allowed your bones to relax in your defeat, understanding that you were once again shackled to the fall of Rome. 

They tossed you around like garbage. You knew that’s how they saw you and could only imagine what Caracalla had said about you for them to be so rough. Dragging your body across the gravel, you fell limp in their grasp not caring where you ended up next. Soon sleep draped over your body and you hoped that your eyes would fight fluttering open, leading you to an everlasting sleep. 

When you awoke, you were in a stone cell clad in your dirtied stola. The ends of the dress were speckled with dirt and the low, modified neckline was frayed as if someone tried to tear it open. Sitting up on the bed you peered through the bars of your royal cage, your eyes landing on sweaty, shirtless men across the way. Walking to the bars, you could see that a few guards were patrolling the area, but you couldn’t help to notice that it seemed you were the only woman in these cells. Before you could find the strength to call out to someone, a brown-skinned man costumed in elaborate robes and jewelry came up on the other side of the cell. 

“Ah! You’ve awakened. And just in time, I must say, you get to prove your worth to me this morning.” “Excuse me?” “Apologies, suppose it would be a common courtesy to inform you what your new duties are. I have to admit, I saw you last night, tearing into those guards like a feral banshee; very similar to my barbarian.” 

Barbarian?

Your face contorted in confusion, wishing that the antics of storytelling would be removed from the conversation; however, judging from this man’s outward appearance you doubted you’d be awarded the luxury. 

“A gladiator of mine likes to eat monkeys. Proven to be one my best fighters, and seeing you behave as equally inhuman if not more than him, especially…after hearing what you did–I have to say I’m overjoyed to have a barbarian of beauty to bet on as well.”

Your face soured, realizing you were slavery bait. No better than cattle waiting to be slaughtered. 

“I’m not fighting for you.”

“Ah, my banshee, you see–you aren’t fighting for me. No…but rather your freedom. Fight for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Your hand struck the metal bars of the cell. The ringing of the bars reverberating off the chambers of the stone prison. It was equally as haunting as the shriek of a banshee in the dead of night. Frustration and agony rushed through you, demanding a destination for its release, the rusty bars alchemizing the brunt of your fury. The only way out was through. Through blood, through agonizing pain, through the tears of what was left of your family name, through ruin. You let your mind wander about what could possibly satisfy the seething, bitter ache that now resided in your soul. 

The fall of Rome? Its mighty walls finally crumbling due to its horrific excuse of the ruling.  A damning plague? Disease wiping out all of those who were destined to meet the divine in some display of retribution? Or perhaps, the death of Geta so that Caracalla could choke on the verity of his despotic rule? Each thought seemed chaotic enough to satisfy the storm of rage within but there was only one thing that would snuff the flames. 

“Caracalla’s head.”

You stormed to the cell gates, fire breathing out of your nostrils and rage swimming in your irises. If he were to fall headlong, a bloody trophy for you to display, your hunger would be satiated. You fought tooth and nail your entire life, to be something more than a slave and here you were being pawned off for entertainment. Justice demanded her dues. 

“There she is. Now, put these on and follow their orders, I’ll be with you soon.” 

The cell gate opened and you were handed an olive green tunic, strophium, and subligar. Sighing as you looked at the fabric in your hands, you braced yourself for the long road ahead. Nodding to the man you realized something before he walked off.

“What was your name?”

“Macrinus. Yours?”

You hesitated, the weight of your given name threatening to roll past your lips. This couldn’t be your legacy–a woman discarded for the entertainment of others, her last shreds of dignity wrung dry and tattered. No one would seek the truth, nor would they care for the details of your defiance toward Caracalla. They would crave the story spoonfed to them by a diluted man. 

A savage. 

A wanton woman who was too picky in her own right in a poor attempt at survival. A woman who denied a royal the spoils he believed to be his right. 

A whore. Nothing more. 

That would be the glorious legacy, at least that would be the emphatic story the town would cry if this were to result in your untimely death. And yet, as you bored your eyes into the man on the other side of the bars, something about his presence loomed like a shadow too wicked to trust. The unsettling dissonance was difficult to ignore. Should he ask for the truth of your life, you’d give it willingly, but something in his gaze served as a warning: this truth would bear no fruits for you. 

“Nero.”

“That’s not your birth name, is it?”

“My birth name will die with Rome, if I see it fit.” 

Macrinus nodded a knowing smirk painting his lips before he walked off. 

In your new robes, you sat on the bed, waiting for your cell gate to be opened. In your dissociative state, you noticed all the different colors in the dirt and the different sizes of the rocks and pebbles. Wondering how long it took for these fragments of eternity to be reduced to small scraps of their original form. The squeaking from the gate tore you from your thoughts and a man dressed in typical gladiator armour greeted you with something mixed with disdain and pity. 

“Come. Time to train.”

You rose, the stretching of your limbs and the movement towards the man wrought with apathy running through your marrow. Was the struggle ahead worth the anguish that came with it? Would surrendering your life and facing judgment by the gods to everlasting torment bring a sense of solace in its finality? Would there be any reward in this life or the next for a soul being unmade by its own hand to escape imprecation? 

Your head hung as you followed the man outside, leading you to a gathering of burly men in tunics with all love for life stripped from their faces. They were bruised, scabbed, and jaded by the torment they’d been subjected to; but of course, the entrance of a woman breathed some vitality back into them. In the time spent in your cell, you had braided your hair away from your face, leaving your imminent beauty on display despite the rags they clothed you in. It was as if the world silenced around you as you walked in, your head now held high in the presence of others. A ringing filled your ears as your eyes landed on a ragged man, a cold detachment surrounding his aura. He was staring. A jaded expression tracked your every move as you took the open seat next to him, not uttering a sound. 

You hung your head again, hoping to ignore the invasive and curious gazes of the other men. Clasping your hands together, you prayed to the Gods to give you the strength to survive. Your prayers were cut short as you heard Macrinus’ voice echo over the various sounds of the training camp. 

“As you all can see, we have a new barbarian joining our ranks today. She is destined to earn her place in the arena just as all of you. Her late arrival means her trials begin in full. No. Mercy. Since my barbarian, Hanno, claimed victory in the hand-to-hand combat two days ago, perhaps it’s only fitting that you, Nero, show us the skills that spared you your life. After all, they chose to throw you in the gladiator pit instead of severing your head. Hanno, Nero, up!”

Macrinus clapped his hands together to urge haste in movement from you and whoever Hanno was. As you stood, you realized the body next to you was also rising in stature. Gazing in his eyes this time, there was an emptiness that stirred. For a moment you saw a flash of sorrow in his eyes and you furrowed your brow in response. He was built and you began to wonder what your limitations were for combat. You stood in between the benches of men and the elaborate chair Macrinus was sitting in, planting your feet in the dirt in a fighting stance. You waited for Hanno to reciprocate the stance but every time he leaned his body down, he stood back up in apprehension. Shaking his limbs in rejection, he turned to Macrinus. 

“This is not right. To fight a woman in these…in any conditions. Pick someone else.” 

“You will fight her or all deals are off. Who’s to say she’s not a worthy opponent? 

Your shoulders lifted lazily, dropping them with a defiant slouch as your face cast a dismissive look. Without hesitation, you settled back into your stance, surging at Hanno. You landed a jab straight to his jaw before drifting around his ankles, creating a tornado of dust that wove through his defenses. A storm of grit and determination fueling your fury. When he fell, the sorrow in his eyes was swallowed and replaced by vexation. You dodged his punches with precision, though his fist made home in your gut, dropping you to the ground. You hobbled up slowly, coughing out the bitter dust in your throat before lunging at him again with savage resolve. 

He was an equal opponent, but you were determined to win. Tapping into the same energy from the night before, instinct ravaged your body as you lept on his back, raining blows of rage down on his chest. His attempts to rid you of him only fueled your fire of wrath more and you grabbed a fistful of his hair. You let loose a scream that was sharp enough to sear the air, a blistering echo to the ears. Baring your teeth you were disposed to bite.

“Stop!” 

Macrinus’ voice bellowed through the camp ceasing the dog fight in front of him. You hissed at him, an animal seized mid-hunt. Hopping off of Hanno’s back, you stood in front of him and bowed in tense submission before walking with your head hung low back to your seat. Macrinus stood and gave a calculated, smug look towards the man clad in leather armour that brought you down here. 

“Hose her down and cell her with him. Balance already hangs by a thread in this camp. We must keep vigilant. I believe two invasive species, separated, will incite chaos. Keep them together and maybe those who resist them will have enough strength to endure” 

You raised your head slowly, turning to look at Hanno seated next to you, commiseration flooding your features. You were surprised to see the same look staring back at you. Pressing your lips in a fine line, you rose and followed the guard to the bathing chambers. 

~*~

Your muscles ached, the hot water soothing the pain radiating through your limbs. You assumed it was Macrinus, but there was folded fabric at the edge of the bath. Stepping out and drying yourself off, you draped the clothing over your body, only to find that it barely reached your mid-thigh. You knew you’d be asking for too much to be treated with some note of decency, but at least you were able to clean yourself. The guard walked you back to the cells and as you passed your previous one being occupied by another man, you realized the orders from earlier were not a bluff and you’d have to face Hanno like a fool. 

As you walked down the corridor, men in the other cells were whistling, catcalling you to come stay in their cell instead. Claiming that they could show you a better time than Hanno or the emperor. 

The word spread like wildfire. Once a whore, always a whore. 

You hung your head, hoping that somehow if you wore your shame on your sleeve you’d disappear from all the madness. The squeak from the cell bars ripped you from your thoughts and you looked at Hanno apologetically before seating yourself on the bed across his. 

“By Gods, why do they have you in here?”

You shook your head, trying to will away the tears that were welling up in your eyes. His first words to you weren’t vulgar or accusatory, they were forged of concern and despondent curiosity. You licked your lips, caging them in between your teeth in an attempt to swallow the burning ball of emotions that was bubbling up your throat. You turned to face him finally, swallowing your fears and accepting your fate. Something about him told you that you could trust him. Sighing, you found your strength to speak. 

“I assume you’ve heard the echoes of what I’ve done?”

Hanno nodded slowly.

“There is some verity to the words but not all. I know you may find it difficult to see truth in such a claim, especially as I stand before you clad in garments of odium, bestowed so graciously upon me. But know this– I am more than a mere cyprian. Indeed, I am Rome’s poorest excuse for one, and that very deficiency is what has landed me in the arena.” 

“What is this deficiency you speak of?

“Being too particular in whom I offered services to. I only did what I did to survive…and now, I must survive for sport–entertainment for eyes who would care less if I lived or bled out in the dirt.”

Hanno looked down at his hand, fiddling with the ring that adorned his pinky finger. 

“I also…I want to apologize for my behavior earlier today. He christened me a ‘barbarian of beauty’ –figured I needed to give him a reason to keep his favor. I do hope you understand, but still, the animalic behavior was unjust.” 

“No need. We must survive, by any means necessary. I only wish the Gods decided a different fate for you.” 

Hanno’s breath became heavy but sparse. He seemed to be reminiscing on something but wouldn’t dare let the words fill the air between you. He mumbled something you couldn’t quite catch and you were about to inquire but his low voice painted the silence first. 

“Your name, it’s not Nero, is it?”

Your body separated itself from your mind and you stared at Hanno with fear and uncertainty. Your birth name was shallow on your tongue but heavy in your throat, begging for someone to see you for more than just your flesh. To attach an identity to the body more than an insult. You shook your head and turned to the makeshift window toward the ceiling, seeing a navy blue begin to stroke the sky in its image, hoping that something would give you the strength to share yourself the same way you had done when it was at the expense of others. Hanno’s hand encased your own and brought you back to the conversation as the gesture startled you. 

“I’m not your enemy. Remember we’re ‘barbarians’, only the two of us.” 

Sighing, he swallowed his pride and revealed his belly to you. 

“Hanno is not my name, and I’ve not always been Rome’s favorite beast. I’ve come to know I bore a name that mattered. Lucius Verus Aurelius. The Prince of Rome. A name I may never be able to reclaim in glory.”

He paused tightening his grip around your hand as if seeking comfort. 

“There was a dream of Rome, one that my father fought for. But through slaughter and slavery, power won over the people and now we wade in the remnants of what once was. In search of the hope that someone or something will restore the honor.” 

Lucius let go of your hands and brought one of his calloused ones to his face, Rubbing the stress-ridden features away as the scratch of his beard caught your ears. You watched him attentively, waiting on bated breath for him to speak his next words. He leaned closer, the gap between seeming to never have existed. He gazed into your eyes, searching for something you knew not of until he uttered them in the next breath. 

“You remind me of her.” His voice was nearly a whisper. Something you’d miss again if you weren’t so focused on him. With more chest to his tone, he admitted.

“My wife. She burned like you do. A flame that never quit dancing. A warrior who refused to bow–they stole her spark. The same day they made me a slave. A bitter goodbye, I shared, but when I look at you…I see her ghost.”

There was a touch of venom in his last words. They seemed to have meant good will but the taste was sour in your mouth. A moment fleeting once again. Even in your vulnerability, your search for someone seeing you for you, you were a reminder of something else. You paused, taking a deep breath in before you spoke. Removing your hands from Lucius’, you stared at him with the cracked concrete resolve that you walked through life with. 

“Y/n. Y/n L/n is my given name. My father was once an accredited soldier here in Rome, but he tried to overthrow the twins. With that political betrayal came familial shame and poverty. Sinking deeper into poverty I couldn’t watch my mother fail. My beauty had always been prominent, so I exchanged my virtue in an effort to clear our debts and save what dignity my mother had left.” 

Tears began to well in your eyes as you thought about the orders that were carried out against your family. 

“They slaughtered her.” you began, voice trembling like a frayed string. 

 “As I spent hours severing my pride, they cornered her. There was never a debt–only a performance of humiliation, a spectacle of shame to the so-called traitor.” 

You stood, staring out the cell bars before turning to face him again, your shadow stretching across the stone from the torch on the wall. 

“My father raised a viper. A soldier to bear his name in honor. But those tyrants–these incompetent rulers–they’ll soon choke on their arrogance. I will have his head.” 

“Who?”

“Caracalla. I may have sold my poise for survival but I will not suffer my health for the pleasure of a rat.” 

You sat beside Lucius, your words heavy in the air. 

“I carry the guilt, a constant companion. I reminisce the fragments of life I had before all of this and now I reminisce of what it felt like to live a life unspoiled by the fear of death. The scars of my servitude are my food for that arena. This isn’t about freedom it’s about reclaiming a dream they stole.”

You felt Lucius staring but you didn’t dare return the gesture. You were naked, said too much about yourself, you only hoped that you could keep his favor. 

“We should get some rest. God knows the entertainment we’ll be performing tomorrow.”

Standing up you settled back into your bed, curling your body into a fetal position with your back facing the wall. You tried your best to maneuver the fabric of your dress to cover yourself but soon gave up on the endeavor and just stared at the ground covered in shadows of yellow and orange. 

~*~

Sleep evaporated in a single breath as the cacophony of clamoring metal and gruff voices jolted you awake. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you dressed in the olive garments from yesterday, the scent of sweat and earth still clinging to the fabric. In the corner, a pile of gladiator armor taunted your peace. With a heavy breath escaping you, you braided your hair, coiling it into a bun. Every strand you attached a prayer of strength to. The weight of Lucius’ gaze bore into you, his presence going unnoticed until now. He lingered, his eyes flickering between your own and the twisted knot of hair at your nape. 

“Something on your mind?”

“You mirror her as if she’s still here.” 

You noticed where his eyes were landing and gently touched the bun. A tight-lipped, bitter smile cracking your face. Rolling your tongue around your teeth, you spoke. 

“Whoever your wife was” you murmured, unspoken and unintentional venom in your tone, “do not look for her in me. Whatever regard you hold her in, I could never–honor the shadow of her memory. I am a poison.” 

You meant no harm but your words were dripping in acrimony. You hated that throughout your life, you were always seen for something other than yourself. The epitome of you, torn to shreds and left screaming. Y/n was never seen and how could she be? A family name forgotten in a smear campaign and a life lived of shame, what was there to be reveled in? You abhorred that he saw someone much more valuable in you than you deemed yourself worth. You were a ghost. A shallow reminder of what he once loved. 

The cell thickened with unsaid words, Lucius opened and closed his mouth, betraying the storm of thoughts that swirled within him. He walked toward the cell door, grabbed your blade, and passed it to you with care.

“I see you, Y/n, and your strength. Fight for your name today and do it with intention.”

You nodded, swallowing the bubble of hatred and sorrow in your throat. Standing you grabbed the grip of the blade, steadying its weight in your fingers. You heard the other cell gates opening and you waited to be released. Adrenaline and ferality coursing through your veins. 

The walk to the arena was short but brutal as the sun scalded your skin. As you stood in the shaded maw of the tunnels, you felt water sloshing at your feet. The rays of the sun blinding your eyes in its reflection. You watched Lucius walk to the front of the group, a commanding presence blanketing the air. 

“This is about survival! Survive!”

You followed his lead, wildly unprepared for what was to happen next. The feeling of the water squishing between your toes made your skin crawl but a shiver of fear soon took over as you saw the vessel you’d be fighting on today. Suddenly, the water made sense. You took a seat towards the front awaiting Lucius’ command. Your hands gripped the ore tightly and you looked at the bearish man next to you who greeted you with mockery. 

“Hope your teeth come in handy in the water.” 

You stared forward, fire in your eyes. You separated from your body feeling an unknown level of rage sear your being. You heard an announcer on the other side and the gates were released open, water rushing underneath the boat. Quickly scanning your surroundings you noted with disgust how the arena had turned into a spectacle of chaos. Floating vessels on either side filled with poor bastards, desperately seeking a second chance at life in this gauntlet of survival for the entertainment of nameless faces. 

Lucius commanded the ship valiantly, some men perishing to the sharks or arrows from the opposing side. As the boat was steered to demolish the other ship's ores, you felt a surge of rapid excitement run through you as you watched the shards of wood penetrate their skin. Leaving them in either complete agony or to bleed out amongst their crew. 

In one more calculated steer, Lucius’ ship barreled into the side of Roman’s warship, debris shooting into the air and clanking back down on the deck. All hell broke loose. You watched Lucius hail down from his post, sword in hand as he slaughtered two men with unusual ease. You’d seen a rage poor out of him that you never seen actualized in anyone but yourself. Your eyes caught Caracalla’s as he sat in his imperial chair watching with glee as your limbs froze in anger. You were one of the last to flee the boat and the game announcer made sure everyone saw your unease as you comprehended your reality. 

“It seems our newest gladiatrix hasn’t earned her sea legs.”

Unbridled fear and rage soiled you as you stared at the crowd with wide, brazen eyes. You growled, tightening your grip on your sword, and ran into the chaos with reckless abandon. Your resolve didn’t care who your sword struck, just as long as your bloodlust was satisfied. Helmets adorned with hideous plooms made your targets easy to strike and you made it worth your while. Your blade was stained crimson and you clawed at their exposed skin just to ensure their death was agonizing. Flesh caked under your nails, the dried blood becoming sticky in your palms. 

Baring your teeth, your back was hunched and heaving in the air. You snarled seeking your next victim within the chaos. A blade slashed your arm, leaving fresh garnet to ooze from the wound. You looked up into the emperors’ box seeing Caracalla leaning forward in his seat pouting at the outcome in front of him. Macrinus was behind him, hands steepled together as he hid a smirk from the rest of his peers. Hearing the announcer’s grating voice echo in the Colosseum, you stalked your next target. 

“What an animal! She’s worse than our sharks. Perhaps, we should have put her in the water instead!”

Laughter erupted in the area and you looked around feeling a sense of helplessness begin to wash over you. You were giving them exactly what they wanted. Stomping around on the deck, you were planting your sword into already dead soldiers just to feel the destruction of their flesh through your blade. Your eyes landed on a lone bow with a perfect arrow clattered on top of it. You dropped your blade, the metal clattering against the wood of the ship. Blending in with the chaos around you, you picked up your new weapon and drew your arrow back. Slightly hidden by the tattered sails, your attack was camouflaged by those in front of you. Lining up the point with the emperor’s box you let the arrow spring free. When you dropped the bow and stepped from behind the ragged sail you were defeated to see that the arrow had lodged itself in the side of Caracalla’s throne. 

“TRAITORIUS!” Emperor Geta cried. His yell acted as a death knell for the arena. 

Lucius whipped his head around from where the arrow hailed and when his eyes landed on yours he stormed to you shaking you to bring your spirit back from the brink. You heard nothing he said. They would remember you if it was the last thing you did. Your eyes were locked in on the imperial daises relishing in the fear that briefly flashed their faces. 

~*~

Retired to your cell, the air was thick between you two. You avoided his gaze and didn’t dare to speak. You had cleaned yourself prior, but you were still picking at flecks of dried blood under your nails. 

“That was heedless what you did today.”

“I said, I’d have his head. I missed. The fear he held filled me well. Tomorrow is a new day.” 

“And what if they saw the attack, what revenge have you then?” His tone grew more accusatory as he stood, his figure imposing. You spoke to the ground, not having the strength to fight with him.

“Then at least I died trying. Something my father wasn’t granted the courtesy of.”

Lucius paused, trying to find the right words.

“You fought like a storm.”

You raised your head to face him, surprised by his change of tone. You silenced the flutter of happiness you felt from the praise, but your small smile didn’t go unnoticed. 

“A storm drowns as easily as it conquers. I was blinded by rage today. They got exactly what they wanted.” 

Lucius’ frame softened as he sat next to you and you traced the stitches of your battle wounds. It suddenly became usually silent within the camp, the crackle of a fire pit out in the quad of the prison, the burning bark of the torch, and the occasional shuffle from a guard were all that echoed through the halls. 

“You’ll ruin your skin if you keep at it like that. Leave it be, y/n.  You’ve endured enough today.” The flicker of care that painted his words was the antithesis of his rough exterior. It challenged you and your vulnerability. 

“And if I don't?” your breath shaky in its opposition. “What would it matter?”

“It matters to me,” he spoke quickly. A note of something raw in his tone. You turned to him, the silence that filled the cell now was an entirely different energy. Startled by the vulnerability etched into his face and the weight of his gaze, you were stripped of your defenses. The shell you encased yourself in crumbled to dust, exposing the fragile girl beneath. Your body moved before your mind and you scooted closer to him, your shoulders brushing feeling the heat radiate off him.

Lucius exhaled, a sound that harnessed the weight of everything unsaid. His hand came to rest on yours, the gesture done out of harmony rather than dominance. The scruff of his beard tickled your forehead as you raised your face towards his. In the soft glow of the torchlight, both of your eyes said a thousand words in complete silence–then your lips met. Not with haste but with an aching tenderness that your soul burned for. The outside world ceased to exist, enraptured with one another in this moment.

The kiss started soft but your breaths soon became heavy, vacuuming air through your nostrils out of fear that if your lips disconnected this moment would disappear. Lucius moved his hands to capture your waist and slotted his hand under your thighs to move you into his lap. It was then that you broke the kiss, uncertainty filling your being once again. 

“What’s wrong?” Concern laced in his tone, afraid that he made you uncomfortable. You sighed, feeling unwanted emotion rise viciously up your throat like heated bile. 

“I want this to be more than just a fleeting moment. I don’t wish for you to see me as the whore they’ve so harshly crafted, nor to feel like a conquest for you–a prize so easily won.” Your voice was shaky as you spoke, unable to hide the waves of emotion well. Lucius caressed your sides, soothing you as you sat in the pit of regret and sorrow of what you had done in life. Your head hung, but not for long as Lucius’ thumb and forefinger raised your head to look at him. 

“Do not tether yourself to that title. It is not chains of eternity that shackle you to it. Y/n–it is a false truth whispered through the minds of shallow men to make you small. To me, you are no more a whore than a flame is a shadow. Your light burns through the weathering of rain, igniting your strength.” He paused, his eye contact unwavering to show that every word he spoke held the weight of complete veracity. 

“If you wish to stop, say the word. But know this–my desire is not conditional, no debts or games to be played. What happens here is your command.”

Lucius’ hand came up to wipe the tear that you hadn’t realized fell. It was overwhelming to feel such acceptance. You believed every word and let yourself soften into his embrace, wrapping your hands around his neck and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Thank you–I…Iwant this. I want you.”

His lips found yours, this kiss more searing than the last. Your hands tangled themselves into his hair and your hips rolled in rhythm against his own. His hands trailed down the sides of your curves before finding refuge in the fat of your ass, squeezing the flesh with zeal.

His hips stuttered as he squeezed your flesh and you could feel the bulge beginning to form underneath his tunic. You rolled into the feeling, both of your breaths labored in wanton desire. You pulled your lips away only to pepper kisses down the length of his neck, swiping your tongue up before you bit the lobe of his ear. The faint taste of sweat fired you up even more and you couldn’t get close enough to him. 

Curling your fingers into the fabric that clung to his chest, you pulled him close suffocating his lips to yours. In a moment, he had positioned your body so that your back was laid down on the bed and Lucius hovered over you. Taking in your form for every strand of beauty you were worth—a dangerous hunger flashing in his eyes. 

Your hair was splayed underneath you and Lucius moved a few strands away from your face before placing kisses on the length of your jaw and down the column of your neck. Lucius placed a lingering kiss upon your lips before resting his forehead against your own. His breath mingled with your own as if to rid you of all the pain and uncertainty you had felt throughout your life. He wanted to replace all those negative feelings with something raw and unbreakable. 

You trailed your hands down the front of his body before looking back into his icy eyes, seeing a new emotion swirl in them. Your actions were no longer reigned by caution but falling victim to a deep, unspoken yearning. 

“Let us be whole in this moment,” you whispered, the words dripping in true desire. “Let our bodies tangle and relish in the ecstasy.”

Lucius didn’t answer with words, but instead captured your lips in a kiss that stole your breath. It devoured and soothed you in one fell swoop. His touch was firm, but tender, massaging your body with something more than lust. This was a testament of humanity amidst the terror of your world. 

With ease, Lucius removed you from your clothes, leaving your body to be painted by the distant flames. When he stared at your naked form without saying a word, you soon grew self-conscious and wanted to cover your body from his raking eyes. Catching your hands in his, he gave you all the reassurance you needed. 

“Don’t hide from me. Let me see. One should feel so blessed to lay their eyes on you, like this.” 

Lucius kissed down the trunk of your body, leaving flowers to bloom in their wake as he made a path down the valley of your breasts. When he reached the area above the mound of your sex, he paused and looked up at you for permission–eyes showing you a hunger you’d never seen before. You nodded as you gently spread your legs wider, giving him complete access to you. His eyes were blown wide as he dipped his head to meet your petals. His nose teased the top of your clit and the anticipation was driving you mad. Before you had the chance to beg him to touch you, his tongue swiped up your folds, collecting a puddle of arousal on his tongue. 

Your body shivered in shock and pleasure, your hips jolting forward and your back arching slightly. You threw your head back, shuddered air falling past your lips. Your hands immediately found solace in Lucius’ hair, gripping the strands as he lapped at your garden. Soon your hips were rolling in rhythm with his tongue and you could feel the heat begin to pool in your lower stomach. Your muscles tighten and release with each passing second of foretaste. 

“...Lucius…I,” he lifted his head only for a moment to shush you. “I’ve got you. Cum for me y/n.”

You let the feeling of pleasure swallow you whole as he dipped two fingers into your cavern, your walls sucking him in greedily. The added stimulation brought you over the precipice of your rapture and your body wriggled with euphoria against Lucius’ mouth. When your spirit settled back into your body, you giggled breathlessly. Second nature soon taking over as you lifted yourself from the bed.

You moved forward, your hand feeling his cock through the tunic and you felt a salacious urge brew rapidly within you. Lucius quickly rid himself of his clothes, his sculpted body on display for you to indulge in. When you moved yourself to your knees and began to return the oral favor, Lucius’ hand stopped your head from its descent and guided you to look at him. 

“No,” his voice was laced with desire but thick with command. You could see his resolve crumbling a bit in front of you. “This is not about me. It’s for you. You’ve done more than enough in this life, let me return a fraction of that and allow me to give it all to you.” Lucius pushed you and laid you gently back down. His face rested against your own, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered into it. 

“I want to hear your pleasure, not just give into mine. You owe me not a thing,” he paused feeling a bit of his dominance morph into a teasing leviathan. 

“You want this?” 

You nodded rapidly, your hands wrapping around his arms just needing to feel his skin against your own. You looked down between your bodies. His cock hanging heavy off of his frame, tip flushed with desire. Your mouth watered at the sight of it, needing to feel his length somewhere inside of you. Lucius swiped his tip against your folds, soaking his shaft in your arousal just to show you exactly who was in control. 

His tip pushed at the entrance of your heat, your brow furrowed in ardent zeal as you squeezed around the small bit of length that was inside of you. Lucius held the base of his cock guiding it to the hilt until your bodies clapped at the connection. He brought his arms down to rest on his elbows, bringing his face closer to yours to watch your expressions contort in fervor. You couldn’t help the sound that escaped you as he buried himself inside of you and on instinct you covered your mouth to muffle the sounds. 

Lucius removed your hand from your mouth, his smile wicked as he shoved his tongue in his cheek. 

“Let them hear. Serves them right for locking us in a cage together.” 

He began to move, his thrusts deep and slow. Closing your eyes, you felt every ridge and curve of his cock. Dragging out your pleasure in the most beautiful way imaginable. The clap at the end of each thrust was unmistakable and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care. You almost wanted everyone to hear the lustful wreckage he was throwing you in. 

Opening your eyes, the closeness of his face caused you to writhe against him and moan out. The sounds amplified by the stone in the cell, leaving everyone else outside at the mercy of your cries. 

“Lose yourself in me.” 

Lucius pushed himself up so that he could grab your hips and deliver more calculated thrusts. Each time he pushed in, you could feel his tip kiss your cervix with pure carnality. Your moans were low in timbre but grew more frequent as you felt the knot in your loins begin to tighten at the new speed. 

There was a sheen of sweat across Lucius’ chest, a bead dripping down his brow. He brought himself back down and tortured you with the same bruising pace. 

“Cum for me. Cum with me.” 

He captured your lips in his reminding you that this was more than just lust at work. Your sounds were swallowed by his mouth as the heart of your wanton need contracted around his length in lascivious rhapsody. He fucked you through your orgasm before pulling out and painting your stomach in his alabaster drippings. 

Lucius hovered over you, taking in what just happened. As you held eye contact with him, you snuck your hand down to the milky portrait and scooped up some of his salty sap. Bringing it to your mouth, you sucked on your finger, savoring the taste. He groaned at the sight and you smiled at him when you released your finger with a pop sound. 

Lucius stood up, grabbing the poor excuse of a blanket off his bed, and used the corner to clean you of him. Wiping the stain of his cum in the dirt, he threw the sheet back to his bed. Grabbing your robes and motioning you to stand up, he covered your body. 

“No one else needs to see you like this.” 

The gesture was warm and his words held a sense of finality to them. As if he were counting on the fact that you’d never go back to the life you lived before. Lucius covered himself in his tunic. Pheromones, and earth flying off the fabric as he lay down on the bed. He opened one arm and nodded his head toward himself to motion you to lie down with him. The fit was tight but that didn’t matter at this moment. 

The quiet lingered, heavy with everything you hadn’t said. Lucius’ breath came slow and steady as you traced patterns over his body, his hand soothing your arm—an unspoken promise in such gentle touches. 

“You deserve more than survival. I’ll fight for that. I’ll fight for you.” 

The weight of his words settled in your chest, and you allowed yourself to believe for the first time in a long time. To believe that the life ahead could be yours. Not stolen or dictated. With the warmth of his steady presence, you curled into him. Letting the moment take root in the deepest parts of you. Whatever lay ahead, you knew you wouldn’t face them alone. 

please don’t forget to like and reblog if you enjoy my writing! :D

© yeonjuns-beanie ‘24

[meanbossart]

Okay, one more question on the Bhaalist Drow au, if you'll indulge. What happens in Astarion's mindthe immediate aftermath of the ascension failing (as in, right then but also up until the game's end). Do they bother showing up to Withers' party? How does Astarion go slip sliding down into a cowed version of himself over time? And, what I am most fascinated by in something like this, how do the other cultists, especially direct reporters to DU Drow, or like deputies, treat him? Does Astarion find he's confined certain places?

Sorry, thank you!

No apologies needed! This is a very fun scenario to play around in.

So, I'm not sure if Astarion would immediately realize that DU drow purposefully ruined the ritual, but regardless he would have realized that this is the outcome he truly wanted.

I imagine that after Du drow embraced Bhaal, Astarion would have gotten it into his head that he now must ascend so they will be on leveled ground, and fully capable of pursuing their plans of taking control over the sword coast together as equally powerful individuals. DU drow would have sold himself as completely behind this plan and supportive of the idea, eager for them to exert total control as the most dashingly evil couple in all of Faerun. And perhaps this was genuine for a day, before the fear of losing his grasp over Astarion began to settle in. He didn't voice this as all, of course, but as an avid manipulator himself Astarion would be able to tell post-failure that his support wasn't earnest.

And I think Astarion just panicked; going back and forth between convincing himself that he should be thankful to have someone powerful by his side, and just feeling like has no other option but to go along with it. Whether or not he thinks he can abandon DU drow successfully, the world has just become a much scarier place than before, and at least here he knows he has someone to take care of him - someone he should be fond of, even if time eventually proves him wrong.

For a while (weeks, if not months) Astarion would have appeared nothing if not pleased with his predicament. He has a man who is head-over-heels for him who also happens to be the head-honcho of a powerful cult, he has access to as much blood and violence as he pleases and the ability to entertain his fantasies of power and cruelty to their fullest. If there is anyone left who cares for him, he paints elaborate pictures of their routine together - of their outings, of their riches, of his exquisite quarters and their intense sex. He tells them that DU drow might be Bhaal's chosen, but he has him wrapped tight around his finger day and night and pretty much runs the show behind the scenes.

These are fantasies that he wants to others to believe in as much as he wants to convince himself of them, and a narrative that DU drow might even humor - he likes the illusion of Astarion being in control, but it can't ever be like that in practice - but reality is a lot more hollow. They have gold, and they have the expensive garments, and the sex is intense, but life has become a performance from morning until night and Astarion has completely lost the element of tenderness that he had grown to enjoy. DU drow loves him like a prized possession, like a novelty - a fragile ornament that only he knows how to handle, and no one else is allowed near.

Whenever there is push back, whenever Astarion wants to branch out, he is reminded of how vulnerable and small he is. How every day occurrences and objects can harm him, and that while DU drow may appreciate him for the man he is, others will take him for a simple monster. That It is much easier to stick by his side, sacrifice some of his freedom but be cared for than to risk exposing himself to harm. DU drow also constantly reminds him of the pain he would be in if anything were to ever draw them apart, and guilts him about what may happen if he was to die.

And as rebellious towards Cazador as he might have been, total servitude is a default he learned to fall back into in search of safety. It is easier to turn to old habits and simply accept his circumstances, surrender to them. At least here, he is never tortured, he is never physically hurt, and he is only sometimes verbally berated. He can deal with it as long as it is an improvement upon his previous situation. Slowly, he'd just become DU drow's yes-man, he'd concern himself constantly with pleasing him, looking desirable, acting desirable, fulfilling his fantasies and acting the part that's expected of him. From the outside it may even seen like he enjoys the life.

He is basically seen but not heard by DU drow's consorts. It's less about the respect that they may or may not have for him and more about the respect (or should I say fear) that they have for their leader. DU Drow would make it clear again and again that no one is allowed to touch him, he would be weary of anybody trying get too close, of being too friendly, even of staring a little too hard - he would kill and torture men over the most mundane of comments whether they be positive or negative until everyone is just too fearful of interacting with Astarion at all. As for people outside of the temple, he basically never has a chance to mingle without DU drow's watchful gaze over him (all for the sake of protecting him, of course).

I think Sceleritas would be the only person who can consistently interact with alone, since DU drow trusts him completely. The little goblin himself no longer sees Astarion as so much of a person, more so a possession; one that keeps his master happy and productive. So he extends the same amount of respect to him as he does to DU drow himself, and functions as a butler to both.

He also reports back to DU drow about Astarion's every request, every diversion from habit, every misplaced sigh and fluctuation in mood, every eye-roll. He knows the questions to ask to get the answers he wants, to interrogate him with poise on behalf of his master so he can make sure that his beau is always happy and content. Astarion realizes this learns to watch himself around Sceleritas over time too.

[zuzuelectricbugaloo]

Toffee got me on a writing kick for Epic so let's go: Zuzu rambling commence! (I'm sorry)

Epic adoring kids and being good with them is one of my favorite expanded and elaborated upon iterations of his character. Epic's personality is warm and welcoming, a people-person who knows and just gets people far more than most, and that's both an innate characteristic and one he'd cultivated over time as well.

It's born out of a genuine care, to make others happy and be this goofy "larger than life" persona he'd meticulously cultivated, but the reason why Epic is so caring and part of his love language is acts of servitude and physical comfort is mostly because of how Gester would both physically abuse and emotionally neglect him through the experiments and Gester and his followers' belief that Epic wasn't a true monster and was a mere "thing" for them to use right from the moment of his creation.

He's learned to be as smart as he is in reading others emotionally bc he'd have to know cues in case he'd be threatened physically or emotionally. Such as the way Gester's face would be impassive, giving the look of someone bored, when his tense shoulders and the harsh grind of his jaw would betray his true fury, and the experiments that day would be cruel and harsh and Epic would have to appease or amend Gester's mood if he wanted his treatment to at least be somewhat eased.

It was ingrained into Epic from the moment of his creation that his worth is defined by his productivity and or how he could help others. With Gester and the followers, it was how well he performed on their tests and soon on their experiments and complex machinery. With Mettaton and the ghosts, albeit not quite intentionally, they'd reiterate this same principle in responding to Epic more when he'd have assisted them somehow or were productive to society because as ghost monsters, were aligned with Epic in that that was how they'd been treated by other monster species and carried on that harmful belief onto Epic.

Epic's high emotional intelligence and adoration of kids all correlate and circle back to his trauma and how he was shaped by it and adapted to it. Epic craving love and affection while simultaneously believing himself to be undeserving of it, that he had to earn it. That being cared for and taken care of wasn't a right, it was something Epic had to bargain and prove himself for.

He's learned to be as smart as he is in reading others emotionally because he'd have to know these nonverbal cues to protect himself in the likelihood that he'd be threatened physically or emotionally. He adores children just because, but also in part because he wants to give to them what he lacked as child himself.

And I feel like the first time he got genuinely frustrated while raising Packs--because no matter how much you adore them, the truth is kids are so much work, they take a huge toll on you, regardless on if you have a "well-behaved" child or not.

Epic yells at Packs, unintentionally repeating what Gester had said and done to Epic "I need to work! Why can't you stop being useless and leave me alone?!"

And poor Packs is terrified and sobs, still reaching to Epic for comfort even when he flinches when Epic gets close because Epic is a source of comfort, and Epic realizes in horror what he's done.

"Oh. Oh, stars. I...I'm doing the same thing he did..." He slowly moves, opening his arms, and Packs jumps into them. Epic hugs him tight as he sobs into his coat, gently rubbing his back and rocking them both as he tries to soothingly murmur and calm him down passed the wedge in his throat.

"I'm sorry sweetie. I'm so sorry. You did nothing wrong. You're just...You're literally just a kid. I'm sorry." He kisses his baby brother's forehead and silently promises to never, ever let this happen again. Studying ever parent book and website he can, being a gentle but firm parent to Packs and not once letting himself ever fall into harmful behaviors. Determined to never hurt Packs or any child, be it emotionally, verbally, or physically. That is how Epic can be helpful and worthy of caring for others and being cared about.

[oriley42]

Do you have any House headcanons? I love your writing so much

Thank you! 🥰 And hmmm....my brain always throws sheets over everything when I'm asked for headcanons, so I end up wandering around like "hey I had a million of those lying around a moment ago..."

The only thing that comes to mind is deeply silly: do y'all remember that throwaway moment in s2 or 3 where House grabs one of those trashy conspiracy magazines off the stand and is like "they published my letter 😊" all proud and happy and they never do anything else with that set up?!! Because House + conspiracies can go so many fun ways. Like...

1) he perpetuates bigger and bigger hoaxes. He starts with a badly edited picture of fairies inside the MRI machine ("how do you think these things work?? Invisible rays you can't see hitting your bones??? No!!! The loud banging noises are from the tiny fists of the imprisoned workers inside, begging for freedom #crackthemopen) and ends with thousands of followers chanting outside the Surgeon General's offices, demanding they release the magical creatures trapped by indentured servitude to power imagining machines across the United States #freethefairies #wedontneedpixiepictures

2) he rages at any opportunity against gullibility and foolishness. He is constantly sending in elaborate explanations for supposedly paranormal events with quotes from Carl Sagan's Candle on the Dark and adding phases like "you fucking idiots" to the prose. He is thrilled when people listen, but more often than not, he really only gets to enjoy the fight for fighting's sake because flat earthers are impervious to his Logic and Facts. I think this probably precedes the events noted above in #1, then he snaps and seeks revenge via manipulation.

3) House is just secretly a conspiracy fan. Not the shitty anti-Semitic kind (mainly, he just doesn't care enough about politics or economics to care about theories regarding who is or isn't secretly running The Government) but particularly the cryptid creature ones, because he's seen some WEIRD shit in his life and travels and it's not really so far fetched, Wilson, to imagine that some sea creature suffered a bizarre mutation activating ancient DNA that increased its size to mega fauna levels and was spotted by--

Wilson: of course I believe in the Loch Ness Monster you don't have to convince me.*

*Lying his ass off to shut House up. Gets caught in the deception. Ends up forced to accompany House on a bigfoot hunt. Has an amazing time and starts low key believing in UFO abductions. Wilson and House get married with the Jersey Devil officiating.

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #3 – Fifteen Dogs by Andre Alexis

My mother recently retired and cleared out my childhood home, part of which involved throwing out a lot of books. So I have come into possession of a lot of weird literature no one remembers ever actually buying, which is honestly pretty exciting. This was one of them, a tragic bit of literary modern fantasy about the titular canines being uplifted to human intelligence and it ending in general quite badly for them. Not at all light reading, but interesting and very affecting at points.

The plot concerns a wager between Hermes and Apollo, regarding whether a human’s intelligence is a blessing or a curse. To settle the matter, they gift all the dogs that happen to have been left in a random Toronto vet clinic overnight the power of human thought, and bet two years of servitude to the other on whether any of them will die happy. With occasional divine interludes, the story mostly then follows the dogs – first as a pack, and then tracing each life separately with occasional unhappy reunions – from uplift to death.

This is an incredibly high concept sort of book – coming in expecting anything like traditional urban fantasy or contemporary litfic and you will be deeply confused. It is literature in a sense, I suppose – the prose itself isn’t particularly adorned or eye-catching, but it is very concerned with interiority and subjective experience, and in any case there are fifteen different poems scattered throughout the book. But far more than that, it’s philosophical fiction – which is to say, very explicitly theme-first and contemplative of the Big Idea its turning around, with the actual story being basically in service to that.

That big idea if ostensibly about whether intelligence and self-reflection are a blessing or a curse, but it’s at least as much about the degree to which its possible to live a happy life in a world full of misery and where nothing but luck keeps everything you love from being taken from you in an instant. Few of the dogs live happily – they kill each other, they make themselves miserable attempting to regain the thoughtless purity of their prior existence, they become entrapped in toxic hierarchies of status and dominance. And on the other they starve, they’re hit by cars, they eat poison, they’re abused and neglected by the humans they relied upon. It is a book with a very tragic sensibility, all in all – even the dogs with the good luck and character to find happiness always live at the risk of some divine fit of pique. In this the use of the Greek Gods as characters fit very well – Apollo taking one of the dog’s sight and hearing in annoyance with him seems entirely of a piece with how the myths often go.

As for solutions – the book’s later parts focus a great deal on two dogs who have, more or less, good lives. It is, on the whole, very positive about love (at least, a specific kind – affection devotion and most importantly understanding between equals) - but equally concerned with how ruinous losing someone whose thread of life is intertwined so tightly with yours can be. It clearly thinks there’s something a bit noble and sacred to living as a monument to grief, but equally doesn’t think doing so can really be called a good life. Instead – and this is almost too predictable, simply because it’s written by the kind of person who writes elaborate philosophical fiction – the book presents a life dedicated to poetry and art, thought and self-reflection, to beauty however fleeting it is to be the best suited to appreciating life in all its miseries. It is, as I said, quite philosophical about it.

The book also accidentally fulfills any Canadian Content obligations I had for the year. It’s a book set in and deeply in love with the geography and character of Toronto (if often a jaundiced and teasing sort of love). Honestly it talks about the city in a way I usually only see fiction discuss New York or parts of California.

As an exploration of actual canine psychology, it varies between interesting and tiresome. I rather wish any of the female dogs had survived longer or gotten more focus, just for a bit of variety on all the oft-offered opinions about mounting and heat. The fifteen poems included in the book all being the result of a project to write poetry that listening to would have an affect for humans and dogs is, at least, a very cute bit of trivia.

But yeah, interesting piece of fiction. Read if you like these sort of meditations and can take lots of unhappy and dead dogs in your stories.

[mythalism]

The Mythal defenders are basing their take that she wasn't a slaver but simply had willing worshippers on the Trials of the Gods codex. Have you read it? What's your take on it? I'm very confused as to what the devs were implying. That she had chosen ones who passed trials? Like her Sentinels? Those were still slaves even if they didn't think so.

i dont remember if i read this but for anyone who hasnt

my first thought is that this is a sermon. so its being given by someone not just sympathetic to mythal but someone religiously devoted to her and deliberately interested in currying favor and religious fervor for her among the people so already this is a biased source.

there is a clear attempt to draw a distinction between mythal and the evanuris in their keeping of "thralls" which makes sense considering the tensions we know would have existed between solas, mythal and the others by the time that the crossroads existed (where this is found). its interesting to me that they use the term "thrall" instead of "slavery", i usually associate thralls in fantasy settings with mind control/magical compulsion, who knows if that was the desired implication or not. but avoiding using "slavery" is interesting whether its the writers being afraid of the word in this game, or a deliberate rhetorical attempt by the speaker to convey something different.

"service willingly given" is sketchy to me LOL. i dont need to even elaborate on that because solas already did it for me when cole said "its not abuse if i ask" and solas replied "not always true." so if mythal is banking on the argument that servitude "willingly given" was better ("no longer willingly given" implying it used to be and that was preferable) while it's probably true that it is better when servitude is given willingly, it could still be unethical, abusive, and exploitative. the practice of indentured servitude has a long history in real life of being a result of economic and political inequality forcing people into horrible, unethical labor situations. "willingness" doesn't make it acceptable.

mythal's warning to me just seems to be her saying "stand up and have a mf backbone because thats what i like to see" which fits her but doesn't necessarily exonerate her of any wrongdoing. the use of "wise" and "wisdom" is especially interesting because uhhhhhh solas. i wonder, considering what this would sound like if written in elven, this could be saying "do not merely follow wisdom into my service, by replicating his devotion to me, by following me anywhere as he did, by obeying my orders" etc. etc. but "seek to be wise like he was, that's why he's my favorite lapdog" which would be really interesting. who knows. anyway i dont think this automatically makes her a perfect person.

ok she scorns servility and unexamined divinity. i dont think this means "she doesn't have servants or slaves ever" it means she has distaste for blind idolatry and passivity. she respects wisdom, we already know this. it is all very consistent with what we know of her character and how she engages with rook in their convo, she will attack if you attempt to flatter her, but will approve if you challenge her on her treatment of solas. she respects someone who doesnt take shit. again all great stuff but doesnt mean she didnt participate in the horrors of empire.

and the final piece just emphasizes her desire to be understood. embody her virtues and the things she expects; wisdom, justice, retribution, benevolence, having a mf backbone, etc. interpreting this is also difficult because we dont know exactly when this sermon was given, and the timeline of her corruption. i would imagine her willingness to do terrible things to amass power would have a direct correlation to her corruption from benevolence (who would not be willing to do such things) to retribution (who would be willing to go to great lengths for revenge). that is not just a corruption, but a change in her fundamental purpose as a spirit, from being benevolent to seeking retribution. thats HUGE! she could have been a completely different person, capable of completely different things. to me that implies a change in her moral compass far more drastic than that of wisdom->pride. benevolence is inherent to doing no harm. retribution does not care, it has a goal. she could have been unrecognizable in her methods and behavior. ohhhghhghghg its so juicy. anyway.

"know her regrets" is... interesting. i actually really enjoy this bit in the context of that "memories of a duet" codex which speaks to a similar desire of hers to be understood, away from prying eyes and divinity, and how seeing each others true selves was fundamental to her and solas's relationship. that "no greater offering to understand" is very relevant to solas as well and the players choice to understand him as a man rather than a god. see this is why mythal is wonderful because she is so interesting and she is at once both a crazy power hungry war monger and also clearly there was some part of her who just wanted to be understood. this is how complex characters work. it doesnt mean she didnt do god awful things and exploit people.

honestly i dont think the semantics of mythal's opinion on slavery is really that important or relevant. we know she participated in it to SOME extent. we know what she did to the titans. we know what she did to solas. like we do not need to know whether or not she "owned slaves" to understand the lengths to which she is willing to exploit people to amass power. again i dont even think much of what i wrote above is relevant at all because once again i am bringing it back to that good old pookie quote which is really all we need here:

cole: it's not abuse if i ask. solas: not always true.

in conclusion it seems to me the only purpose this argument serves is to stir up fandom discourse on a topic that deserves to be treated with more respect than as fodder for ship wars. we should pick something else to argue about whether or not mythal did. like did she ever feel the touch of another woma- *gunshot*

[ofbreathandflame-archive]

I was gonna elaborate last night, but then fell asleep lolol

Something that I actually talked about in the past (and damn do I wish I had some of the old blog stuff lol), but I think the point I'm making is that Nuala and Cerridwen are really not tangible characters in the series.

Nuala and Cerridwen have been in the series for over five and a half books - and still, we don't know anything about them. The moments that we do have with them are all in service or in servitude. It isn't enough that they are spy-masters, they also just randomly choose to also pick up occupations as maids. Think about it like this - we've known Emerie for one (and a half) books and she has more personality than we've ever seen from Nuala and Cerridwen - and although I argue that Emerie is not treated well (in fandom spaces) and is victim of bad writing, she still is talked about as an actual character. Go look through the Nuala and Cerridwen tags, look at the way they are commonly drawn, how they are characterized, and what positions they are most commonly depicted (spoiler: its always in service).

And even within the story, they aren't considered fully-fledged members of the Inner Circle, they don't have conversations with other members, and even though Azriel is the leader I can't think of any conversations they've had together. When Rhys gives his little end-game speech, he doesn't stop and thank Nuala and Cerridwen for their loyalty through those fifty years. Rhys doesn't even seem to have anything more than a professional relationship with them. They are very much treated like employed maids who work for the Inner Circle.

"I'm so excited for Elain's friendship with N+C! They're gonna match Azriel with Elain!"

Yeah...okay. Even the Valkyries weren't that invested in Nesta's relationship with Cassian. I think there's a yearning to recreate a dynamic similar to the Valkyries, because its the first time we've seen a friendship group between women in this series. I also think there's this rush to claim the same for Elain and Nuala and Cerrdwen - yet its very elain-centric, and the they seem to just be reiterating a very handmaiden-esque dynamic. I also think its VERY weird that so much energy is put into how N+C "really brought out of her depression" yet they were imprisoned over fifty years UTM and yet we've never seen them be vulnerable about that experience. Why can't elain comfort them? Why isn't it both ways? Why doesn't the story or stans point out how they've gotten better? Its just like a lot to unpack. Like the optics of these women of color being these eager handmaidens and then having that dynamic pushed as friendship is kinda?????????????

[tinytinyblogs]

Is it hate or love?

Hate or love? Their mixed signals are driving you crazy.

(Ot8 skz reaction, non-idol, lil angst)

Hyung line Maknae line

💬I genuinely enjoy this one; it brings a smile to my face as I write. However, I must admit my mind is currently devoid of any ideas. If you have any requests, feel free to suggest, whether it's a one-shot or a reaction.

Stray kids masterlist here

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets, each flicker echoing the storm brewing within you. Another mountain of paperwork, another impossible deadline, another unwanted gift from Chan, the CEO who seemed to thrive on your suffering. He was an enigma, admired by the masses, yet your tormentor in disguise. You were done. Done with the endless demands, the relentless pressure, the suffocating feeling of being his personal pack mule. It was always you, drowning in work while others sat idle, their days filled with gossip and coffee breaks. Sleep was a luxury you barely remembered, your nights consumed by spreadsheets and reports. Enough. With a growl that surprised even yourself, you rose from your desk, sanity taking flight. His office, usually a sterile haven of power, became your target. No meek knock, no announcement. You barged in, the door slamming shut with a finality that mirrored the one building inside you. Chan, caught mid-keystroke, his gaze flew up, meeting yours. You held his stare, your emotions a tightly packed bomb, ready to detonate. "Shouldn't you knock?" His voice was a smooth, practiced drawl, but the surprise in his eyes was genuine.

But a voice, surprisingly gentle, stopped you in your tracks. "No," it said, and you whirled around to find Chan still seated, his gaze fixed on you. He seemed unperturbed by your outburst, his body radiating an unexpected stillness. "I wouldn't find another employee," he continued, his words a quiet counterpoint to the storm raging within you. Your questioning look, a blend of disbelief and lingering anger, seemed to crack his facade just a bit. "You're not quitting," he said, his voice losing its usual edge. "Take a week. Rest. Come back." You scoffed, frustration twisting your gut. "Chan, I'm done. All of it. What do you even want from me?" He leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. "Attention," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "Yours." The revelation hit you like a punch to the solar plexus. Attention? him, the man who seemed to thrive on stoicism and distance? "Wanted the attention you give everyone," he elaborated, his voice laced with a vulnerability you'd never heard before. "But no matter what I did, your eyes were always elsewhere." He glanced at his watch, a flicker of something akin to regret crossing his face. "Go home, rest. I'll visit you after I finish my work today. We can…talk about it."

You slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the tense silence. Your legs took two determined steps forward, each one a declaration of your rebellion. "Yeah, I should," you spat, your voice raw with pent-up frustration. "But I'm done with formalities, Chan. Done with playing your game." He pushed his chair back, his full attention on you now. "The file, I presume?" You scoffed. "You know me too well, don't you? Always up to your neck in demands, yet blind to the idleness around you. I work myself to the bone, barely see the sun, while others twiddle their thumbs and collect paychecks." Your voice, once a whisper of resentment, now roared with righteous anger. You ripped the employee ID card from your neck, a tangible symbol of your servitude. "I'm done, Chan," you declared, flinging the card to the floor, its plastic clatter a punctuation mark on your declaration of freedom. "Done being your slave. Done with this charade. This isn't work, it's a prison, and I refuse to be your inmate any longer." The ID card's clatter echoed in the room, a final punctuation mark on your fiery declaration. "Find someone else to do your dirty work with a smile," you hissed, turning on your heel, ready to escape the suffocating confines of his office.

Minho

As the creak of the nursery door echoed through the silent house, your eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing Minho slumped on the bed. A fresh gash marred his usually stoic face, sending a wave of concern and exasperation washing over you. You tossed your untied hair back with a frustrated sigh, the loose strands framing your worried expression. "Are you out of your mind?" your voice was sharp, laced with disbelief as you approached him. Minho remained silent, his gaze distant, refusing to meet yours. It was oddly endearing, this uncharacteristic vulnerability, but the anger at his recklessness still burned inside you. "It's kinda fun to hear you fight because of me, isn't it, Minho?" you quipped, your eyes scanning the room for a first-aid kit. It stood sentinel beside him, a silent witness to his recent skirmish. "Since when do you care if anyone mocks me?" you challenged, stepping closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Weren't you the one who started it all?" Your words hung heavy in the air, accusation mingled with confusion. As you leaned in, gently tending to his injury, the air crackled with unspoken emotions. Minho, once an impenetrable fortress, seemed to soften under your touch, his eyes holding a depth you'd never witnessed before.

"I never start anything," he finally rasped, his voice rough with unspoken apologies. "I never made fun of you in front of anyone. I wouldn't." His denial hung in the air, tinged with desperation. You looked up, meeting his gaze, his eyes seeking yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Aren't they your friends?" you asked, your voice barely above a breath. "Didn't they just repeat the gossip you started?" Minho let out a heavy sigh, his hand reaching out to grasp yours, stopping your ministrations. His touch sent a jolt through you, and you instinctively looked up, drawn into the maelstrom of emotions swirling in his eyes. This simple gesture, this unexpected vulnerability, opened a crack in the facade he'd carefully constructed. And in that small opening, you glimpsed a truth that threatened to rewrite everything you thought you knew about Minho. What lay beneath the surface? Regret? Guilt? Something more? The tension in the room hummed like a live wire, charged with unspoken words and the weight of shared secrets. The air, thick with anticipation, waited for the next move, the next truth to break through the silence.

The air between you and Minho crackled with tension, as thick as the silence. His grip on your hand was like a vise, holding you captive in this charged space. "They're my classmates," he finally spoke, his voice low and tight, "but that doesn't mean they blindly follow my every word. Don't paint me as some villain, spewing lies and manipulating them. Stop assuming the worst." You yearned to pull away, to break free from his hold, but the intensity in his eyes pinned you in place. "Because you always act like one, Minho!" you countered, your voice rising in frustration. "This hostility, this constant antagonism toward me – why? Why do you harbor such animosity?" His gaze, once defiant, softened, a flash of pain flickered across his face. "Who said I hate you?" His voice echoed in the quiet room, bouncing off the walls, almost drowning out the distant school bell. "If I truly hated you, wouldn't these wounds be scars on someone else's face? Wouldn't I be far away from you, causing trouble elsewhere?" He looked at you, his eyes raw and searching. "No one," he continued, his voice dropping back to a whisper, "ever told me those things about you. Open your eyes, Y/N," he gestured to his injury, "see past the persona you've built for me. I'm not the monster you think I am."

Changbin

The lunch bell clanged through the bustling cafeteria, a jarring contrast to the turmoil brewing within you. The midday sun, streaming through the glass walls, felt like an unwelcomed spotlight on your skin, highlighting the insecurities the toxic whispers had planted. Your fingers trembled as you checked your watch, the numbers mocking your empty stomach. Lunch should be a joyous break, a chance to refuel and recharge, but the thought of food tasted like ash in your mouth. Every bite felt like a betrayal against the chorus of taunts echoing in your head, the unsolicited advice on your weight a constant weight on your chest. "What's with you?" a voice cut through your misery. Changbin, your perpetual shadow, loomed over you, his presence as unwelcome as the stale cafeteria air. "Forgot your lunch money? Or just another dramatic attempt at starvation?" His words were laced with a familiar bite, designed to prick at the raw nerve endings of your insecurities. You clenched your fists, the urge to lash back crackling in your veins. But you knew the futility of engaging, of feeding the flames of his negativity. "Go away," you muttered, your voice a mere whisper against the cacophony of laughter and chatter.

You turned your gaze towards the window, seeking solace in the blur of the bustling city below. The endless stream of people, each with their own stories, offered a strange comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone in this struggle. Changbin, however, remained a persistent fly in your ointment. "Eat something, you idiot," he rasped, his voice a touch softer than usual. "I don't want to lug your unconscious body to the nurse again." A frustrated sigh escaped your lips as you met his gaze, his untouched lunch sitting accusingly between you. "Don't tell me you're on a diet, Y/N?" his voice was laced with concern, but it grated on your already frayed nerves. "Yeah, well, they keep reminding me how fat and ugly I am," you spat, bitterness clinging to your words like smoke. "Satisfied now? Go eat your lunch somewhere else." He didn't move, his stillness a stark contrast to your turmoil. Instead, he rose from his chair, his gaze unwavering. To your surprise, he didn't leave. Instead, he returned moments later with another lunch set, placing it gently in front of you. "Sometimes, you can be unbelievable," he muttered, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Just eat whatever you want and be happy. Why let their words dictate your joy?" His words hung in the air, a gentle challenge to the self-imposed prison you'd built around your insecurities.

You looked at the food, the vibrant colors and inviting aromas a stark contrast to the darkness in your mind. The tension in the air had softened, replaced by something unexpected - a fragile truce. He sat across from you, his lunch forgotten as he focused on yours. "Beside," he mumbled, eyes glued to the colourful mountain of food on your plate, "you totally look fine in my eyes." His words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the usual barbs and banter that defined your dynamic. You, the prickly defender, and him, the relentless challenger, had somehow stumbled into an unfamiliar territory - one where kindness was laced with gruffness, and concern masked by playful threats. It felt surreal, like waking up in a parallel universe where the sun rose in the west and Changbin, of all people, was complimenting your looks. "Beautiful as always," he added, his gaze meeting yours, a flicker of something... new... dancing in his eyes. It was a look devoid of mockery, devoid of the usual cynicism, and it made your stomach do a strange somersault. He waited, a silent encouragement for you to dig in. You hesitated, the familiar spoon feeling heavy in your hand. "If you skip a meal again, I'm not kidding, I'll make sure you eat something myself."

Hyunjin

The morning light, usually a welcome friend, felt like a harsh spotlight on your throbbing head. The ache in your body was a symphony of protests, each muscle groaning its disapproval at the mere thought of movement. A groggy groan escaped your lips as you tumbled out of bed, the world tilting precariously before righting itself. The fridge, however, refused to cooperate. Its barren shelves mocked your rumbling stomach, a cruel reminder of your impending grocery trip. You winced, the effort of just standing feeling like a Herculean feat. Then, like a bad penny, he materialized. Hwang Hyunjin, your resident thorn in the side, stood there, a smirk playing on his lips. "You look dead," he chirped, his voice somehow grating on your already frayed nerves. Ignoring him, you focused on putting one foot in front of the other, each step a battle against the leaden weight of your body. Hyunjin, however, wasn't done. A hand, surprisingly cool against your burning forehead, stopped you in your tracks.

"Street walking with a fever? Not your brightest move, dumbass," he drawled, his voice laced with a sardonic concern that only he could pull off. You swatted his hand away, a weak attempt at defiance. "Not claiming any awards for genius today," you mumbled, your voice thick with fatigue. "But starving is worse." Hyunjin's smirk softened. He could be infuriating, that was for sure, but even through the haze of your illness, you couldn't help but notice a flicker of something else in his eyes - maybe concern, maybe something more. Every step felt like a betrayal, your body screaming its protest with each groan. Yet, you pushed on, fuelled by a desperate need for the cool embrace of sheets and the sweet oblivion of sleep. Then, amidst the symphony of aches, a hand materialized, grabbing the very item you craved from the shelf. Another hand, warm and surprisingly gentle, nudged you closer to the checkout. You whirled around, expecting the worst, but instead, you found Hwang Hyunjin, the familiar scent of Hyunjin's cologne a sudden anchor in your sea of dizziness.

"You really gonna make a scene by collapsing in public?" he muttered, his voice surprisingly gentle. He pulled you closer, his arm a surprisingly strong shield against the encroaching crowd. His body heat, a stark contrast to your feverish chills, radiated comfort you couldn't deny. You stumbled a little, your vision swimming, but his presence, a steady anchor in the storm, kept you upright. "You don't need to care," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the supermarket din. You looked up at him, his face etched with a concern that made your heart skip a beat. He hummed, a low rumble that somehow soothed the storm raging within you. "I think so," he confessed, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability you hadn't seen before. "But you always make me worried, and care." He squeezed your arm gently, the gesture both firm and reassuring. His gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment. His eyes, usually filled with mischief, held a depth you hadn't seen before. "Hurry up, I'll cook the meal. You should get your medicine, thank me later after you feel better."

©Tinytinyblogs

[sinlillith]

paradox of human self ; demon.

a short analysis of sebastian and ciels relationship and how it will forever remain tragic

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

the dichotomy of master vs servant.

upon the surface, the relationship between sebastian michaelis and ciel phantomhive is anchored by the seemingly simple terms of their contract: ciel , the imperious master, and sebastian, the demonic butler bound by an infernal pact, destined to serve until the moment he claims ciel's soul. yet, beneath this veneer of straightforward servitude lies a labyrinth of complexity, where the roles of master and servant are ceaselessly redefined by their actions and perceptions. though ciel appears to wield absolute authority, commanding sebastian with the regal air of a noble, the true balance of power is an enigma. sebastian, with his preternatural abilities and centuries of wisdom, often emerges as the invisible puppeteer, subtly guiding ciels decisions, orchestrating events from the shadows with a deftness that belies his role as a mere servant.

•·················•·················•

sebastians servitude is cloaked in the flawless guise of obedience, yet it is infused with a sardonic undertone, a quiet mockery that lingers just beneath the surface. his deference is executed with such impeccable precision that it becomes almost theatrical, as if he is not merely serving, but performing a role in an elaborate play—one where the lines between hunter and prey, master and servant, are perpetually shifting in a sophisticated game of power and manipulation.

trauma as the binding force

as we know, ciels tragic past, a tale steeped in horror and loss, left him emotionally shattered, forging in him a profound distrust of the world and a deep-seated need for control. the brutal and grotesque murder of his parents and the unspeakable rituals he endured have scarred him beyond repair, and it is in this fragile state that sebastian appears— a dark savior, both a symbol of ciel's newfound power and a dark, grim reminder of his vulnerability.

sebastian represents a paradox, serving as both ciels protector and his doom, a guardian whose ultimate goal is the consumption of the very soul he is sworn to safeguard.

the duality weaves a rich and intricate tapestry of emotion within ciel. the dependence ciel clings onto with sebastian is undeniable, though he would never openly admit it. sebastian himself is not only a shield against the physical dangers that beset him but also a psychological anchor in a world that has betrayed him at every turn. and yet, this reliance is poisoned by the knowledge that sebastians loyalty is a mere transaction, his aid motivated by the dark promise of a future feast. ciel's cold, often ruthless demeanor becomes a fortress, a way to assert control over the one being he knows he can never truly trust—a defensive mechanism against the ever-present reality that his protector is also his predator.

affection or manipulation of one's vulnerable state?

to put so simply, the relationship between Sebastian and ciel is further complicated by the ambiguous line between genuine affection and calculated manipulation. as we know, sebastian's actions—his meticulous care of ciel, his subtle guidance, and his seemingly tender moments of concern—could be seen as evidence of a deeper, almost paternal affection. but don't be fooled, as these gestures are equally suggestive of a carefully constructed strategy, ensuring that ciel remains not just alive, but thriving, until the time is right for sebastian to claim his prize.

in my opinion, ciel may harbor a twisted form of affection for sebastian, even though it is an affection born of necessity and steeped in dependency. he is acutely aware that sebastian is not human, that his motivations are guided by a morality that is utterly alien to him. despite this, there are moments when ciel's interactions with sebastian slip into a more personal, less guarded space—moments that hint at a longing for sebastian to be something more than just a demon bound by contract, perhaps even something akin to a companion or a confidant, albeit one he can never truly trust.

hallucinations of control

to view their relationship through the lens of illusion is to grasp at the very heart of its complexity—specifically, the illusion of control. both sebastian and ciel operate under the belief that they are the ones holding the reins of their destiny. ciel, with his aristocratic authority and unyielding will, sees himself as the master, the one who commands and dictates. meanwhile, sebastian, with his boundless power and infinite patience, views ciel as a mere amusement, a transient diversion in the vastness of his eternal existence.

yet neither is entirely correct.

sebastians strict adherence to the contract grants ciel a superficial sense of control, but every action the demon takes is calculated, part of a grander design that serves his own ends. conversely, sebastian's perceived dominion over ciel's fate is not as absolute as it appears; the longer he serves, the more he becomes enmeshed in the intricate web of ciel's world—a world governed by the capriciousness of human emotion, attachment, and complexity, elements that even a demon of sebastian's caliber cannot easily navigate.

the conclusion : a relationship beyond definition.

in the end, the relationship between sebastian michaelis and ciel phantomhive defies simple categorization, existing in a realm beyond the conventional definitions of master and servant. it is a constant interplay of dominance and submission, where both characters are simultaneously in control and at the mercy of the other. their bond is one of mutual exploitation, yet beneath the surface, there lies the suggestion of something deeper, a connection that transcends the contractual and ventures into the realm of the ineffable.

though sebastian is destined to claim ciel's soul, until that fateful moment arrives, they are locked in an intricate dance of power, affection, and manipulation—a dance that blurs the boundaries between master and servant, predator and prey. their relationship thrives in the shadows of ambiguity, where the threads of power and dependence intertwine, the complex and intimate tapestry that challenges the very essence of their bond, making it something far richer and more profound than either of them could have anticipated.

because that's all it is, and ever will be.

let me know ur thoughts on this :)

[justanotherrpmeme]

Chaotic Evil starters

"Rules meant to be broken." "Why bother with alliances? I'll do as I please, when I please." "Pain is an art, and I'm the artist." "Morality is for the weak. Power is the only truth." "Chaos is my playground, and everyone else is just a puppet." "Kindness is a disease, and I'm immune." "Why wait for fate when you can forge your own destiny in blood?" "Fear is the sweetest melody, and I'm here to compose." "I don't need a reason to destroy; I need a target." "Laws were made to be shattered, just like those who uphold them." "I'm not a villain; I'm a force of nature, and nature is ruthless." "Trust is a fool's currency. I deal in betrayal." "Suffering is the only truth that matters." "You call it evil; I call it freedom." "Consequences are for the weak who can't escape them." "Why save the world when you can watch it burn?"

[INTIMIDATION] The sender stares into the receiver's eyes, a malevolent grin spreading, instilling fear with a mere gaze. [MANIPULATION] The sender lies to the receiver, leading them astray for personal gain. [SABOTAGE] The sender discreetly undermines the receiver's plans. [TREACHERY] The sender betrays the receiver in a crucial moment, revealing their true nature. [CRUEL] The sender orchestrates a sadistic and elaborate prank, reveling in the receiver's confusion and suffering. [BRUTAL] The sender launches a sudden and vicious assault on the receiver. [DECEITFUL] The sender offers an alliance, feigning loyalty, while secretly planning to exploit and betray the receiver later. [EXPLOITATION] The sender identifies the receiver's weakness and exploits it for personal gain. [VICIOUS] The sender verbally assaults the receiver, using cutting words to undermine their confidence and break their spirit. [CALCULATED] The sender patiently waits for the opportune moment to betray the receiver, maximizing the damage caused. [CUNNING] The sender sets up a clever ambush, catching the receiver off guard. [DEMONIC] The sender offers a pact, promising power in exchange for servitude. [RELENTLESS] The sender relentlessly pursues the receiver, reveling in the thrill of the hunt.

[adainesjacket]

‘#that time i accidentally made blackwall a sex slave lmao’ elaborate?? 😭

it's not my faulttttttt. okay it is but i did fix it

so the inquisition run where i romanced blackwall was actually my first ever inquisition run, and the first time i ever played a dragon age game to boot. i was playing a dwarf (mal). i went in completely blind. i knew nothing about dragon age except that a friend had recommended i should play it.

so i'm pootling along, really enjoying myself, and i've just finished wicked eyes and wicked hearts which is rough when you're a non-human. poor mal has had to go from a carta thug to being the literal inquisitor and has to put up with all these human prejudices and people looking down on her and stereotyping her. so when blackwall leaves me naked and alone in the stables and i'm forced to make a choice about his future, there are two things at the forefront of my mind:

i don't want to lose blackwall. he's my pookie. can't let him die or rot in an orlesian cell.

BUT i'm already getting heat for being a non-human, non-noble, ex-carta drug smuggler. i can't just pardon my boyfriend - with no real authority to do so - and go "it's fine that he did war crimes because i want to keep sleeping with him." all of mal's haters would immediately cry corruption, and they'd be right! i'd lose respectability with rivals and allies alike!

so to me, the solution is obvious: to keep him around but preserve the inquisition's reputation, he's gotta continue pretending to be a grey warden and serve the inquisition. this is the politically expedient choice. he did war crimes. he's not a good poster boy.

but in my head - and my thought process here is a mystery to even me, i can only say that i'd been hyperfixating for days at that point with probably not enough food or sleep - i assumed blackwall would just have been cool with that?? i guess i thought it was obvious that he'd be 'a servant of the inquisition' in name only and we'd just carry on as usual behind closed doors. i thought it was the most sensible option. hot, even. so i do a bunch of stuff after that quest and then i go find him in the stable to get my kisses in and... there's no kiss option? and he's mad at me???

so i message the friend who recommended i play the game, because she'd been giving me context on some of the decisions and explaining things like dwarven lore to me when the game had continuity errors (the gameplay is so half-baked for dwarves and qunari istg), and i'm like "is this a glitch?? is it a continuity error again??"

and she had to very patiently take my hand and explain to me, a grown woman with average emotional intelligence, that it was not a glitch, blackwall just didn't want to be my boyfriend any more because i forced him into indentured servitude.

(looking back on it it's kind of wild that (iirc) no-one really accuses you of corruption if you just free him?? the inquisitor is a cult leader and we don't explore this enough. anyway)

i reloaded to before that choice and pardoned him fully and lost a bunch of progress. and tbh i'm still kind of salty about it because the idea of romancing an indentured!blackwall is hot and the game should have let you roll with it. but god forbid women do anything

[kyukicho]

@ofcrossroads asked: While Mikuni busies himself in the kitchen, Tsurugi approaches silently from behind. Fingers shaped to guns press into the small of Mikuni's back, "Pay up." Tsurugi chimes. Maybe next time he'll be more elaborate.

Someone sneaking up on him in his own kitchen wasn't really something the Eve feared. If a real threat was in the house, Jeje would have easily detected it. Or been able to deal with it swiftly if not. All assumptions turning instead to his normal housemate, then.

Movements of one hand doesn't stop. Continuing his task of stirring the simmering pot on the stove when needed. The extra appendage at his side offers up a surrender through. Glancing back over that same shoulder at the one holding him at 'finger-point'.

"A stick-up?" He hums in amusement. "I knew this day would come. Curse my flaunted wealth." Could Tsurugi actually pull off robbing him if he really wanted to? Maybe, especially now that Mikuni's own magic was limited. He had always been physically stronger, but was he clever enough? Mikuni didn't really want to consider that seriously.

Setting the pot aside and off the burner Mikuni turned in place. Both arms now raised. "What are your demands? Cash? Jewels? Servitude?" What wouldn't Mikuni be willing to shower him with if 'asked'?