#third and final part is partly written :)

[keepswingin]

open heart (ii)

The waiting room is too loud.

(part i | part iii)

It's not something he's ever put much thought into when he's only ever there for moments - horrible news to a family that's already suffering enough, thankful news for a mother whose sole child was everything to her. It's simply another moment, a glance down at the clipboard he's carrying, a glance up at the worried faces waiting for him.

He's usually good at compartmentalizing.

It's hard not to take home all of it, but he's good at being able to not hold onto the things he truly can't do anything about. The cases where he thinks there was something else he could've done, the ones that keep him up at night, those are the ones where she's there to comfort him, to remind him that he did the job he promised to do to his utmost best.

Zayne swallows past the lump in this throat. It's stuffy in the waiting room, and smells of coffee and bleach. His eyes flicker to the receptionist desk across the room where his co-workers are murmuring among themselves, casting concerned glances his way every few minutes.

He's sure the entire floor knows what has happened by now. He doesn't know if it makes him feel better or worse.

There's a handful of other people mulling around the room with him. An older man who stares blankly at a crossword book that's seen better days. A mother's arm wrapped around her young daughter's shoulders as she blows her nose into a wet tissue. A teenager pacing back and forth to his girlfriend's chagrin, fingers raking through his hair. There's dried blood sticking to the strands, spots of it on the side of his neck, stained onto his shirt.

Zayne stares at the spots for a long moment, nearly entranced. Then he looks down at the blood that still covers the hand that had held hers, smeared across his palm when he opens it.

There was so much blood. As soon as he had laid eyes on her in that bed, the sheets turning dark, his collogues rushing her through with an urgency reserved for only the worse cases, he knew.

He knew none of them were sure if she would make it or not.

He stares down at his hand and wonders if there was anything he could've done. She wouldn't have listened if he asked her not to chase whatever lead she had found, would've found a worse one to follow with someone else. She would've laughed if he reminded her to be careful, hugged him tighter when she got home.

She would have...

He could have...

Zayne squeezes his eyes shut.

Someone clicks on the coffee machine in the corner. It clanks to life with a hiss. A phone rings. The doors open as a stretcher is pushed through. Voices clamor over each other.

And Zayne waits.

[cherryredstarz]

Spa Day 🥒🐦‍⬛

A/n: in honor of Sylus’s new free 5 star spa day memory Magnum Opus dropping next Wednesday (I think)!!! IM SO EXCITED 👹👹👹 I know I’ve written something similar before in Braids, but who cares I love Sylus

Cw: Sylus x afab reader, fluff, pet names, one suggestive comment

Sylus has finally agreed to let you do a skincare routine on him. Not that the 28 year old doesn’t have extremely nice and well maintained skin (he certainly does), but that’s not the point. Because you just want to touch his face. Poke at his angular jawline and rub his cheeks with your thumbs, all under the guise of ‘beautifying’ your beautiful boyfriend.

It’s 11:34 on a Tuesday. You’d gotten back from a mission assigned by the Hunter’s Association the day before, and intended to rest the next couple of days before having to work again. But then that little plot popped into your head, and you simply couldn’t resist the temptation.

Laying back on the couch, you call Sylus.

The phone rings—once.

Twice.

He answers by the third.

“Kitten?”

“SYLUS!” You perk up once he accepted your call, before hitting the FaceTime button. The picture of his name flashes for a few minutes, before you see his (gorgeously handsome) face, and what appears to be the sky behind him. “Well, don’t you look awfully pretty today.”

“Ah, do I? I seem to have just woken up like this.”

It’s only partly true—you’ve spent enough nights sleeping in his bed to know at the least he’d have to comb his hair, and wash his face (you remember playfully scratching away his eye crusties the last time you slept over).

“Mhm. Can you come over? Right now? If you aren’t busy, pretty please.” You practically beg. You feared you might sound too needy, but at this point you couldn’t care less.

“Of course I can, Sweetie. I’m never too busy for you. Is there any reason, in particular, that my presence has been requested for?” You watch as he raises his eyebrow and has a slight lilt in his voice.

“Will you do a spa day with me?” You ask hopefully.

“Certainly.” He assures.

“Off topic—what are you doing outside?”

“Just running some errands and collecting goods for a certain kitten.”

Just then, you hear the doorbell to your apartment ring. You bounce off the couch and spring to the door, peeking out the peephole—and you see him—your Sylus.

“SY!” You nearly fling the door open—it would have hit the wall if he hadn’t stopped it with practiced hands as you jumped into his arms. He made a soft sound, almost a gasp of surprise, although he should be used to your sweet antics by now. “Hey there.” Sylus places a gentle kiss onto your forehead. “Missed me?” He grins, teasingly.

“Yeah.” You mumble, before looking up and kissing his cheek. “What are those?” You catch a flash of red behind him. “Is that blood?”

Sylus let’s put a hearty, genuine laugh. “No, Kitten. They’re for you.” He pulls out a bouquet of red tulips and holds them out for you. You take them, and pull your gargantuan man into your humble abode while you search for a vase suitable for flowers as pretty as these.

Sylus makes himself at home on your couch. Once filling a large vase with water and placing the tulips in there, you plop down beside him.

“Some little birdie told me we were going to have a spa day?”

“Ah—right!” You hop off the couch and drag Sylus to your bathroom. It was larger than most apartment bathrooms, for sure.

You pull a small basket filled with skincare supplies, and set it in the bathroom floor between Sylus’s legs, before scurrying off to the kitchen to grab cucumber slices. Coming back, you move the basket aside to sit between his legs instead. Most of the furniture was white—white bathtub, white sink, white walls, white tile floor—except for the small standing shower, which was a baby blue for some odd reason. However, the room had fabulous natural lighting.

Seeing that heavenly glow of sunlight on Sylus’s face made a part of your heart twist with happiness.

“Ready?” You ask him. He nods.

You twist off the cap of a white facical cleanser, and gently dab it onto his face, being extra careful to not get it in his eyes or his nose. Once you were done, you let it sit briefly before gently wiping it away with a warm, damp washcloth. At first, Sylus’s brows crease slightly at the sudden temperature change, but his face quickly relaxes.

Then you apply a charcoal face mask to his skin, and whip out the cucumbers. “Now close your eyes..” you bite your tongue.

Sylus just lets out a soft grunt, acknowledging what you said before closing those ruby eyes, then, you carefully place two cucumber slices against his eyelids. “They’re meant to reduce eye puffiness, correct?” Sylus asks, carefully not to move his face too much.

“I think so.” You answer. You giggle and take a quick picture of his spa day face, before putting the face mask on yourself. “Don’t you feel relaxed?”

“When I’m with you? Always.”

Not necessarily true—you’ve definitely given Sylus a run for his money, but he still loves you nonetheless.

“What do you wanna do after this?” You ask 15 minutes later, breaking the silence. You tilt your head slightly, as Sylus removes the cucumber slices from his eyes.

“I can think of a few things—”

“Sylus!” You snort, and carefully covered his mouth. “Pervert.”

Sylus grins, making the charcoal mask crack by the corners of his eyes, and his mouth.

“Woah. Aren’t you scary.” You laugh. Sylus reaches for a nearby cabinet and grabs a washcloth before warming it under the sinks hot water. Then he gently begins to rub your face mask away, before handling his own.

“H-hey! I can do this myself, you know. I was meant to be pampering you.” You huff.

“Hush, Sweetie.” Sylus kisses your face mask-less cheek, before begrudgingly letting you wipe away his own face mask.

“So handsome.” You giggle, before kissing his clean face—and you squeak when the man scoops you up and carries you to bed.

“What are you doing?” You squeak.

“Can’t I want to snuggle with my woman?”

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Four | Series Masterlist

Summary: Aemond can't seem to steer clear of the pianist, and it's not the outcome either were expecting | Word Count: 8.4k~ | Warnings: smut, hate sex, oral sex (f receiving), sabotage

It was the third day in a row Aemond had been unable to function in the morning without standing in the shower, forehead against the tiles, water lapping against his shoulders and eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he fisted his length to completion.

It wasn't always this hard to get off, was it?

Each build to that blissful peak was haunted by the memory of her. How warm she'd been. How tight. Her face as she clenched hard around him. And he'd stop, not wanting that memory to be the thing that hurled him off the edge.

But it was the third day in a row he'd failed to do so. It was always her. Lips parted, cheeks flushed, her necklace taught across her heaving collarbone, that finished him off.

At first, he groaned in annoyance. But slowly, as his control each time wavered, acceptance began to creep in. And with that, regret.

She was easy to avoid. Being a rival school meant that he didn't even have to see her if he didn't want to. And it partly made him realise that he saw her so often before this because he'd secretly hope he'd bump into her.

Now it couldn't be more different.

He sat in the practice room, several students tuned their instruments. His grandfather advising them. Aemond’s fingers ghosted over the strings of his cello, the vibrations almost too subtle to feel beneath his fingertips. He hadn’t planned on letting things go as far as they did. But each rehearsal, each rivalry-fuelled exchange, and then finally…

He’d left her there.

The regret lingered like an uninvited guest, seated firmly at the back of his mind, as he replayed that night over and over. He didn’t mean to think of her, but it happened without effort.

Aemond’s bow slipped on the strings, producing an unsteady note. His jaw clenched.

He hadn’t spoken to her since.

He hadn’t allowed himself to. If anyone knew about it, his family, Otto, they’d see it as a distraction, a sign of weakness. He couldn't afford that. Not with his performance on the horizon. Not with the pressure to perfect every movement, every sound. He had worked too hard for too long to let a single night get in the way of his future.

His hand reached for his phone, hesitating before he let it fall back to his side. Realising perhaps that he didn't even have her number. Only her Instagram in his search history.

He wanted to know if she was thinking about him too, or if she had written him off as cold, arrogant. He wasn't sure which possibility unsettled him more. His pulse quickened as he imagined her face when he left, maybe angry, or worse, indifferent.

Otto, hands in pockets, stood in front of him, encouraging Aemond to raise his gaze.

“Good. Keep going.”

There was something unsettling about how nice Otto was being today.

Aemond’s bow hesitated just above the strings. He hadn’t played his best moments ago, distracted by thoughts of her. His grip tightened. Otto didn’t seem to notice the mistakes, or worse, he didn’t care.

His grandfather had always pushed him toward perfection, to sharpen every note like a blade. So why did he feel so...forgiving now?

Aemond straightened his back, shifting his weight. Something was off, and he hated it. His grandfather wasn’t the type to offer encouragement, not like this, not when he should have been correcting the slight tremor in Aemond’s bow hand or the uneven pacing. His praise was always earned, and Aemond had always known how to achieve it. But this? This wasn’t earned.

He adjusted his grip on the bow, unsure whether to obey or question Otto’s uncharacteristic behaviour. Aemond’s focus wavered again, the image of the pianist still clinging to his thoughts, and with it, the same suffocating mix of regret and uncertainty.

He could feel Otto’s attention sharpen, even if the older man didn’t say a word. It was the silence, the way he let the imperfection hang in the air, unaddressed, that gnawed at Aemond. His grandfather never let mistakes slide. He always demanded more, always expected Aemond to rise above his peers, to be better, stronger, sharper. Perfect.

But not today.

Today, Otto’s silence was suffocating.

When the last note faded, Aemond let the bow drop to his lap, frustration twisting in his gut. His breaths were shallow, controlled, but the tension refused to release.

Otto didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on Aemond, the weight of his presence unbearable.

“I don’t need...this,” Aemond finally muttered, his voice harsher than he intended. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Aemond thought he saw the flicker of something, a knowing, a calculation, one of those silent judgments Otto was famous for. But then his expression smoothed into that unnerving calm again.

“I’m just observing, Aemond,” Otto said, his tone measured, as if he hadn’t noticed the frustration brimming beneath the surface. “You’ve been different lately. Distracted.”

Aemond bristled, his fingers gripping the bow tighter. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Otto tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “I’ve seen this before, you know. You’re slipping. Like you were when you were with her.”

Alys.

The accusation hit Aemond like a cold blade, slicing through the control he’d been struggling to maintain. Slipping? He wasn’t slipping. He was still practising every day, still working toward the recital, still chasing perfection as he always had.

Being distracted by Alys and then by the pianist were two different tortures. He wanted to open his mouth to speak in support of Alys, for she hadn't done anything to slight him, not really.

But she kept slipping into his mind, no matter how much he tried to push her out.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. “I’m not slipping.”

Otto took a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing as if he could see right through Aemond, see the truth buried beneath the surface. “You think I don’t know when my grandson is distracted?”

Aemond tried to steady his breathing, tried to push back against the overwhelming sense that his grandfather had already pieced it together. He couldn’t let Otto know. Not about her. Not about what happened. It was supposed to be nothing, a moment of weakness, something he could forget. But Otto could read him too well.

“I’m not distracted,” Aemond shot back, his voice sharper now, more defensive. “I’ve been practising. I’m ready.”

Otto raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Perfection requires more than practice,” he said slowly, as if lecturing a student who wasn’t quite understanding the lesson. “It requires control. And you, right now, are lacking it.”

Aemond’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just his playing that Otto was talking about, it was his discipline, his focus. His life.

“Whatever it is,” Otto continued, his tone growing harder now, “you will end it.”

“There isn’t anything to end,” Aemond replied, his voice steady but edged with defiance. He looked Otto in the eye, unwilling to show the tension that was building inside him. “There never was.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Because whatever had happened, it was a mistake. One he shouldn’t have made in the first place. And yet, as he spoke the words, a flicker of doubt settled in his chest, gnawing at the truth he was trying so hard to maintain.

“Good. Now play again.”

As Aemond finished packing up his cello, carefully placing the bow into its case, he heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps approaching. He glanced up to see Oscar Tully, his classmate, standing in the doorway with a wide grin plastered on his face. Oscar was one of the more easygoing students, always looking for some distraction from the gruelling practice schedules that everyone else seemed to thrive on.

“Ah! Aemond! Did I give you one already?”

Aemond gestures dismissively, “I don't—”

But somehow the leaflet ended up in his hand anyway. And upon looking at the shorter man before him, he didn't muster up the courage to say he didn't want it. Oscar’s voice was practically buzzing with excitement.

“There's an amazing music venue off Crownland Plaza. You should come, have a look!”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, closing the latch on his cello case with a soft click. “Crownland Plaza?” he repeated, frowning slightly. He ran through the mental list of all the concert halls and events he frequented. The Royal Opera House, the exclusive classical recitals, the private performances he’d been invited to, but Crownland Plaza? It didn’t ring any bells. 

“It’s incredible! They’ve got these outdoor performances, indoor as well of course, a real mix of stuff too. Not just the highbrow stuff, but, you know...real music.” He emphasised the last two words as if it held more meaning than Aemond could understand.

Aemond’s expression remained neutral, though his curiosity flickered briefly. He knew the best music events in the city, the ones that mattered, the ones that attracted the critics and the virtuosos. How could there be something he'd missed? Something that wasn’t on his radar?

“What kind of music?” Aemond asked, unable to fully mask his interest.

“Everything, man, but they make it feel so alive, you know?” Oscar’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. “And the crowd! They’re not like the stiff ones we get at our recitals. These people are there to feel the music. To live it.”

Those words sound familiar.

A pang in his chest accompanies that thought.

Before he could respond, Oscar clapped him on the shoulder, his smile never fading. “You should come! It’s a fun vibe, and I think you could use it. I mean, I never see you at anything like this.”

Aemond opened his mouth to refuse instinctively, but Oscar was already backing out of the room, waving his hand in the air as he walked. “Think about it! It’d be good to see you loosen up for once.”

He wanted to screw up the leaflet in frustration. Annoyed that people had been able to see his detachment.

Was there really a music scene, so far from the perfection and formality of classical music, that he never knew about?

He shook his head and turned back to his cello, lifting the case with one hand. He had a routine, a plan. He didn’t need to waste his time at some event where people felt the music without understanding the discipline behind it. But the seed of curiosity had been planted.

And tonight he'd find out.

The bar off Crownland Plaza was nothing like the grand concert halls Aemond was used to. It was small, intimate, almost hidden, the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you knew exactly where to look. From outside, he could already hear the faint strains of music filtering through the walls, not the elegant, calculated compositions he was familiar with, but something looser, wilder.

He stood outside for a moment, his fingers flexing at his sides as if instinctively preparing to grip his cello again, to find the order in the chaos. But there was none here. It was messy, unpredictable. He wasn’t sure if he hated it already.

I can always get a drink, he told himself. If the music grated on his nerves, at least he could distract himself with a drink, and maybe make a quick exit before Oscar could find him.

He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him, and was immediately engulfed in sound. The music wasn’t just something you listened to here, it was something you felt. People laughed, danced, and clapped. 

The low, steady hum of the bass vibrated through the floor, while trumpets blared in sudden bursts, sharp and brassy, filling the room with energy. A piano, somewhere in the back, played rapid, uneven chords, cutting through the noise with a rhythm that seemed to defy expectation.

Glancing towards the stage, the scent of beer and heavy perfumes floating through the dark atmosphere, he spotted a man playing a double bass almost the size of him. So much like a cello, Aemond thought, but the way he was playing it, as if he were stringing his very smile into the music, without the refinement Aemond was so used to, he was ashamed almost, embarrassed, to admit to himself that he was captivated.

Feeling wholly out of his depth, he slid to the bar, tapping his card and craving the familiar touch of the amber liquid that would calm his nerves. Something strong, he thought. 

The glass barely touched his lips before he saw her.

She was sat at a table by herself, perched on a stool in a darkened corner, with a warm, almost orange light casting shadows on her features. She watched the performance, one hand perched on her cheek, smiling slightly but with a sense of unease that she could only distance with her drink in front of her.

Discomfort rose in his throat. Did he feel bad? Should he feel bad? It was difficult to tell.

One thing was for certain. It would certainly not be her falling over her words if they did happen to exchange them that night. That much he knew about her.

The little that he did.

The song eased off and she applauded, and it was easy to spot her eyes scanning the space as if she could feel she was being watched. Landing on him.

Any smile immediately dissipates. Replaced by a sharp, unreadable look that stilled him to his spot. She didn’t make any move to wave him over or call out, yet something in her expression told him everything. 

If you don’t choose to come over now, don’t bother again.

It felt like an ultimatum. He could sense the line in the sand as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. Aemond took a breath, then made his way over, hoping his usual composure would hold steady under her gaze.

When he reached her, she didn’t waste a second. “What are you doing here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow, her tone dripping with challenge.

“Apparently not what you’d expect,” he replied evenly, trying to meet her edge for edge. But she just crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as she looked him over, sizing him up. “Believe it or not,” he replied, a touch defensive, “I don’t follow you around.”

She let out a dry laugh. "Right. You don’t follow me," she shot back, her voice low but cutting. "You just leave me half-naked in a storage closet without a word.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she kept going, her voice laced with bitterness and a hint of disbelief. 

“I'm not fucking stupid, Aemond. It's not like I was expecting this grand declaration of love or some bullshit like that, but you could have at least said something.”

He looked away, the weight of her gaze pressing on him as if challenging him to face what he’d done, who he’d become. “I didn't mean to make you feel that way.”

“Oh, well, that fixes it,” she shot back, bitterness seeping through every syllable. 

He clenched his jaw, grappling with the truth of it. The fact was, he hadn’t thought past that moment. Hadn’t questioned what it meant to him, or to her, only that he’d needed an escape, a release. That pull between them had flared too brightly, burning too hot to ignore. But standing here, he could see her hurt, her pride cut through, and it unsettled him more than he’d ever admit.

“Look,” he said finally, his voice forced calm. “I'll be the first person to say it was a fucking mistake. Whatever you think of me, I never wanted to make you feel used.”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, her mouth set in a firm line. “I will not be a placeholder for whatever it is you can’t face. I don’t expect anything from you, Aemond, but I’m not here to stroke your ego or be another one of your distractions.”

For the first time, he felt the weight of her words sink in entirely. She wasn’t expecting him to change, wasn’t even expecting him to care, only that he’d own up to his part in this, instead of hiding behind his own fear and avoidance.

She saw through him, and if he was honest, that terrified him. With her, the easy deflection wouldn't come, and he found his words flooding from his lips unbidden.

“I know I have a problem, don't need you to rub it in my face.” The words felt like they scraped their way out, a truth he’d barely acknowledged even to himself. For a moment, he felt stripped down, like he’d handed her a piece of himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back. And there was a strange, unsettling relief in it.

But she only crossed her arms, her face unreadable, her silence somehow louder than any answer.

“If your plan is to keep distracting me, or using me, or whatever this is, don’t bother. And I’m not stupid, I know there’s always somebody else—”

“She’s gone,” Aemond said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended.

Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Good for you. But it doesn’t change anything for me. It’s not about her, Aemond. It’s about you.” She gestured at him with a short, deliberate motion.

He felt the irritation gnaw at him again, the same one he felt in that dark, stuffy closet before they fucked. He clenched his fists. Hating that she was right. Hating that this…stranger, saw him so deeply and shamelessly.

“If you're looking for someone to save you, it's not going to be me.”

He loved that look on her face. That firm, serious expression that gave way when he touched her, watching her crumble. Why did pushing her too far excite him? It was a dangerous game. One that if played too much would repel her too far.

And before he could say anything else, she was up and gone, her head disappearing into the lively, dark crowd.

He wasn't sure if she had friends here already or if she was just an easy personality, because the way she morphed back into the rampant crowd and immediately found a dancing partner was borderline impressive. Even if it did make his fingers tighten around his glass watching her.

He reminded himself he had no right to feel that way.

But as aggravated as he was. He stayed. Watched her face light up with warmth as she danced and clapped to the vibrant music on stage. He had to admit there was charm to it. Even if he couldn't see himself dead doing what she was, so carefree.

The words of Otto Hightower didn't even cross his mind as he drank another. And another. His gaze following her somewhat lazily now as the night dragged on, his head swimming with thoughts that had no right being there.

She drank too, sipping various gin and tonics. Not drunk. But certainly flushed. She wore sheer black tights, a tank top and skirt, and whenever she raised her arms to clap, her nipples poked against the fabric, the swell of her breasts spilling over the straps slightly.

Sometimes she would glance over to see if he was still there. Or still watching her. And this time, when she did catch him, she rolled her eyes and slipped through the crowd to the fire exit for air, where several smokers were gathered to chat.

The cool night air hit her like a balm, easing the heat that had flushed her cheeks, though the irritation simmering beneath the surface didn’t dissipate as easily. She leaned against the brick wall, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, the screen glowing as she tapped at it with unnecessary force. The smokers nearby didn’t pay her any mind, lost in their low, murmured conversations and the occasional flicker of lighters.

She opened her rideshare app again, squinting at the lack of available taxis. “Of course,” she muttered, half under her breath, her annoyance mounting. The night was supposed to have been an escape, a brief respite from everything, not another reminder of how much he lingered in the edges of her mind.

And speak of the devil.

“Trouble finding a ride?” Aemond’s voice cut through the haze of her irritation, smooth and maddeningly calm. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there, likely looking as composed as ever, though she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back.

“What do you want, Aemond?” she snapped, whipping her head toward him. He was leaning casually against the frame of the fire exit, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

“Relax. Just offering to help,” he said with a shrug, though his one eye glinted with something that set her teeth on edge. “My place isn’t far. You can come there if you can’t find a ride.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter, cutting through the cool night air like glass. “Gods, you are delusional,” she snapped, shoving her phone into her bag. “Why in the world would I want to go anywhere with you?”

Aemond tilted his head, his calm appearance unshaken. “Because you’re drunk, it’s late, and your so-called ride isn’t coming.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t fucking call me stupid–”

The rumble of her phone in her pocket made her quip die in her throat. But nothing gave her that sinking feeling like seeing ‘Mum’ across her screen. With a huff, and hoping he wouldn’t notice, she shoved it back into her bag.

“You not answering that?” he asked, his voice cool but probing, as if he had the right to know.

“It’s none of your business.”

“It’s just a question. You’re acting like it’s a bomb or something.”

“Drop it,” she said firmly, but the way she gripped her bag strap betrayed her agitation.

Aemond looked as if he considered probing more, if not so that he could get more of a reaction out of her. Instead he exhaled, sharp, through his nose and gestured towards the street, pushing himself off the wall. “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

She looked away, taking a deep breath as if considering whether to fire back or walk away without a ride. “Fine,” she strained, “but don’t act like you’re the one doing me a favour.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his lips quirking into a smug half-smile that made her want to smack it off his face.

The roads were mercifully quiet. No chance of anyone they both knew seeing them walking back to his place together, surely. If someone did, they’d no doubt blab to Lyonel, she’d get a sharp talking to about hanging around with someone who wasn’t from their school. Not like there was any secrets she could divulge, none that she even would. But all the same, being involved with someone from a rival school was not something to sneeze about. 

He made no attempt at conversation, which she was grateful for. Doubly so when he led her aside to a large apartment complex and swiped his key fob for the doors. Not that she was particularly thrilled to be spending the night on a guy’s sofa who she’d fucked once in a storage closet, but for tonight, it would have to do.

It was perhaps the slowest ascent in a lift she’d ever felt. More so, because she could practically feel his gaze on her. 

Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her body angled away from him, but it didn’t stop her from feeling that heat. That suffocating awareness of him.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Aemond drawled.

She rolled her eyes but kept them fixed on the numbers lighting up above the doors. “Not everything needs to be filled with your commentary, you know.”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smirk, but his eye darkened, studying her. Before she could fire another quip, the lift came to a halt, the doors sliding open with a soft chime.

“Ladies first,” he said. 

His apartment was tidy, just like she had expected it to be. There were few ornaments, only what was needed. A stainless steel coffee machine stood proud in his kitchen, alongside a few mugs that were pastel colours. She stared at them as Aemond moved through the apartment. They seemed out of place alongside his cool, darker aesthetic. And her mind immediately went to the woman she’d seen him with the first time they’d met. For some reason, it made a bitter taste in her mouth. Wondering if he’d been telling the truth when he said she was gone.

Aemond puffed up some cushions on the sofa with the kind of detached efficiency that made it clear he didn’t care whether she was comfortable or not. “You can crash here,” he said flatly, tossing a blanket onto the armrest. His eye flicked to her briefly before he turned away, heading toward the kitchen.

“Was she here,” she asks. 

He scoffs, pulling an espresso cup out of a cupboard, “thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t. Just curious.”

He turned fully now, leaning against the counter, his arms folded over his chest as he regarded her with an exasperated look. “No, she wasn’t here. Satisfied?”

“Thrilled,” she replied, the sarcasm dripping from her tone. She didn’t break eye contact, even as the silence between them grew heavier. “Did she get the same treatment as me?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as her words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. He didn’t answer right away, the tension between them coiling tighter with every passing second.

“What treatment would that be?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“You know exactly what I mean.” She stepped closer, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “The whole hit-and-run routine. Or was she special?”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always trying to pick a fight.”

“And you’re always dodging,” she shot back, her voice rising slightly. “Maybe you are a sex addict.”

He was quiet. This was different than when she confronted him at the club. This was more intimate, she was right here before him, demanding a response, a reason. Wanting to see him squirm at least. His grip tightened, white knuckled on the counter. And he found he didn’t have a reply.

She huffed, “are you embarrassed of me, or something?” she asks, her voice softening slightly as if the idea of it genuinely bothered her. “Like, you don’t want to be seen with me.”

“Of course I don’t. If anyone found out I was fooling around with someone from a different school, someone I’m meant to compete against, what do you think that does for my reputation? What do you think people will think of me?”

Her arms fell to her sides, her posture rigid as she stared at him like he was a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. “You’re such a fucking coward,” she said, her tone low but biting.

He scoffed, though his defenses felt thinner now, threadbare. “Coward? No. Just realistic.”

This time it was her turn to scoff, “realistic. Fucking perfect–”

“Fine,” he snapped. “You want honesty? I’ll give it to you.” He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating as he looked down at her, his single eye burning with intensity. “I am messed up. I’ve been messed up for a long time, and yeah, maybe I’m addicted to sex, alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

She swallowed. And knew he didn’t really want an answer. He just needed somewhere to direct his anger. 

“You challenge me. You don’t just roll over and play nice. You fight me, push me, tear me apart, and I fucking love it,” he admitted, “I love it and I fucking hate it. I loved it, you were right there, and I needed it.”

His hand was extended, as if tempted to grab her face but he didn’t. And she heard the strain of his skin as he clenched his fist. Her breath hitched, and she hated that his words, raw and vulnerable as they were, stirred something in her. 

“Bullshit,” she responded, “you didn’t need me. You just need something with a pulse.”

“Maybe,” he shot back, his voice rising again. “Maybe I take because I don’t know how to ask. Because needing someone feels like weakness, and I can’t afford to be weak.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. She could see it in his face, the conflict, the self-loathing, the desperate need for something he didn’t know how to name.

“You’re a mess,” she said finally.

“And you’re perfect?” he shot back, though there was no malice in his words, only a tired sort of defiance.

The tension between them was unbearable, crackling like a live wire in the charged silence that followed. She opened her mouth, maybe to retort, maybe to leave, but before a word could escape, he closed the distance between them in one quick, purposeful stride.

He kissed her, hard and bruising, with all the pent-up frustration and confusion that had been simmering between them for weeks. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t tender, it was raw and unrelenting, like a storm finally breaking.

She resisted, her hands pressing against his chest as if to shove him away, but it only lasted a second before she grabbed at his shirt, pulling him closer instead. Her nails scraped his skin through the thin fabric, her movements every bit as furious as his.

Her head tilted back as his mouth moved to her neck, biting and kissing with equal fervor. The line between anger and desire blurred so thoroughly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Don’t think this means anything,” she warned, her voice shaking, though she didn’t let go.

“I don’t.”

Her lips crashed into his again, silencing whatever else he might have said. She hated how much she wanted this, hated that he made her feel like this, but in that moment, with his hands roaming her body and his lips leaving trails of heat along her skin, she didn’t care.

She tugged at his shirt impatiently, her fingers fumbling in her haste, and when it finally gave way, she pushed it off his shoulders with a growl of frustration. Her hands skimmed over the hard planes of his chest, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted fast, frantic, and over with. She wanted to get him out of her system, to snuff out the unbearable tension that had plagued her since that day in the storage room.

But Aemond had other ideas.

He pulled back, just enough to catch her wrists in his hands, stilling her movements.

“Not like this,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“Don’t—” she started, her words clipped with irritation.

“Not like this,” he repeated firmly, his grip on her wrists loosening as his hands slid down to her hips.

Before she could protest again, he scooped her up with maddening ease, his hands gripping her thighs as he carried her to the sofa. He set her down gently, his movements careful.

“Aemond,” she said, her voice laced with both annoyance and need, but he just shook his head, his hands already tugging her skirt higher and rolling her tights down her legs..

“Let me,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “I’m not rushing this.”

Her breath hitched as he knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, spreading her open as he leaned in. His lips followed the path of his hands, pressing heated kisses against her skin as he pushed her skirt higher.

“Just fuck me—”

“Stop being so fucking stubborn.”

Her head fell back against the sofa with a groan, her fists clenching at her sides as she tried to fight the pull of his touch. “I don’t need this—”

“Yes, you do,” he cut her off, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

Before she could find the words to bite back, his lips found the sensitive skin at the crease of her thigh, and her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. He traced it with his tongue, rendering her mindless and unapologetically dragged his attention to the gusset of her underwear, fingers hooking indecently through them to pull them aside.

Despite telling her he wanted to take his time with her, this is one area where he did not hesitate to take what he wanted. As soon as his tongue met her, swiping lazily through her folds to taste her, her body trembled, the sharp gasp that escaped her lips was answer enough.

“See?” he murmured against her, his voice tinged with a smug satisfaction. “Not so stubborn now.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to, because he set to work in earnest, his mouth and hands coaxing reactions from her that she didn’t want to give. Her nails bit into the sofa cushions, her hips shifting of their own accord as he drove her higher, slower than she wanted, but impossibly thorough.

Every time she thought she was close, he pulled back just enough to keep her on edge, forcing her to feel every second, every touch.

“Aemond,” she finally managed, her voice half annoyance and half need.

His response was a low hum against her that sent another wave of heat rolling through her, and she realised, with a mix of frustration and something far more dangerous, that he had her exactly where he wanted her.

Without warning, two fingers prodded at her, slipping inside her with a slow, measured thrust that made her entire body tense. He groaned softly, feeling the way she clenched around him, tight and wet, her body betraying just how much she wanted this despite her stubborn nature.

"Fuck," he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips sucking at her pearl, rolling his tongue over it as if to play with her.

Her head fell back, her lips parting as a shaky breath escaped her. His fingers moved in rhythm, curling slightly with each thrust, seeking out the spot that made her gasp and tighten around him.

Aemond finally pulled back, his fingers sliding out of her with an almost lazy care, his gaze glinting with satisfaction as he watched her try to catch her breath. He licked his lips, as if savouring the taste of her, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.

Her hips rolled to meet his lips, and he revelled in the control he had. And it didn't take long, the tension coiled in her stomach snapped with a sharp cry she couldn’t hold back, her body arching as the release washed over her in waves. He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, drawing out every last tremor until she was left gasping and trembling beneath him, her fingers that were in his moonlight hair so tight and gripping it burned.

“Told you,” he said quietly, his voice low and rough. “You just have to let go.”

As if he was telling her that, she thought with distaste.

Fucking hypocrite.

Instead of backing off, he leaned in closer, his hands skimming along her silky thighs. “What’s that look for?” he murmured, his tone almost teasing.

“You tell me,” she shot back, willing the shake out her voice.

Aemond smirked, tilting his head, “I think I know.”

She was about to say, ‘tell me what I'm thinking then, you smug asshole’, but Aemond straightened, confidently pulling his jeans with his boxers over his hips. She tried to keep her gaze fixed firmly on his face, but when they'd last had sex, she hadn't seen him, not really. But her curiosity betrayed her, and he caught her eyes flickering downwards.

Equally so, when his large hand took himself in his palm, and gave his length a few maddeningly slow, hard strokes, coaxing pearly liquid from the ruddy tip of him. 

Asshole.

His hands found her hips, tugging her closer to pull at the waistband of her skirt. But with a glare, she swatted his hands away, “I can do it myself.”

He scoffed, “please.”

He pulled her skirt over her hips, everything coming with it. His touch over her thighs firm and unapologetic. He made quick work over the rest of her clothes, savouring every second of her surrender. 

He smirked, a hand sliding up her spine to undo her lacy black bra, his breath shuddery against her neck, “cute,” he commented as the fabric fell from her skin.

“Stop staring,” she muttered, her hands coming to cover her now bare chest. 

His grip came to her wrist, “you always this bossy?”

“Only with you.”

“Hm, lucky me,” he grins, pushing her hands to the sofa so he could see the vast expanse of her body beneath him. She hated, hated, that he could make her pulse race like this.

Her breath hitched as he teased himself against her entrance, his previous actions making the friction deliciously non-existent. She knew he was doing it on purpose, running the head of him over her to coat himself in her slick, and dragging it to her bud, setting every nerve alight.

“Fucking— hurry up.”

He laughs lowly, “just taking my time, baby. Thought you might actually appreciate someone paying attention to you.”

Her glare could melt steel. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“What?” he asked innocently, his lips curving into a smirk as he shifted just enough to draw a gasp from her. “So fucking impatient.”

“You’re unbearable,” she hissed, though her voice trembled as he rolled his hips, barely pushing into her, then pulling back.

“Hm,” he hums, “I think you're talking too fucking much.”

Before she could fire back another insult, he slid forward, filling her in one fluid motion that knocked the breath from her lungs. She was prepared, but all the same, the stretch around him was distinctively overwhelming, stealing the words right out of her mouth. Her hands tightened where they gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her body adjusted to the sensation.

Aemond stilled for a moment, his jaw clenched, breathing laboured as if trying to maintain control. “Not so mouthy now, are you?” he muttered, though his voice came out more strained than smug.

Her breath hitched, but she wasn’t going to let him have the last word. “You’re still—oh gods—so insufferable,” she managed as he shifted his hips, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

He smirked at that, clearly satisfied with the reaction, and began to move, his pace slow and deliberate at first, as if savouring the way she tensed and relaxed beneath him. The deliberate drag of him against her sent sparks rippling through her, and she bit her lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing how much it affected her.

“Thought you’d be louder,” he taunted, his voice strained as he buried himself deeper.

“Thought you’d be better.”

Aemond’s smirk faltered, replaced by a dark glint in his eye that made her pulse quicken. “Oh, you want better?” he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. Without waiting for a response, he pulled out and flipped her legs up, draping them over his shoulders with a swift, practised motion. The shift left her gasping as he pressed down, angling his body to sink into her again, this time with an intensity that had her clenching around him instantly.

“Fuck—Aemond—” she started, but the words dissolved into a strangled moan as he set a relentless pace, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, and more devastatingly accurate.

“You still think you can run your mouth?” he growled, his breath ragged as he drove into her with a force that made the sofa creak beneath them. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he leaned further into her, folding her nearly in half. “Fucking love it when you struggle to take me,” he bit out, his voice thick with triumph and lust.

Her nails dug into the fabric of the sofa, her head tipping back as the overwhelming pressure of him inside her and the angle of his movements sent her spiraling. Every thrust struck that sweet spot, over and over, leaving her helpless against the waves of pleasure crashing through her.

She couldn’t respond, couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe properly as her body tightened and pulsed around him, her mind clouded by the intensity of it all. And he revelled in it, watching her crumble beneath him, her bravado finally stripped away as he watched her body move with the force of his rutting into her.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he muttered, his voice strained but edged with a dark satisfaction.

She tried to glare at him, to muster some kind of retort, but her body betrayed her, trembling violently as the coil deep within her snapped. A strangled cry tore from her throat, her walls clenching around him so tightly it nearly made him lose his rhythm.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough and strained as his movements became frantic, erratic. The sight of her body trembling beneath him, the way she clung to him as though she couldn’t help it, was the final push he needed. Her walls clenched around him in the aftermath of her release, and the last few desperate squeezes undid him completely. 

He pulled from her quickly, not even having to stroke himself to completion as hot ropes of his release coated her stomach, her breasts, painting her gorgeous body until there was nothing left. Deep, rumbling groans were all she heard through her haze, and the warmth of his cum on her skin.

He stayed there for a moment, his gaze flickering over her, watching the way his release glistened on her body. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though it lacked the usual smugness, replaced by something quieter, almost contemplative.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she uttered once her breath had calmed. 

“Can’t help it,” he replied, reaching for a discarded towel with a smirk. Their back and forth had certainly not faded. He began to gently wipe her skin, his movements surprisingly careful. It was almost disconcerting, seeing him like this, still snarky, but not cruel. The slow drag of the towel along her stomach, over her ribs, told her he was taking his time.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to fuss over cleanup,” she quipped, arching a brow at him.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” he retorted, smirking a little. He offered a hand, helping her up. For a moment, they stood close, neither quite ready to step back. When she finally did, the fleeting press of their bodies parted, leaving them both a fraction colder as they gathered their clothes.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, stepping away to gather whatever clothing was still intact.

He nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor. “Don’t get used to me being nice.”

She let out a small snort. “Trust me, that’s the last thing I’ll ever expect from you.” Despite the barbed words, her tone lacked its old venom, and the corner of her mouth twitched with something close to a smile.

She slipped her top over her head, glancing up at him as she smoothed it into place. “So,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest, half in defense, half in uncertainty. “We should probably talk. About this. About… us.”

His gaze flicked to hers, and for a moment, he looked uneasy. “Right,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Guess we should.”

She took a step closer, feeling that familiar surge of defiance rise within her, though it was tempered now. “I’m not expecting some grand declaration of love,” she reminded him, her voice low. “I’ve never been that naïve. Especially not with you.”

He winced slightly, and she realised how that must have sounded, but there was no taking it back. “You really think I’m that incapable of—” He paused, shaking his head. “It’s not that I don’t care,” he corrected himself, his tone quieter than usual. “Just…not sure I know how to care the way you’d want me to.”

She frowned, fiddling with a loose thread. “All I ask is why you’re so keen on carrying on like this. If it’s because you think I’m just a good time—”

“No. No.”

Her brows lifted in skepticism, but she didn’t interrupt. Not this time.

He took a breath, gathering whatever fragments of honesty he could muster. “You…you challenge me,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “And I hate it. Except I don’t. It drives me crazy that you can get under my skin like this.”

She studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe him. “We’re competitors,” she said, bluntly. “Different schools, different ideologies, different everything.”

He shrugged, though his eyes never left hers. “Can’t deny that.”

She sighs softly, “so we’re doomed, is that it?”

“I’m not saying we have to be,” he offered quietly.

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Aemond exhaled. “Maybe I am.”

Her expression softened despite herself. She could see the conflict there, the way his posture had lost its usual confidence, how his shoulders seemed weighed down by something he didn’t want to name.

“I usually know what I want. But ever since…since Alys…” His voice trailed off, and he pressed his lips together. “She ended things because she felt I used her. And maybe she was right.”

She blinked, not expecting him to bring up Alys so bluntly. “And you think you’re doing the same thing with me?”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice low, almost pleading for an answer he couldn’t give himself. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If I’m just—replacing her with you. Because it’s easier to fill that void than confront the fact that I might not know how to…be with someone.”

Her initial instinct was to lash out, to remind him she wasn’t a placeholder. But the look in his eye gave her pause. Instead, she inhaled slowly, weighing her words. “You think you’re just repeating the pattern,” she said quietly. “Different person, same problem.”

“Alys said it. And I was too damn proud to listen. She cut things off because she didn’t want to be the fix for whatever’s wrong with me.” A mirthless half-smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe she had a point.”

The admission brought a heaviness to her chest. “So…what now?” she asked gently, unsure if she even wanted the answer.

Aemond’s gaze flicked away, his jaw tightening. “Otto’s been breathing down my neck,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’s convinced I need total discipline for the competition. Zero distractions. I’ve…I’ve been trying to keep it together. But this?” He gestured vaguely between them. “Us? It’s not helping.”

Her lips parted in surprise, and a sting of hurt made itself known. “So you think we should—what? Pretend this never happened?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. We don’t have to pretend it never happened, but…we can’t let it happen again.”

She stared at him for a long moment, the words lodging in her throat. Part of her wanted to argue, to demand he face whatever was broken inside him instead of cutting her out. But she saw the raw conflict in his eyes, the fear that clung to him like a second skin. For a moment, she could see him for what he truly was. A man afraid of commitment or any true, real and raw feeling.

For a moment she simply saw the waves of silver that framed his face. The scar through his eye and brow. And cloudy blue of his left eye that stared back.

She wouldn't like to admit there was a strange beauty to it. Why would she? When he was the one turning her down. Bruising her ego.

“Fine,” she said, her voice hushed, almost hollow. She hated how final it sounded, but she couldn’t force him to confront his demons. Whatever they were.

Aemond nodded once, slowly, as if sealing a deal that left them both unsatisfied. “Yeah. Right. Better this way.”

Better this way, she repeated silently, wishing she believed it.

After Aemond disappeared into his room without another word, she glared at the closed door for a moment, frustration and something heavier gnawing at her. It shouldn’t hurt that he’d ended things so neatly, as if all of this, or rather, whatever it had been, was simply an inconvenient dream.

She sank onto the sofa, her mind a whirlwind, the competition, the tangled mess of emotions she could barely name, the strange pang of rejection. Did it matter that she’d thought there was something between them? Or that for the briefest moment, she felt seen in a way she hadn’t expected? 

None of it mattered now. He didn’t want her.

When her phone lit up, she felt the familiar thrum of annoyance that it might again be her mother. But instead replaced with confusion at the unknown number plastered across her screen. She frowned, the face ID unlocking her phone to reveal a photo of her and Aemond disappearing into his apartment building earlier that night. 

Her stomach dropped. A cold chill burning in her blood.

Below the image, the message read:

Did you have fun? I wonder what Lyonel would think if he knew you were sleeping with the enemy. Might want to consider your next moves carefully. Wouldn’t want your lovely solo compramised.

Her pulse pounded, anger and dread warring in her chest. A threat…aimed at both her reputation and her chances in the competition. She swallowed hard, staring at the ominous text. A wave of tired resignation washed over her, as if the night hadn’t already beaten her down enough. Her shaky hand raised to her mouth as if to muffle her gasp but nothing came out anyway, her face going dark as she locked her phone. 

Her heart drummed a rapid, uneasy rhythm. Even as she lay back against the sofa, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders, she couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the threat. This person knew her, had her phone number. 

Better this way, she repeated again, a mantra that felt emptier each time she said it. But she couldn’t pretend any longer that walking away was so simple, especially now that someone was determined to make her choices even harder.

✨ Please note ✨ I no longer do taglists. If you would updates, please follow @targaryenrealnessdarlingfics and turn on notifications!

[gay-wrongs-activist]

Okay, so here is my current watch progress with shows I am watching and my thoughts about them. No specific order.

Currently watching (ignoring the literally 35 other shows I need to finish):

Monster Next Door (4/12) - so far this show has been dangerously adorable. Oh my god (lol) it's so cute. Honestly my only point of criticism is - please someone free Khun Shy. I hope he suceeds fleeing from that terrible glass cube. Watch if you want adorableness and a himbo extrovert and a nerdy introvert falling in love (saying this as a nerdy introvert myself - I love Diew's characterization).

My Stubborn (3/12) - I have literally gone from dropping this show two thirds into episode one to giddily watching each new episode. If I would drink alcohol I would definitely get a glass of wine for this show. The key really was to not take a single thing serious that goes on in this show, and just enjoy the ride (also, partly, literally). There are tiny ideas in there that could have gone places in other shows but honestly - this a 12 episode pwp with HR violations and I am here for it. Watch if you want (mostly) nicely done NC scenes, HR violations and/or like CEO/assistant couples as a side. Also I am holding my hopes up that the hot lesbians are gonna get featured soon. This show is an a plus guilty pleasure (for me anyway).

Pit Babe S2 (1/13) - ooooooh my god this season is delivering so far! I love season 1 so very much and am so happy that we get a second one. Episode 1 has been what was to be expected in the very best of ways. I can't wait to tune in again on Friday. Watch if you want the wild ride of a life time. Seriously. Pit Babe is what you usually can only find in brilliantly written 300k+ word fanfics.

Nirvana in Fire (25/54) - a 10 year old CDrama where did that come from? I am actually watching this together with a friend and holy fuck, is it good. It's court intrigue and 20D chess and it keeps you in incredible suspense in a show that consist mainly of talking. Watch if you like historical fantasy and want to see the most married men in fictional Chinese history. If your dead husband is actually not dead and instead your personal advisor but you don't know that. Watch if you want to see regal men cry over missing their dead(?) friend beloved. Depending on your preferences this whole thing can also be a polycule in which one person is not aware that they are currently part of a ploycule. (Also just for clarity's sake, this is not a bl show or based on a danmei book. But honestly if it would have been it wouldn't have surprised me one bit.)

The Next Prince (1/14) - we all know about this show as a thing of the far future, but now it finally started! And it is absolutely living up to the hype! NuNew especially stands out brilliantly in the first episode, and I freaking love Khanin being a competitive asshole (affectionate) and done with everything (very relatable). And man, everything about it is pretty. I am absolutely hyped for episode 2! Watch if - well actually if you have any affinity for BL whatsoever. This show might be an instant classic. Otherwise - watch if you want amazing chemistry, royal au aesthetics, horses (presumably) and court intrigue the cutesy edition (honestly, I have included NiF in this very same post, I must make that distinction).

Perfect 10 Liners (15/24) - disclaimer in advance: I am a terrible little uwma hater. But. With P10L I feel like I have finally found my own appreciation for New Siwaj. It has a lot of elements found in other of his shows, but it does them so so so well. The funny thing is - hardly any of the tropes that P10L has are things that appeal particularily to me. I don't care about uni BLs, I don't care for slice of life and I actively dislike coming of age (which is sorta part of it but really only on the fringes). It comes to noone's surprise that my absolute favorites are Klao and Warich, but - to the show's credit - I actually do like all the couples so far and their stories as well. Watch if - listen I am not the best person to recommend this show, as I like it less for what it is but more in spite of it? I suppose watch if you generally like New Siwaj's shows and want to watch his (in my opinion) best work to this date.

Sweet Tooth, Good Dentist (4/12) - definitely need to catch up on this one. It's sweet, and I enjoy Mark and Ohm together. I have heard a lot of complaining about the show, especially the episodes that I haven't watched yet. I intend to keep watching though. I like the cast and it's a comfortable little show so far. It's exactly what I need for watching when I have a meal. It's cute. Yeah, the premise could have been better but the actors do a good job and I love the colors of this show. It's so colorful ❤ Watch if you need some light entertainment and love snacks. Also definitely if you like the cast.

Boys in Love (1/12) - Am I watching this show 100% for PoddPapang? Yes. Absolutely yes. I actively despise high school settings, so I need a good fucking reason to watch a show set there. So, first impression of Boys in Love? Actually, surprisingly good? The high schoolers are for once actually very close to high school age and not grown adults, and the one episode I have seen so far is very sweet and colorful and avoids things I especially do not like about hs stories. So, I am enjoying myself. Even if i am mostly there for the PP crumbs, I do not mind at all to watch the rest of it, and might catch up with the show this evening. Watch if you really badly wanna see some (also quite adorable) PoddPapang and if you like sweet, innocent highschool sweethearts.

[mariacallous]

In the first season of the Tudor-era drama “Wolf Hall,” Anne Boleyn’s brief queendom was undone by rumors. Just three years after she became the second of Henry VIII’s six wives, in 1533, Anne (played by Claire Foy) landed in the Tower of London following accusations of adulterous dalliances, including with her own brother. Her beheading was a ghastly sight, shocking even to the man who had done much to bring it about—the King’s adviser Thomas Cromwell (Mark Rylance), who used threats of ruin and torture to drum up witnesses against Anne. Now, in the show’s second season, Cromwell becomes the subject of outlandish gossip himself. There’s practically nothing that his Catholic foes, still smarting at the Church of England’s rejection of papal authority, won’t believe about the man who helped engineer the schism so that Henry (Damian Lewis) could divorce his first wife as part of his ongoing quest to beget a male heir. Some say Cromwell has ensorcelled the sovereign. Maybe the King is dead, and has been for some time: one commoner claims that the adviser has secretly taken the throne and intends to “melt all the crucifixes for cannons to fire on the poor folk.” In the North, where a rebel army prepares to march on London, the statesman has become a monster with which to scare children. Mind yourself, the little ones learn, or “he’ll jump down your throat and bite your liver.”

Season 1 ended with Anne’s decapitation; Season 2, which débuted on March 23rd, ends with Cromwell’s. The six hours of television between those two deaths are riveting—partly because the more fearsome Cromwell’s reputation becomes, the more assiduously he strives in private for moral redemption. Immediately after Anne’s execution, Henry had warmly embraced Cromwell; while the monarch beamed, thinking perhaps of his impending nuptials to Jane Seymour (Kate Phillips), the adviser could barely conceal his dismay at what they’d accomplished. Early in the première of the new season, the series’ director, Peter Kosminsky, deploys one of his most effective flourishes, cutting between Anne’s final moments and Henry’s wedding to Jane. As the newly emboldened King tests the limits of his power, Cromwell struggles to remain a loyal servant amid his growing unease about Henry’s ideas and tactics. He believes that the King, in his role as reformer of the Church, doesn’t go far enough, and that, as the father of an obstinately Catholic daughter—Mary (Lilit Lesser), his firstborn—the monarch is startlingly reckless.

“Wolf Hall” is a PBS/BBC adaptation of the novelist Hilary Mantel’s trilogy of the same name. The second season arrives a decade after its predecessor, but the two halves display remarkable consistency, having been not only directed entirely by Kosminsky but also written entirely by Peter Straughan, who won a screenplay Oscar earlier this month, for the film “Conclave.” The original season covered the first two novels in Mantel’s trilogy; this one dramatizes the events of the third novel, from which it takes its subtitle, “The Mirror and the Light.” Season 2 is arguably greater than its acclaimed predecessor. Cromwell’s middle-aged regrets build poignantly, while brisker pacing and some levity—Cromwell is widowed, and various courtiers take it upon themselves to play matchmaker—lend the proceedings a teeming liveliness.

In the first season, Cromwell, then in his forties, still saw himself as a vengeful son. Having escaped his humble origins through a legal education, he was ferociously loyal to the surrogate father he found in Cardinal Wolsey (Jonathan Pryce), a once beloved confidant of the King who, in the end, scarcely fared better than Henry’s discarded wives. After Anne’s death, a more paternal side of Cromwell appears—augmented, perhaps, by the loss of his own young daughters to sudden illness, a few years earlier. He pleads for mercy for those he believes to have been carried away by youthful folly, such as Mary, whom Henry “bastardized” when he annulled his marriage to his first wife. Demoted from princess to plain Lady Mary, she flirts with fatal defiance when she refuses to publicly recognize her father’s negation of his twenty-four-year union with her mother. In so doing, she becomes a dangerously attractive marriage prospect for Vatican allies with eyes on the English throne.

Unlike many period dramas, “Wolf Hall” doesn’t bother to twist history to suit modern preoccupations. Straughan trusts that the machinations of this notorious royal adviser and his king’s marital fecklessness, the consequences of which are still with us five centuries later, are fascinating enough on their own. This makes for an unapologetically cerebral series, demanding close attention to keep track of its sprawling cast, not to mention a host of characters we never see. (Many of them are foreigners who regard Henry’s dominion as a pregnable backwater: “some poor little island full of heretics and sheep.”) But the focus required is amply repaid by a richly detailed snapshot of an England that is not yet a colonial superpower. While Henry worries about the risks of invasion by Spain or of a religious civil war, Cromwell, whom nobles nickname Crumb for his low birth, envisions a world that’s less beholden to ancient hierarchies. Cromwell’s sense of superiority stems from his intelligence, his cosmopolitanism (he has spent time in Europe), and the knowledge that he has made his own fortune. When an ally cautions that, by going after the “oldest, richest families in the land,” Cromwell is making too many enemies, the statesman flashes a grin—a rare break from Rylance’s bewitching understatedness—and compares their imminent destruction to “jugs in an earthquake.” But the self-made upstart underestimates the extent to which his alienation of the aristocracy leaves him perilously dependent on a fickle ruler.

When Henry isn’t admiring his own portrait, like a ginger Narcissus, he spends much of “Wolf Hall” fretting that he’ll be remembered for his inability to beget a son to succeed him. (Eventually, he gets his wish: Jane Seymour gives birth to the future Edward VI, but dies days afterward.) In fact, he is now chiefly remembered for going through queens as if they were disposable broodmares. (The pop-feminist takeaway of the Broadway musical “Six,” about Henry’s wives, is that he, and we, treated his brides interchangeably.) The series, like Mantel’s novels, humanizes the oft-villainized Cromwell, but its most refreshing creation is perhaps its version of Henry. Seldom seen in closeup, the King is framed as Cromwell regards him—a distant figure to be simultaneously feared and managed, like a captive lion. In contrast to the ever-prune-faced Cromwell, Henry undergoes significant bodily deterioration during the decade in which the two seasons take place, and Lewis delivers a magnificently physical performance of a man who feels his virility slipping away. Henry’s self-awareness—and his self-pity—allows him to recognize his emasculation; he grumbles to Cromwell that he has to “breed for the nation.” No wonder, then, that this aging jock in velvet and furs is at his giddiest when making plans to dress up as a Turk or a shepherd, resorting to boyish pranks in such garb when manhood becomes a duty.

Cromwell loses the King’s favor after his suggestion for wife No. 4 goes awry: Henry, betrothed to Anne of Cleves (Dana Herfurth) sight unseen, is crushed to discover that she doesn’t live up to her portrait and recoils at the sight of him. It’s a credit to the series that, though history determines the plot’s immovable destination, exactly where we are headed moment to moment rarely feels predictable. Not all the detours are worthwhile; there are too many flashbacks and conversations with Wolsey’s ghost, as well as an unconvincing story line in which Cromwell is tempted to withdraw from court—a tired iteration of the trope of the grizzled veteran who dies just before a long-awaited retirement. But for the most part the scripts stay commendably true to Cromwell’s grounded point of view, refusing to manufacture the kind of climactic confrontations on which TV dramas thrive. When Henry decides that Cromwell will follow Anne Boleyn to the Tower, the two men don’t face off or exchange their grievances or relive their past together. The result is all the more unsettling for it. Cromwell is instead forced to plead his case to his jumped-up, cocky juniors—the final indignity for a man who knows that he could bring forth “brave new days,” if only he had more time. 

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

“A Better Future” Part 2

Part 1

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader (Elf/Noldor |Third Person POV)

Themes: Angst. Read at your own discretion.

Warnings: Brief mentions of war and  injuries | Hair loss as a form of punishment

Wordcount : 2.8k words

Summary: Thranduil brings y/n to Greenwood the Great and Amon Lanc. His father calls for an inquiry.

A/n: I thought of adding the hair loss event written in this post.

Y/n’s plea was partly inspired by Catherine of Aragorn’s speech at the Legatine Court of Blackfriars.

Thranduil’s POV

The days had been hot, the days had been windy, and the days finally grew cold even as they traveled. One season waned while the other waxed, brilliant and glorious as ever. The leaves of Greenwood the Great were turning vivid shades of orange and gold and crimson by the time Thranduil and his retinue rode down familiar paths to Amon Lanc. The crown prince closed his eyes and took a deep breath of sweet-smelling autumn air. The delicate scents of wild geraniums and asters mingled with the duskier scents of fallen leaves and wet bark and fresh moss. The birds sang softly. An owl hooted in the distance. A gentle gust of wind tossed his hair. He sighed in contentment. It was wonderful to be home again.

That sweet feeling slowly disappeared when he looked over his shoulder and his gaze rested on y/n. She kept to herself and rode a little away from the others. Thranduil’s mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Y/n’s very presence in Amon Lanc would unleash a storm upon his head, and his lord father would be the one to do it. 

My father is a forgiving man, Thranduil thought, but I cannot see him forgiving this. 

Thranduil did not need to be told the reason. He was there during the second kinslaying. He bore arms and helped his father carve a way out for survivors. His scars lay hidden beneath his robes. The memories from that dark time still haunted his dreams.  

And he did not understand why he put himself through such trouble. Oh, the gold itself was never an issue. The final sum was but a drop in the ocean that was now the royal treasury. Thranduil did not understand why he stopped when he heard the gossip and why he rode on to the auction house. He certainly did not understand what compelled him to save her. She was one of the exiles. Her father served under Celegorm. There were dark tales surrounding his deeds, including the part he supposedly played in the seizure of Dior’s children. Thranduil shivered.  

Wolves, all of them. And now I bring one of their pups to my Lord Father’s doors.   

He looked over his shoulder at y/n again. The masters of the auction house answered his questions as best they could. Y/n had played no part in the slaughter, so they said, and had been forced to wander the land for longer than she could remember. She had no armor and wielded no arms. What little coin she had went to keeping her clothed and fed. She placed herself at the mercy of a man who turned out to be a slaver in the end. Kept perfectly still while that wretched Lady Githa grabbed her and looked her over like she was nothing more than a horse for sale. After having been given food and drink and new garments, she stood to the side, silent and meek, while Thranduil spoke with the masters of the auction house and the final flourish was given to the matter of coin. During their journey, y/n did not speak to any of them the entire time. When they set up camp, she was quiet. When they broke bread, she was quiet. When they sang and laughed and exchanged stories, she was quiet. Oh, she helped, of course, always appearing by Thranduil’s shoulder before he even realized he needed some task carried out. Y/n was quick and did her duties well, but without uttering a sound. She did not even dare look any of them in the eye. If she was grateful to them for what they did, she did not show it. 

Thranduil felt his hands turn to fists. Wretched thing, he thought bitterly. Unable to muster a single word of gratitude. 

He could not linger on such misgivings. The gates to his father’s halls soon loomed ahead of them. The first autumn rain started to fall, drenching the dark earth and feeding the rivers and streams. The air grew crisp and cool. Thranduil reveled in this as well and threw off his hood so he could feel the fat drops of water plop over his skin. He heard a familiar bellow. His lord father had ridden out to greet them. Oropher sat atop his milky white courser, clad in velvet robes of gold and silver. Thranduil sighed. His father was in a high mood this day, and he was sure to dampen it with his news. He sat up straight and girded himself before racing ahead to meet his king and sire. 

Oropher heard his son out on the ride back to his halls. And Oropher bit his tongue until he and his son were safely ensconced within the walls of his council room. And when the doors closed on them Oropher did not hold back, not by any measure. The king was exceedingly wroth, purpling and raging for hours on end. Thranduil acted without his father’s leave and freed the child of a kinslayer. He had promised gold from the royal coffers for this very purpose. Brought her with him to Greenwood, and possibly endangered them all.  

"And now we may have to feed and house the lady," Oropher declared after having taken a while to finally compose himself. Attendants walked in carrying trays filled with refreshments. The king waited until they had taken their leave before speaking again. "Since you made yourself responsible for her and she truly has nowhere else to go," he turned to face his son. "Tell me, my son. What even compelled you to save her?" 

What indeed. Throughout their journey, Thranduil had reflected on his actions and failed to devise an answer that could satisfy anyone, least of all himself. "I do not know, my lord," he confessed. "All I do know is that I could not simply ride away and abandon her to her fate. You know of Lady Githa, and what her pleasure house is like." 

"To be sure," Oropher wrinkled his face in distaste. "That woman is one of the most evil creatures to have ever been birthed by one of the Edain." 

He rejoined his son at the council table and took his customary place at the head of it. Oropher steepled his fingers beneath his chin and soon lost himself in deep thought. Thranduil did not utter a word while his father sat as if he had been hewed out of stone. Oropher was reflecting on the choices he had had to make; his son was certain of it.   

"I may consider letting her stay," Oropher finally said, "but we need to learn how much she knew of her father’s actions. Send word to my courtiers and have them all meet me in the throne room. I believe an inquiry is in order."  

An hour later, Thranduil took his place by his father’s right hand. He watched while members of the court and other elves poured into the cavernous throne room. Guards stood to attention, spears and shields in hand, and clad in gleaming armor chased in green and gold. The lamps burned as brightly as they always did. Y/n was escorted by a small complement of armed warriors. She was made to drop to her knees while the others watched. Y/n bowed her head, silent and respectful. Thranduil heard hushed, excited tones. There had never been an inquiry before. No one had done anything to even justify the need for one.

Many of the elves studied y/n with barely disguised curiosity. Save for the survivors of Doriath, very few had encountered the exiles. Now they were seeing one for the first time in the flesh. The court scribes took their appointed places, parchment and quills and new ink already placed upon their little tables. They would write down every word spoken at the inquiry and preserve the records for the use of others. Once Oropher had been satisfied with the number of witnesses, he called the inquiry to order. 

The king leaned forward and began with the usual questions: questions about y/n’s life, her home, and her family. Y/n answered as best as she could. She spoke of their home, about her father, about her mother. Oropher questioned y/n about the sons of Fëanor, and if her father or mother had ever hosted them in their home. Y/n withered under the king’s sharp gaze, but there was nothing she could do but answer.  

"Lord Celegorm would sometimes dine with father," y/n replied after a great deal of hesitancy. "Other times, Lord Curufin would join him." 

"I see." Oropher frowned. "And were you a party to these gatherings?" 

"No… your grace," y/n answered in fits and starts, as if her tongue had tied itself up in knots. "My father… he said he thought I was too young to be privy to such discussions." 

"But did you meet either of these lords?" 

"Yes. My father… he introduced me to them. And to others in their retinue." 

Oropher was curious, as was Thranduil. "Pray tell me why?" 

Y/n faltered. A guard thumped the butt of his spear into the ground, forcing her to answer. "My… my father had hopes of my marrying one of Lord Fëanor’s unwed sons… or… or the grandson." 

"Your father entertained the notion of you marrying one of them?" Oropher shot back bluntly. "And you would have agreed had any of them asked for your hand?"

Y/n swallowed, and said, "Yes, your grace. Many an… unwed maiden in our clans would have… c-considered it an honor. They were of Lord Fëanor’s b-blood after all." 

Thranduil sputtered and would have retorted had his father not given him a look of warning. He composed himself and heard the king say, "An honor? Were you ignorant of the things they did before the second kinslaying?" 

"Everyone knew… your grace," y/n replied, her eyes wide with fear. "M-mothers would tell their children tales of Alqualondë and the great crossing. They… they all believed in Lord Fëanor’s cause." 

"Do you believe in Lord Fëanor’s cause to retrieve the hallowed jewels no matter what the cost?" Oropher asked in harsh tones. "And do not lie to me. Life in Amon Lanc will go very badly for you if you do." 

Y/n did not answer, not for a long while, not until Oropher harrumphed with impatience. "I… I did… at the beginning," she confessed. "The… the silmarils were Lord Fëanor’s by right… after all."   

The uproar that followed from the survivors was deafening. Some demanded that y/n be sent away from Amon Lanc. Others demanded that she be thrown into a cell for the remainder of her days. More warriors thumped the butts of their spears against the polished stone floor to bring about some order to the proceedings. The sounds they made were drowned out by the cries of angry elves. Oropher’s face darkened even as he remained silent. Thranduil prickled with anger and decided to put an end to the clamor. 

"Enough!" he bellowed. The others turned to face him and his father, having quietened themselves little by little. The scribes all turned as one to face the prince, waiting to hear what he had to say.  

"I was right," the prince went on. There were soft scratching noises from quills scrawling over thick parchment. "Your lot is nothing but a pack of wolves, forever on the prowl for your next prey. I would even go as far to wager you may be no better than your father and the masters he served." 

Y/n flinched back as if she had been slapped. "But… but you saved me from her," she sniffed. 

"Yes," Thranduil replied, unmoved by the sorrow in her eyes. Still, he felt strange when she spoke to him directly. It was the first time she had done so since he purchased her freedom. "I confess, however, that I do not know the reason why." 

"Tis is a question for another time," Oropher interceded. "Let us carry on with the proceedings for now. Lady y/n, do you have anything to add? Anything you wish to say in your defense?" 

Y/n looked around her and shivered. "I do not know… your grace." She wrung her hands and picked at the beds of her nails before turning her gaze to the floor. "I… I only knew what my father and mother told me. As for what… my father did in Doriath… I did not know what he was going to do until after the act. Mother and I only learned of it after he was slain. I… do not ask for much… save for some compassion… for I was born somewhere other than this kingdom, and have neither coin nor friend to my name. I... all I ask is for a safe place to stay… and I will be… well pleased and content with whatever kindness that…that is given to me. But if you do not wish for me to stay here you… you need only say the word, your grace. I will depart… and manage. Somehow."  

Oropher sat there with his sharp gray eyes pining her to where she stood. He grew silent again, this time debating his verdict. Later, it was said that the silence that followed was so heavy that it weighed down on everyone present.  

"Will you swear to never take up arms against us?" The king spoke slowly.  

"Yes," she whispered.  

Oropher nodded. "And will you be content with whatever task that is given to you while you remain with us?"  

Y/n hesitated, but gave her answer to the king. "Yes. I… I will be content. And g-grateful." 

"Grateful?" Thranduil snorted bitterly. "Like the gratitude you showed us after we saved you from that vile place?"  

Y/n was startled. She opened her mouth to form a reply, and struggled to find the right words. Thranduil glanced at his father. The king had grown weary. It showed in the shadows beneath his eyes. Oropher sighed softly and signaled for the guards to help her to her feet.  

"I have come to a decision, but it is not a decision I make lightly," the king began. "Y/n, you may stay here with us, and you will make yourself useful in the kitchens and serve us." 

The relief on her face was palpable.  

"But," Oropher raised a hand and continued, clearly not finished with his verdict. "I need to make an example of you, should other followers of the sons of Fëanor turn up at our door. They need to see that our mercy does not come freely. Therefore, I have decided your hair must be shorn. Just above the neck should do." 

Y/n lowered her head and trembled. "I accept." 

It did not take long to find two ellith willing to carry out the king’s verdict. All those who had gathered in the throne room looked in silence while they came forth, each holding a golden pair of scissors in their hands. One stood by y/n’s right, and the other stood to her left. They turned to face the king. When Oropher gestured, they went straight to work.  

Pins were removed. Braids slowly loosened. All anyone heard after that was the crisp, snip snip snip of two pairs of scissors clicking. The elves watched, utterly enthralled by the scene unfolding before their eyes. Lustrous long hair was seen as the ideal when it came to elven beauty, and to have even a little cut as a form of punishment was both debasing and humiliating. And elven hair took so long to grow out. Y/n’s hair would take years to grow back to its former glory, and if it saddened her, she did not show it, not at that moment. Y/n simply stood like a stone statue while thick locks of her hair slowly drifted to the floor and gathered in small clumps. 

Snip snip snip. More hair had to be cut. The ellith worked effortlessly until y/n’s hair was just beneath her chin and a small pile had formed around her feet. Y/n did not speak, and she did not raise her voice to curse them. She simply bowed her head and endured the entire time. When they were finally finished, when they put away their scissors and stepped away, she lifted her head. Her lips had been quivering, and her eyes had been filled with unshed tears. Thranduil shifted uncomfortably in his seat after having experienced a sudden pang of conscience. He had called her a wolf, but was she truly one? Or was she simply guilty of being born into the wrong family? 

"Find yourself a room in the servants’ quarters," Oropher ordered. "Appropriate clothing will be provided to you, as well as food. You will start your duties on the morrow." 

The guards took her to hand and escorted her through the crowd and down a narrow passageway leading to the kitchens and the servants’ rooms. A maid rushed into the hall and swept away the shorn locks of hair. The throne room was beginning to empty. The elves talked about the inquiry and what transpired before they departed for their dwellings. The scribes sanded their parchment before rolling each and every one of them carefully. Once the great hall had been cleared of all the other elves, Oropher leaned over to whisper in his son’s ear.  

"Keep a close eye on her," he commanded. "We cannot take any chances." 

Thranduil nodded in agreement.

If you enjoyed this, please consider commenting/reblogging it!

tags: @deadlymistletoe​ @lemonivall​ @coopsgirl​ @tigereyesf​ @thranduilseyebrows​ @cupids-got-me​ @jane0error​ @asianbutnotjapanese

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

this week the headline is that i was: Sick. i actually got off to a very solid start to the week on monday, doing all my little habits, finishing my workout program, getting some work done, & going to a friend’s birthday; then tuesday i woke up with what by midday i could no longer reasonably hope was just some morning dryness in my throat and the past six days have been spent resting it off. my symptoms peaked at moderate, and i always feel like there should be a stronger relation between the severity of symptoms and the duration of a cold than there is, but alas. also, last spring i got my hopes up about being “i mean, like, basically almost all better” and my cold that was almost gone returned and then became an absolutelt heinous sinus infection so i am being careful with myself thus time out. tomorrow i will resume normal human activity but i will probably give returning to working out another few days and then, sigh, probably do a couple “build-up” days over a week or two to see if i can mitigate the soreness i always get after a break or at least keep it from interrupting my schedule once i pick up a new 10-week program.

i do feel very lucky that the symptoms waited until tuesday to start because that did mean that after starting working out with this fitfluencer in january 2023, i was finally, finally able to actually complete a program in the time it was written for. i think this little victory is owed to a few things: first, constant little trial and error to figure out the shape of a routine that works for me in many areas of my life so that i didn’t have any weeks i was just too busy and frazzled to get five workouts in; second, probably, to some extent my body just finally adjusting to the demand; third, probably, being still imperfect but more consistent about foam rolling & stretching; and fourth, this sounds weird but i actually believe it, picking up a cottage cheese before bed habit. i did this because when i started this program (for the second time) i noticed that i was going to bed having eaten overall enough (including Getting My Protein In) but still waking up hungry enough that i could tell it had disrupted my sleep (sometimes because i was waking up ravenous at like 3 in the morning) and i remembered a reddit tip i’d once read that came up in a post about sleep on a calorie deficit but which i thought might also apply to a person not trying to cut calories but doing exercise in a way that is intended to cause physical changes in the sense of adding muscle slowly over time… something about the combo of casein, a slow digesting protein, & fat is supposed to keep you full longer. how scientific is any of this? who fucking knows. but my inability to stay asleep went away when i started doing this.

i am also lucky that my symptoms for the most part were not so bad that i couldn’t read. i mean i still spent a lot of time dicking around on the internet because that’s what being sick is for. but i did get to finish some books :)

one reading related quandary i am currently facing is there are so many books i want to read for the first time now that i am reading books again but also i started reading house of mirth as a bedtime read and then was like… actually i’m too interested in rereading this to read it 3 pages at a time while falling asleep. i really do want to hit 50 books and have them be 50 new books but there are a couple things i’ve been interested in rereading for ages… partly because part of what i’m trying to learn to do this year is to more actively read as a writer and think more seriously about what it is i do and do not like in fiction writing as i slowly and nervously and mostly mentally futz around with the concept of learning to write it myself. and it does strike me that in addition to new books (which may or may not be good) it would probably be fruitful to read the books that have lingered positively in my memory which i read as a young and unserious reader, such as the house of mirth. (i can’t really make this argument for tender is the night, because i’ve read it like three times including in adulthood, and part of its hold on me is i find it just about impossible to see the seams, so to speak… but i do in fact want to reread that one too, lol.) perhaps i will allow myself one reread a month assuming that i am otherwise progressing on schedule. this also means i have not been good about bedtime book and i confess i am not sure where to turn on that front… perhaps this is where i try to make peace with poetry?

this week i have some fun stuff planned & am also going to try to work more because i am feeling anxious about (1) money and (2) prep work i’ll have to do in the future, and putting in more hours than i strictly need to will allay at least one of those concerns somewhat. upcoming books are angela carter’s the bloody chamber (stories), toni morrison’s playing in the dark (nonfiction), & sally rooney’s conversations with friends (novel), and as much as i loved love & theft and have already begun to uncover more than i anticipated left in me from the turn of the screw i confess my brain is a little relieved to take a break from marxist cultural criticism & the sentences of henry james. i kinda wanna aim to actually finish this one (1) yellowjackets fic and to do it by season’s end because my interest in the show is already close to extinguished but i like this little story, but we’ll see. next weekend we shall lose some sleep but in return daylight will have been saved!

[coolcattime]

🥥 😶‍🌫️ 🗿 ⛰️

🥥 Who is your favourite oc? What makes them so special?

So my favourite OC fluctuates and changes a lot based on what I've been working on but right now: Medli Mistwalker Ba'lor

Medli is, well she's special to me partly because I played a three year d&d campaign as her but she's also just a character I really like. She's just like really trying to be positive and see the best in situations despite how she had a really shit childhood.

Like she has found family stuff going on and her main relationship that gets explored being her platonic one with Idric which is really fun to explore when a lot of the time I'm doing more romantic stuff.

And it's also fun to have a character whose first instinct in a situation is often to lie like I personally find it a very fun character trait.

Basically Medli is just very much a character I like writing and exploring and deserves very much the best. (And she's the protag of the YTTD au so I've been thinking about her a lot lately).

😶‍🌫️ What is a trope or archetype you can’t stand?

I really don't like the skeptical partner in horror.

It took me way too long to figure out a name for this beyond "shitty horror boyfriends" but like I just really hate in horror when there is the character being like "you're being hysterical, nothing is going on". Because even if nothing is going on, you should be nice to your partner rather than being a dick. It is an absolutely turn off to me when a character is just such a dickhead in a situation where stuff is already bad. Cause like genuinely even if you don't believe them, what is the benefit to acting like that?

Its just kind of an annoying stupid character trait to me.

🗿 What’s a piece of writing you’re particularly proud of?

So many:

I do particularly love An Outro to Mistwalker College. It's a piece of Medli's story that had always been a bit of her backstory that I had always wanted to write and actually writing it was so special to me!!

Then also Home and Free because gods I have I actually written 95,000 words like seriously what the hell!

I really genuinely enjoy Third Time's the Charm, which I'm hoping to keep the vibes going in my head with the third and final part ^-^

And honestly I know it's just because I finished it yesterday, I am so vibing with And Note That There is Only One Key cause OCs! YTTD! Vibes!!!!

⛰️ What’s the most interesting fact you’ve discovered while researching?

So very unfortunately facts don't stay in my head very well, so there is probably so many interesting things that have just left my head. But while I don't necessarily know if it's interesting, but it is at least useful: I looked up the breathing techniques for leaving panic attacks and found 4 seconds of breathing in, hold for 2, then breath for 6 seconds.

[wuxiaphoenix]

On Writing: Finding the End

I’ll start this with a caveat: different writing advice works for different people. Most people know about the plotter vs. pantser split, but another useful division is methodological (you have a plan!) vs. intuitive (Plan? What plan?)

(My roommate and I have annoyed each other for years trying to trade writing advice. Turns out she’s an intuitive plotter while I’m a methodological pantser. Our ways of getting Story out of Brain and down into Words are completely different. Now we just toss “this is interesting reference material” at each other.)

If you saw methodological and thought neat and organized... hahaha no. For me a book in progress is an explosion in a reference library; accumulated books, papers, internet snippets, scribbled notes and of course the draft-in-progress. Some bits of which I’m usually loosely editing even as I’m writing other bits.

Instead, methodological means I have a more-or-less set strategy for how to write, what tools I need to keep the plotbunnies from whining (Bic Crystal pens fit my grip best), and specifically, what parts of the story I have to have figured out before I start writing the story, or the whole thing’s going to spin out dramatically and leave me in a fiery, bruised pile of a writer with Unfinished Fic.

...Yeah, that hurts.

So. What I need is first, a good idea of the setting. Second, a good grasp on the characters, both heroes and villains. Third, a beginning scene of Shiny. How do I kick this adventure off? Last, and critically important, I need an End Scene. Heroes vs. Bad Guys. What does the final clash look like?

This end scene doesn’t have to be exact. I even came up with a final scene for Colors and wrote most of it before realizing said End Scene actually belonged in a much later story; while a fight scene before it was the real Final Battle of the book.

(Also note that these are not foolproof. I have end scenes for Track of the Apocalypse and scene ideas for a follow-up, but writing ran headlong into traumatic RL events and it jammed. I want to finish it, but my brain just won’t until I get some more stability into my life. Bleeping inflation....)

Right now, as I hack my way through filling in holes in Colors, I’m trying to figure out what would be the best end scene for Druid vs. Zombies. I’ve got a dungeon maze, a demonic sword (I think), an angry necromancer, a lot of zombies, and a rag-tag party including the Druid who mostly aren’t really fighters.

They’re just the only ones the quarrytown has who can try.

I think part of what I’m stuck on is the tone of the story. The original inspiration was partly Scooby-Doo (“and I would have gotten away with it, too - if it weren’t for you peasants and that druid!”)

But, zombies; and not as friendly as those on Zombie Island. Plus Resident Evil 2 vibes; characters in sudden zpoc trying to survive. So fighting the necromancer has to be more serious.

The classic would be going down into the maze to face off with the necromancer before he can grab the Evil Artifact. But our heroes know they’re outmatched. Go into a dungeon maze filled with traps, monsters, and now necromancer-led zombies? That has bad idea written all over it.

So... I need to know if they think the necromancer has to come out the way he came in, or if they have reason to believe he can just teleport out when he grabs what he wants. Hmm...

[dear-wormwoods]

hello!! i’ve been reading your works for the character analysis and i wanted to say that i love what you write about eddie kaspbrak! especially, getting at all the details from the book. but i wanted to ask you.

which eddie kaspbrak is better portrayed? the 1990’s version or the 2017 and 2019? personally i love the 1990’s more. :)

Thank you so much! Eddie is one of my favorite characters to write meta about, he's just got so much going on that's worth reading into.

As far as which portrayal is my favorite, I'd probably rank it like this:

Dennis Christopher is my #1, but it's a close race. He really captures Eddie's youthfulness and nervousness without making him lacking in bravery. But really, it's the behind the scenes stuff that makes this version of Eddie so great. Dennis Christopher really put a LOT of thought into how he was going to play Eddie and even though the writers didn't explicitly say he was gay, that's how Dennis played him. He also chose the iconic Running Up That Hill as Eddie's song, and made sure his hair was perfectly flouncy for the role.

Jack Dylan Grazer comes next by a hair because he struck a perfect balance between Eddie's soft side and his fiery side. His Eddie is argumentative and neurotic while still being compassionate and truly adorable. He's also very brave! Jack really made sure there was a clear difference between Eddie as he is around his mother and Eddie as he is around his friends. And Jack clearly really loved this role and put thought into it - he kept adding songs to his Wheezie's playlist ages after the movie premiered. That being said - Jack in Ch.2 flashbacks was NOT the same... it really felt like he was just playing himself in those.

Adam Faraizl comes in at a low third because he's pretty much just cute in a grumpy sort of way. His version of Eddie captures how serious he tends to be as a kid but there's not a whole lot more to his portrayal. He doesn't open up as much as Eddie does throughout the summer of '58 in the novel. There's a lot less nuance to him, but I think if you combined his portrayal with Jack's, you'd end up with a close (but not exact) interpretation of kid Eddie as he is in the novel.

And finally... James Ransone. Honestly when this casting was first announced I was really excited about it because I really liked him in Sinister and a few other roles. He looked the part, too. I went into Ch.2 with very high expectations for his version of Eddie, and was very let down. It's partly due to the script being poorly written, because they really did a disservice to Eddie's character making him mean and cowardly for most of the film and then giving him a lame death scene. But a lot of the fault falls on James Ransone REALLY phoning it in and being lazy about the role. He basically just copied Jack's mannerisms without any of the heart and soul Jack put into the role in 2017. It was just bland and very unlike 'true' Eddie, who has SO much depth and SO much nuance and really isn't aggressive at all. I blame James Ransone for doing irreparable damage to the way Eddie was portrayed in fanworks after Ch.2 premiered, and that's unforgivable to me.

That all being said... nothing can ever compare to book Eddie. He's the best of all time.

[chacusha]

The Once and Future King (1958) by T. H. White

Okay at last -- after maybe 4 or 5 years of reading this, I finally finished?! I suppose it's not that odd that this book took me so long to read given that it's kind of 4 novels in one, and this book was my bathroom reading book (meaning it had to be read in little pieces at a time). Only through dedication and perseverence did I manage to get through this one. And then I took like two months writing up this summary/review... /o\

The Once and Future King is a retelling of Arthurian legend. Somehow this book ended up in my possession (my guess is that it was bought at a book/garage sale or given to my family by someone or something like that, and then I've just been carrying it with me from house to house ever since). I think my interest in this book was probably sparked by a combination of watching Disney's The Sword in the Stone, which was based on the first book of Once and Future King with the same name, and also generally hearing people reference Merlin's whole "experiencing time backwards" mechanic (probably this book contains the most prominent instance of that mechanic in fiction, and some while back, I encountered some characters in fiction who experience time differently, who were probably inspired by this Merlin), and then also I had seen either all or part of the musical Camelot, which is also apparently partly based on this book, so all of those things made me think I should probably read this book...

Also, my background for Arthurian legends is very weak. While I've osmosed some very basic things about it from general culture, I've barely read anything considered semi-canonical and don't really know any of the major stories.

The first book is apparently the most famous one, "The Sword in the Stone," which features a young Arthur ("Wart") being tutored by Merlin who turns him into various animals, and ends with Arthur pulling the sword out of the stone and being declared king of Britain. The second and third books were apparently written while T. H. White was living in Ireland as a conscientious objector for World War II, something that is kind of relevant to maybe both the general ethos of The Once and Future King and maybe also relevant to the subject matter of the second book, "The Queen of Air and Darkness," which takes place in the remote Orkney isles of Scotland and has various Celtic culture things going on. The third book, "The Ill-made Knight" focuses on Lancelot and is kind of a character study of him, although features various quests, stories, duels, etc. including the quest for the Holy Grail. Finally, the last book is "The Candle in the Wind" and covers Mordred and the fall of Arthur's Camelot.

It was funny reading "The Sword in the Stone" and just kind of seeing why it appealed to Disney's animators. There's a whole episode in "The Sword in the Stone" that isn't in the movie at all, but it features these two middle-aged knights, Sir Grummore and King Pellinore, having the most slapstick/physical comedy fight imaginable. Even though this scene (in fact, neither of these characters) appears in the movie, you can absolutely imagine this fight playing out with characters probably similar in look and personality to King Stefan and King Hubert from Sleeping Beauty, or the king and grand duke from Cinderella. I'm so surprised it wasn't included.

By contrast, the squirrel episode was an invention of the movie, but there is an episode in the book somewhat similar in vibe, where Arthur is turned into a migrating goose and goes on a dreamlike very long migration with a flock, which includes a young female goose who is obviously kind of interested in him, in a way that goes over his head.

Despite being medieval, a lot of the episodes in "The Sword in the Stone" seem to reference some contemporary or near-contemporary British archetypes. For examples, the falcons and other birds of prey that Wart hangs out with one night I think are meant to represent the British military officer class, and they have a distinctive way of speaking. The omniscient narrator also puts in a lot of anachronistic commentary, such as saying "Several hundred years later, this place would like X, but in this time, it still looked like Y."

There's an episode where Wart gets turned into an ant and basically it's T. H. White's cynical criticism of pre-war and wartime propaganda (in this case, by the British government based on the language/tone used, but probably applies to all countries) and how certain governments and a constant background drone (ant signals standing in here for radio) preclude the capacity for free thought or disobedience. In particular, there's this bit about a lecture that gets broadcast to all ants:

A. We are more numerous than they are, therefore we have a right to their mash. B. They are more numerous than we are, therefore they are wickedly trying to steal our mash. C. We are a mighty race and have the natural right to subjugate their puny one. D. They are a mighty race and are unnaturally trying to subjugate our inoffensive one. E. We must attack them in self-defense. F. They are attacking us by defending themselves. G. If we do not attack them today, they will attack us tomorrow. H. In any case we are not attacking them at all. We are offering them incalculable benefits (p. 129).

Reading this, I immediately got a mental image of that "Our blessed homeland / Their barbarous wastes" meme:

Anyway, being a pacifist in the UK during WWII was probably not the right choice, but as someone who has lived through multiple bullshit imperialist wars that were justified just like this, with propagandistic journalists painting anyone who didn't full-tilt support said wars as being unpatriotic and motivated by hatred of the U.S., and whose arguments featured this level of hypocrisy... I feel for T. H. White. IDK, being a pacifist in any time is hard.

"The Sword in the Stone" also features an episode where Wart and Kay adventure with Robin Hood and his merry men, who in this book are depicted as remnants of an older Saxon regime rebelling against Norman invaders. In addition to knowing almost zero about Arthurian legend, I also know almost zero about Robin Hood mythos and British history, so I have no idea how normal or just a niche theory this depiction of Robin Hood is, or how normal it is to mix Robin Hood and Arthurian legends.

The second book, "The Queen of Air and Darkness," is the shortest and also the weakest, probably. It introduces some characters who eventually become key players, but here they are bored children, and is kind of a study of Morgause as a witch and terrible mom, with some further Pellinore-related slapstick. Not a particularly interesting book.

The third book focuses on Lancelot and his characterization here is interesting. It may sound odd, but Lancelot's characterization reminded me quite a bit of my partner: perfectionistic, depressed in a "convinced I am ugly, horrible, deeply flawed, etc." sort of way, and deeply religious in a vague way while also somewhat lapsed/detached from religion. I was a bit surprised at how Lancelot as a boy is very much depicted as having a strong crush on an older Arthur here (not explicitly so, but the feelings are depicted as very intense), even though Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot is a very classic OT3 so that's not exactly surprising. In general, I quite liked the way the relationship between Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot was portrayed, especially the way all three characters age and grey over time, and their relationship kind of matures with them. The book never quite goes full OT3 with the three, though, because Arthur and Guinevere, while they love each other, seem to largely lack the passion aspect of love in their relationship.

Between the second book with Arthur and this third book featuring Lancelot, this book contains a lot of knights being tricked or spelled into sleeping with a woman out of wedlock and there being a child born out of that union who is Important later on. I checked and all of these stories of female-on-male rape are pre-existing stories, so it's not a T. H. White invention but just there in the lore. I find it a bit weird how recurring an element it is. I wonder if it's because people wanted to insert into these myths an original child character who is special -- therefore has to be related to one of the major knights -- but they have to preserve the knight's own chastity/moral purity, so the only way to insert a child is to have the knight be faultless this way.

Quite a bit of Once and Future King reminded me of the writing in A Song of Ice and Fire; I'm guessing this book was a major source of inspiration for GRRM. First, there's the book's tendency to go into Random Very Detailed Digression About an Aspect of Medieval Living. The random digressions are more varied in O&FK (featuring topics like very specific lessons on hawking, armor, battlements, and so on), but the digressions on the heraldry spotted at a particular tournament or all the dishes served at this particular holiday feast will feel very familiar... Second, this book features several "trials by combat" -- I don't think they're called that exactly in this book but they have the same form which is that if someone makes an accusation against someone else where evidence is unable to decide the issue, each party can choose a champion, and the verity of the accusation is determined by the outcome of the battle. This is a very bizarre legal practice, but it's featured in both O&FK and ASOIAF.

Another part of the Random Very Detailed Digressions of O&FK is that there are a LOT of types of birds mentioned at various points in this book, especially marine birds. Sometimes I felt like I was just always looking up unfamiliar bird names and being kind of surprised that the English language has this many bird types named in it. It was to the point that I wondered if the author was a birdwatcher (especially a marine-bird-watcher) as a hobby.

Thieves -- it is true -- could be hanged for stealing goods to the value of one shilling -- for the codification of Justice was still weak and muddled -- but that was not so bad as it sounds, when you remember that for a shilling you could buy two geese, or four gallons of wine, or forty-eight loaves of bread -- a troublesome load for a thief in any case (p. 510).

This is from another long digression in the book talking about how Arthur's regime dramatically changed the ability of people to safely travel. But reading this, I immediately got a strong "Lex Luthor stole forty cakes" mental image. XD

Reading this book was quite difficult because almost every page, I needed to look up some word or term or translate some text. There's a lot of archaic words used, Latin or French terminology, medieval concepts, medieval texts, Biblical stories, etc. that I needed to look up in order to understand what was going on. I only really noticed how densely these unknown words were encountered when I started reading my next bathroom book and got like 30 or 40 pages without needing to look up anything and was just like "???" after the experience of reading O&FK. 8|

The depiction of Mordred here is a particular resentful, hot-headed youth who attaches themself to any populist or nationalist movement that provides some kind of voice for unhappiness, whether egalitarian (or at least using that language of elite/non-elite, haves/have nots, etc.) or right-wing ethnonationalist. He is in other words a proto-fascist. He is also depicted as representing a certain kind of modernity, where his group of friends at court are all about wearing ridiculous fashion but with a tinge of irony to them. This notion of fascists who always distance themselves from their words and actions with a layer of sardonic irony was apparently as familiar to T. H. White as it is to me (see: 4chan and alt-right outlets/provocateurs).

The last book features Arthur wondering at length where does war come from, which reads like maybe T. H. White's own musings and attempts to puzzle that out. Arthur/White wonders first whether it's warmongering leaders who manipulate their populations into war, or warmongering populations who propel warmongering leaders to power; nationalist ideologies as a somewhat self-propelling mechanism (a complicated "impulse") that seems to be driving war; histories/past wrongs that rationalize vengeance and an inability to forgive and forget leading to neverending cycles of retributive wars, each last one becoming the justification for the next; whether private property/possession/wealth or social disparity lead to coveting what other people have and people who use that class resentment as an opportunity to power grab or make money and improve their standing; whether war is born out of fear of the inability to control other people from harming you. Again, all thoughts that are unfortunately way too real right now and evergreen, speaking as a citizen of the world's preeminent empire, waging war on a dozen fronts or more, and given current events...

It's hard to summarize this book. It's Arthurian legend, but only focusing I think on certain characters and certain parts of the story (maybe; I don't know). It's a historical book, containing a lot of general information about what life and the culture of the late middle ages were. It's a political book featuring T. H. White writing about his feelings on legal systems and war. Each of the four books here has a very different vibe with some focusing on adventures, comedy/slapstick, complicated/doomed love relationships, family or character studies, villains, politics and legal systems, or what it means to be a good person and a virtuous Christian. Overall, the book was quite difficult and slow-going reading for me, but I enjoyed it and I'm glad to have read it.

[nova-ayashi]

So, I decided I wanted to write about albums I buy on Bandcamp, partly because when I was still being extremely, over-the-top prolific about making music back on Twitter (before the twitter-synthwave community effectively excommunicated me due to a large portion of them being extremely bigoted), some didn’t think I was buying any music. They thought I was simply releasing music and ignoring everything else.

Well, this is on-going and continuing proof that I do buy, and also listen to music. Especially nowadays, as my album creation process is much, much slower than it used to be.

Up first! We have …

Whitewoods, Spaceship Earth. I grabbed this album, because it sounded like a mixture of new wave pop-punk and synth-y vaporwave, which, I think, is exactly what it is.

Next up is, t e l e p a t h テレパシー能力者 and 猫シ Corp., テ​レ​パ​シ​ー​の. Which is, for all intents and purposes, a much more traditional type of vaporwave. You’ve gotta have the traditional type, along with its variations. At least, once, in your Bandcamp shopping sprees.

I support vaporwave a lot more nowadays, because it sounds exactly like something you might hear while you’re lost in the Complex / Backrooms.

Third in today’s purchases, is LAST CEREMONY, DIAL-UP-DAYDREAMS. This is some more mega-vapor tunes, with a call-back to nineties internet surfing. Basically, all you need to do in order to get me to buy your album, is to theme it around 90s internet. That’s it!

Fourth, is glaciære, with pool water blue. A very dreamy, vaporwave, kind of liminal space sounding album, with definite eighties synthwave influences mixed within. Listening to this, only a few tracks in, it’s a must buy.

I don’t really buy anything that’s purely “eighties synthwave” much anymore, mostly due-in-part to the way a lot of the people in that music community treated me. But, I do still listen to and enjoy its influences.

And, finally, what would a Bandcamp shopping spree be if I didn’t buy, Mabisyo, with Sun Colored Eyes. This is the second Mabisyo album I’ve grabbed, and, just like the first time, this is professional grade dreamy vapor-synth. And, while a lot of these albums have obvious influences from Japan, and its music (think lo-fi j-pop), this is definitely one of the most notable.

That’s it for now! I could probably go on an infinite shopping spree and just grab every single thing that catches my eye, but my bank account wouldn’t like that much. So, we’ll save the next 5 albums I buy for either my next payday, or next month. Or, maybe May’s Bandcamp Friday? We’ll see!

Source: Original Post

Posted via Python, written by @daemon_nova

[monkeyfish2021]

Fun to join, so why not! Wall of text incoming and links on the bottom! 🤩

1. I made a decision to try killing a popular character in a story, even though many readers might be put off by it and not want to continue reading. It made it interesting to see how the other characters were affected by it, and continue their own growth or deterioration because of it. Would I do it again? Yes. Yes I would.

2. I’ve been working on 8 different stories this year; multi chapters, stand-alones, and WIPs that have yet to see the light of day.

3. I’ve learned that I develop ideas much better when brainstorming them with a friend! 🥰

4. Since all I’ve written is Final Fantasy 7 fics, I’d have to say that FF7 Remake is the media that has inspired me the most.

5. I wrote exclusively for Final Fantasy 7 😂

6. Tifa/Reno is the ship nearest and dearest to my heart now and for always ❤️ However, during Whumptober I tried to include other rarepairs that I love, including Tifa/Leslie, Tifa/Zack and Tifa/Sonon!

7. Reno is a constant source of fascination and a muse for exploring different states of anguish, angst and hurt 😂 He therefore also needs some love sometimes.

8. I did not write for a new fandom this year, nor did I visit ships I haven’t previously written for.

9. I think that completing Momentary Bliss this year is what meant the most to me. It’s been three years in the making, and it was such bittersweet relief posting the epilogue 🥰

10. The fic it made me the happiest to work on must have been, ironically, the Whumptober prompts! Giving myself a challenge with a restricted word count per chapter of 100 words was so much fun, and it made me able to finish all 31 prompts, both due to my enthusiasm and each chapter not taking too long to complete!

11. Most satisfying to complete is again Momentary Bliss. Just in terms of completing something I worked on for so long, it was very rewarding!

12. I had a really hard time focusing around the time of Zifafest, so I was only able to finish one of the three prompts I wanted to, and I realize I find it really difficult to write Zack. Maybe that will change once Rebirth comes out 😅

13. Whumptober was the easiest to write 😂 I guess I could also say that parts of a series I’m working on that is not yet published can also classify as partly easy, due to it just being FUN!

14. Shortest: The epitome of a perfect package (2,448 words), and longest, at completion this year: Momentary Bliss (114,594 words) 😱

15. I guess my Fic Rec of mine from this year would have to be either Momentary Bliss or Whumptober, with my new longfic Safehouse a close second (third?😂).

16. Sad to say I don’t have a particular song or playlist to listen to while I write, although I listen to a lot of soundtrack music generally in the background. Hans Zimmer is a regular go-to.

17. Go-to writing snacks: A cup of Earl Grey tea, and something I can keep picking at, like Cheez Doodles or M&Ms. Maybe a couple of biscuits.

18. ALL OF THEM ARE HARD TO TITLE! Titles are the freakin bane of my existence. But if I have to choose one? The epitome of a perfect package.

19. Literally can’t choose, I’m not very good with great opening lines. Feels like I need a paragraph to set the scene.

20. “Ignoring the guilty ache in his chest telling him they were doomed, he held her tightly.” maybe. From the Whumptober 2023 drabbles.

21. Favourite piece of dialogue might be Reno’s conversation with Aurora di Salvo in Safehouse. Not gonna copy the whole thing in here 😂

22. An excerpt from one of my favourite scenes from 2023:

As he’s squatting low and trying to catch his breath, bullets are still hitting the car, and voices of encouragement and frustration spur the shooter on to continue.

Shrieks and shouting can vaguely be heard from the end of the street, and when he peeks that way, Reno sees people running away from the alleyway. The shooter across the street jumps out of the window and aims his gun Reno’s way as soon as his feet hit the ground.

What would Rude do in this situation? Fuck, Reno wants to bounce ideas off him, that’s how they work best: A terrible idea from Reno that Rude makes less so. Rude would probably lay low in this situation, get out while they could, reassess with Tseng and potentially move in on the mob together.

But Rude… They shot him. He wouldn’t get to be the reasonable voice in Reno’s head ever again. How the fuck would he avoid making mistakes now? Trusting himself? No, fuck that.

They couldn’t get away with this. Fuck this stakeout, fuck this being surveillance only, fuck the mob, fuck them and their fucking capo; they killed Rude and they would not get away with it.

A red haze falls around him and he unclasps his electric mag-rod, extending it with an effortless flick of his wrist. The electricity crackles satisfyingly with the push of a button, and the comforting feeling of the handle serves as an anchor to his new mission.

Reno takes a deep breath and feels a rage-filled calm come over him.

For Rude.

Then he runs.

23. Final version of a sentence or paragraph I struggled with:

Fear chokes him. What will he do if he can’t keep the shadows at bay this way? He must convince her otherwise.

It was really hard for me to properly convey anxiety and fear with the limited word count I had left of my drabble for the Alleyway prompt, and I had some help from @bouncymouse to make it convey more of the feeling I was going for! ❤️

24. Something that surprised me while working on a fic… Maybe having an epiphany about a plot point later in the story that would work really well (yet to be written or published)?

25. I use Notion to write, my phone notes to write down ideas during the day, and Google Docs to format before I publish to Ao3!

26. The most satisfying writing moment for me this year might be when I really got into the groove with Safehouse, and wrote down the first draft to 4-5 chapters in a very short amount of time (for me). The energy that comes from a new idea that just needs to come alive is really exciting!

27. I did not do anything special to celebrate completing a fic…. 😅

28. Recharging between fics for me is just about taking a break to refocus my head onto the new idea, or to find a new idea if I have nothing already thought up.

29. No one mentioned, no one forgotten! But as a whole, the beautiful people in the ReTi server and Tifa’s Harem who are supportive, enthusiastic and generally amazing to be able to communicate and cooperate with! ❤️

30. In 2024, I want to continue Safehouse, and get one of the WIP series I’m already working on published! If I have time to join another event, I’d like to try to do that too! 🤩

Thanks for reading!

Here are the fics mentioned:

- Momentary Bliss

- Safehouse

- Whumptober 2023

- The epitome of a perfect package (for Zifafest)

fic writer asks

What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year? How did it turn out and would you do it again?

How many fics did you work on this year? (They don’t have to be finished or published!)

What’s something you learned about yourself as a writer?

What piece of media inspired you the most?

What fandom(s) did you write for this year?

What ship(s) captured your heart?

What character(s) captured your heart?

Did you write for a new fandom or ship this year?

What fic meant the most to you to write?

What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

What fic was the most difficult to write? Did you finish it?

What fic was the easiest to write?

What were your shortest and longest fics this year?

Rec a fic you wrote or posted in 2023

What were you go-to writing songs?

What were your go-to writing snacks?

What was the hardest fic to title?

Share your favorite opening line

Share your favorite ending line

Share your favorite piece of dialogue

Share an excerpt from your favorite scene

Share the final version of a sentence or paragraph you struggled with. What about it was challenging? Are you happy with how it turned out?

What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

What did you use to write? (e.g. writing programs, paper & pen, etc.)

If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

How did you recharge between fics?

If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

What’s something that you want to write in 2024?

[starlit-sunbeam]

Advent of Code - Days 1 and 2

December is upon us, and this year I thought I'd forgo the chocolate advent calendars in favour of Advent of Code, a coding puzzle website that's been running for a few years. Every day of advent (1st of December to 25th December) you get a coding puzzle, with personalised input data so you can't just look up on the solution online. The problems all revolve around parsing text and doing maths, so you can use whatever programming language you want. There's a global leaderboard that you can race to get on (if you feel like getting up at midnight Eastern Time), or you can just do it casually in the name of learning.

This is the third year I've participated in Advent of Code, and hopefully the first year I manage to finish it. I've decided to solve the puzzles in Rust this year, partly because it's a language I want to get better at, and partly because I really enjoy writing it, but somehow I can always find very good reasons to write the other stuff I'm working on in Python.

My code is on GitHub, and I've written programmer's commentary under the cut.

Day 1

The first day of AoC tends to be fairly straightforward, and so it is this year with a simple find-the-character problem. In each line of the input string, we find the first digit and the last digit and use them to construct a two-digit number, so for instance "se2hui89" becomes "29." We start out by loading the input data, which the Advent of Code website gives you and which I downloaded into a .txt file.

include_str!() is an invaluable macro for Advent of Code players. At compile time, it will read the text file that you specify and load its contents into your program as a string. lines() is another useful function that gives you an iterator for the lines in a string - Advent of Code generally splits up its data line by line.

Since the problem itself was straightforward, I decided to liven things up a bit by creating a multi-threaded program. One thread finds the digit at the beginning of the string, and one finds the string at the end. Luckily, Rust has a lot of tools in the standard library to make concurrency easier.

The particular technique I'm using here is called Multiple Producer Single Consumer, where multiple threads can send data into a channel, and a single thread (in my case, the main one) consumes the data that's being sent into it. I'm using it because I'm storing the numbers I find in a vector, and Rust's ownership system prevents more than one thread from having access to the vector, so instead each thread will send the numbers through a channel, to be processed and added to the vector in the main thread.

The thread itself is very simple - for each line in the text, I iterate through the characters and test whether each one is a digit. Once I find the digit, I multiply it by ten (because it's the first digit of a two-digit number) and send it down the channel. I've also sent the index to keep track of which line I've analysed, since the other thread might be working on a different line and the consumer wouldn't be able to tell the difference. The thread looking for the last digit in the string is almost exactly the same, except it reverses the chars before iterating through them and it doesn't multiply the digit it finds by 10.

Finally, all that remained was to consume the digits and add them into the vector. When you're consuming a channel, you can use a for loop to process values from the channel until the producers stop sending values. And the index variable makes a return here, which we use to keep track of which number each digit is a part of.

The addition is to combine the two digits into a single two-digit number. The vector is filled with 0s when it gets initialised, so each digit that arrives is added to 0 (if it is the first digit to arrive) or to the other digit (if it is the second digit to arrive). For instance, in the string "se29tte7", if 7 arrives first, we get 0 + 7 (7), and then when 2 arrives we add on 20 (since it has been multiplied by 10 already) to get 27, which is the correct answer.

The second task was more complicated, because now I had to be keeping track of all the non-numeric characters to see if they would eventually form the word for a number. I started by writing a function to check if a string contained a number's word.

Originally, this function returned a boolean, but I needed a way to know which number that the word in the string referred to. The easiest way was to store the possible number-words in tuples, associated with the integer version of that number, and then just return that integer if a number-word was found.

The match is also more complicated, because now any character that isn't a digit might be part of a number-word instead. So if the character is not a digit, I added it to the string of non-digit characters I'd found so far and checked if there was a number-word in that string. Once we find something, as before, we multiply it by ten and send it down the channel.

The other thread is similar, but unlike task 1 I couldn't simply reverse the characters, because although I have to search through them right-to-left, the number-words are still written left-to-right. I ended up using the format!() macro to prepend new characters onto the string so that they would be in the correct order.

Day 2

I found Day 2's task more difficult. The trick to it lies in splitting out the different units of data - each game (separated by a line break) has multiple rounds (separated by semicolons), each round has multiple blocks (separated by commas), and each block has a colour and a count, which are separated by spaces. All of this splitting required a lot of nested for loops - three, to be exact.

But I started off by stripping off the beginning of the string which tells you what game you're playing. I realised that, since the games are in order in the input text, you don't actually need to read this value; if you're iterating through the lines of the input like I was, you can just use the index to keep track of the current game. I also made a variable to keep track of whether or not a game is possible (I assume it is until the program proves that it isn't).

Mutable variables like that one make it really easy to shoot yourself in the foot. In an earlier version of the program, I changed that variable to false whenever I found an impossible block in a game. All well and good, but I forgot to prevent the variable from being changed back to true when a possible block was found in that same impossible game. As such, my code only marked games as impossible if the last round were impossible, causing it to wildly over-estimate the number of possible games.

The solution I found to that blunder involved a separate block_possible variable which I used to keep track of whether each block was possible, and then, if the block was impossible then the game would be marked as impossible. Possible blocks do nothing, because they can't account for any other blocks in that same game that might be impossible.

Quick side-note - I've used a lot of panic!() and unwrap() in this solution. Just for the beginners who might not know this: in general, using those functions like this is incredibly bad practice, because they will crash the program if there's anything unexpected in the input. This program's first bug was a crash which happened because there was a single blank line in the input file that shouldn't have been there. I'm only doing this because the program is designed to work with very specific input, so I can make assumptions about certain things when I process the text.

After that little bit of pattern matching, the only thing left is to add the game's ID to the vector which is keeping track of all the possible games. Something I learned at this point is that the index variable I've been using to keep track of the game's ID has a type of usize, which isn't interchangeable with Rust's other integer types like u32 and i32, so I had to convert it explicitly.

And that's that for task 1! It took me a lot of attempts to solve, because I probably should have had lunch first and made a lot of stupid mistakes, including:

Accidentally using count() where I should have used sum() on an iterator.

Badly indenting that if statement in the last image so that I was accidentally adding each ID to the list three or four times per line.

Forgetting to remove some debugging code that threw off the whole result.

But task 2 was comparatively much easier. The main difference was that instead of setting one variable to see if a game was possible, I set three variables to track the minimum number of bricks in each colour needed per game. It worked first try, but I'm not completely happy with it - in particular, I feel like this match statement was a little too verbose:

But all in all I think it went well and I am excited to try my hand at tomorrow's problem.

[malerfique]

serious Central Casting (giving up their image to be able to use it in any medium without permission.) star wars actors sign the same kind of contract in the 70s it took years to make money from derivatives of their images. it's called a contract is scam

here is the official Copyright to avoid any misunderstanding

Copyright Until 2012, in Canada, the Copyright Act was discriminatory against independent photographers since it did not automatically recognize their ownership of the works they created in the exercise of their profession. Thanks in particular to the pressure exerted by CAPIC and PPOC on the federal government, Bill C-11 amending the Copyright Act, passed at third reading and signed by the Governor General in June 2012, partly rectifies this injustice. . The new entered into force on November 7, 2012. As the law includes exceptions and its application remains complex, CAPIC nevertheless recommends that its members continue to use the standard contracts and other tools made available to them to protect their copyrights. Canadian copyright law, modified on November 7, 2012 In Canada, copyright is protected by the Copyright Act, c. C-42. Since November 7, 2012, Canadian law finally recognizes freelance professional photographers as owners of copyright in the works they produce as part of their work. Copyright law was amended in the spring of 2012, by Bill C-11, rectifying the injustice that had prevailed until then, when the copyright of photographs subject to order belonged by default to the customer. Canadian photographers are now the primary copyright owners of the images they produce, and by default, as are illustrators, musicians, painters, and writers, among others. This applies as much to photographs commissioned by a client and paid for by the latter as to photographs taken outside of a commercial context. Consequently, it is no longer necessary for photographers to have their commercial clients sign an agreement stipulating that the photographer is the first copyright holder of the work produced; the law now guarantees them this property by default. In addition, no use is possible without the written consent of the copyright holder. However, it is still recommended to draft a contract in which the various business clauses will be specified: use of images, licenses sold, terms of payment, etc. It will always be useful to specify in this contract, for information purposes, that the photographer is the first owner of the copyright of the images produced.

[luvistqrzzz]

THE ACCIDENTAL POLAROID- a heeseung smau

we took a polaroid

capture the look in your eyes

PAIRINGS- heeseung x f.reader (slight sunghoon x f.reader)

SUMMARY- Lee Heeseung doesn't believe in love at first sight but what happens when he accidentally clicks a polaroid of a girl at the local diner? A girl he can't seem to get out of his mind.

Will he be able to return you the polaroid or will love follow him along the way?

GENRE- smau with written parts, college!au, strangers to lovers, fluff, crack, angst (veryyy slight), slight love triangle

FEATURING- 02z + sunoo from enhypen, yunjin and chaewon from le sserafim, beomgyu and hueningkai from txt and yujin from ive

WARNINGS- profanity, more tba in the respective chapters

TAGLIST- closed - @yenqa @xuimhao @ddazed-lhs @astrae4 @ghostiiess @seungminstaehyun @haechansbbg @chaechae-23 @ak-aaa-li @whippedforbeomgyu @ahnneyong @ineedaherosavemeenow @jhopesucker @j-wyoung @tnyhees @liliansun @rikizm @jadeluvsenha

STATUS- completed

UPDATE SCHEDULE- whenever i can tbh </3

STARTED- 25/04/2023

ENDED- 08/06/2023

NOTE- this is purely a work of fiction and it in no means represents the idol irl. also the pictures of yn are for reference purpose only. I have no intention of copying anyone, i really apologize beforehand if the idea or plot coincides with some other smau.

A/N- this is inspired by Jonas Blue's song Polaroid (check it out asap its a bop!!) ik ik i have another smau to update but i posted this one on impulse lolol... hopefully will begin with it soon <3! omg its already midnight here i think i really need to sleep lmfao😭😭

MOODBOARD | PLAYLIST

PROFILES- singlez+betrayer// young dumb stupid

CHAPTERS-

001- reason for my poverty

002- and i oop- (partly written::: 0.3K)

003- yunjin got brains

004- "responsible good friend" with a plot twist

005- Mr.H

006- plan failed? 100%

007- running late is not fun (partly written::: 0.2K)

008- simpsons minus the "son"

009- de-rizz someone with 0 rizz??

010- chaewon gets a happy meal (and third wheels)

011- HALF ver. - umbrella crisis

╰┈➤FULL ver.- weird feelings (partly written::: 0.2K)

012- ✨jEaLoUsY✨

013- 1/i■€h33$€♡&¿

014- Make dem moves

015- liquid courage gone wrong (written::: 0.5K)

016- smiley faced emoji

017- on read

018- FML

019- man w a mission

020- Love, Y/N ( written::: 0.47K )

021- it's like a polaroid love- FINALE- ( written::: 0.5K )

it's only a matter of time

before it starts fadin'

Enjoyed The Accidental Polaroid? Check out another smau L♡VE THEORY set in the same universe, starring Jake ^^!!

work belongs to @/luvistqrzzz do not repost, copy or translate my work.

reblogs are appreciated