#yield to none

[makehxcfastagain]

[3-aem]

BRO!!!!! AFTER TRYING TO CANCEL ME?!?! IN BAD FAITH?!?!?!!!!

YA IVE POSTED IT NO U CANT SEE IT ANYMORE CUZ UR MEAN???

[gozoakarte]

why am i always so invested in small fandom 😭

Looking for bloodweave fanarts is like playing japanese gacha games , you only find it by the blessing of algorithm once in a few months 😭⚰️

[habiyeru-art]

The Red Prince yields to none

[bobbinalong]

do any of you have a natasha irons guide/recommended reading list? i'm starting (over, lol) with kenan's solo now but i wanna read some of her stuff after.

[proletariatramen]

Anyone know of any Ouran image description blogs? Trying to get more of it back on my dash, but the fandom seems largely image based and prone to using… Zero alt text or image descriptions, so I’m wondering if anyone out there is still dedicated enough to this 20-year-old series to have a dedicated description blog for it.

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash

Chapters 36-37

Had it been like that in the iron coffin?

Aelin gave no indication that the smothering dark bothered her, and had shown no inclination to illuminate their way. Hadn't even summoned an ember.

But the Little Folk, it seemed, had come prepared. And within heartbeats of entering the pitch-black river passage, blue light had kindled on a lantern dangling over the curved prow. Not light, not even magic. But small worms that glowed pale blue, as if they'd each swallowed the heart of a star. They'd been gathered into the lantern, and their soft light rippled over the water-smooth walls. A gentle, soothing light. At least, for her it was so.

Before Aelin had been given an ancient Faerie Queen's crown, her birthright and heritage.

The queen had stashed Mab's crown in one of their packs, as if it were no more than an extra sword belt. She hadn't spoken, and they had not asked her any questions, either.

Instead, she'd spent these past few hours sitting in the back of the boat, studying her unmarked hands, occasionally peering into the black waters beneath them. What she expected to see beyond her own rippling reflection, Elide didn’t want to know.

He'd crawled after Maeve on the beach to save Aelin. And he had found her during her escape-had ensured Aelin made it out. Did it wipe away what he'd done in summoning Maeve in the first place? Even if Maeve had set the trap, even if he hadn't known what Maeve intended for Aelin, did it erase his decision to call for her?

The last time they'd spoken as friends, it had been aboard that ship in the hours before Maeve's armada had arrived. He'd told her they needed to talk, and she'd assumed it was about their future, about them.

But perhaps he'd been about to tell her what he'd done, that he'd been wrong in acting before Aelin's plans played out. Elide stopped twisting the ring.

He'd done it for her. She knew it.

But the queen sitting silently behind them, no trace of that sharp-edged fire to be seen, nor that wicked grin she'd flashed at all who crossed her path ... Two months with a sadist. With two sadists. That had been the cost, and the burden that Aelin and all of them would bear.

That silence, that banked fire was because of him. Not entirely, but in some ways.

The collar had not been real. But the army Maeve had summoned was.

A blink into the gloom was the only indication that he was aware of her every movement. Aelin breathed in his scent, let its strength settle into her a bit deeper.

Their paths would meet again, or they would not. And if he found the final key and then brought it to her, she would pay what the gods demanded. What she owed Terrasen, the world.

Yet if Dorian chose to end it himself, to forge the Lock ... her stomach churned. He had the power. As much as she did, if not more so.

It was meant to be her sacrifice. Her blood shed to save them all. To let him claim it ... She could. She must. With Erawan no doubt unleashing himself on Terrasen, with Maeve's army likely to cause them untold grief, she could let Dorian do this. She trusted him. Even if she might never forgive herself for it. Her debt, it was supposed to have been her debt to pay.

Perhaps the punishment for failing to do so would be having to live with herself.

Having to live with all that had been done to her these months, too.

The blackness of the subterranean river pressed in, wrapped its arms around her and squeezed.

Different from the blackness of the iron box. The darkness she'd found inside herself.

A place she might never escape, not really.

Her power stirred, awakening. Aelin swallowed, refusing to acknowledge it. Heed it.

She wouldn't. Couldn't. Not yet. Until she was ready.

She had seen Rowan's face when she spoke of what his deception with the collar had prompted her to do. Had noted the way her companions looked at her, pity and fear in their eyes. At what had been done to her, what she'd become.

A new body. A foreign, strange body, as if she'd been ripped from one and shoved into another. Different from moving between her forms, somehow. She hadn't tried shifting into her human body yet. Didn't see the point.

Sitting in silence as the boat was pulled through the gloom, she felt the weight of those stares. Their dread. Felt them wondering just how broken she was.

You do not yield.

She knew that had been true—that it had been her mother's voice who had spoken and none other.

So she would not yield to this. What had been done. What remained. For the companions around her, to lift their despair, their fear, she wouldn't yield.

She'd fight for it, claw her way back to it, who she'd been before. Remember to swagger and grin and wink. She'd fight against that lingering stain on her soul, fight to ignore it. Would use this journey into the dark to piece herself back together-just enough to make it convincing.

Even if this fractured darkness now dwelled within her, even if speech was difficult, she would show them what they wished to see.

An unbroken Fire-Bringer. Aelin of the Wildfire.

She would show the world that lie as well. Make them believe it.

Maybe she'd one day believe it, too.

Days of near-silent travel passed.

Three days, if whatever senses Rowan and Gavriel possessed proved true. Perhaps the latter carried a pocket watch. Aelin didn't particularly care.

She used each of those days to consider what had been done, what lay before her.

Sometimes, the roar of her magic drowned out her thoughts. Sometimes it slumbered. She never heeded it.

They sailed through the darkness, the river below so black that they might as well have been drifting through Hellas's realm.

She hadn't asked him why he remained in his wolf's body. No one asked her why she remained in her Fae form, after all.

Rowan straightened, eyes sparking at her question-or at the fact that she'd spoken at all.

He'd kept by her these days, a silent, steady presence. Even when they'd slept, he'd remained a few feet away, still not touching, but just there. Close enough that the pine-and-snow scent of him eased her into slumber.

Silence at the order, even from Rowan. Aelin pointed to the lip of shore by the cave mouth. "Stop the boat," she repeated.

The queen had been reckless before Cairn and Maeve had worked on her for two months, but it seemed she'd had any bit of common sense flayed from her.

"Well, I don’t have any, so forgive me if I remain alert." No, she'd once told him that while magic flowed in the Lochan bloodline, she had none to speak of. He'd never told her that he'd always considered her cleverness to be a mighty magic on its own, regardless of Anneith's whisperings.

"It will take time for her to readjust."

She stared at him with those damning eyes.

He braced his forearms on his knees. "We got her back. She's with us now. What more do you want?" From me, He didn't need to add Elide straightened.

Elide straightened. "I don't want anything." From you.

This was where they'd have it out, then. "How much longer am I supposed to atone?"

"Are you growing bored with it?" He snarled.

She only glared at him. "I hadn't realized you were even atoning."

"I came here, didn't I?"

"For whom, exactly? Rowan? Aelin?"

"For both of them. And for you." There. Let it be laid before them.

"I told you on that beach: I want nothing to do with you."

"So one mistake and I am your eternal enemy?"

"She is my queen, and you summoned Maeve, then told her where the keys were, and you stood there while they did that to her."

"You have no idea what the blood oath can do. None."

"Fenrys broke the oath. He found a way."

"And had Aelin not been there to offer him another, he would have died." He let out a low, joyless laugh. "Perhaps that's what you would have preferred."

She ignored his last comment. "You didn't even try."

"I did," he snarled. "I fought it with everything I had. And it was not enough. If she'd ordered me to slit your throat, I would have. And if I had found a way to break the oath, I would have died, and she might very well have killed you or taken you afterward. On that beach, my only thought was to get Maeve to forget about you, to let you go-"

"I don't care about me! I didn't care about me on that beach!"

"Well, I do."

This was what came of opening that door to a place inside him that no one had ever breached. This mess, this hollowness in his chest that made him keep needing to make things right.

"Resent me all you like," he said, damning the hoarseness of his words. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Hurt flashed in her eyes. "Fine," she said, her voice brittle.

He hated that brittleness more than anything he'd ever encountered. Hated himself for causing it. But he had limits to how low he'd crawl.

He'd said his piece. If she wanted to wash her hands of him forever, then he would find a way to respect that. Live with it.

Somehow.

Gratitude shone in her eyes.

Rowan only gave her a nod. Don't worry about it.

Yet Aelin turned away, shutting off that silent conversation as she surveyed the space.

Time. It would take time for her to heal.

Even if he knew his Fireheart would pretend otherwise.

So, Rowan looked, too. Across the tomb, beyond the sarcophagus and treasure, an archway opened into another chamber. Perhaps another tomb, or an exit passage.

"We don't have time to find a way out,"

Rowan murmured as she strode into the tomb.

"And the caves remain safer than the surface."

"I'm not looking for a way out," she said in that calm, unmoved voice. She stooped, swiping up a fistful of gold coins stamped with forgotten king's face. "We're going to need to fund our travels. And the gods know what else." Rowan arched a brow. Aelin shrugged and shoved the gold into the pocket of her cloak. "Unless the pitiful clinking I heard from your coin purse didn't indicate you were low on funds."

That spark of wry humor, the taunting … She was trying. For his sake, or the others' maybe her own, she was trying.

Rowan gave the Lion a slashing grin. "You heard the lady."

A flash ruptured from where Fenrys had been sniffing at a trunk of jewels, and then a male was standing there. His gray clothes worn, but intactin better shape than the hollowed-out look in his eyes.

Aelin paused her looting.

Fenrys's throat bobbed, as if trying to remember speech. Then he said hoarsely, "We needed more pockets." He patted his own for emphasis.

Aelin's lips curved in a hint of a smile. She blinked at Fenrys—three times.

Fenrys blinked once in answer.

A code. They'd made up some silent code to communicate when he'd been ordered to remain in his wolf form.

Aelin's smile remained, just barely, as she walked to the golden-haired male, his bronze skin ashen. She opened her arms in silent offer.

To let him decide if he wished for contact. If he could endure it.

Just as Rowan would let her decide if she wished to touch him.

A small sigh broke from Fenrys before he folded Aelin into his arms, a shudder rippling through him. Rowan couldn't see her face, perhaps didn't need to, as her hands gripped Fenrys's jacket, so tightly they were white-knuckled.

A good sign—a small miracle, that either of them wished, could be touched. Rowan reminded himself of it, even while some intrinsic, male part of him tensed at the contact.

A territorial Fae bastard, she'd once called him. He'd do his best not to live up to that title.

"Thank you," Aelin said, her voice small in a way that made Rowan's chest crack further.

Fenrys didn't answer, but from the anguish on his face, Rowan knew no thanks were in order.

They pulled away, and Fenrys cupped her cheek. "When you are ready, we can talk."

About what they'd endured. To unravel all that had happened.

Aelin nodded, blowing out a breath. "Likewise."

She resumed shoving gold into her pockets, but glanced back to Fenrys, his face drawn. "I gave you the blood oath to save your life," she said. "But if you do not want it, Fenrys, I ... we can find some way to free you—"

"I want it," Fenrys said, no trace of his usual swaggering humor. He glanced to Rowan, and bowed his head. "It is my honor to serve this court. And serve you," he added to Aelin.

She waved a hand in dismissal, though Rowan didn't fail to note the sheen in her eyes as she stooped to gather more gold. Giving her a moment, he strode to Fenrys and clasped his shoulder. "It's good to have you back." He added, stumbling a bit on the word, "Brother." For that's what they would be. Had never been before, but what Fenrys had done for Aelin .. Yes, brother was what Rowan would call him. Even if Fenrys's own—

Fenrys's dark eyes flickered. "She killed Connall. Made him stab himself in the heart." A pearl-and-ruby necklace scattered from Gavriel's fingers.

The temperature in the tomb spiked, but there was no flash of flame, no swirl of embers.

As if Aelin's magic had surged, only to be leashed again.

Yet Aelin continued shoving gold and jewels into her pockets.

She'd witnessed it, too. That slaughter.

But it was Gavriel, approaching on silent feet even with the jewels and gold on the floor, who clasped Fenrys's other shoulder. "We will make sure that debt is paid before the end." The Lion had never uttered such words not toward their former queen. But fury burned in Gavriel's tawny gaze. Sorrow and fury.

Fenrys took a steadying breath and stepped away, the loss on his face mingling with something Rowan couldn't place. But now wasn't the time to ask, to pry.

Aelin continued picking her way amongst the treasure, however. She'd been more selective than the rest of them, examining pieces with what Rowan had assumed was a jeweler's eye. The gods knew she'd owned enough finery to tell what would fetch the highest price at market.

"We should go," he said. His own pockets were near to bursting, his every step weighed down.

She rose from a rusted metal chest she'd been riffling through.

Rowan remained still as she approached, something clenched in her palm. It was only when she stopped close enough for him to touch her that she unfurled her fingers.

Two golden rings lay there.

"I don't know the Fae customs," she said.

The thicker ring held an elegantly cut ruby within the band itself, while the smaller one bore a sparkling rectangular emerald mounted atop, the stone as large as her fingernail. "But when humans wed, rings are exchanged." Her fingers trembled-just slightly. Too many unspoken words lay between them. Yet now was not the time for that conversation, for that healing.

Not when they had to be on their way as swiftly as possible, and this offer she'd made him, this proof that she still wanted what lay between them, the vows they'd sworn ...

"I assume the sparkly emerald is for me," Rowan said with a half smile.

She huffed a laugh. The soft, whispered sound was as precious as the rings she'd found for them in this hoard. She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow.

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. "To whatever end," he whispered.

Silver lined her eyes. "To whatever end." A reminder-and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they'd sworn on that ship.

To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I'll make the tattoo again." She swallowed, but nodded. "And," he added, "I'd like to add another. To me—and to you."

Her brows flicked up, but he squeezed her hand. You'll have to wait and see, Princess.

Another hint of a smile. She didn't balk from the silent words this time. Typical.

He opened his mouth to voice the question he'd been dying to ask for days now. May I kiss you? But she pulled her hand from his.

Admiring the wedding band sparkling on her finger, her mouth tightened as she turned over her palm. "I'll need to retrain."

Not a single callus marked her hands.

Aelin frowned at her too-thin body. "And pack on some muscle again." A slight quiver graced her words, but she curled her hands into fists at her sides and smirked at her clothes—the Mistward clothes. "It'll be just like old times."

Trying. She was dredging up that swagger and trying. So he would, too. Until she didn't need to any more.

Rowan gave her a crooked grin. "Just like old times," he said, following her out of the barrow and back toward the ebony river, "but with far less sleep."

He could have sworn the passageway heated. But Aelin kept going.

Later. That conversation, this unfinished business between them, would come later.

[brain-rot-hour]

Why can't I just take the brain things

And plop them on the paper??????

[crosaidi]

"Who does that fuckin' Red Prince think he is? Ain't he in chains and threads like the rest of us poor bastards?" She's hungry, tired, and suffering a bit from the sun, and the other Sourcerer prisoners are just one step too far on the end of her capacity for the Joy. "If he implies one more fuckin' time that my dream in life is to seerve his silk-plush arse as a slave..." (unprompted Divinity ask for u!) @deathswcrn

He’s  born  of  the  north,  where  snow  piles  in  the  winter  and  lakes  thicken  with  blankets  of  ice  — and  the  sun  beats  down  on  him  here  unrelenting,  making  even  the  rags  he  wears  now  feel  too  heavy  and  thick.  He’s  still  bitter,  fiercely  angry  for  the  circumstances  that  brought  him  here,  and  more  bitter  still  at  the  truth  he’s  never  considered  himself  any  type  of  Sourcerer  at  all,  and  yet  this  magic  he  never  asked  for  and  tried  to  ignore  betrayed  him  anyway.  

But  that’s  a  longer  story.  

"  En’t  sure  that  scaley  arse  is  anythin’  close  to  silk-plush,  but  what  do  I  know  about  lizards?  "  He’s  been  slicing  off  razor-thin  pieces  of  a  small  hard  green  apple  he  found  somewhere,  trying  to  make  it  last  for  longer  than  a  minute;  he  sighs,  long  and  labored.  "  Best  I  figure  it,  either  he  knows  he’s  just  as  fucked  an’  is  puttin’  on  a  bold  air,  or  he’s  actually  fool  enough  t’believe  it.  "  He  scowls,  deep,  brows  knitting.  "  He’ll  figure  it  out  one  way  or  another.  "  

[sigmundthesorcerer]

M would be obsessed with the fact that vault-tec dropped the bombs bc she's a paranoid freak who's been running off a conspiracy theory that america nuked itself as a population control tactic and the rest of the world is doing fine

but the point is that she's supposed to be wrong!!!!!

[jojolimons]

made a wonderful bastardized bechamel sauce

[lali-hoe]

I'm in the act of seducing someone at work, and I love my friends so very much because all of them are cheering me on while simultaneously telling me that this particular man is a Bad Decision.

[exeggcute]

none of this is new info, but you know I have the "loves to write lists and compile links" disposition, so I thought it might be helpful to share some of the tips I've seen about how to make sure you're sharing legitimate palestinian evacuation fundraisers and bundle all those tips into a single handy reference post.

this is a spreadsheet of legitimate ("vetted") fundraisers on tumblr.

this post explains how the people who maintain this spreadsheet confirm the legitimacy of each fundraiser they add.

this podcast episode ("yousef and the fourth move") explains why evacuation fundraisers are often organized by people who don't live in gaza and/or who may not be immediate relatives of the people trying to evacuate. it's part three of a series about a man named yousef and his family; parts one and two aren't required listening for part three to make sense, but if you have a few hours to spare then I wholeheartedly recommend listening to all of them.

this is the process that I personally have been using to check whether a particular fundraiser has been vetted:

spreadsheet method

open the vetted fundraisers spreadsheet.

inside this spreadsheet, open the "find..." menu. on a windows computer, this shortcut is ctrl+F. on a mac, this shortcut is cmd+F. on a mobile device, click the three dots menu in the upper right corner of your screen, then select Find and replace.

search for the last name of the person or family in the fundraiser. you may get several results because last names obviously aren't unique; keep hitting "next" until you've looked at all the results.

if you find an entry in the spreadsheet that has the exact same name and whose gofundme link leads to the same fundraiser associated with the blog, it's legitimate. if you don't find an entry in the spreadsheet that matches the blog's fundraiser, that does not mean it's a scam. try the next method below!

tumblr search method

copy the username of the tumblr who originally posted the fundraiser and/or sent you a message asking you to boost the fundraiser. (for example, username123)

paste this username into tumblr's search bar.

for best results, click the All types drop-down menu, then select Text. since the search page is often dominated by asks sent by username123 (which people then answer and tag with their username), this helps narrow things down a bit.

look to see if any people who are not username123 have made posts confirming that username123 is legitimate. this includes people who've reblogged fundraisers and added notes, people who've compiled masterlists, and people sharing hyperlinks to other posts confirming a fundraiser's legitimacy. if the message seems to be "yep, looks legit," then it's safe to assume it's legit.

this is not a comprehensive list, but here are some of the usernames I've seen associated with "yep, looks legit"-type posts and who I've come to trust by association. (disclaimers: I am not mutuals with any of the users, and not all of them do the vetting firsthand, but the ones who don't vet posts themselves still seem to be careful about what they share and therefore are a good lead to follow. also, don't bug these people to vet fundraisers for you unless they've specifically indicated that they're open to that.)

90-ghost

el-shab-hussein

nabulsi

appsa

northgazaupdates

retvolution

communistchilchuck

neptunerings

a-shade-of-blue

shimamitsu

neither of these methods yielded anything definitive; what now?

it may just be too early to tell. unless a trusted source has shared overwhelming evidence that a particular fundraiser is a scam (which seems to be a very very rare occurrence), the best thing you can do is ignore it. don't report their blog as spam, because there's a good chance it's a legitimate fundraiser who just hasn't been vetted yet.

[draculasstrawhat]

In the spirit of not just trans solidarity, but solidarity in general, I think it’s important to say that we only recognise the oppressions and intersections of oppression *insofar as they affect us*, or at the very most, people or causes we care about.

I have heard so, so many members of marginalised groups say, “if [thing] was said about, or done to any other marginalised group, there’s be an uproar!” and it’s simply not true. Some groups do not fight the exact same battles as you, they do not face the exact same oppressions, marginalisations, or hurts. But believe me, they will face others that you not only know nothing about, but which you cannot see. And among themselves, they will talk about those things, and how they are crushed, or stopped, or devastated by them.

Of *course* we see all the doors that other groups sail through which slam in *our* faces, but we (collectively, and I include me in this) need to get better at seeing the ones that slam in theirs - whether they slam in ours or not.

That is what solidarity is, after all. Some struggles we all face, some we face and others don’t, some we don’t and others do - but we don’t let anyone face them alone. We listen, we do our best to understand, and we do our best to stand by.

[kathaelipwse]

Just Come Here || Bangchan

Word Count: 1008 words

Trope: Secret Relationship · Hurt/Comfort · Idol x Non-Idol Partner [GN!Reader] · Soft Angst with Healing

Warnings: Mentions of emotional distress, crying, self-blame, affectionate physical comfort (hugs/kisses/cuddles)

Synopsis: After a wave of online backlash (k-stays and brazil-stays arguments), Bang Chan spirals into self-blame and emotional shutdown. When his secret partner comes home to find him falling apart, they gently pull him back into the warmth of love and remind him he’s never alone.

Author’s Note: This was written with love and empathy for Chan, who deserves nothing but support and kindness. To anyone who needs to hear it: you’re doing your best, and your heart matters.

Please keep in mind that all of this affects him majorly, and its human rights to be able to voice out his own opinion. As an idol he has a lot on his plate already and few stays adding more to it.... Is that what he deserves? Secondly, Stays. We were supposed to be a FAMILY, since when did we start falling apart? I remember the times all of us used to joke and laugh on memes. This fandom is starting to get toxic. We are not only hurting other stays, but also hurting our idols. Making them believe it was their FAULT. Are we fucking 5? We can do better than this. And he is in his late-twenties. He can voice out his opinion and none of us have to RIGHTS to dictate or twist his words. Its the first time I am disappointed in our fandom.We owe him the biggest apology.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t need to.

Your key slipped into the lock with a quiet click, and a familiar ache settled in your chest as you let yourself into his apartment. It was shrouded in a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. A single lamp in the corner cast long, distorted shadows, making the usually cozy space feel vast and empty.

And there he was.

Curled up on the couch, a dark hoodie swallowing him whole, his knees pulled so tightly to his chest it looked painful. He seemed determined to occupy the smallest possible space, as if wishing he could simply disappear.

You hadn’t heard from him properly all day. Just that terse, unsettling message along with the other apologies on bubble.

“Whatever I say becomes problematic.” “I don’t wanna talk now.”

The words replayed in your mind, each syllable laced with a weariness that was so unlike the vibrant, resilient Chan you knew. He wasn’t one to retreat into silence, not completely. Even when exhaustion weighed him down, even when the pressures of his world felt immense. Today, though… today felt different. Like a dam had finally broken.

You dropped your bag with a soft thud by the door, the sound seeming deafening in the stillness. You moved towards him slowly, each step measured, careful not to shatter the fragile quiet that surrounded him. He remained motionless, a statue carved in shadows.

“Chan,” you called softly, your voice barely a whisper as you crouched down beside the couch. “Baby, look at me.”

Nothing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t give any indication he’d heard you. His stillness was unnerving.

Your hand trembled slightly as you reached out, your fingertips tentatively brushing against his arm. The fabric of his hoodie felt rough beneath your touch.

That’s when you noticed it – a subtle tremor running through his shoulders. Barely perceptible, but undeniably there. You gently pulled back the edge of his hood, just enough to glimpse his face, and the sight sent a sharp pang of anguish through you.

His skin was ashen, his eyes unnaturally bright and glassy, his lips pressed into a thin, white line that quivered almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t actively crying now, but the evidence was there – the redness around his eyes, the faint sheen of moisture on his lashes, the slight puffiness of his nose.

Without uttering a word, you settled onto the edge of the couch and carefully, slowly, pulled him towards you. He offered no resistance, his body yielding as if he lacked the strength to do otherwise. He slumped into your embrace, heavy and fragile at the same time, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms tightly around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair.

A choked sob escaped him, a raw, heart-wrenching sound that tore at your own throat.

And then another followed, and another, until the quiet sobs escalated into full-blown cries that shook his entire frame.

You held him tighter, rocking him gently, whispering soothing words against his hair, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head, again and again.

“I’m here,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion as you threaded your fingers deeper into his naturally curly hair. “I’ve got you, baby. Just let it out. Just cry. You’ve held it in for far too long.”

He clung to you desperately, his small fists clenching and twisting into the fabric of your shirt. The sound of his pain was a physical weight on your chest, but you held yourself steady, strong for him when he couldn’t be strong for himself.

You continued to stroke his hair, your fingers gently massaging his scalp, a familiar gesture you knew often brought him a sliver of comfort. His curls felt soft beneath your touch, a little messy from the confines of his hood, but still so uniquely him. You kissed his temple, the warmth of your lips a stark contrast to his cool skin. You pressed kisses to his forehead, his cheek, any part of him you could reach.

“It’s not your fault, Chan,” you murmured softly, your voice a low hum against his ear. “I know what you said came from a good place, from love. And the people who truly know you, who see the real you, they understand that too.”

“I was just trying…” he choked out, his voice hoarse and thick with unshed tears. “I was just trying to make them feel seen, feel special. But now they’re all… they’re all fighting. Even the ones who usually… who are usually so kind are getting dragged into it. It’s like… no matter what I do, I can’t seem to do anything right.”

“Hey,” you said firmly, gently lifting his chin so his tear-filled eyes finally met yours. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs softly wiping away the wetness on his cheeks. “Stop that. Stop thinking like that. You do so many things right, Chan. You pour your entire being into this, into your music, into your fans, your members. You care so deeply, so fiercely, that it breaks your heart when things get twisted. But that doesn’t mean you made a mistake in wanting to show your appreciation.”

He blinked at you, his gaze vulnerable and lost, tears still clinging stubbornly to his long lashes.

“You said it felt like home,” you whispered, your voice softening. You used your sleeve to gently dab at the remaining tears on his cheeks. You leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “And you meant that. You wanted to honor them, to acknowledge the comfort and belonging they give you, not to hurt anyone. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that, Chan. In fact, there is everything right with that.”

Chan closed his eyes, his jaw tight, his lips still trembling. “I just… I hate that it hurts them. The fans who always defend me, who understand… the ones who always stand by me, no matter what…”

“You think you’re hurting them, baby. But the truth is – they’re hurting because you’re hurting,” you whispered, your voice laced with empathy. You kissed his cheeks again, both of them, your lips lingering for a moment, conveying all the love and reassurance you held for him. “They love you fiercely, Chan. And so do I. More than you’ll ever truly know.”

He leaned into your touch, a small sigh escaping his lips, as if he was finally starting to believe the words, just a little crack of light in the darkness. You pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, a silent promise of unwavering support.

“Let’s go lie down,” you murmured gently, taking his hand and guiding him up from the couch. His movements were sluggish, his energy completely depleted.

He followed you without a word, his hand gripping yours tightly, like a shadow seeking refuge in the light.

In the bedroom, he simply collapsed onto the bed, pulling you down with him, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist, his face pressing into your chest this time. You instinctively tightened your hold on him, your fingers resuming their gentle journey through his hair, tracing the familiar curve of his scalp.

“You always know,” he whispered after a long, quiet moment, his voice still rough. “You always know when I need you. You just… come.”

You smiled sadly, a bittersweet ache in your heart. “That’s what love is, isn’t it, Chan? Showing up. Even when the world feels like it’s crumbling around you. Even when you feel like you’re crumbling from the inside out. Especially then.” You pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head.

He didn’t respond verbally, but he shifted closer, pressing a kiss to the center of your chest, right over your beating heart, holding you tighter as if you were his anchor.

Eventually, the hiccups of his sobs subsided.

The tension slowly seeped out of his body, the shaking finally ceasing.

And the silence that settled between you felt different now. It was no longer heavy with unspoken pain, but warm and comforting, a shared space of quiet understanding.

You stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, tangled together beneath the soft blankets. One hand remained in his curls, the other rested against his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin softly until his eyelids fluttered shut, his breathing evening out. You pressed a final, lingering kiss to his temple.

“You’re allowed to be human, Chris,” you whispered, using his English name, the one you reserved for these quiet, intimate moments. “You’re allowed to feel everything, the good and the bad. You’re allowed to break down sometimes. But please, never forget… there is absolutely nothing broken about you. You are whole, you are loved, and you are enough.”

He didn’t answer, his breathing deep and even now.

But the way he held you, the possessive grip of his arms around your waist… the soft sigh that escaped his lips as he nestled closer…

You knew he heard you.

And in that moment, that quiet understanding, that unspoken connection, was more than enough.

--

[prokopetz]

I'm spinning this off of the main thread about tracing the origin of the term "d66" because it's not strictly germane to the topic – none of these examples actually use the term "d66" to describe their dice-rolling methods – but I'm going to post it anyway as a matter of general interest: following a conversation with Tumblr user @notclevr, it appears that before tabletop wargames (and, nearly concurrently, tabletop RPGs) got their hands on the mechanic, the principal (though by no means exclusive) users of the old "roll a six-sided die twice, reading one die as the 'tens' place and the other die as the 'ones' place" trick may have been tabletop American baseball simulators.

The most notable example of the type – and the only well-known example still in publication today – is J Richard Seitz' APBA Baseball, first published in either 1950 or 1951 (accounts vary). In this game, a d66 roll is cross-referenced with a card representing the active player and a "board" representing the current situation on the field:

For example, with Carlton Fisk at bat, a d66 roll of 31 would yield a result of "8". Assuming for the sake of argument that the situation on the field is a runner on first and a grade C pitcher, consulting the "Runner on First Base" board, this corresponds to an outcome of "SINGLE—line drive to left; runner to third".

(This example is, strictly speaking, incorrect, as Carlton Fisk didn't have his major league debut until 1969 and I'm using the wrong lookup tables for any year in which he played, but you get the idea!)

Interestingly, APBA Baseball is not the first game to use this setup. It's heavily derived from Clifford Van Beek's National Pastime, a game whose patent was registered in 1925, though it wasn't actually published until 1930. Even at a glance, the similarities are substantial:

Indeed, though National Pastime's lookup tables are much simpler than APBA Baseball's, where they overlap they're often word for word identical. It's generally accepted that Seitz plagiarised National Pastime without credit when creating APBA Baseball (ironically, given his own famously combative stance toward alleged imitators!), though he was within his rights to do so, as National Pastime had fallen into the public domain by the time APBA Baseball was published.

We can go back even further, though. As far as I've been able to determine, the earliest known tabletop baseball simulator to use d66 lookup tables for resolving plays is Edward K McGill's Our National Ball Game, first published in 1886:

A copy of the game's 1887 US patent application can be downloaded here. This one uses an unusual 21-entry variant of the standard d66 lookup table in which the order of the rolled digits is insignificant, with doubles being half as likely as non-doubles rolls; it's unclear whether McGill was aware of this when he laid out the table. Unlike later incarnations of the genre, there are no individual player statistics, with all at-bats being resolved via the same table.