#I can in no way claim the title of the one and only most unhinged

[hellsite-hall-of-fame]

the fact you're a normie is starting to scare me you're supposed to be the most unhinged person on the site. turns out you're the cool aunt

noooo I am one of the most unhinged people on the site :(

yes I am probably also the cool aunt, but I can be both!!!!

[thecameronchronicles]

Poolside

TW: Trophy!Wife Reader. Smut. Language. Cheating. 

SUMMARY: JJ mends your broken heart with a sultry distraction…

WORD COUNT: 2400

REQUESTED

Trophy wife!reader sad about her husband cheating on her and Pool boy!JJ makes her feel better 

Poolside 

You blamed yourself as you couldn't help but compare yourself to her. No more a friend than a stranger, the girl who coveted your side of the bed with your husband's arm wrapped around her was an acquaintance you saw in passing. She was a candidate for an assistant he claimed to need as you trusted him enough to ignore the fact they were all the same styled girl. 

Youthful. Impressionable. A minimum of a 34DD bra size and an apparent predilection for holding the attention of a married man. Because of this, the tears continued to cascade no matter your attempts to cease them. Even as you found anger to win over guilt or blame, you would always end up returned to such waterworks wondering why it was he chose her. 

After the life made together. The memories. The obstacles you believe you had overcome. All thrown to the wind for a girl unworthy of the smile she gave once leaving with the gall to kiss his cheek and flash a smile in your direction. 

"You 'lright Mrs-" Even the sound of a title you once basked to hold would only worsen your tears. Even when spoken by the honeyed tone of your handsome pool boy. The one you hired a few weeks prior from a forbidden curiosity you could fantasize about while standing within the safety of your kitchen. Every perfectly etched detail of his body responsible for such illicit visions that sent your thighs to press together with need. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked to the way you held your arms across your chest. 

"Can I ask you something?" You were unhinged in remaining demure. Always an accompaniment to your husband's arm, you rarely spoke your mind as it was often responded with silence or a judgemental look. But the question in your mind that played in a bitter repetition kept you from remaining silent for another moment. 

"Sure…" he shrugged, half focused on your delay and more on not directing his attention to the way your body peeked beneath the suit exposed by a draped cover. 

"Am I too old?" He scoffed. 

"What?!" The question caught him off guard as he laughed. 

"I mean…Do I…am I look attractive?" He fumbled to speak as his eyes darted in every other direction. Not a moment in which he could look at you without being more than honest. 

"JJ?"

"I really don't think I should say…" 

"Well considering the fact that I just found some girl maybe just out of high school with her legs around my husband's shoulders, I would consider it a favor if you were just honest with me. I can take it…" He paused, placing the pieces together before looking at the interior of the house. 

His own fantasy having come to life by your question as the possibility presented itself to him. Your husband was absent, and even if he wasn't, he didn't mind as much as he may have to keep this job in knowing such pain was brought to you. If not for the way he was uncertain, he would have made it his personal mission until you forgot of anybody but him. But he also found the presence of your smile to highlight his day. And due that and the fear of losing that, he remained as honest as he could without risking that. 

"You're a knockout and he's an idiot. Most Kooks are, always taking what they have for granted. I mean, personally, if it were me, I'd-" He stopped himself, the way you looked at him made him silent. 

"You'd…".

"I really shouldn't have said that…"

"Please…I want to know." He hesitated before meeting your eyes. 

"If it were me, I'd never let you leave that bedroom." His eyes fell to your lips as if to ask the silent question of risk you were desperate to make. But when neither of you ventured to move to it, he would be the one to retreat. 

"Sorry…I uh…I have your filter to check and the ph to-" You watched him fumble over himself. The usual arrogance of most "Kooks" resulting in a roll of your eyes. But his refreshing groundation made you close the distance between you. 

"Um…Mrs-"

"For right now, I'm nobody but yours, JJ…" You interrupted your own kiss as he allowed you to take the lead. Even if you knew little about him, you knew enough to know this would be worth the deception. 

"Touch me…" 

"I don't need directions, sweetheart…" he spoke softly with the slightest hint of dominance as he guided you flat to the angled lounge chair you had governed during your distressed breakdown. Yet he wasn't selfish or gluttonous. Instead, he was tender, pulling your recently stationary legs around his hips before he angled you onto your back. 

"I mean it. He's a fucking idiot…But I'm glad. Because I'm gonna make you feel things he couldn't even dream of…" His lips possessed your own as his hands worked carefully to undress you. A singular knot at the back of your neck was pulled loose as your breasts were exposed to him. Warm calloused hands took hold of one with expert fondling before moving to the other. When certain you approved, he lowered his mouth to the one closest to him.

"Do you like this?"

"Yes…" You fought a moan as he smirked against you. Your hands running softly through his hair before tugging as he captured your nipple between his teeth. 

"You sure you want to do this here? There's a perfect pool house with a nice bed we could break-"

"Here…please…" 

"You don't have to beg…" he lifted his hand to your cheek. 

"But you do make it sound so damn pretty for me, princess." You adored the way he focused on you. Never leaving a question if you were who he thought of as he kissed you. Not a moment of distraction as you noted from your husband. 

"Please…" He nipped at your jaw to your pleas before your fingers set at his hips. The dry trunks easy to maneuver before he lowered enough to keep himself out of reach. 

"You said that he had her legs over his shoulders?" The question made you scowl yet nod as you answered him. 

"Only fair you get the same." He untied the bows made at either hip of your bikini and you were left completely vulnerable to him. Yet somehow safe as he lowered between your thighs. 

"I want to know something first…and I want you to be honest with me…" he kissed your thigh before asking his question once you nodded. 

"He ever made you come?"

You hesitated, certain he must have at one point. But the wedding night he was too drunk. The honeymoon he was too busy. And every time since he had been distracted. Your only means of pleasure having come from your own fantasies and the trusty vibrator gifted by your maid of honor. 

"It's okay, sweetheart. I'll more than make up for it." He kisses you once at your core. Yet once was enough to send your back into an arch and your fingers through his hair in a pull. 

"I like it…" he acknowledged as you lessened your grip. "Let's me know you want it."

"I do…" you confessed as he spread your thighs wider to expose you to him. 

"Then let me hear it, darling." The sound of his tongue and the dictions made behind his grin made his order impossible to deny. His name accompanied by moans motivated him even deeper before he altered his angle. Two fingers to his mouth and eyes set to you pulled his fingers between your lower lips. 

"He ever make you this wet? Honest, princess." 

"No-" You rasped. 

"Good…he doesn't deserve to…" He kissed softly at your clit before savoring the small bud. He sucked and licked in alterations as his fingers worked you into a tremble. Your eyes, unable to remain open until he offered himself a reprieve to learn your reaction to him. But as he expected you to ask for more or even wait for him to act, you directed him to sit on the edge of the lounge chair. 

"Mrs-" Before your name could be uttered, you had undressed and revealed him to you, his cock spring to life from hr freedom your fingers allowed. A single spray of spit lubricating him enough to rub him into initial pleasure as you twisted that grip before beginning your oral fixation to his head. 

Due to his impressive cock, you began slowly, focusing on livening every nerve and vein on his shaft before your nose brushed his skin. The gag made from your throat worrying him to pull you back by your cheeks. 

"You don't have to…"

"Am I doing something wrong?" 

"I'm about two sucks from coming…" he teased. 

"But I want more…" You explained with sultry eyes narrowing into a siren's existence as he grinned widely before his lips fell limp. Exhausted and shallow breaths came from his attempt to subdue his release and lengthen his stamina. His body tightening as you cupped the weight beneath him. 

"Jesus!" 

"Mmm…mmm…mmmmmmm…" You moaned with the intent to use the vibrations to strengthen those sensations as he raised his hips into your grin until he'd brought himself to that edge. 

"Stand up…" he commanded in an unsteady display of his own desperation before aligning you to stand over him. The second you were reliant on his weight, he adjusted the chair until it was flat. 

"I want to watch you…" 

"Then watch me, JJ…" His back arched and his eyes rolled as you rode over him. His cock almost too much for you to enjoy without being anxious, but his facial contortions of pleasure offering you the confidence you questioned otherwise. 

"Fuck, sweetheart…You feel so damn good…"

"I want you to come inside me, JJ…" His eyes widened. 

"I don't-I don't have a condom." You lowered over him as his hands fell from your breasts and to your hips. 

"IUD, you're good…"

"You sure?" 

"Positive…" But as he read your conviction behind your smile and blissed expression, he sat up. 

" Not like this…" Your eyes sharpened into worry of rejection. 

"I need to feel all of you." He lifted you around him and into the pool house. You weren't able to make it to the bedroom as you were taken over the arm of the couch. 

"Asshole doesn't deserve to hear you come. Or see it on any of his little cameras." You blushed as you'd forgotten about it until now. 

"You're all mine now, sweetheart. Just like you said." You nodded. 

"Yours." He swiped a hand across your ass to the agreement. 

"Again, princess. I only come in what's mine."

"Yours, JJ. I'm yours…" You whined as he nodded. 

"Good girl…" He sunk into you with conviction. But not for his own benefit. He was slow and thorough as he pulled you to his lips. 

"You deserve to be touched like this…" His hand fell to your breast as another surprised you at your clit. 

"To come hard. And often." He quickened both sets of hands. 

"And you will do both. With me." You rested your head against his shoulder as he picked up his pace. Unbridled passion behind each snap of his hips as you were taken against him and kept upright by his sting arms flexed to keep you in place. 

"Yes! JJ!" You gasped. 

"You gonna come for me, princess?"

"Yes!"

"Then come. Don't hold back. You deserve to feel-" Before he could finish his endorsement, you were cascading down his shaft and clenching around him in validation of your release. But then he threatened to stop, withdrawing as your hands wrapped around his hips. 

"I want you to come, JJ…"

"It'll be too much."

"I can handle it…" you turned to tease his lips. "Please…" His jaw tensed for only a second before he brought you over his lap. 

"A few more for me, sweetheart? I want it to last…" you took charge of the position he set you in as you took him back into your mouth. Only now, it was with his sole pleasure in mind. But a finger to your sex from your raised hips would counter this. 

"JJ…It's your turn…" 

"Making you come makes me want to…Keep going for me…" He used his second hand to make a ponytail from your hair as you were able to bob effortlessly around him. 

"That's my girl…shit!" He gasped, his fingers inside of you quickening as you trembled over him. Your pace breaking to a coming orgasm as he winced to the sound you made around his cock.

"Come ride me baby…" You moved swiftly and effectively as you pegged yourself onto his shaft. Quick motions made of new thrusts as your fingers ate into the fabric of the couch behind his head. 

"JJ! You feel so good!"

"Fuck!" He relaxed as you slipped over him. His fingers at once with each cheek making up your perfect ass. 

"You're so fucking beautiful…he doesn't deserve you…" his words accompanied your moans as you became lost in the sensations of his thick fulfillment. 

"I'm gonna come…" He set your forehead to his as you came apart within. Every control lost as he became submissive for that moment you claimed him as he had done for you. 

"Did I mention your husband's an idiot?" He explained as you nodded. Your eyes coming to the ring on your hand. JJ noticed the way it brought you sadness and he pulled your hand to his lips. The ring disappearing behind his teeth and a naked hand left behind. 

"I think your hand would look a bit better…" He directed your hand to his cock. "Here…" 

"You want more?" 

"I've wanted this a while, princess. Got one more fantasy to play out."

"Yeah? What's that?" 

"Making sure he knows what he lost…" he motioned to the camera set in perfect view of you as you were no longer the sad woman an hour prior. You were no longer chaste or shy as JJ altered both of those feelings for you. Instead, you were motivated and carnal. Wanting to please him and only him. 

And you would spend the rest of the day returning the favor, understanding why your husband optioned for the younger version as you decided if he could have his vices then you would have yours as well….

TAGLIST: @hopebaker @drewspisces @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4tangerine @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @jjmaybanksangel @phildunphyisadilf @mashdan0916 @pankhoeforlife @pankowperfection

MASTERLIST

JJ MAYBANK MASTERLIST

JJ MAYBANK 2ND MASTERLIST

JJ MAYBANK AND KOOK READER MASTERLIST

MARCH MADNESS MASTERLIST

[destiel-wings]

I noted down my thoughts while I listened to the tortured poets department for the first time (every track in order) and here's my album reaction

1) fortnight

I like the sound, makes me feel like the album is going to sound like midnights 2.0

2) the tortured poets department

somehow this song sounds exactly like i was expecting it to sound. love it, it'll def grow on me

3) my boy only breaks his favorite toys

interesting melody. caught me from the first note.

4) down bad

probably my favorite so far??? definitely midnights 2.0, particularly, I'd say the album so far sounds like midnight rain

5) so long, london

HER VOICE HERE HELLOO

another possible favorite. the intro gives me a mixture of christmas vibes + death by a thousand cuts intro

6) but daddy, i love him

the intro gave me happier fearless album vibes (with super subtle country touches), but it sounds like its own song. this is pure taylor with a 5.40 minutes song 💖👌🏻

7) fresh out the slammer

interesting change of rythm in the middle of the song, like in evermore. I'll need to listen to it again

8) florida!!!

the song i was most excited about cause i LOVE florence + the machine!!! I'm so glad she actually sang in it, i really felt the collab and there is something magical about this song. I would expect nothing less from a collab with florence 😍❤ i loved hearing taylor explore these more haunted/epic vibes. It still felt coherent with the rest of the album

9) guilty as sin?

loved it from the intro, love the rythm. I don't know what it is about it but it made me think it seems like a song that might have been from the 90s, but with a modern midnights sound?? one of my favorites.

that "am i allowed to cry?" in the end? PERFECT.

i felt some super subtle 90s vibes in certain moments of the song?

10) who's afraid of little old me?

the intro is chefs kiss perfection. OMG I LOVE THE WHOLE OF IT SO BADLY. One of the best songs of the album, 100%. Immaculate vibes. Great lyrics. Original melody that isn't flat standard but still catchy.

11) I can fix him (no really i can)

this song is like if cowboy like me was written for ttpd. and I'm saying this in the best way possible. this song is evermore(album)-coded. the melody reminds me willow too. 11/10 👌🏻

12) loml

excellent intro, yes, give me a sad song!!!! my favorite songs very often are in the second half of the albums or towards the end. this one is absolutely beautiful. another favorite (there are already so many favorites for me and I'm still at track 12 💀)

"I wish i could unrecall how we almost had it all" yes taylor, kill me please 🥲🙃💔

13) I can do it with a broken heart

this one is you're on your own kid's sister. It adds up to Taylor's songs whose music is 🤩💖🎊🎉 while the lyrics are 💀🔪💔😞

one of the songs that i was claiming for myself from the title alone.

14) the smallest man who ever lived

you can understand from the very first (sigh) note that this one is going to be a high quality song. I think this is more or less how i expected this whole album to sound like. a quiet folklore poetry heavy album. --but OH!! the way the song builds up in the second half got me!! LOVE IT LOVE IT. another one of the best ones.

15) the alchemy

I liked it. It has less elements that grip you on the first listen but i think it's one of those songs you won't able to get out of your head once you get them.

16) clara bow

this one surprised me. liked it a lot.

17) the black dog

I had high expectations for this one. I liked it. I'll need to listen to it again.

18) imgonnagetyouback

this is where I'm starting to hear this album's sound as its own (as in different from midnights 2.0). all the vocals have been very cohesive throughout the tracks. I love them. there's something unhinged about this album as a whole and I'm HERE FOR IT.

19) the albatross

perfect intro, I just knew from then it was going to be a 10/10 track already. this one is another one of the best ones. perfect. THIS is how i thought the album would sound like.

20) chloe or sam or sophia or marcus

beautiful, beautiful song. again I'm hearing something from evermore.

21) how did it end?

THE PIANOOOO!!! 🥺 THE VOCALS!!! ANOTHER FAVOURITE, AND ONE OF THE BEST ONES.

Maybe even my favorite???

22) so high school

90s vibes!!! again, but with the modern sound of the album. maybe I'm the only one who hears the 90s vibes and I'm making it up in my mind, but there's something slightly retro about it. and her mentioning american pie in the lyrics kind of confirms it. I'm in love with this song.

23) I hate it here

"I hate it here so i will go to secret gardens in my mind" ME TOO TAYLOR, ME TOO. love the melody of this song, and the concept. there's something delicate about it.

24) thanK you aIMee

i love that there's something from the past in this album, like taylor went back to her high school years bringing back old wounds and relating to how she is now.

25) I look in people's windows

what I'm loving about this album is how much more intimate it seems, compared to midnights. the sound may seem similar at first, but even that one is more intimate. It's less constructed, more unhinged at times, like she's writing her diary again, and that's something she hasn't done in a while, since folklore and evermore featured characters and stories that weren't necessarily autobiographical

26) the prophecy

I'M IN LOVE WITH THIS SOUND 😭😭😭 the whole album, and this song. It sounds so good. Another favorite.

27) cassandra

right there in my alley. immaculate vibes. I may cry this song is so beautiful. how much of a clown would that make me to say this is another favorite??

28) peter

why does taylor always put her best songs at the end of her albums, or in the extra/deluxe songs??? I'm in love with this one too, dammit. the melody and music is so perfect. one of the best ones??

29) the bolter

there's something of the early taylor in this song?? it's so cute

30) robin

ohhh. dreamy. something solemn, like a dreamy hymn? I can picture her sitting at the piano playing it, in front of an open window on a sunny morning with lots of green trees outside on the second floor.

31) the manuscript

again, somwhow this sounds exactly like i thought it would sound like. "but the story isn't mine anymore" hit 👌🏻🥺🥹

I think this album is going to be a little masterpiece. So many great songs. Catchy, but not in an obvious way. Very intimate. Emotional.

GENERAL THOUGHTS:

I'm obsessed already. I'm just mad at taylor for giving us incredible albums with half of them being digital only.

[mrs-gauche]

The “Flip it” Theory

(I’m sorry, it’s like 3am and I couldn’t come up with a better title. lol)

So.. Here’s another fun little DA tinfoil hat theory that you might have already heard about, but I don’t think I’ve seen it discussed on here before? It also probably sounds super unhinged, but at this point, can we even get any more unhinged in terms of theories? lol So, we might as well just embrace it. It’s just one of those theories that simply won’t leave my mind (especially when trying to sleep at 3am lol), so writing it down will hopefully put it to rest. 😁

Okay, so we all know that, in the Fade, the laws of gravity or physics in general don’t really apply and are all over the place, right? There’s no real sense of time or space, no real “up” or “down” as the Fade does not follow any rules of the waking world and is somewhat shaped by whatever the person dreaming expects reality to look like or quote, “is reflected by the mind of the living”.

So when we see the Inquisitor fall into Fade in “Here Lies the Abyss”, it’s even emphasized by how the camera movement in-game and the environment in the Fade has to “adjust” according to how the Inquisitor expects gravity to work, or rather, what the world’s supposed to look like to us, meaning the sky has to be up and the ground has to be down. lol

Additionally in Trespasser, we see that, not only is the Vir Dirthara scattered all over the place, but in parts also completely flipped upside down.

(I’m so sorry btw, I just now realized that looking at these gifs for too long can make you feel super dizzy. lol)

The reason I’m pointing this out, is because it keeps reminding me, for one, of this mural.

Of course, since this mural was first shown in the teaser trailer in 2020 and has been thoroughly analyzed by the fandom, it seems pretty clear by now that, with the way this mural is composed, particularly with the two upside down figures, BioWare intentionally encourages us to look at this image upside down. What’s even more intriguing to me, seeing as the Dread Wolf appears to break into the Black City here, “releasing” the raw magic of the Fade with its non existent rules of reality to the waking world and in doing so, figuratively and in some respects quite literally “turning the world upside down”.

Though while most people seem to focus on the two figures here (that are most definitely the two remaining Evanuris still sleeping/imprisoned or something like that, but that’s not the topic of this post lol), you might have heard of this other crazy theory suggesting that, when looking at this mural upside down, the shape of the Dread Wolf appears to roughly resemble that of a mountain.

(I warned you this leans VERY heavy on the tinfoil hat, but please don’t leave yet lol) Okay so, as far as I understand it, the theory suggests a potential connection to a particular mountain mentioned in the lore, called Belenas.

In a legend of the Avvar, it is said that Korth the Mountain-Father kept his throne at the peak of the mountain Belenas, which “lay at the center of the world”. The tale goes as follows:

Korth took his heart out of his chest and hid it within the Frostback Mountains to avoid being weakened by love. When his lack of heart turned him bitter and cruel, the Lady of the Skies sent her children to retrieve it. Though after all her children had failed to do so, the ptarmigan volunteered for the search. The Lady refused to give the tiny bird her blessing, as she thought the mountains was too fierce, but the ptarmigan succeeded where everyone else had failed. It found and freed the heart, allowing it to jump back into Korth's chest, where Hakkon Wintersbreath bound it once again. For her great deed, the ptarmigan was honored by the gods.

When Korth grew tired of heroes barging into his hall to claim the honors they thought they were due for climbing the mountain of the gods, he spoke to the Lady of the Skies, who then lifted Belenas from the earth into her realm, so no one could reach it anymore.

Legend says that Belenas was eventually destroyed during a battle between Korth and the serpent Nathramar, leaving only a vast crater behind that the Lady of the Skies “filled with her tears” and formed what we now know as Lake Calenhad.

Okay, so there’s a lot to dissect here, so I try to make it as brief as possible, but in short, people have noticed a number of intriguing parallels to different pieces of elven lore and theories in this tale, or what could be interpreted as such.

So I’m going to try and take this on one by one. Let’s start with this:

- Korth’s throne sits at the peak of mountain Belenas, at “the center of the world”.

- When looking at the mural from the teaser upside down again, it places the Black City (or the “Maker’s throne”, if you will) at the “peak” of the Dread Wolf shaped “mountain”. It is also known that the Black City sits at “the center of the Fade”, where no one is able to reach it.

- Korth takes his heart out of his chest and hides it within the Frostback Mountains. When his lack of heart turns him bitter and cruel, the Lady of the Skies sends her children to retrieve it.

- If we put in “Titan” for Korth and “Mythal” for the Lady of the Skies, this part is kinda reminiscent of what we know (or suspect) of Mythal, her conquering of the Titans (which would be the Frostback mountains in this comparison) and the theory of the ancient elves killing the Titans and obtaining their hearts, enabling them to create the foci/orbs/vessels of dreams that gives them god like powers. So Mythal sends out her “children”/army in the attempt to conquer the Titan and obtain its heart.

- After all the Lady’s children fail, the ptarmigan volunteers for the search. She refuses to give the tiny bird her blessing, as she thinks the mountains are too fierce, but the ptarmigan succeeds and retrieves the heart.

- Now, this part might be a bit of a reach, but when taking this even further and comparing this whole story to Mythal’s war against the Titans, looking at this tiny little nondescript bird defying the odds and ultimately leading the Lady of the Skies to “victory”, am I the only one who’s a little reminded of Greek mythology here (which, as I’ve mentioned numerous times before now, seems to be at least partially BioWare’s inspiration for the ancient elves), and how in Greek mythology, the Olympians’ victory over the (literal) Titans was the result of a cunning trick devised by Prometheus, who deserted from the Titans’ army beforehand.

And I know I’m certainly not the only one to have noticed a lot of odd similarities between the role of good old Prometheus in mythology and our very divisive Mr wanna-be-Wisdom Pride, aka Solas.

- For her great deed in retrieving Korth’s heart, the ptarmigan is honored by the gods.

- So while we’re at it, why not just compare the little bird to Solas then and assume that, for helping Mythal in her victory over the Titans and obtaining its heart, Solas is somehow honored and elevated to the status of godhood or at least into some sort of exclusive circle of those who the Evanuris trusted the most. (And even rewarded with his own orb, maybe? Might this be what we’re seeing in the mural depicting a Titan’s death?)

- When Korth grows tired of heroes barging into his hall to claim the honors of the gods, the Lady of the Skies lifts Belenas from the earth into her realm, so no one can reach it anymore.

- Now it gets a bit tricky.. If we take this part of the tale as Mythal “lifting” the now dead Titan into her own realm, meaning the sky, maybe it’s nothing more than a metaphor for Mythal mining the Titans’ blood and using the lyrium for her own empire (the creation of bodies for spirits?). Or maybe she literally lifted part of a dead Titan’s body into the sky and used it as a “cornerstone” to build the empire’s capital city Arlathan on top of it.

Which, again, would actually explain why the Black City *cough* Arlathan *cough* is depicted on top of the “mountain” in the 2020 upside down mural. Especially when adding that last part “so no one can reach it”, you know, just like the Black City can’t be reached within the Fade.

- Belenas was eventually destroyed during a battle between Korth and the serpent Nathramar, leaving only a vast crater behind that the Lady of the Skies “filled with her tears” and formed what we now know as Lake Calenhad.

- Again, this part could be interpreted in many different ways. I’ve seen theories spanning from Solas creating the Veil causing the magical floating Arlathan to fall from the sky and destroying the mountain in the process, to the Lady’s “tears” actually being Mythal’s (Great dragon) blood that somehow dripped in the lake when she was murdered, which is why centuries later, the actual Calenhad Theirin would gain special powers when he made a bargain with an old witch (Flemeth?) and drank from said lake.

So yeah, as you can see, there’s a lot to take from all this as far as unhinged tinfoil theories and strange parallels go. lol

And with all of this in mind, I’d like to look at the Black City in the 2020 teaser mural again, as you also might have notice that, in addition to the whole mountain shaped Dread Wolf, when turned upside down, the Black City appears to keep the silhouette of a city, no matter how you look at it?

In fact, a lot of depictions we’ve seen of the Black City share this rather oddly shaped silhouette.

There’s also this stained glass, depicting the city upside down and in both gold and black.

I actually don’t know what to take from all this. It’s just something I’ve noticed while gathering images. lol

But while we’re at it and flipping everything on its head now.. lol While I was looking at all the Trespasser murals again, I also noticed that, when flipped upside down, two of the murals actually form a full circle when put together.

And ohh, would you look at that, there’s the “mountain” (Titan) at the bottom again with the Black City “on top” of it, just like the mural in the 2020 teaser when flipped upside down?? 😂 (Also interesting parallel to note with Solas holding the orb(?) on both the left side of each mural.)

Now, I know I sound super unhinged and I actually don’t think this is supposed to mean anything and it’s probably just a crazy coincidence (..right??), but.... what IF we just go full on tinfoil here now and assume that it IS actually supposed to be looked at this way......

In all the murals we’ve seen thus far, the circle was always assumed to represent the Veil, right? So when looking at it this way, it would put the Titan inside the Fade within the Veil beneath the Black City, right?

So.. Here’s my crazy idea...

Even though we know the Fade is an ever-changing place not bound to any rules of reality or a set geography.. What if the rocky landscapes we see in the “raw Fade” are actually all part of a sleeping/dead Titan(s)?

And while we are looking at these rocks again, am I the only one reminded of the structures seen in the deepest level of the The Descent dlc, a gargantuan cavern located in the so called “Wellspring” within a Titan, which is grouped at the expedition table as a location within “the Uncharted Abyss”.

“The Abyss”, also called the Void in different cultures, myths and historical texts in DA lore, is said to be a place whose location is undefined, but believed to be somewhere within the Fade, “empty places between dreams” (or, according to Solas, the place where spirits are reborn).

So if we go back to the Wellspring again, where we’re looking at what appears to be a literal abyss, a vast sea of clouds.. What we expected to be the deepest and darkest place in the world is revealed to be a bright, seemingly endless “sky” beneath the earth, or rather a Titan.

And with all this in mind, it’s even more intriguing now to go back to the beginning of this post, where we established that, in the Fade, the sky is not set to be “above” or “beneath”. It all depends on the expectation or perspective of the beholder.

(And btw, funnily enough, I actually encountered a bug once at the Wellspring that made it look like the sky was actually “falling down” on me. lol)

And lastly, in relation to all of this, I also want to point out this little quote, said by Flemeth in DA2:

“The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss.”

While we all know our favorite old witch likes to be overly ambiguous and cryptic in her phrasing, maybe we should take this quote more literal than we previously thought? lol Maybe, with the Veil collapsing some way or another and the angry tainted Titans awakened, the world might literally lose its so called “Pillars of the Earth”, plummeting into the endless void we’ve seen in The Descent.....

Well, shit.

Anyway, I’m afraid that’s all I had to say lol, and if you actually made it this far, thank you so much for engaging in this insanity. 😁 (And sorry if this turned out to be a total waste of your time. 😂)

Though I do have to mention, what actually prompted me to write this post in the first place, was seeing how some people are expecting Solas to be at the White Spire now after reading the synopsis of the upcoming comic series “The Missing” (if you want to know why, skip to the end of this post lol). The White Spire being an Antivan mountain with a very particular shape (at least according to this illustrated map of Thedas that came with every copy of Tevinter Nights).

(I can see where this thing got its name from. lol It almost reminds me of a volcano? 😂)

Which just so happens to ALSO kinda resemble the shape of the “upside down mountain” shaped Dread Wolf from the 2020 mural....

So.. take from this information whatever you like, because I don’t know anything anymore... My head hurts from all this spinning. I’m out. 🥴

[waltwhitmansbeard]

hello! a few hours from now, the epilogue of go on, claim my heart, the my fair lady sequel, is gonna be posting, so i wanted to take a minute to thank everyone who has stopped by my lil corner of the internet to read what has become my largest writing project to date. i had no idea what i was getting myself into when i first started writing mfl, especially not half a year of feverish, near-obsessive plotting and writing and rewriting this story that would not leave me alone. a lot of things fell to the wayside as i wrote mfl and gocmh, and i don't regret any of it, because i can safely say that this is the writing that i am the most proud of.

i want to thank @romeoandjulietyouwish in particular for her graciously allowing me to play in her sandbox. no one's mind works like lis's, and as i have said before, she comes up with so many fucking stellar ideas that she leaves crumbs for the rest of us, so i'm super grateful that she's so kind about letting us take those crumbs and make them our own. mfl wouldn't exist without you, lis, so thank you, thank you, thank you.

i also could not wrap this series without calling out the two best readers a girl could ask for, @ravendruid and @crispysnake. y'all are fucking unhinged, but it is the exact energy that every writer needs to keep going. i can't tell you the number of times a drabble or chapter posted that i wasn't particularly fond of that you two completely changed my opinion about. you two are the kindest, most enthusiastic, most generous readers, and i'm so lucky that you're also my friends. please continue to be absolutely batshit in my tags; it's the only thing that keeps me going.

(also @otterlycaleb made fucking ART about this shit, what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK—)

a hopefully but probably not quick note about the future of mfl: today, like literally right now, i am in the middle of my first day of work at a brand new job, one that will require me to move my entire life halfway across the country, back to my hometown. it is big and scary and exhilarating and everything i've been hoping for, and i feel so, so lucky. this does mean that for the next little bit, while i learn a new job and pick up my shit and drive cross-country, i will probably be less able to write long or short fics, so i hope y'all don't mind me shutting up for the first time in forever. that being said, while i have absolutely no plans to write a third installment in the mfl 'verse, that doesn't mean there isn't more to say (as y'all will find out in like three and a half hours lol). i fully plan on still writing tmwiw drabbles set before, during, and after mfl/gocmh, and i will still be accepting prompts and requests for drabbles set in this 'verse until i say otherwise. mfl will always occupy an inordinate amount of my brain space, and i refuse to not share that with y'all.

additionally! starting very soon (like, maybe tomorrow? we'll see how busy i am, lol), i will be posting to ao3 the entirety of the mfl 'verse in chronological order. every chapter, one-shot, and drabble, in the order that they happened. another massive shout-out to @ravendruid for being my own personal lore-keeper on this; she read every single mfl chapter, tmwiw drabble, and one-shot to help me get this shit in order. the ao3 work will be titled i've come a long, long way (also from "my fair lady" by kaleo, are we seeing a pattern here?), and the plan is to post five chapters a day until the whole thing is up (although, again, with the moving this might get a lil wibbly wobbly). there will be some additional proofreading edits to these chapters (sometimes i can't spell!!) but nothing about the substance of these chapters will change, so this is just for people who like their stories to be told chronologically (fucking weirdos). this work will only be available on ao3, although it will be linked on my mfl masterpost.

ok, i think i am done for now. i have taken up enough of your time, in so many more ways than one. thank you again, if you read every single installment of the mfl saga or if you just read a paragraph. all of it means the world to me, and i know i never would have continued past the first chapter if i weren't part of such a wonderful, loving, generous, brilliant community. i've only been watching critical role for just over a year now, part of the fandom for even less than that, and i can't believe i haven't always had y'all in my life. please continue to love and support each other, and thank you for loving and supporting me.

[shepherds-of-haven]

No thoughts, just the Shepherds playing monopoly

I could have sworn I answered this before, but apparently not! Get ready for some chaos...

Blade: he is peak... him when playing Monopoly, because he keeps insisting on playing it like a war game and waging guerilla tactics against his competitors in order to bankrupt their “forces” and claim their land as his own. No one knows if he’s doing it out of malicious compliance from being forced to play, or if he’s sincerely, earnestly unable to play a game without making it about battle and violence. Anyway, he won one time and was silently insufferable about it--nothing is more irritating than the Commander’s stoic face looking just slightly smug without him saying anything--so no one wants to play with him anymore, which suits him just fine because then he can stay a champion without having to constantly defend his title. He also has fairly bad luck when it comes to gambling, so the dice seem to conspire to screw him over quite a lot. 

Trouble: he gets excited and jubilant to play every time, but hits a breaking point when the other players start playing “dirty” and not “playing fair”--IE using tactics and techniques that he can’t keep up with or manipulating him. Then it’s the time for Rage and shouting and violence and indignation. He insists on keeping a “judge” or referee around whenever they play so the referee can comment on whether or not certain moves are fair and allowed, but he always ends up bullying the ref and yelling at them, too, leading once to tears on Shery’s part, which led to Briony and Ayla getting into an all-out brawl with him. He won that fight, but has never won a single game of Monopoly. Still, his dogged determination to keep playing never wavers. More on his violence in the other entries.

Tallys: she played with them one time before realizing how unhinged they all were. Here’s part of her journal entry for that day: Never before had I contemplated what a thread-thin line it is that separates us from the demons. Each of us possesses the power to bring an entire city to its knees, and it would not take very much to tip us over that precipice. Even a mere game is enough to tempt us to the path of darkness. Pride cometh before a fall, and I fear we are all balancing precariously on the edge of a knife.

Long story short: she has the smarts to win, but it’s just not worth it.

Shery: she is actually very competent at Monopoly and is good enough strategically to keep up with Red, Lavinet, and Riel, sometimes showing an unpredictable streak of merciless logic. However, she tends to feel bad about rubbing things in or making others feel bad, so she sometimes quietly makes wrong moves and mistakes towards the end of the game. Riel called her out on it once, and she admitted she likes commiserating with everyone and having fun with them instead of winning, because everyone loathes the victor lol. But she could destroy at Monopoly if she wanted to! She puts on a pot of calming tea whenever they decide to play, but assures everyone it’s caffeinated lol. Regardless, it never helps...

Riel: he is not allowed to play with them. He is horrible with Monopoly. But not in that he’s bad... in that he’s way too good. And competitive. And ruthless. And the whole “he can think twelve steps ahead of everyone else” intelligence and analytical skill is combined with an insufferably condescending attitude (not even really on purpose... that’s just how he is). Imagine having an opponent who absolutely destroys you every time you play with him-- sometimes yawning while you play, sometimes sighing and explaining to you what exact moves you could have made to actually put up a fight against him or even have a chance of winning, and exactly what you did to go wrong. Imagine buying a Monopoly property and glancing across the table at Riel, who looks like:

One time Trouble physically reached across the table, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and dragged him across the board game to throttle him. The worst part about it was that, when it upset the game pieces and overturned the board, Riel commented that he had memorized every piece position and each player's money exactly, so there was no need to stop the game. Another time, Ayla actually stood and gave him a black eye for buying Reading Railroad when she had been saving up for it (well, it was really when he answered, “I know.”). This violence shocked Riel--who had never really been physically hurt by another person before--so deeply that he didn’t speak for the rest of the game. However, he still won, even with only one good eye. 

After that, it was decided that Riel can only play the game through a proxy, and to cap him further, that person has to make half of the decisions while Riel is allowed to suggest the other half, with no discussion between the two of them. Unfortunately for Riel, the only person who would want to be his proxy turned out to be Caine, whose blithe spiritual resilience and enjoyment of winning allowed him to withstand Riel’s controlling demeanor. However, he also drives Riel insane because he’s 12 and makes the unpredictable moves of a 12-year-old boy. 

Chase: Truth be told, he never learned how to play Monopoly or what the point of the game is, because any time anyone tries to explain game rules to him longer than five seconds, his eyes glaze over, or he even get bored and wanders off. Now he plays only to amuse himself by trolling the others; his favorite past time is to replace other players’ pieces with stupid things and see how long it takes for them to notice. The thimble becomes a button, the dog becomes a nut, and etc. Interestingly, he has extremely good luck, and whether by cheating or fortune, he can make the dice roll to any number he wants. Briony, Lavinet, and Red regularly bribe him to help them out with important rolls; thus, another rule has been instated that he can only roll another player’s dice once per game. Typically, they bribe him with more stuff to replace their game pieces with.

Red: he has a strategic mind to rival Riel’s, but he lacks the desire to crush his enemy under his bootheel in order to win at all costs. He tries to make it light-hearted and good, wholesome fun, but it never really goes that way. Still, somehow things work in his favor anyway, and he can cheerfully go, “Oh, I can buy Park Place!” as if just realizing it, an attitude which drives most others crazy. After Riel, he is technically in second place for most games won; he would be tied with Shery if she actually won the games she was in the position to without pretending to lose. However, everyone else being so competitive has made him reluctant to play, so typically he can only be persuaded to if everyone is extra nice to him and promises not to scream to the gods for the others to drop dead on the spot. 

Ayla: you might think Trouble is the likeliest to flip over the game board/table, but it’s actually Ayla. She gets easily confused and irritated, bending over the pieces and scratching her head furiously like “wtf is going on??” This makes her angrier, and when Riel starts to gloat, she’s lunging across the table and having to be held back by Briony or Blade; one time she even tried to bite him. She doesn’t even want to play nowadays, but can’t stand to be left out. When she's not so angry the room is spinning, she does alright, and generally can do second or third-best if Riel or Lavinet are not involved (for some reason she does better against Red or Shery).

Halek: are you joking? you think he would play an hours-long game with those maniacs? as soon as he hears the rattle of the game board, he dissipates into the air like smoke

Briony: Briony’s got the spirit of things, but she’s not quite cut out for Monopoly. She keeps trying to bend the rules to work on teams with other people, proposing combining their finances and working together to win the game, like “yay okay let’s be allies ❤!!!” This works out in her favor like 50% of the time; sometimes someone like Red or Shery agrees, even though that’s not really how you play, and they might win; sometimes she gets absolutely burned, notably once by Lavinet, because her partner will then betray her in some way. This drives her to hysterical tears, but otherwise, she can generally handle losing with a smile and a desire to keep the peace. However, she can get riled up when the others get riled up, like “okay Trouble stop yelling and settle down, you’re going to knock over Shery’s tea...” *Trouble knocks over Shery’s tea* *Briony tackles him* “I SAID SETTLE DOWN!”

Lavinet: Behind Riel, Red, and Shery, she’s the best at the game, since Monopoly is fairly similar to the work she does for the fiefdom. She’s also the best at manipulating the others and occasionally even flirting her way to Pennsylvania Ave. She doesn’t care about winning as much as the others--she is very good at dismissing any loss as “just a game” or “it’s not that important, darling”--but is a smug winner just like the rest of them, unleashing her ojou-sama laugh at the moment of her impending victory. Trouble once described that laugh as “the shrieking of a thousand harpies”. Other than that, though, she’s a fairly normal player, though she barely bats an eye at the violent extremes everyone else takes it to. 

[amiedala]

SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 4: An Open Wound

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, canon-compliant violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of past abuse/trauma

SUMMARY:  “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello my loves and happy Something Deeper Saturday! this chapter is truly a whirlwind, it's hard and sweet and intense and simple all at once. there are very graphic descriptions of violence and death in the one (in the form of Force visions, no one's actually dying, I PROMISE!!!), so please be aware that there is potentially triggering material in what you're about to read. it mentions past abuse and dives pretty deep into current violence, so please just read with caution! i hope you enjoy this journey—i certainly did writing it! more notes at the end!!! <3

*

Mandalore isn’t a ghost town.

Not how Nova originally thought, anyway. The throne room is filled with wary, armored people. Some are the guards that usually stand watch outside, through the giant palace doors. Nova recognizes Koska Reeves and Axe Woves from the brief, charged encounters she’s had with each of them. Bo-Katan is there, of course, regal and pristine, her shoulders pushed back, her red hair impeccable. There are a handful of villagers that Nova’s seen in passing, but besides the few faces she recognizes, most of the people gathered in the throne room have been hidden somewhere on Mandalore, away from this strange Capitol, away from the everyday. Half of them are without armor, without impressive beskar helmets to hide their wary expressions. Bo-Katan’s icy, measured gaze is clearly a popular currency on Mandalore, because every single person in this room looks skeptical at best and enraged at worst. Nova keeps her eyes on Din, who’s decided to stand at the helm of the dais instead of taking a seat on the beskar throne, watching his every movement to ensure he’s safe up there, and that he stays unharmed.

“I want...to be your leader,” Din says, his voice quiet but earnest. He sounds like he’s incredulous at his own words, like he’s reading off a script he’s never seen before. But there’s power hidden underneath whatever’s scaring him, an undercurrent that Nova knows is unfettered, genuine passion. “I wasn’t raised in the way of Mandalore. Not in the ways that you were—”

“Clearly,” Koska whispers, and the Mnadalorians standing closest to her proximity offer uncharacteristic smiles and snorts. Nova steps forward, but Bo-Katan raises her sharp hand at her side, and they immediately fall silent.

Din looks back at Nova, and for the first time, she can see the fear in his eyes. She nods, encouragingly, even though she has absolutely no clue what point he’s trying to make. Every time she closes her eyes, even if it’s only for a heartbeat, she sees the strange, young hologram of her face, with the word MURDER, MURDER, MURDER flashing back at her, a ceaseless and terrible pattern. Nervously, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, realizing that she’s the only person in this room who isn’t outfitted in Mandalorian regalia. Her black shirt has remnants of dust on the sleeves from the amphitheater. Her pants saw their best days weeks ago. Her shawl, the only proof that she wears any sort of allegiance to the throne, Mandalorian blue and regal, is thrown haphazardly over her rounded shoulders. The boots on her feet are older than her relationship with Din, picked up planets and planets ago, somewhere sunny and warm and an entire lifetime away. When Din’s panicked brown eyes find hers again, Nova smiles, taking a half-step forward, trying to portray anything other than her own frenzied state, the hammering heartbeat that could likely be heard outside of the palace.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Din finally continues, turning back to the crowd. Even from this angle, with most of his face obscured, Nova knows how hard it is for him to stand here, in front of dozens of people, without his helmet, how many rules he thinks he’s breaking, how this must feel like agony. He reaches for the Darksaber hanging on his belt, and when it ignites, every single face in the room is on Din, on that horrific, captivating blade of electricity and death. “I won this in battle. Twice. Both were accidents,” He inhales heavily, studying the flickering, wicked blade. “But they still happened. I wasn’t born on Mandalore. I wasn’t raised here, either. I’ve given some of you this speech before, when I first took the throne.” He exhales through his nose, and Nova wets her dry lips. Her throat feels like the middle of the day on Tatooine, parched and treacherous. “I...I am not a Mandalorian in the way that you’re Mandalorians.” Nova chances another half-step forward, letting the captive, tensioned room blur in her vision as she just focuses on Din. There’s a tremor in his voice, something alive and unsteady, something she only notices because she’s spent over a year studying every inch of him, memorizing Din right down to his bloodstream. “I follow a Creed that you don’t. I’ve spent most of my life trying...trying to be a good soldier, a true Mandalorian. I know I’m not the leader you wanted. I’m not even sure if I’m the leader I wanted. But I’m the one we’ve got, at least for right now. And—” Din exhales sharply, his breath strained, and Nova knows he’s suppressing a sigh, “I swear, I will try my best to do right by this planet. But—but I’m not only the reigning Mand’alor. I’m—”

“Right,” Axe interjects, but there's no malice in his tone. Nova stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest, staring over at him. But he doesn’t look threatening. His smile seems genuine, like he;s just attempting to get Din to lighten up. “And a bounty hunter. A damn good one, at that. He’s caught me twice.”

“Three times,” Nova corrects, and her eyes go wide when she realizes that everyone’s attention is now on her. “But,” she continues, rather nervously, trying to square back her shoulders in a shoddy imitation of Bo-Katan to not display that nervousness, “Din hasn’t been just a bounty hunter in a long time.”

Din sheathes the Darksaber, and instead turns his outstretched hand to Nova. Heart pounding, she slides her hand into his large, gloved one, trying not to show the massive tremble in her fingers. Quietly, he reaches for the Skywaker lightsaber hanging from her belt, and when Nova hesitates, he lets her hand close over the grip instead. Bo-Katan moves forward, so quickly Nova doesn’t even notice, and when she ignites the crisp, illuminated blue blade, half of the people gathered in the throne room draw a weapon. Nova’s expecting Bo-Katan to do the same, but she raises one impeccable eyebrow and turns back towards the room.

“Stop,” she says, and immediately, the majority of the room lowers whatever weapon of choice they’re gripping. Nova manages a tiny, stuttered breath. “She’s not going to hurt us.”

“She,” a voice says from the back of the room, “is wanted by multiple parties. Contacts all over the galaxy will pay a pretty price for Andromeda Maluev, you know. I accepted the cult member as Mand’alor. I accepted you standing down from the throne, Bo-Katan. I will not accept harboring a criminal,” he continues, voice as icy as Hoth, “and a Jedi, at that.”

Din moves forward, all tension, all rage, but Bo-Katan holds up that same, steady hand, and the man making his way across the foreground halts in the same beat that Din does. Nova pulls her own lightsaber back, pocketing it, pulling the shawl higher over her shoulders, trying to unclench her jaw before all of her teeth break off in her mouth. She’s tired. So tired. Exhausted, slogging through this conversation, her heartbeat accelerating, stars shooting out behind her eyes. And still, this time, when she closes them, all she sees is MURDER, MURDER, MURDER.

“Her name,” Bo-Katan returns, measured and cool, “is Novalise Djarin. And yes, she is wanted by both the scum that still survived after the Empire’s demise, and a middleman somewhere in between which we cannot identify yet. Yes, she is a Jedi, or at least is certainly heading in that way. Yes, I stood down from the title. But that wasn’t because I was weak, or because I wanted them on the throne.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Nova,” Bo-Katan interjects, “I’ve got this.” She steps off the lowest stair on the dias, posture perfect, right arm curled around her distinctive helmet. Everything in her screams royalty, regality. Behind her eyes is a fire so much stronger than the ice in her voice. “I didn’t want this. Neither did you. But Din won the Darksaber, fair and square. And Mandalore isn’t what it used to be. None of us are, either. We’re good at surviving, but we’re even better at fighting. And I believe,” she says, pointedly, glancing over at Din, who’s still coiled in an attack position, “that was the point our Mand’alor was getting to. So let him finish. With your mouths closed.”

The man who spoke, wizened but grizzled, exhales angrily through his nose, but his mouth stays clamped shut. Bo-Katan stands at attention, nodding back at Din.

“War is coming,” Din continues stiffly, and half of the people crowded around the room roll their eyes or mutter under their breath.

“War is always coming,” another woman enunciates, “it’s what the galaxy knows best.”

“War is coming,” Din repeats, and Nova has to force herself to unfurl her palms. Before she can even try to jump to his aid, though, he walks down the steps and presses his flat palm against the holotable. Reflected in the glittering dome above them is thousands of pixels of blue light. Nova’s juvenile mugshot is up there for the entire room to see, but so are statistics from every mission they’ve engaged in, anything even remotely related to the Order. Hundreds of faces swarm the screen, all with interwoven lines connecting them to other profiles and rotating planets. There, at the center of the screen, is the First Order’s name in menacing, large letters. Underneath are the silhouettes of Luke, Nova, and Grogu. When Din opens his mouth this time, his words are vivid and clear. “I know that Mandalore has been razed and sieged. I know that in your eyes, I’m not one of you. I know that none of you signed up for another battle. But I also know that fighting,” Din says, his voice weary, but his dark eyebrow raised, “is what’s in our blood. All of us.”

“I won’t follow a ruler who isn’t a true Mandalorian,” the same man finally continues. He steps towards them, and his face is angry and ghastly in the flickering blue light. His rage is barely concealed, and Nova’s hand flies unconsciously to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. “And I certainly won’t protect a Jedi who doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, then,” Nova says, and she’s so bone-dead tired that she doesn’t realize she’s the one who’s speaking until the second word is out of her mouth, “good thing I can protect myself.” She chances a glance at Din, who could very easily be aggravated at her stoking the fire. The only thing written across his face, though, is pride. Nova’s eyes flicker over to Bo-Katan, who is somehow, unbelievably, wearing the same exact expression.

Din slams his fist down on the holotable, sending all of the blue light back into the atmosphere it came from. The low light of the war room is returned to its usual state, but no one speaks. “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

Still, no one moves.

“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan snaps, icily, all of her usual vigor and venom back in her voice, and it’s like she’s given an order no one can deny. Half of the Mandalorians nod in wary agreement, and the other half keep their low mumbles close to their chests, all of them shuffling out of the throne room, presumably to disperse outside. When the heavy door closes shut, with only the three of them remaining, Bo-Katan turns back to Nova. Din is already climbing the steps back up the dais where the menacing beskar throne sits to retrieve his fallen helmet. When he pulls it back over his handsome face, it’s like closing an open wound.

Nova looks at Bo-Katan, who doesn’t look nearly as threatening in this low light. Her hair is slightly ruffled, and the hard set of her jaw is tense, electric. “Bo-Katan,” Nova whispers, and her gaze snaps impeccably back to Nova’s. “Thank you,” Nova continues, earnest, “for defending me. Defending us. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Bo-Katan counters, but there’s the ghost of a small smile on her beautiful, cold face. “They were wrong, and they needed to hear that. See? I’m not always a total bitch.”

The word—so commonplace, so foreign—sounds absolutely ludicrous coming out of her mouth that it makes Nova laugh out loud. The sound is both musical and jarring, and the tension held in Bo-Katan’s shoulders evaporates, even if it’s only momentarily.

“Noted,” Nova says, smiling. Maker and all the stars above, she’s exhausted. Bo-Katan glances back at Din, armored and impenetrable, and then back at Nova.

“You need sleep,” Bo-Katan allows, pulling her own helmet back over her head. “Both of you. I’ll stay down here and monitor any incoming correspondence. I’m too wired to go to bed anytime soon.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her usual edge is back in her tone. “And I will. Go.” She raises that commanding arm again, and Nova’s too exhausted to resist. She wants to take a shower and wash the last few days off of her, and then sleep for three more. Her scar hurts. Her shoulders ache. Her head feels impossibly heavy. Silently, she lets Din lead her over to the heavy double doors, her ears buzzing with fatigue, but before they step into the hall, Nova hears her name chase her across the war room. In tandem, she and Din turn, watching Bo-Katan ignite the blue holotable. There’s something unreadable about her, even under the helmet. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and the heaviness of her words is louder than the doors when they close on her impenetrable face.

*

Steam from the shower fills the entire fresher. It’s wet and hot, the humidity seeping deep into Nova’s skin, burrowing under the residual ache from the last few days, nestling between her cold bones from the chill back on Ahch-To, the frigidity back on Hoth. Din joins her once he wrestles off the rest of the armor, and before Nova can explain she wants him, but it’s impossible right now with how exhausted she is, how she can barely keep her eyes open, Din wordlessly lathers up his hands with her favorite, clean-smelling soap, gently raking the suds through her hair.

Nova sighs in the silence, letting her shoulders hunch over, her body weight alleviated by sagging against the warm shower walls and by the soft grip Din has on her arms, making sure she stays upward. For what feels like years, they stand together under the warm running water, reveling in the steam, the heat, without either of them needing to say anything. Din wraps Nova’s long hair up in the freshly washed towel, while she dries off the residual runoff down her arms, her thighs.

The room is cool and dark in the blue twilight, that same fog and haze sinking over the horizon. Wherever the rest of the Mandalorians went, they’ve all but disappeared off the face of the planet. Everything is an eerie kind of quiet, no bugs, no animals, no clamor, nothing that signifies any kind of sentient life outside of the castle. Most nights, that kind of awful silence makes Nova wired, like it permeates even into her dreams, but not here, not now. She has what feels like years’ worth of sleep to catch up on, and the second that Din pulls back the fluffy, silk comforter on their giant bed, Nova steps out of the towel and into the soft cocoon. Din’s barely even settled up behind her before she drifts off somewhere peaceful, somewhere that’s not here.

*

She sleeps. For hours, maybe days, Nova sleeps. It’s dreamless and empty, warm and safe. Usually, nightmares flicker and flash through her mind, her legs sprinting away from whatever menace or threat is chasing her, but not tonight. Nothing wakes Nova up, not the strange quiet, not Din tossing next to her, not the immeasurable weight of saving the galaxy on her shoulders. She sleeps, uninterrupted and powerfully, swaddled up under the light blue blankets that are somehow keeping all the bad things away.

In the end, it’s not a nightmare that startles her away, nor is it Din’s unshaven face pressing into the crook of her neck. It’s the sleepy, quiet beeping of her commlink, which has somehow been removed from its usual place on her wrist and is buried under the extra pillows that stand sentinel over their bed when neither Nova or Din is there.

Din, at this very moment, is also nowhere to be found, and Nova rakes a hand through her hair, tries and fails to suppress a yawn, and digs through the array of pillows on the floor until she can see the bright, red light. “Hello?” she asks, her voice still off somewhere in dreamland, and she rubs sleep from her eyes as she collapses down on the bed, body still stuck in sleep.

“Hey,” Nova hears, and it’s halfway through another yawn before she realizes it’s Cara calling. “Listen, I’d love to actually catch up, but—”

“You have news?” Nova asks, suddenly wide awake. She smooths the comforter out under her hand, crossing one of her legs underneath the other. Outside, the sky is dark.

“I have news,” Cara confirms, grimly. “I know Wedge called you to Hoth a week or so ago because there was a prison break somewhere outside of my jurisdiction.”

Nova nods before she remembers Cara can’t see her. “Yeah,” she adds, belatedly. “Yeah, but no one seemed suspicious or in league with the Order, and it was a holding cell full of minor offenders, so it was kind of a dead end.”

“Well, it was,” Cara sighs, “until it wasn’t. We were right, kind of, because no one who escaped was linked to the First Order. But the night after that prison break happened, your photo with your old name and manufactured crimes popped up as a hit from the Guild.”

Nova’s heart sinks. Something suffocating is blocking her airway, and she tries to swallow past the feeling before she can exhale. “What does that mean?” she manages, barely, hand fluttering around her necklace, pressing into the embossed star.

“Someone’s setting you up,” Cara continues, and her voice is gentler than Nova’s ever heard it. “Someone who likely knows you or Din, knows how to get under your skin. The reason why this is so dangerous is because whoever did it knows exactly what they’re doing. I’ve tried, and Karga has tried, but we can’t even identify where the hit originated from, let alone who put it out. We’re not going to stop looking, but it’s going to be hard to figure out who did it. And because the warrant is for you alive or dead…” Cara trails off, the silence buzzing and dangerous.

Nova closes her eyes before she fills in the blanks. “I’m going to be in danger anywhere I go.”

“Listen,” Cara tries, but it’s too late. Nova’s still exhausted, she’s in pain, she has no idea where Din went, and all she wants to do is to bury her face in Grogu’s head and smell his sweet, reassuring baby smell. Her heart aches. “Novalise, I’m not going to let them get to you. You have some of the strongest forces in the galaxy who’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Nova whispers, “and I appreciate that, Cara, I do, so much, but—but Mandalore isn’t exactly a safe haven, either. The planet knows I can use the Force, and besides that, most of the people Din’s supposed to be ruling hate our guts. I’m not scared of being left to defend myself, because it’s kind of what I’ve learned to be best at. But with what you’re telling me, there’s not a single safe place left in the galaxy for me right now.”

Cara’s silence is deafening. Nova’s heart sinks just a little bit deeper, swimming around somewhere in her stomach. “It’s not forever,” she says, but her voice is a little too glum to be anywhere near reassuring.

“I’m so tired,” Nova admits, feeling tears bubbling up at the corners of her eyes. “And I can’t rest, because that’s when someone can get me. I mean—what would you do, if you were me, Cara?”

Nova can hear Cara moving, a soft rustle underneath the comm. When she speaks again, her voice is low and clear, like she’s telling a secret that only Nova can hear. “I would do what we both know you’re going to do. You’re the rebel girl, remember?” She pauses. “So rebel.”

Nova watches as the comm clicks off, everything in her body electric, a live wire. Before she can bolt to Kicker, or try to find where Din’s hidden in the chambers of the palace, or call Wedge and tell him she’s coming back to Hoth, the door opens, and Din walks in.

“Hi,” Nova breathes, suddenly very aware she’s not wearing any clothes, which is completely ridiculous, because Din has seen, ravaged, and worshipped every inch of it. “Where were you?”

She watches as Din crosses over the floor, the low light of the day catching on his armor. He sighs, moving closer to Nova until he’s standing in between her open legs. Halfheartedly, he hooks his fingers under the rim of the helmet, but gives up completely the second Nova’s hands reach to pull it off instead. Underneath, his mustache isn’t manicured, his hair has been weighed down by the metal, and he looks about as exhausted as she feels.

“Ruling,” Din says, tiredly, and there’s a flint to it Nova hardly hears. He lets out a small scoff in the silence, and she reaches out the smooth palm of her right hand for his cheek to nestle against. “Trying to get the people of this planet to recognize I’m not here to destroy it, or that you—we’re not the enemy.” He catches his slip almost as quickly as it comes out of his mouth, but still, Nova’s heart sinks deep down in her chest again. “I didn’t—look, Nova, I’m not blaming you—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though they both know it’s not. For a second, Din just stares at her, and then he presses his forehead against hers. The warmth his skin gives off is almost enough to make her forget about where they are, about the people that refuse to see her as an ally, about having to save the galaxy from forces that want her dead or for their own malicious intent. “They’ll come around,” she offers, her voice barely there, and Din shakes his head, his hair rustling against Nova’s forehead.

“What if they don’t?” Din asks, and by the weight in his voice, it’s clear he’s not just talking about Mandalore accepting her as the Mand’alor’s riduur, as an ally, as on their side, but about the infiltrated Guild that’s out to kill her, and the First Order that’s out for worse.

Nova’s quiet for a long time, just listening to him breathe, trying to map both of their heartbeats, yearning for the constellations hiding above the hazy Mandalore sky. “What if we can’t do it?” she whispers, her mouth hollow, her head aching. “Any of this? What if we can’t pull this off, Din?” She doesn’t point out the specifics, the weight of planets hanging over both of their heads. They both know what she means. The silence is horrible, but Nova keeps her eyes closed, just like she used to, predicting every move Din will make in the dark.

“Then we don’t,” Din breathes back, and Nova’s about to resist, tears springing back to life in her eyes, and then Din’s mouth is on hers and nothing else matters. She lets him sprawl her back on the bed, the smooth satin coaxing and cool under her skin. Stars are burning out behind her eyes, the same celestial imprints that flood through hyperspace, something more, something deeper, something beyond this planet, this moment, this darkness. When Din’s mouth leaves Nova’s, her eyes stay shut, and his lips trail down to her ear. “I’d give everything else up but you.”

They both know he’s lying—Din’s heart is too big, Nova’s purpose is too bright—but neither of them say it out loud. Nova keeps his words in the hollow of her mouth, something shiny and devastating, a supernova or a pearl.

Din kisses Nova like he’s never had her before, low and desperate. It’s an echo of what happened in the amphitheater just hours ago, but it’s sustained, huge, warm. His mouth is made to devour, and if he’s whispering anything to feel the silence, Nova can’t hear it. She’s focused on where his kisses are trailing, desperate and hot and everything she didn’t know she needed. It’s freezing in here, but he’s so warm, his body heat louder than the cold.

“Kiss me,” Din whispers, his voice rough, a plea. One of his hands comes up and braces against Nova’s chin, not an order, but a question. She reaches towards his neck, trying to pull him down, to anchor their bodies together. It’s dark in their room. Without the stars shining above, it’s even darker.

She’s so tired. Still, even after all that rest, it’s like the exhaustion has permeated Nova straight down to her bones. She shudders and sighs as Din moves down her naked body, his lips planting kisses that she doesn’t know she needs until he’s already there. It’s easy and devastating and wonderful and crushing all at once. When Nova tries to return the favor, Din gently pushes her down, mumbling something about taking care of her.

It’s sweet. So sweet, even, that she’s on the verge of tears. Nova would do anything to stay here forever, to feel her husband’s lips on her bare skin, washing away all of the horror, the trauma, the darkness. She doesn’t open her eyes, even though she wants to. Din’s spent so much time without his helmet to appear like one of the people that call themselves Mandalorians, and she wants to give him back every single second of the time that prying eyes stole away.

Before long, Nova’s already close—her orgasm bubbling up quietly, without fanfare, without dramatics, just because Din knows exactly how to make her body sing—and when she taps at his arm to let him know, his mouth unlatches from the small hickies he’s leaving on the terrain of her bare stomach, and moves in between her thighs.

Effortlessly, he hold her legs up, hooking both of them around his shoulders so that his tongue can stay anchored in place. Nova moans, a quiet, radiant thing, and Din’s tongue finds exactly where she needs it to go. It pulses there, on the sweetest of spots, over and over again until she’s finished.

Breathless, she claws at his pants again, but Din shakes his head, his mouth dropping to her forehead as he pulls her into bed. “Rest, Nova,” he whispers, his voice faraway, a deep rumble. He pulls her in against his body, warm and soothing, and both of them are out before their heads hit their pillow.

*

Din’s asleep next to her, his slow, even breaths barely anything even in all the silence. Nova wants to fall back to sleep, but she knows she can’t. Her heartbeat is running itself rampant, and she’s a tangle of wants and needs, everything pulled in opposite directions. As quietly as she can, she slides herself out from the protective warmth of Din’s arms and the comforter, gently placing her feet on the floor. Even in the cool darkness of the night, her wardrobe, sleek but huge, has nothing but clothes in the same shades of Mandalorian blue, of beskar silver, but right now, Novalise doesn’t want to be a Mandalorian. She doesn’t want to be royalty, doesn’t want to be a figurehead. She doesn’t exactly want to be a Rebel either, because both titles mean the ultimate fate of the Outer Rim and beyond in her hands, so she settles for somewhere in between.

When she’s all dressed—black monochrome right down to her scuffed boots, in a weak imitation of the Luke Skywalker style—she braids the top half of her hair back, sleek and functional, and chooses a shawl buried at the back of her closet, underneath all of the Mandalorian haze of clothing. It’s a stormy grey that shimmers with the silver her husband wears when the fabric catches the light. If you pay close enough attention to the shawl, small, intentional stitches of rust and orange are woven into the fabric, hidden, furious, tiny flames.

Not exactly Mandalorian, but not entirely Rebel, either. And when Nova looks at herself in the mirror, studying the way her eyes flash with all that fire she was so certain was gone a few minutes ago, she sees herself right down to the quick, the high wire in between—she looks something like a Jedi.

So she pulls the Skywalker family lightsaber out of the hook on her door and pulls it to her belt loop, watching as the metal sways and dances in the low light. The weapon seems ancient, like something from another world. Something holy, even though she knows Luke Skywalker is a man and not a myth.

When she closes the bedroom door behind her, Din doesn’t even move. Usually, Nova’s the loud and clumsy one, worlds more obnoxious than Din’s practiced quiet, but she’s grown into her stealth over the last few weeks, especially living here, in a palace that has more rooms than the planet does people. It’s strange and eerie here at night, down the sprawling marble stairs, and she takes the first corridor she can find, just trying to walk off some of the pressure, to put her head back on her shoulders.

It’s lit only by candlelight, an archaic, flickering warmth, so in contrast to the rest of the steel and metal that Mandalore is made up of. It’s like she’s stepped into something that’s been around for years, even though she knows that it’s not possible. Mandalore was sieged, usurped, sieged again, razed and brought to the ground, destroyed. The planet’s atmosphere is mostly ash and haze, all that leftover war from years ago. But this part of the palace looks older, like a tomb that somehow survived.

It’s too creepy, Nova decides, even though the curious part of her is itching to explore it. She wants to pore through every aspect of it, try to find remnants of lost Mandalore, like her father used to unearth texts, like her mother used to excavate history. Before the war, before the Alliance was necessary, before all this death and darkness. When Nova comes out the other end of the corridor, she’s right next to the intimidating double doors of the war room, the holiest place Mandalore has. She pulls her shawl a little closer to her body, trying to retain the warmth she left back upstairs, trying to hold onto a memory more than anything tangible.

Nova isn’t intending to slip into the war room, let alone walk towards the sprawling dais that holds the beskar throne, but she does. It’s still quiet, so quiet, and the dark is coaxing her closer, pulling her up the steps, something beyond a simple want or need. She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s not supposed to be in here, not this late, not without Din, not when she has no legal or physical right to this place, but when she sits down on the throne, something deeper echoes out from within her chest.

It feels like a hymn and a battle cry. Before she has a second to adjust, to rationalize anything, everything becomes starry and disconnected. It’s been so long since she had a Force vision this immediate, this intense, and it hurls her through the proverbial hyperspace, everything dropping away.

It takes three steps forward in this strange, terrifying liminal space before Nova can even identify what’s scaring her. It’s the same kind of evil she felt way back on Takodana, before she was married to the ruler of a planet, before she even knew it was her destiny to be both Rebel and Jedi. There’s a mask she doesn’t recognize, twisted and devious. Behind its menacing, blank expression is something horrifying. Looking into the visor, it’s like her own soul is being fractured into pieces.

It’s humanoid until it’s not. The figure wearing the mask of destruction is tall, easily a foot taller than she is, horrible and menacing. But when the lightsaber they’re using ignites, it’s scarier than the vision of the person at all. It’s awful. It looks like it was forged out of lava, menacing red, the blade flickering and hissing in a way that’s somehow even more terrifying than the stark contrast of the Darksaber’s blade. Nova gasps, the light too bright, too sudden, and she can feel the residual thud on the floor, even in the vision. She knows when she comes out of it, she’ll be hurt, but the blade is getting closer. It looks like a giant rapier, a sword made only for evil things. At the hilt, spraying out in both directions, the blade extends. When the figure in the mask swings, it’s without remorse, so quick, so terrible.

But Nova’s not the target. She rolls away, out of the strike zone, and then she hears Luke Skywalker’s voice cutting through the darkness. She turns, and suddenly she’s not in the horror of the vision, anymore. She doesn’t know where she is. The ground looks icy, like Hoth, but there’s red powder spit everywhere, vomited across giant salt deposits. It’s so bright that her hand comes up in front of her eyes, and when she lowers it, Luke is gone. She’s gone, too. She turns around, hair whipping in the furious wind, trying to find where her name is being cried, and she trips over a mound on the salty ground, and when she falls to her knees, it’s a person, newly slain. The blood is so red, redder than the powder, redder than the evil lightsaber. It drowns through the lines on her hands, slips through her long fingers. She screams, trying to back up from the body, and then she realizes it’s Bo-Katan, gurgling through the slit in her throat, and when Nova tries desperately, in vain, to buffer the blood spilled, Luke Skywalker calls her name again.

But it’s not Luke. It is him—for a second, for the tiniest fraction of a moment—but then it’s not. His lightsaber floods with red, cancelling out the green light. The hallway flickers, once, twice, and then Darth Vader is charging towards her, and all Nova can hear is her blood pounding frantically in her ears and his heavy breathing through his mask, the sound that used to fill all of her nightmares. She’s slamming on the door at the other end of the hallway, and when it opens, the only person standing there isn’t a person at all, but a small alien baby all of two feet tall, green and adorable, and Nova drops her body around her son, protective and sobbing, curling every single inch of her around his tiny little frame, trying to shield him from Vader’s wrath, but when she cries, the vision changes again.

She can feel the motion sickness bubbling up in her stomach, horrible and nauseating. When Nova lands, she doesn’t open her eyes. She’s seen more than enough. Even right now, in the middle of her Force vision, all she wants to do is go back to sleep. She can feel the ache she slept away burrowing right back into her bones. Her scar is pulsing, enraged and angry. The headache she spent the last two and a half weeks fighting off is back, radiating straight down to behind her left eye. It’s all too much, and she can’t look. She doesn’t want to see anything else.

“Novalise,” she hears again, and the only reason she opens her eyes this time is because it’s her mother speaking. Her mother, who only ever called her Andromeda. Her mother, who spent half her life in the stars. Her mother, long dead. Her mother, who never got to know this version of her daughter, this Jedi-in-training, royal Rebel Girl that just desperately needs a hug from her mom.

“Mom,” she cries, and it’s so white. Everything here is antiseptic and deafening. It doesn’t even look like a planet, or even a room, or anything at all. She’s not even sure if there’s a floor, but Nova starts running like she’s never ran before in her life. Her breath is ragged and coming out in bursts. The jiggle in her chest and thighs burn under her speed, but she doesn’t care. She’s racing towards her mother, towards open arms, towards everything she’s been cheated out of for the last ten years.

It lasts for a second. Just a second. The figure is Piper Maluev, her skin dark and radiant, her hair down to her waist. Her lips are wide open and welcoming, her eyes crinkled at the seams. She’s tall and radiant and strong, and she’s everything Nova’s missed for nearly half her life.

And then it isn’t Piper. It’s not Luke, either, or Darth Vader, or whoever the dark, terrible, masked figure was. It’s not her usual nightmare transformation of Jacterr Calican. It’s not Bo-Katan, convulsing and dying. It’s Din. Just for a moment, a tiny fraction of relief, and then it’s not Din, either.

It’s a woman Nova’s never seen before, and her hand is clamped firmly around Nova’s windpipe. Like it’s nothing, she pulls her right off the disappearing floor and choking the life out of her. Her eyes are light but so terrifyingly menacing, her hair is a mess of a dark blonde. She’s pale and awful and her face is gleeful as she pulls the life out of Nova, a sucking, open wound.

She can’t talk. She doesn’t even want to plead for her life. If she’s this close to death anyway, and she just saw her mother, Nova figures there’s a pretty damn good chance that both of her parents are just over the other side. The woman is so happy to be killing Nova off, she doesn’t want to fight it. When her grip recedes, just for a half a second, Nova chokes out a confession that makes everything else grind to a halt.

It’s four words. Barely anything. Tears are streaming down her cheeks when her lips finally open. “I want my mom.”

Then she’s being dropped onto the floor, which very much exists now, and the light room filled with nothingness curls away, receding like it’s being burned. It’s dark in here, the tiled floor slippery and treacherous. In the background, there’s a makeshift trophy made from what looks like bones. Nova’s gasping for air, fighting back with a newfound vigor, kicking her legs helplessly to try and get some leverage on this woman who wants her dead, when, suddenly, she’s at eye level with her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she seethes, a terrifying smile still spread across her horrible, beautiful face. “When I find you, you’re going to be begging for your life instead of your death.”

“Who—who are you?” Nova manages, through agony. Her shoulders hurt. Her headache feels like it’s trying to split her jaw in half. Her scar feels like it’s being reopened. Everything is torture, and she can’t even breathe.

“You’ll see,” the woman whispers, and her voice is so deadly that Nova internally corrects every time she’s ever called Bo-Katan venomous. Bo-Katan Kryze is a flower. One of the iridescent, gorgeous ones, that lined all the brush on Yavin, the ones Nova’s spent years pressing into the pages of every journal she’s ever owned. She’s kind and lovely and Nova’s very best friend, and when she gets out of this alive, Nova’s going to tell Bo-Katan that. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Andromeda.”

Nova heaves one giant breath into her lungs, trying to muster up anything that she can, even if it’s just more air. “I—” she starts, and the woman smiles again, loaded and dangerous. “I—I already did that, you miserable bitch,” Nova manages, and when she’s slammed into the awful floor, it’s worth it. There’s some kind of desperation behind the woman’s eyes, now and when her hand finds Nova’s throat again, she spits in her face.

And then she’s out of it. Hurtled out of it, actually, like a dying starfighter in the middle of space. She gasps and heaves on the floor, and as her sight comes back, her breathing does, too. Her head is still killing her. Her shoulders feel like they’re trying to carry the entire weight of Mandalore. Her scar is awful, white-hot and painful to the touch. Somewhere, distantly, her knees hurt like she’s fallen to them, and when she gains back her sense of sight and the feeling of her life being choked out of her body subsides, Nova realizes she has fallen to them. She’s fallen a lot, actually, down multiple steps leading to the floor from the raised platform where she was once sitting in the beskar throne. Nova shudders, inhaling through a terrible wheeze, curling her legs up close to her chest, trying to shake off the absolute shitshow that just hurtled her through the most traumatic Force vision she’s ever had.

“You,” comes a booming, rueful voice, and when Nova’s eyes flutter open, she’s expecting it to be the malicious, purple-haired woman from her vision. Her eyes take a second to adjust, her left one throbbing from the horrid ache pulsing behind it, and when she finally locates the source, it’s the miserable man from the gathering earlier.

“Can I help you?” Nova asks, her voice shooting up at the end, on the verge of tears.

“You aren’t supposed to be up there,” he spits, and Nova squints up at the throne she’d just fallen from.

“I know,” she whispers, dully. She presses a shaking hand to the ache behind her eye, trying to shut out this conversation like she wishes she’d ignored the vision. She tries to stand up, but her knees are too bruised to sustain pulling her to her feet, so she just slumps back against the step she’s on, trying to muster all the strength she has in her exhausted body to not break down. “I’m sorry,” Nova tacks on, the words barely there. “I—I wasn’t intending to sit here, or even come in the room, it just—”

“Happened,” he finishes, oddly calm. His voice sounds closer. Much closer. Nova opens her right eye, and he’s only at the bottom of the staircase. There’s something so wretched and dangerous about the energy he’s giving off, and she wants to run, but she’s in no position to even stand, let alone fight him off, so she just sits there, curling her knees into her chest, pulling her shawl as tight as she can against her upper body. “You’re an abomination.”

A laugh, the traitorous thing, bubbles up inside Nova’s throat. It’s not funny. It’s not. It’s pathetic, and likely racially motivated, but she can’t help herself. Her ribs ache, like they got banged up in her distant fall down these sharp, steep marble steps. “That, surprisingly, is not the first time I’ve been called an abomination in my life.”

“Do you know what the Jedi did to our people, little girl?” He’s angry. Nova can hear it in his voice. And normally, it would scare her, trigger her fight or flight reflex, keep her moving, but after her paranormal face-off with two of the scariest figures she’s ever seen, this one isn’t really that high up on our list. “I do. You were eradicated for good reason. You scorched our planet down to nothing, and now you and your cult leader husband come back here and try to take over? Not on my watch.”

Nova can feel him getting closer. He’s so much bigger than she is, up close, tall and buff, menacing and taut. She weakly pulls her hand away from her eye, trying to at the very least give him her full attention, but she’s so fucking tired. It’s in her bones, at this point. She doesn’t want to be royalty. She doesn’t want to be a Rebel. And, in contrast to what the man in front of her is screaming, she doesn’t want to be a Jedi.

She wants to be the Novalise she was on Naator, with nothing but domesticity and yellow leaves and pink skies. She wants to be the protector she was out there in hyperspace. And, for the first time in ten years, she wants to be Andromeda Maluev, fifteen and gleeful, running around Yavin knowing the stars were her destiny and that evil could always be defeated.

“I don’t even want to be here,” Nova whispers, finally, and it’s like something inside her breaks.

“Good,” the man spits, “then we’re in agreement.” And then his hands are yanking away the hood of her shawl and tangling in her braided hair. Nova’s scream gets cut off as she’s thrown down the rest of the stairs, like her body’s giving up. She chokes out something horrible, fighting to get to her bruised, banged up knees, sore from the fall, aching from the blissful time riding Din’s face less than an hour ago, but she can’t summon the strength. Somewhere, she knows Luke Skywalker is yelling at her to use the Force, but Nova’s had enough force today to last a lifetime. When she’s kicked in the stomach, brutal and awful, she just curls in on herself, hoping her death isn’t a slow one. He startles towards her again, ripping her shawl off of her body, clawing at the meat of her upper arm, and something snaps inside of her. If she’s going to die, really die, it’s not because she succumbed to the injuries this rabid Mandalorian is giving her to try and put the blame on her shoulders. She survived Moff Gideon. She survived Din and Grogu leaving her. She survived her parents dying. And she survived the abuse of Jacterr Calican’s awful hands. Novalise can survive this.

When her lightsaber roars to life in her hands, it’s not only Nova swinging. She can feel the weight of what it being the Skywalker family lightsaber, of Luke and Leia before her, of his father before him, of all the generations yet to come to wield this weapon, this holy sword, this impossible thing. It takes all of her energy, a brilliant beam of blue light, and then she falls to the floor, knowing that even if this is where it ends, that she fought back.

Everything next comes in flashes. It’s in these tiny fractals like what happened when the Crest had died right over Dagobah and crashed to the surface. She sees a blade ignite, and in between the rhythm of her fading in and out of consciousness, Nova thinks she’s just watching herself fight the man back. Suddenly, he drops to the floor, his body nothing but dead weight, and she wants to scream, but she’s back out. It’s horrible and deafening. She’s being scooped up, she can feel that. She’s crying. She’s definitely crying. There are voices, loud ones. When she has enough strength to open her eyes again, Din is slamming his gloved fist against the airlock on Kicker, his voice frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying, though, and another face appears above her. Din gently transfers Nova’s limp body into someone else’s arms, and when Nova looks up, it’s Bo-Katan, her face so panicked it’s almost impossible to recognize who it is.

“Nova, you gotta stay awake,” Bo-Katan whispers, her palm slapping softly at Nova’s cheek. “C’mon, I mean it. If you die here on this planet you hate, I will haunt you in the afterlife. I swear, you have to stay awake.”

“I don’t—” Nova starts, and Bo-Katan shakes her head.

“You literally should not be talking,” Bo-Katan says, her eyesight dipping to Nova’s neck. Her eyes widen for a second and then her smooth fingers ghost over the outline. Nova coughs at her light touch, and she realizes that the marks from the vision she had of being choked within an inch of her life are here, that they followed her back out of the vision and into this moment. “Nova, no, shut up, I’m serious—”

“I don’t—don’t hate Mandalore,” she manages, her voice sounding like shards of glass, and Bo-Katan offers her a hasty, worried smile.

“You do,” Bo-Katan argues, but her voice is so gentle. “But don’t worry, princess, we’re getting you the hell off of it. No complaints now that you’re off Mandalore, you got it? The second you got here, I knew both of you wanted to leave.”

Din’s at her side again, and Bo-Katan kneels down, gently placing Nova in her familiar tangle of blankets and pillows. Nova’s eyes close again, and when they slide back open, Bo-Katan is standing, trading worried glances and hushed tones with Din.

Nova’s head hurts. So bad. It’s splitting down the middle of her skull, actually, but all she can do is press a hand over her eye and try to block out the familiar low light of the ship that smells more like home than this entire planet ever had.

“Listen, about what I told you back on Hoth—”

“It’s fine,” Din cuts her off, and his next few words are warbled. “I get it. Your allegiance is to Mandalore, not to us.”

Nova can’t hear Bo-Katan’s answer. In fact, she’s not even sure if there’s even words being spoken, because the next time she looks up, Bo-Katan is just staring down at her, incredibly concerned, such an obvious change from her usually stoic expression. Nova’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. She’s exhausted. Bo-Katan kneels down again, just for a split second, to pull the loose end of Nova’s shawl over the rest of her folded body. Nova wants to cry.

“Flower,” she garbles, nonsensically. She’s trying to tell Bo-Katan that she’s sorry for all the animosity, that she trusts her, and more than that, she likes her. It doesn't make a single lick of sense to anyone outside of Nova’s head, but Bo-Katan offers a tiny smile anyway.

“Here,” Din says, stiffly, holding out the sheathed blade of the Darksaber to Bo-Katan. Nova’s eyes flutter closed, just for a beat, and when they open back up, Bo-Katan is pushing the weapon back into Din’s grip.

“It’s not mine,” she insists. “Besides, you’re not getting out of it that easy. You’ll be back.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Take care of her,” Bo-Katan interrupts. Nova blacks out again until they’re up in hyperspace. Din’s body is shielding her from the cold, his limbs draped all over the places that hurt the least. When she opens her eyes, they’re floating through the cosmos, and all her eyes can see is sweet, sweet stardust.

*

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*

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

In the end of it all, Monaca Towa was still a child.

To start this off, this isn't my usual Black Butler posts but ive been meaning to talk about Danganronpa for a hot minute, so please bear with me! Second, this is solely my opinion and before anyone wants to attack me please read thoroughly first. Thank you:)

(Spoiler warning for Danganronpa: Ultra Despair Girls and Danganronpa 3)

Also, before we dive in I'm going to list some trigger warnings:

Physcological abuse

Physical abuse

Manipulation

P*dophillia

Suicide attempt

Violence (?)

Childhood trauma

Please take care and read at your own risk<3

Hello there Danganronpa fandom! Today I will be talking about Monaca Towa (as stated in the title) and how people often minimize her trauma and sometimes forget the fact that shes still a child who got heavily manipulated by Junko too.

Monaca is seemingly very amiable and caring, because of her charming personality, all of the Warriors of Hope love her and try their best to keep her happy and go along with what she wants. However, it's slowly revealed that she is actually manipulative and cunning behind her friendly facade.

Monoca is a character that is cruel, manipulative, and extremly unhinged. Many of her actions cannot be excused or justified, but you can understand where she's coming from.

Monaca's Backstory:

She was born an unwanted child by both her father and her mother. Monaca's mother was supposed to take care of her but instead abandoned the child soon after her birth. Because of all her actions, Monaca saw her mother as a completely selfish and pathetic person. Monaca's father thought of giving her to an orphanage but instead took her into his family.

However, Monaca was always unwanted and everyone else felt uncomfortable around her. Every time Monaca smiled or joked, the others looked at her coldly, as if she didn't deserve to laugh. Every time she spoke, the others turned silent. His older-half brother thought of her as an alien, not part of the family.

She was also physically abused to the point that she pretended to be seriously wounded for them to stop as a result.

Monaca also attended Hope's Peak Elementary School and was part of the "trouble-makers class" along with Nagisa, Masaru, Jataro, and Kotoko.

Along with her fellow abused classmates, she planned a group suicide; however, Monaca never had any plans to commit suicide in the first place and was planning to let the others die as a prank.

The group suicide was stopped by Junko, who took the kids in and manipulated them by treating them with kindness and love.

Monaca then helped Junko mass produce Monokumas for the Tragedy by using her position as a representative of the Towa Group.

She lied to her father and the other adults in order to produce the Monokumas, telling them that she wanted to create futuristic robots that could be domestic helpers and emergency aid workers.

Due to her separation from the family and her genius, her family decided to give her leg room to do what she wanted as long as she brought in profits to the company, and didn't delve too deeply into her plans.

Things to keep in mind about Monoca's backstory:

She was emotionally and physically abused from a very young age.

She started to pretend to be paraplegic because she was finally treated with some kindness and she could have more control over people.

She convinced Nagisa, Jataro, Kotoko and Masaru to commit suicide.

Out of all the Warriros of Hope, Junko took the most intrest in Monoca due to her position, meaning that she was the one who got used and manipulated the most.

How Monoca's mindset works:

The moment she got physically abused to the point that she had to fake her injuries to make her family feel bad was the moment she learned that through sympathy from others comes power. Due to her families neglection and abuse, she started to quickly pick up on things in which benefited her yet hurt others.

She started to use manipulative tactics on her family to gain control over them. She then started implicating these tactics with the Warriors of Hope.

When Junko got into the picture, everything changed for the worst. Junko was the only person in Monaca's life who showed her affection. Even though deep down Monaca knew Junko only cared for her as a means to use her robotics genius for the Tragedy, Monaca didn't care, and happily helped out Junko with her plans if it meant being loved and appreciated in return. At the heart of it, despite all her horrific acts, that's a very child-like thing to do, right? So when Junko dies, Monaca's entire reason for living basically disappears.

AI Junko via Kurokuma may have planted the idea of a successor in her head, but in Monaca's mind it's a way to get her big sis back, and very specifically chooses to mold Komaru into becoming Junko's successor. That's for a big reason, Monaca doesn't want to become Junko, I'd say she actually just wanted her big sister back who would love and appreciate her again, and hence tried to make someone else take on that role initially. Once again, that's the mindset of a child.

Monaca's relationship with the Warriors of Hope:

The Warriors of Hope are a group of children who are extremely resentful and hateful of adults, regardless of whether or not they were involved in their rough paths. 

We all know that the Warriros of Hope are extememly tramutized kids. Masaru had alcoholic parents who physically abused him, Jataro was physcologically abused to the point he bealived he was so ugly that if anyone saw his "repulsive" face they would die, Kotoko was r*ped multiple times by disgusting p*dophilic men (not to mention, Monaca's brother was attracted to her), and last but not least we have Nagisa who had pressuring parents who wanted to raise him as the child prodigy and expirimented on him constantly.

Monaca used the Warriros of Hope's trauma against them, manipulating them to the point were they had to do her bidding completly.

As much as I hate to say it, Monaca truly saw them as pawns. Although there are some instances where she openly declares her care for the Warriors of Hope, it's likely she does that as a form of emotional manipulation.

If anything, she probably did see them as equal in the beginning but then when she started to gain control over her own family, she started to do the same with the Warriors of Hope as a way to protect herself from getting hurt, then again this is my baseless assumption.

Her dynamic with Nagito:

Monaca was amused by Nagito's strange behavior and contradicting beliefs and appeared to be somewhat annoyed with him at the times. However, the two appeared to at least seemingly respect each other in some way, as they treated each other somewhat formally as allies.

Her dynamic with Nagito is one of the most intresting ones. Obviously I think that her being rasied by Nagito was potentially a dangerous thing, considering Nagito's goal was for Monaca to become Enoshima's successor. Monaca seemed to agree with this goal, but Nagito's constant rambling about hope and despair made Monaca bored and feel embarrassed about the whole thing.

She claims he made her an adult in a way, as she grew up in the mental sense and became more cynical and apathetic, not really caring about anything.

In the end, Monaca found Nagito creepy and annoying, but she also appeared to get closer to him during their time together, while originally calling him just "Mister Servant" in UDG, she later refers to him as "Big Bro" in Danganronpa 3. I do think their dynamic was sort of soft and I would've loved to have seen more of it. Honestly the concept of Nagito being a soft brother to Monaca warms my heart, and the wasted potential will forever anger me.

(If any Danganronpa fanfic writer or any writer in general is reading this post: if u could be so kind and do a PLATONIC Nagito and Monaca prompt and tag me in it, I would love you forever!!)

My opinion on Monaca:

I think that Monaca was a very well-written character who deserved more than what she got in the end of Danganronpa 3. She was abused, mistreated and belittled by her family. If anything, I see her as a completely misguided little girl. If she actually had a positive authoritative influence in her life, she wouldn't have turned astray.

A lot of people disregard Monaca's trauma and forget that at the end of the day, Monaca was a child who the moment she was born, the people who were supposed to love her were unwelcoming.

Don't get me wrong though, there is no way in hell I will ever justify or condone the things Monaca has done. If anything, I just think that she alongside the rest of the Warriors of Hope should've been properly taken care of.

Also, if you dislike/hate Monaca thats 100% valid! She did a lot of inexcusable things and its alright to hate on her. I personally love her character but I know she is not everyones cup of tea.

If you read all the way, I'm actually surprised! Thank you and I hope you enjoyed<333

[thefirstknife]

Born of Wrath - Ruins of Wrath

I want to elaborate on this post because I think it's important how the whole boss area is set up.

First of all, the whole Shattered Realm this week feels different. It's just a vibe and some aspects of the whole area. But the boss room is definitely the most interesting.

It's in a Hive warship and the centerpiece of the room is something like an elevated podium from which you have a good view towards the big Taken ball in a strange device hovering in the air. This was shown during the reveal trailer as well.

The rest (with pictures even!) under the read more:

This is the same device located in the Shrine of Oryx:

It almost appears like the one in the Shattered Realm is positioned to look into the Shrine of Oryx from above. This structure, btw, is a communication device that the Hive on the Moon used to talk to Oryx. Now, obviously, no longer used to talk to Oryx and instead, they most likely use it to talk to Xivu Arath. This would also make sense as the Shattered Realm is Xivu's domain. That room is a place from which the Hive in the ascendant plane can communicate with the Hive in the Hellmouth, vice-versa and beyond. Presumably.

And of course, there's the elephant in the room.

A strange dark crystal bound with chains overlooking the Shrine communication device structure. I'm not the only one to be unnerved by this, nor am I the only one to have the thought that this is Osiris' prison. A place where real Osiris is suspended in some sort of hellish Hive version of cryo. The chains are what really sell it to me. If this were bigger, I'd probably say it some sort of a Hive creature being held here for some future boss fight, but the size just doesn't fit.

Furthermore, I've said a few times now, but I am beginning to suspect that Xivu Arath and Savathun are not really the enemies they're trying to tell us they are. It's important to know that the Hive have a very strange and utterly alien social structure. To them, murder and torture are expressions of love. They believe that this is what gives them strength so if you kill someone a lot, it means you love them a lot because you're helping them grow stronger.

Of course, Savathun is legitimately an exile to the Hive. She has practiced heresies. Goes without saying. The problem is that we kinda took her word for a fact that she is being hunted by her sister while not really thinking about how we have no confirmation of this from the other side. We don't know what Xivu thinks. Is she tolerating her sister's heresies for a grander plan? It wouldn't be the first time that Savathun is scheming in order to strengthen the Hive. Xivu knows her sister. I am finding it harder and harder to accept that Xivu would simply hunt her down on behalf of the Black Fleet without thinking it through.

After all, their last known interaction was Savathun preparing Torobatl for Xivu's invasion. They were on good terms. Savathun helped Xivu to obliterate the Cabal. And what was the whole plan with Osiris if not Savathun preparing OUR system for Xivu's invasion? These two are mirrors of each other, but with slightly different execution due to the fact that humanity has something the Cabal do not: Light. So obviously, infiltrating the Guardians required a more careful and insidious plan.

I believe this plan started a long time ago, but was finally fully put in motion, you guessed it, in Immolant. In Immolant, Osiris is exposed to the whispers of Xivu Arath, is drawn out to fight her and is eventually stripped off his Light BUT he is left alive.

There are two points I have to mention that do not align with what we know from Immolant (and Immolant is the most reliable source out of them all):

1. Savathun's speech from week 1 - specifically, the cutscene. Quote: “I found a form more pleasing to your eyes. Osiris was lost. Lightless. I saved him from Xivu Arath and assumed his shape.” This is a lie. Savathun did not save him from Xivu: Sagira did. Sagira's sacrifice is what pushed Xivu's influence away: "Blinding Light erupts from Sagira's core as she splits apart. A wave of Light surges and tears across the chasm. Her sacrifice cleanses every trace of Xivu Arath's presence. The sigil: erased. The cryptolith that supported her projection: destroyed." 2. Page 3 of the new lore book Ripples (still not on Ishtar as of writing this so I'm linking to my post with the relevant bit) - For easier reading:

"Savathun was weak to allow their deaths. To cede ground to the Celebrant; to Guardians." - This is not what happened. Xivu Arath lured Osiris to the Moon, Xivu Arath spoke to Osiris, goaded him into killing everyone and LAUGHED while he did so, because Osiris' rampage gave her tithe. Not only that, but Immolant describes the Celebrant carving a ritual to drain Osiris' Light away and let him die. The Celebrant then leaves. So it wasn't Savathun who ceded any ground.

"The Celebrant steps forward. A massive cleaver dangles from its hand, weightless. The beast carves a rune into the stone on either side of Osiris, its eyes locked with his. It nods to him, and then turns to the sigil.

"All tithes to Xivu Arath. War Dominant. Endless." Its tone is soft rasp and soot."

And:

"The Celebrant drives its sword into the cliffside stone above Osiris's head. The cryptolith erupts in neon flare.

"Die well, Osiris." The Celebrant bows and withdraws from sight into Luna's depths.

Wisps of Light hemorrhage through his skin, trimmed in blood and drawn around the blade embedded above him as if it were a nostepinne spike."

This is very odd. There's a lot of inconsistency and lying going on. Hell, Xivu didn't even take Osiris' Light at all. The attempt was made but Sagira made sure the ritual isn't finished by sacrificing herself. Kelgorath was lied to, both by Savathun AND Xivu Arath to whom he pledged himself (and died for in the first mission during Season of the Lost: Kelgorath was the Wrathborn we fight just before we enter the portal to the Mara & Osiris cutscene).

This, to me, implies that they're in on this together. It's important to note that when it came to the Cabal, everyone thought that Umun'Arath was being influenced by Xivu, but it was actually Savathun doing it on Xivu's behalf. It is possible that all the voices Osiris was hearing were actually also coming from Savathun on Xivu's behalf. But if that was the case, then Kelgorath wouldn't have felt the need to renounce Savathun because she was the one who helped Xivu, instead of "ceding ground" as he claims. This inconsistency makes me believe that Savathun's and Xivu's courts don't really know the full scope and details of their mutual plan. The Hive sisters are literally lying to their own people for the benefit of the plan.

We only have Savathun speaking to us, but never Xivu Arath. What are her thoughts on all of this? What are her thoughts on Savathun? Is she really hunting Savathun at all? Obviously, Xivu would know that Savathun will most likely betray her, but if Savathun lays down the ground work for Xivu's invasion (like on Torobatl), why would she care? She knows her scheming sister well enough. As long as there's war, Xivu will be fed her tithe, making herself stronger and stronger. Savathun's schemes are benefitting her.

Which leads me back to the chained crystal in Shattered Realm.

Savathun's bargaining chip, Osiris. Where is he? Who is looking after this most valuable prisoner while she's trapped in her own crystal? Who would she trust to make sure he stays bound until the time is right? Who has the power to keep him bound while she's playing the game on the other side?

Well, it's Xivu Arath of course. So it would not surprise me for this crystal to really be him, bound and chained in Xivu's domain, under her watchful eye and kept in place by her power.

And, of course, where did we find "Osiris" on the Moon when we went to rescue him? In the Shrine of Oryx. The same place that the chained crystal is located in, on the other side, looking down to the Shrine from the ascendant plane.

I didn't mention it until now, but the post's title is a reference to both Immolant and Shattered Realm. "Born of Wrath" is the name of the first chapter of Immolant pt. 2, where Osiris first encounters the cryptolith, visions and voices of Xivu and gives her tithe. It would be fitting if Osiris' wrath that was "born" in that moment led to his "ruin" and eventual imprisonment in the "Ruins of Wrath."

I am looking WAY too hard into this, but it really isn't a Destiny lore analysis unless I'm a little unhinged. :)

[yamayuandadu]

The Two (or more) Ishtars or A Certain Scandalous Easter Claim Proved to be The Worship of Reverend Alexander Hislop

Once upon a time the official facebook page of Richard Dawkins' foundation posted a graphic according to which the holiday of Easter is just a rebranded celebration of the Mesopotamian mythology superstar Ishtar, arguing that the evidence is contained in its very name. As everyone knows, Dawkins is an online talking head notable for discussing his non-belief in such an euphoric way that it might turn off even the most staunch secularists and for appearing in some reasonably funny memes about half a decade ago. Bizarrely enough, however, the same claim can be often found among the crowds dedicated to crystal healing, Robert Graves' mythology fanfiction, indigo children and similar dubiously esoteric content. What's yet more surprising is that once in a while it shows up among a certain subset of fundamentalist Christians, chiefly the types who believe giants are real (and, of course, satanic), the world  is ruled by a secret group of Moloch worshipers and fossils were planted by the devil to led the sheeple astray from the truth about earth being 6000 years old, tops. Of course, to anyone even just vaguely familiar with Christianity whose primary language isn't English this claim rightfully seems completely baffling – after all it's evident in most languages that the name of the holiday celebrating Jesus' resurrection, and many associated customs, are derived from the earlier Jewish Pascha (Passover) which has nothing to do with Ishtar other than having its origin in the Middle East. Why would the purported association only be evident  in English and not in Aramaic, Greek, Latin, Spanish, virtually any language other than English and its close relatives – languages which generally didn't have anything to do with Mesopotamia or early christianity? Read on to find out what sort of sources let this eclectic selection of characters arrive to the same baffling conclusion, why are they hilariously wrong, and – most importantly – where you can actually find a variety of Ishtars (or at least reasonably Ishtar-like figures) under different names instead.

The story of baffling Easter claims begins in Scotland in the 19th century. A core activity of theologians in many faiths through history was (and sometimes still is) finding alleged proof of purported “idolatry” or other “impure” practices among ideological opponents, even these from within the same religion – and a certain Presbyterian minister, Alexander Hislop, was no stranger to this traditional pastime. Like many Protestants in this period, he had an axe to grind with the catholic church  - though not for the reasons many people are not particularly fond of this institution nowadays. What Hislop wanted to prove was much more esoteric – he believed that it's the Babylon known from the Book of Revelations. Complete with the beast with seven heads, blasphemous names and other such paraphernalia, of course. This wasn't a new claim – catholicism was equated with the New Testament Babylon for as long as Protestantism was a thing (and earlier catholicism itself regarded other religions as representing it). What set Hislop apart from dozens of other similar attempts like that was that he fancied himself a scholar of history and relied on the brand new accounts of excavations in what was once the core sphere of influence of the Assyrian empire (present day Iraq and Syria), supplemented by various Greek and Roman classics – though also by his own ideas, generally varying from baseless to completely unhinged. Hislop compiled his claims in the book The Two Babylons or The Papal Worship Proved to be the Worship of Nimrod and His Wife. You can find it on archive.org if you want to torment yourself and read the entire thing – please do not give clicks directly to any fundie sites hosting it though. How does the history of Easter and Ishtar look like according to Hislop? Everything started with Semiramis, who according to his vision was a historical figure and a contemporary of Noah's sons, here also entirely historical. Semiramis is either entirely fictional or a distorted Greek and Roman account of the 9th century BC Assyrian queen Shammuramat, who ruled as a regent for a few years after the death of her husband Shamshi Adad V – an interesting piece of historical trivia, but arguably not really a historical milestone, and by the standards of Mesopotamian history she's hardly a truly ancient figure. Hislop didn't even rely on the primary sources dealing with the legend of Semiramis though, but with their medieval christian interpretations, which cast her in the role of an adulterer first and foremost due to association of ancient Mesopotamia with any and all vices.

Hislop claims that Semiramis was both the Whore of Babylon from the Book of Revelations and the first idolater, instituting worship of herself as a goddess. This goddess, he argues, was Astarte (a combination of two flimsy claims – Roman claim that Semiramis' name means “dove” and now generally distrusted assumption that Phoenician Astarte had the same symbols as Greek Aphrodite) and thus Ishtar, but he also denotes her as a mother goddess – which goes against everything modern research has to say about Ishtar, of course. However, shoddy scholarship relying on few sources was the norm at the time, and Hislop on top of that was driven by religious zeal. In further passages, he identified this “universal mother” with Phrygian Cybele, Greek Rhea and Athena, Egyptian Isis, Taoist Xi Wangmu (sic) and many more, pretty much at random, arguing all of them were aspects of nefarious Semiramis cult which infected all corners of the globe. He believed that she was venerated alongside a son-consort, derived from Semiramis' even more fictional husband Ninus (a mythical founder of Assyria according to Greek authors, absent from any Mesopotamian sources; his name was derived from Nineveh, not from any word for son like Hislop claims), who he identifies with biblical Nimrod (likewise not a historical figure, probably a distorted reflection of the god Ninurta). Note the similarity with certain ideas perpetrated by Frazer's Golden Bough and his later fans like Jung, Graves and many neopagan authors – pseudohistory, regardless of ideological background, has a very small canon of genuinely original claims. Ishtar was finally introduced to Britain by “druids” (note once again the similarity to the baffling integration of random Greek, Egyptian or Mesopotamian deities into Graves-derived systems of fraudulent trivia about “universal mother goddesses” often using an inaccurate version of Celtic myths as framework). This eventually lead to the creation of the holiday of Easter. Pascha doesn't come up in the book at all, as far as I can tell. All of this is basically just buildup for the book's core shocking reveal: catholic veneration of Mary and depictions of Mary with infant Jesus in particular are actually the worship of Semiramis and her son-consort Ninus, and only the truly faithful can reveal this evil purpose of religious art. At least so claims Hislop. This bizarre idea is laughable, but it remains disturbingly persistent – do you remember the Chick Tracts memes from a few years ago, for example? These comics were in part inspired by Hislop's work. Many fundamentalist christian communities appear to hold his confabulations in high esteem up to this day – and many people who by design see themselves as a countercultural opposition to christianity independently gleefully embrace them, seemingly ignorant of their origin. While there are many articles debunking Hislop's claim about Easter, few of them try to show how truly incomprehensibly bad his book is as a whole – hopefully the following examples will be sufficient to illustrate this point: -Zoroaster is connected to Moloch because of the Zoroastrian holy fire - and Moloch is, of course Ninus. Note that while a few Greek authors believed Zoroaster to be the “king of Bactria” mythical accounts presented as a contemporary of Ninus, the two were regarded as enemies – Hislop doesn't even follow the pseudohistory he uses as proof! -Zoroaster is also Tammuz. Tammuz is, of course, yet another aspect of Ninus. -demonic character is ascribed to relics of the historical Buddha; also he's Osiris. And Ninus. -an incredibly racist passage explains why the biblical Nimrod (identified with – you guessed it - Ninus) might be regarded as “ugly and deformed” like Haephestus and thus identical to him (no, it makes no sense in context either) - Hislop thinks he was black (that's not the word he uses, naturally) which to him is the same thing. -Attis is a deification of sin itself -the pope represents Dagon (incorrectly interpreted as a fish god in the 19th century) -Baal and Bel are two unrelated words – this is meant to justify the historicity of the Tower of Babel by asserting it was built by Ninus, who was identical to Bel (in reality a title of Marduk); Bel, according to Hislop, means “the confounder (of languages)” rather than “lord” -the term “cannibal” comes from a made up term for priests of Baal (Ninus) who according to Hislop ate children. In reality it's a Spanish corruption of the endonym of one of the first tribes encountered by the Spanish conquerors in America, and was not a word used in antiquity – also, as I discussed in my Baal post, the worship of Baal did not involve cannibalism. This specific claim of Hislop's is popular with the adherents of prophetic doomsday cult slash wannabe terrorist group QAnon today, and shows up on their “redpilling” graphics. -Ninus was also Cronos; Cronos' name therefore meant “horned one” in reference to Mesopotamian bull/horned crown iconography and many superficially similar gods from all over the world were the same as him - note the similarity to Margaret Murray's obsession with her made up idea of worldwide worship of a “horned god” (later incorporated into Wicca). -Phaeton, Orpheus and Aesculapius are the same figure and analogous to Lucifer (and in turn to Ninus) -giants are real and they're satanists (or were, I think Hislop argues they're dead already). They are (were?) also servants of Ninus. -as an all around charming individual Hislop made sure to include a plethora of comments decrying the practices of various groups at random as digressions while presenting his ridiculous theories – so, while learning about the forbidden history of Easter, one can also learn why the author thinks Yezidi are satanists, for example -last but not least, the very sign of the cross is not truly christian but constitutes the worship of Tammuz, aka Ninus (slowly losing track of how many figures were regarded as one and the same as him by Hislop). Based on the summary above it's safe to say that Hislop's claim is incorrect – and, arguably, malevolent (and as such deserves scrutiny, not further possibilities for spreading). However, this doesn't answer the question where does the name of Easter actually come from? As I noted in the beginning, in English (and also German) it's a bit of an oddity – it  actually was derived from a preexisting pagan term, at least if we are to believe the word of the monk Bede, who in the 8th century wrote that the term is a derivative of “Eosturmonath,” eg. “month of Eostre” - according to him a goddess. There are no known inscriptions mentioning such a goddess from the British Isles or beyond, though researchers involved in reconstructing proto-indo-european language assume that “Eostre” would logically be a derivative of the same term as  the name of the Greek Eos and of the vedic Ushas, and the Austriahenae goddesses from Roman inscriptions from present day Germany  – eg.  a word simply referring to dawn, and by extension to a goddess embodying it. This is a sound, well researched theory, so while early medieval chroniclers sometimes cannot be trusted, I see no reason to doubt Bede's account.

While Ushas is a prominent goddess in the Vedas, Eos was rather marginal in Greek religion (see her Theoi entry for details), and it's hard to tell to what degree Bede's Eostre was similar to either of them beyond plausibly being a personification of dawn. Of course, the hypothetical proto-indo-european dawn goddess all of these could be derived from would have next to nothing to do with Ishtar. While the history of the name of Easter (though not the celebration itself) is undeniably interesting, I suppose it lacks the elements which make the fake Ishtar claim a viral hit – the connection is indirect, and an equivalent of the Greek Eos isn't exactly exciting (Eos herself is, let be honest, remembered at best as an obscure part of the Odyssey), while Ishtar is understood by many as “wicked” sex goddess (a simplification, to put it very lightly) which adds a scandalous, sacrilegious dimension to the baffling lie, explaining its appeal to Dawkins' fans, arguably. As demonstrated above, Hislop's theories are false and adapting them for any new context – be it christian, atheist or neopagan – won't change that, but are there any genuine examples of, well, “hidden Ishtars”? If that's the part of the summary which caught your attention, rejoice – there is a plenty of these to be found in Bronze Age texts. I'd go as far as saying that most of ancient middle eastern cultures from that era felt compelled to include an Ishtar ersatz in their pantheons. Due to the popularity of the original Ishtar, she was almost a class of figures rather than a single figure – a situation almost comparable to modern franchising, when you think about it. The following figures can be undeniably regarded as “Ishtar-like” in some capacity or even as outright analogs:

Astarte (or Ashtart, to go with a more accurate transcription of the oldest recorded version of the name) – the most direct counterpart of Ishtar there is: a cognate of her own name. Simply, put Astarte is the “Levantine”equivalent of the “Mesopotamian” Ishtar. In the city of Mari, the names were pretty much used interchangeably, and some god lists equate them, though Astarte had a fair share of distinct traits. In Ugaritic mythology, which forms the core of our understanding of the western Semitic deities, she was a warrior and hunter (though it's possible that in addition to conventional weapons she was also skilled at wielding curses), and was usually grouped with Anat. Both of them were regarded as the allies of Baal, and assist him against his enemies in various myth. They also were envisioned to spend a lot of time together – one ritual calls them upon as a pair from distant lands where they're hunting together, while a fragmentary myth depicts both of them arriving in the household of the head god El and taking pity on Yarikh, the moon god, seemingly treated as a pariah. Astarte's close relation to Baal is illustrated by her epithet, “face of Baal” or “of the name of Baal.” They were often regarde as a couple and even late, Hellenic sources preserve a traditional belief that Astarte and “Adados” (Baal) ruled together as a pair. In some documents from Ugarit concerned with what we would call foreign policy today they were invoked together as the most prominent deities. It's therefore possible that she had some role related to human politics. She was regarded as exceptionally beautiful and some texts favorably describe mortal women's appearance by comparing them to Astarte. In later times she was regarded as a goddess of love, but it's unclear if that was a significant aspect of her in the Bronze Age. It's equally unclear if she shared Ishtar's astral character – in Canaan there were seemingly entirely separate dawn and dusk deities. Despite clamis you might see online, Astarte was not the same as the mother goddess Asherah. In the Baal cycle they actually belong to the opposing camps. Additionally, the names are only superficially similar (one starts with an aleph, the other with an ayin) and have different etymology. Also, that famous sculpture of a very blatantly Minoan potnia theron? Ugaritic in origin but not a depiction of either Astarte or Asherah.

The Egyptians, due to extensive contact with Canaan and various Syrian states in the second half of the Bronze Age, adapted Astarte (and by extension Anat) into their own pantheon. Like in Ugarit, her warrior character was emphasized. An Egyptian innovation was depicting her as a cavalry goddess of sorts – associated with mounted combat and chariots. In Egypt, Ptah, the head god of Memphis and divine craftsman, was regarded as her father. In most texts, Astarte is part of Seth's inner circle of associates – however, in this context Seth wasn't the slayer of Osiris, but a heroic storm god similar to Baal. The so-called Astarte papyrus presents an account of a myth eerily similar to the Ugaritic battle between Baal and Yam – starring Seth as the hero, with Astarte in a supporting role resembling that played by Shaushka, another Ishtar analog, in the Hittite song of Hedammu, which will be discussed below.

Shaushka – a Hurrian and Hittite goddess whose name means “the magnificent one” in the Hurrian language. Hurrian was widely spoken in ancient Mesopotamia and Anatolia (and in northernmost parts of the Levant – up to one fifth of personal names from Ugaritic documents were Hurrian iirc), but has no descendants today and its relation to any extant languages is uncertain. In Hittite texts she was often referred to with an “akkadogram” denoting Ishtar's name (or its Sumerian equivalent) instead of a phonetic  spelling of her own (there was an analogous practice regarding the sun gods), while in Egyptian and Syrian texts there are a few references to “Ishtar Hurri” - “Ishtar of the Hurrians” - who is argued by researchers to be one and the same as Shaushka. Despite Shaushka's Hurrian name and her prominence in myths popular both among Hittites and Hurrians, her main cult center was the Assyrian city of Nineveh, associated with Ishtar herself as well, and there were relatively few temples dedicated to her in the core Hittite sphere of influence in Anatolia. Curiously, both the oldest reference to Shaushka and to the city of Nineveh come from the same text, stating that a sheep was sacrificed to her there. While most of her roles overlap with Ishtar's (she too was associated with sex, warfare and fertility), here are two distinct features of Shaushka that set her apart as unique: one is the fact she was perceived in part as a masculine deity, despite being consistently described as a woman – in the famous Yazılıkaya reliefs she appears twice, both among gods and goddesses. In Alalakh she was depicted in outfits combining elements of male and female clothing. Similar fashion preferences were at times attributed to Ninshubur, the attendant of Ishtar's Sumerian forerunner Inanna – though in that case they were likely the result of conflation of Ninshubur with the male messenger deity Papsukkal, while in the case of Shaushka the dual nature seems to be inherent to her (I haven't seen any in depth study of this matter yet, sadly, so I can't really tell confidently which modern term in my opinion describes Shaushka's character the best). Her two attendants, musician goddesses Ninatta and Kulitta, do not share it. Shaushka's other unique niche is her role in exorcisms and incantations, and by extension with curing various diseases – this role outlived her cult itself, as late Assyrian inscriptions still associated the “Ishtar of Nineveh” (at times viewed as separate from the regular Ishtar) with healing. It can be argued that even her sexual aspect was connected to healing, as she was invoked to cure impotence. The most significant myth in which she appears is the cycle dedicated to documenting the storm god's (Teshub for the Hurrians, Tarhunna for the Hittites) rise to power. Shaushka is depicted as his sister and arguably most reliable ally, and plays a prominent role in two sections in particular – the Song of Hedammu and the Song of Ullikummi. In the former, she seemingly comes up with an elaborate plan to defeat a new enemy of her brother - the sea monster Hedammu - by performing a seductive dance and song montage (with her attendants as a support act) and offering an elixir to him. The exact result is uncertain, but Hedammu evidently ends up vanquished. In the latter, she attempts to use the same gambit against yet another new foe, the “diorite man” Ullikummi – however, since he is unfeeling like a rock, she fails; some translators see this passage as comedic. However, elsewhere in the Song, the storm god's main enemy Kumarbi and his minions view Shaushka as a formidable warrior, and in the early installment of the cycle, Song of LAMMA, she seemingly partakes in a fight. In another myth, known only from a few fragments and compared to the Sumerian text “Inanna and the huluppu tree,” Shaushka takes care of “Ḫašarri” -  a personification of olive oil, or a sentient olive tree. It seems that she has to protect this bizarre entity from various threats. While Shaushka lived on in Mesopotamia as “Ishtar of Nineveh,” this was far from the only “variant”of Ishtar in her homeland.

Nanaya was another such goddess. A few Sumerian hymns mention her alongside Inanna, the Sumerian equivalent of Ishtar, by the time of Sargon of Akkad virtually impossible to separate from her. As one composition puts it, Nanaya was “properly educated by holy Inana” and “counselled by holy Inana.” Initially she was most likely a part of Inanna's circle of deities in her cult center, Uruk, though due to shared character they eventually blurred together to a large degree. Just like Inanna/Ishtar, Nanaya was a goddess of love, described as beautiful and romantically and sexually active, and she too had an astral character. She was even celebrated during the same holidays as Inanna. Some researchers go as far as suggest Nanaya was only ever Inanna/Ishtar in her astral aspect alone and not a separate goddess. However, there is also evidence of her, Inanna and the sky god An being regarded as a trinity of distinct tutelary deities in Uruk. Additionally, king Melishipak's kudurru shown above shows both Nanaya (seated) and Ishtar/Inanna (as a star). Something peculiar to Nanaya was her later association with the scribe god Nabu. Sometimes Nabu's consort was the the goddess Tashmetu instead, but I can't find any summary explaining potential differences between them – it seems just like Nanaya, she was a goddess of love, including its physical aspects. Regardless of the name used to describe Nabu's wife, she was regarded as a sage and scribe like him – this arguably gives her a distinct identity she lacked in her early role as part of Inanna's circle. As the above examples demonstrate, the popularity of the “Ishtar type” was exceptional in the Bronze Age – but is it odd from a modern perspective? The myths dedicated to her are still quite fun to read today – much like any hero of ancient imagination she has a plethora of adversaries, a complex love life (not to mention many figures not intended to be read as her lovers originally but described in such terms that it's easy to see them this way today – including other women), a penchant for reckless behavior – and most importantly a consistent, easy to summarize character. She shouldn't be a part of modern mass consciousness only because of false 19th century claims detached from her actual character (both these from Hislop's works and “secular”claims about her purported “real”character based on flimsy reasoning and shoddy sources) – isn't a female character who is allowed to act about the same way as male mythical figures do without being condemned for it pretty much what many modern mythology retellings try to create? Further reading: On Astarte: -entry in the Iconography of Deities and Demons in Ancient Near East database by Izak Cornelius -‛Athtart in Late Bronze Age Syrian Texts by Mark S. Smith -ʿAthtartu’s Incantations and the Use of Divine Names as Weapons by Theodore J. Lewis -The Other Version of the Story of the Storm-god’s Combat with the Sea in the Light of Egyptian, Ugaritic, and Hurro-Hittite Texts by Noga Ayali-Darshan -for a summary of evidence that Astarte has nothing to do with Asherah see A Reassessment of Asherah With Further Considerations of the Goddess by Steve A. Wiggins On Shaushka: -Adapting Mesopotamian Myth in Hurro-Hittite Rituals at Hattuša: IŠTAR, the Underworld, and the Legendary Kings by Mary R. Bacharova -Ishtar seduces the Sea-serpent. A new join in the epic of Ḫedammu (KUB 36, 56 + 95) and its meaning for the battle between Baal and Yam in Ugaritic tradition by Meindert Dijkstra -Ištar of Nineveh Reconsidered by Gary Beckman -Shaushka, the Traveling Goddess by Graciela Gestoso Singer -Hittite Myths by Harry A. Hoffner jr. -The Hurritic Myth about Šaušga of Nineveh and Ḫašarri (CTH 776.2) by Meindert Dijkstra -The West Hurian Pantheon and its Background by Alfonso Archi On Nanaya: -entry in Brill’s New Pauly by Thomas Richter -entry from the Ancient Mesopotamian Gods and Goddesses project by Ruth Horry -A tigi to Nanaya for Ishbi-Erra from The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature -A balbale to Inana as Nanaya from The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature -More Light on Nanaya by Michael P. Streck and Nathan Wasserman -More on the Nature and History of the Goddess Nanaya by Piotr Steinkeller A few introductory Ishtar/Inanna myths: -Inanna's descent to the netherworld -Inanna and the huluppu tree -Inanna and Enki -Enki and the world order -Inanna and Ebih -Dumuzid and Enkimdu

[freifraufischer]

An interesting sports/politics observation:  

I’ve been following the dumpster fire at USAG for quite some time now and became deeply interested in following the sport of gymnastics in more than a 4 year fan way around the time that the Larry Nassar scandal broke.  

The post mortem on the US women’s gymnastics team results in Tokyo was honestly starting around Olympic trials in June.  The US women have never traveled much internationally for decades so they compete less than other international gymnasts.  The argument has been that the travel takes away from valuable training time.  What was little became none because of COVID and the bankruptcy filing of USAG to deal with the lawsuits arising from the abuse scandal.  

It was known that the US women were also being domestically over scored by judges at home.  Domestic overscoring is not unique to the US but most countries that have it also complete internationally so their athletes have a real sense of how international judges will evaluate their routines.  There have been alarm bells for at least three years that the US women were not going to get credit for elements and face deductions in international competition that they weren’t facing at home.  Just this year one of them was literally used in a pictorial example of a international judging document for something that should be deducted--the fact that current athletes are used this way is a whole other horrible kettle of fish.  I should add that the discovery that routines that were being scored highly in the US would fail at the olympics isn’t even new.  Famously the reigning world champion missed out on the all around final at the 2012 games because she wasn’t given credit for connections and series that were overlooked at home.

Now the job of bringing domestic meet scoring into line is on the national team staff and the job of advising and strategizing is that of the “High Performance Director” for the women’s program.  This is the job that was held (under the title National Team Coordinator) by Martha Karolyi with an iron fist before 2016.  She was replaced (after fits and starts) by a man named Tom Forrester.  Forrester’s defining qualities for the job have been that he is nice.  Literally the bar was that low.  He has demonstrated a rather alarming lack of knowledge about what international judges deduct for (after Junior World Championships he expressed surprise that they deducted for dance elements--something that happened again in Tokyo to US gymnasts), did not understand the Olympic selection criteria for individuals, and appeared to have a very very faulty understanding of the rights of athletes with an ongoing abuse complaint (more on that later).

He was relatively removed from the culture of high level elite coaching for the last few decades and the athletes considered him nice.  The last time he had been deeply involved in senior US gymnastics politics was the mid 1990s when several of his gymnasts were passed over for the 1996 Olympic Team because injured athletes were petitioned on to the team over those that competed at trials.  Mind you this was a time when the Olympic team had 7 members and the people petitioned on were the 1992 Olympic Silver Medalist Shannon Miller and 1995 National Champion Dominique Moceanu.  It would have been literally insane not to have them on the Olympic team.  But it has become apparent that Tom Forrester felt a great injustice was done to his athletes and the the worst part of US gymnastics team management was that Martha Karolyi picked favorites.  

This year he denied the petition of a former world champion to Olympic trials (she likely wouldn’t have made the team but her exclusion is... questionable) and after the fact justified it by saying she had failed to meet a criteria for the petition that he never told her existed.  At trials the team was chosen (by a committee that he had essentially full control over) took the top all around finishers in order of how they did at trials (as he would have liked them to have done in 1996).  This was in willful defiance that the format of the olympics now demands not all arounders but strategic use of team building for the best score possible.  The US did not bring the highest potential scoring team to the olympics because of one man’s wounded pride from 25 years ago.

And before you might be tempted to tell yourself he did this because he wanted to support the athletes let me tell you about the fact that he allowed a coach that was under investigation for abuse to come to a camp where one of the athletes that had filed the complaint against her was also in attendance.  His wife, who has a history of unhinged social media rants, claimed he didn’t have the authority to send home an athletes chosen coach.  In reality Louie Hernandez had the legal right not to have to be there with her.  That coach would later be banned for longer than anyone else has ever been banned in USAG history.

So in June anyone following the details of this knew that Tom’s strategy was entirely “we have Simone and so we will win.”  Because that kind of pressure and stress couldn’t possibly have any terrible consequences on an athlete.  Spoiler:  It did.  

People within the sport were warning about this before Simone Biles lost herself in the air during that vault in Tokyo.  The fact that we were all lucky not to watch one of the greatest athletes of a generation break her neck can not be overstated.  It was so scary that one of the most famously bitter angry and terrible human beings of Gymnastics that has been saying awful things about Biles for years kept telling Russian media that she made the right decision to pull out.  That was pigs flying territory.

Forrester left the athletes to face the press alone after the final.

So with that backdrop I want to give this observation:  Dominque Moceanu, an olympic gold medalist who has an abuse story so horrific with villains so cartonishly evil that if it was written as fiction the author would be told it was over the top, wrote a book about the culture of abuse in in the sport and USAG in 2008.  She was called insane, living on another planet, and apparently sent hundreds of emails by those within the sport that she was ungrateful for what her abusers had done for her (emails that she has apparently kept and I’m telling you I’d love to read more then the few I’ve seen).  Moceanu was a figure out of greek legend, Cassandra doomed to tell the truth and be called mad (and attention seeking).  In light of the fall of the Karolyis and the Nassar scandal Moceanu has become a more respected figure as someone that has been speaking out about abuse for a long time.  She has also been someone that other victims went to over the decades to talk to before they could come forward.  A weight that no one should have to bear.  

I had been joking that the only way people would start to trust USAG was honestly trying to reform was if they put someone like Moceanu in charge (Aly Raisman’s name is floated but even she points out that she’s not qualified).  Moceanu is.  But the old guard of the sport have spent two decades telling people that Moceanu is crazy.  I didn’t think she’d take the job and I didn’t think USAG would ever hire her.

But here is the interesting thing .... her social media presence radically changed character in the last three months.  Starting around the time of US Nationals and continuing though trials and the olympics between posts supporting team USA athletes and raising a voice to support Simone Biles and the need for a cultural change in the sport were digs at Tom Forrester and about the need for transparency in that job.  

And this:  “Would someone be kind enough to notify me if the U.S. women’s high performance coordinator position opens up? Asking for a friend.”  (x)  At the same time (literally the same day as one of those tweets) she launched a youtube channel that is essentially a political fluff piece about her as a change agent in gymnastics coaching.

She’s auditioning for that job.

There are a bunch of other interesting elements of her online behavior and some other telling notes about things she’s said ... but it’s interesting to notice something like that unfold.

[ingek73]

Fairytales for fuckwits: Meghan, a children's book, and the school bully tactics of the British tabloids...

Piers Morgan's obsession with Meghan Markle continues, while Mike Graham appears worried there may be too many big words for him to understand.

Mic Wright

May 6

On May the 4th, there was a great disturbance in the force, as if thousands of tabloid reporters and talk radio pundits cried out at once: The Duchess of Sussex had announced she was writing a children’s book.

Since the earth-shattering news that Meghan has written a story about the relationship between father’s and their sons — apparently based on a poem she wrote for Prince Harry — the tabloid press and talk radio stations have gone into meltdown.

The Sun has managed to crank out seven hysterically-pitched stories on the announcement since it dropped — the book isn’t out until June 8th — with each more unhinged than the last:

MEG TO PAPER Meghan Markle writes children’s book inspired by Prince Harry and baby Archie about ‘bond between father and son’

MEG-A MOVE Meghan Markle’s first priority should be mending broken relationships with royals not writing kids’ book, expert claims

SOUNDS A BIT WOODEN ‘Schmaltzy’ Meghan Markle ‘on dodgy ground’ with kids’ book celebrating fathers ‘after own bust-up with dad’ says author

DOUBLE DUCH Meghan Markle accused of copying her kids’ book The Bench from another story – but author defends her

NOT WRITE Piers Morgan slams ‘hypocrite’ Meghan Markle for kids’ book on ‘father-son bond’ after ‘ruining Harry and Charles’ ties’

'RIDICULOUS' Meghan Markle using Duchess of Sussex as author name ‘laughable’ after she wanted to cut Royal ties, says royal expert

CUT PRICE Meghan Markle’s kids’ book has price slashed already at Amazon and Waterstones

You’ll notice that Piers Morgan — a man who has turned one drink with Meghan after which he claims she “ghosted him”, which took place in 2016, into a five year and counting obsession — gets his own story there. That’s The Sun filleting Morgan’s spittle-flecked Daily Mail column on the book for its own news piece.

Morgan, who trails his columns on Twitter like they are exciting new releases rather than the tabloid equivalent of a letter scrawled in faeces forced through your letterbox, dashed out his thoughts on The Bench with the indecent haste of a man running along while his trousers fall down.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @BreeNewsome

DEFUND & ABOLISH POLICE, REFUND OUR COMMUNITIES

@BreeNewsome

Piers Morgan’s obsession with Meghan Markle is genuinely disturbing. He’s really just using the guise of journalism to be a public stalker and harasser.

May 5th 2021

1,414 Retweets10,252 Likes”

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Beneath a typically screaming Mail headline — How the hell can Meghan 'I hate royalty but call me Duchess' Markle preach about father-child relationships when she's disowned her own Dad, and wrecked her husband's relationship with his? — Morgan howled:

… she continues to cynically exploit her royal titles because she knows that's the only reason anyone is paying her vast sums of money to spew her uniquely unctuous brand of pious hectoring gibberish in Netflix documentaries, Spotify podcasts or children's books.

Of course, her equally cynical publishers don't give a damn about any of this shocking double standard.

Forget the fact that Meghan had a good degree of personal fame before she ever met Prince Harry, Piers Morgan accusing anyone else of being a cynical fame chaser is beyond parody. From his earliest days as a gossip hack, Morgan has muscled into pictures with the rich and famous, desperate to be someone.

When Meghan was willing to indulge him, he showered her with praise, but once she stopped taking his calls, he turned into the Tinder match from hell. That he has been married to his second wife, fellow controversialist columnist Celia Walden since 2010 seemingly did nothing to dampen his obsession.

Having repeatedly interviewed Meghan’s estranged father Thomas Markle — another man aggrieved because a woman would rather not spend time with him — Morgan sneers:

If she really cared about father-child relationships, she'd take a chauffeur-driven limousine on the hour-long trip to see her own father who's never even met either Harry or Archie.

It’s projection again: Piers Morgan’s ego is so egg-shell thin that after Meghan decided that one drink was more than enough, he’s spent 5 years seeking revenge and convinced that he’s been wronged, just like her ‘poor old dad’. That’s the ‘poor old dad’ that insists on talking about his daughter to journalists at every possible occasion.

At the end of an article that implies Harry and Meghan contributed to the death of Prince Philip — he died of natural causes — and rants on about “the woke”, Morgan ends with this:

But then as we've seen from her gruesomely self-interested behaviour during a pandemic that's caused so much devastation and pain to billions around the world, Meghan Markle doesn't really care about anyone but herself.

Remember, the Duchess of Sussex’s only ‘crime’ here is to write a children’s book which people will be free to buy or ignore with equal ease. But, as ever, Piers Morgan treats the news with all the proportionality of a US drone strike.

The real story here is about how Morgan — the bittiest of bit-part players in the narrative of Meghan and Harry’s lives — is so desperate to upgrade his place in the cast list that he will rant and rave to stay relevant. His departure from Good Morning Britain came after his last stream of invective about Meghan and he knows this schtick gets him the attention and money he craves.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @MariaLRoach

Maria Roach

@MariaLRoach

Meghan Markle inside the tiny space called Piers Morgan’s head. #duchessofsussex Tap Dance GIF by Miss America

May 5th 2021

122 Retweets1,619 Likes”

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Aside from Morgan’s column, MailOnline has published 9 other news stories on or related to the book announcement. The most telling of them is one that links the Duchess of Sussex’s book to another one… by the Duchess of Cambridge.

Headlined Bookshelf battle royale! Kate Middleton shares a glimpse inside her Hold Still photobook just a day after Meghan Markle unveiled her own £12.99 children's story, the story unsurprisingly treats Kate with kid gloves while continuing to imply that Meghan is the kind of person who would make gloves out of kids if it suited her devilish schemes.

There’s no shade thrown at the Duchess of Cambridge for revealing further details of her book just hours after Meghan’s announcement. Instead, the story — lavishly illustrated with images from the book — gushes:

The Duchess of Cambridge has shared a glimpse of her photography book Hold Still ahead of its release on Friday…

… Kate, 39, a keen photographer, launched a campaign during the first lockdown last year to ask the public to submit images which captured the period.

It even includes a mention of an image of a BLM protestor saying:

Over the course of the project, the Duchess shared a number of her favourite images on the Kensington Royal Instagram page, including a Black Lives Matter protester holding a sign reading: 'Be on the right side of history.'

If Meghan had done the same she would have been decried for “supporting extremists”. Remember the contrasting way their mutual taste for avocado was covered?

15 Headlines Show How Differently The British Press Treat Meghan Markle Vs Kate Middleton | Bored Panda

Over at The Daily Telegraph, Spiked alumna Ella Whelan offered her thoughts on a book that isn’t released until next month under the headline Meghan Markle’s fun-free children’s book may put an entire generation off reading, which makes it sound like a grimoire full of dark magic rather than a gentle children’s book about kids and their dads.

Just as with the Mail’s story on Kate’s book, it’s worth imagining what Whelan would say if the Duchess of Cambridge had written The Bench. Look at the following section…

It reveals something of the political superficiality of Harry and Meghan’s activism that an “inclusive” book would use the military father as its promotional message. Perhaps it’s a cultural thing, but if my kids have to read about soldiers, I’d prefer Hans Christian Andersen’s tin version rather than the woke posturing of a former royal.

… and notice that because Meghan is the author including a father who is in the military is “political superficiality”. If Kate had written a story that featured an analogue for Prince William — who also spent time in uniform, though in less dangerous circumstances than his ‘spare’ brother — Whelan would likely deem it a ‘touching tribute to their love’.

Similarly, Sarah Ferguson — the ex-wife of Prince Andrew, top Yelp! reviewer for Jeffrey Epstein’s houses and noted avoider of FBI questioning — uses the title Duchess of York on her many execrable children’s books.

Now that Meghan is the tabloid’s new monster in the monarchy, Fergie’s antics are pointed to as a positive with her books flattered even as Meghan’s as-yet-unpublished book is panned.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @talkRADIO

talkRADIO

@talkRADIO

Meghan Markle is releasing a new children's book about father-son relationships.

Mike Graham: "It's so juvenile. This is somebody who acts like she's still in high school... it's not exactly Tennyson, is it?

@mrmarkdolan | @Iromg Image

May 5th 2021

36 Retweets221 Likes”

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Over on talkRADIO, Mike Graham — a melting mass of expired meat — ranted about a children’s book, worried perhaps that it will contain too many long words. Speaking to his colleague, Mark Dolan — Dennis Pennis without the charm — Graham crowed:

It’s so juvenile. This is somebody who acts like she’s still in high school… I don’t have anything against her for any particular reason, other than she’s a bit too American, you know. She thinks everything is just great and cheesy. Rhyming the words ‘joy’ and ‘boy’. It’s not exactly Tennyson, is it?

Ah yes, that famous children’s author, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, known for such devastating rhymes as this one from The Lady of Shallot: “She left the web/ She left the loom/ She made three paces through the room.”

I’m not saying The Lady of Shalott is rubbish — though I do still hold a grudge against Tennyson after some very tedious teaching in high school — but that focusing on one rhyme in a poem is an easy trick if you want to say its shit. That Graham cannot see the irony in decrying writing a children’s book as “juvenile” is just one of the reasons he’s employed by a station with less than 1% reach.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @NadimJBaba

Nadim Baba

@NadimJBaba

Piers Morgan ranting about the one who got away in 5, 4, 3.......

Media Guardian @mediaguardian

Meghan wins copyright claim against Mail on Sunday over letter https://t.co/cJZTgDMvgz

May 5th 2021

1 Like”

-

There’ll be a new round of these columns, stories, and talk radio segments when the book is released, particularly as The Mail on Sunday just lost the second part of Meghan’s copyright claim against it.

There’s nothing that either Meghan or Harry could do that wouldn’t drive these rats in a sack rabid. If they did nothing, they’d be called lazy. When they make things, take jobs, or really say anything the very media that benefits hugely from stories about them scream that it’s a cry for attention. And yet Piers Morgan regularly pissing himself in public is “commentary”.

[bgnmagic]

Acceptance a/b/o Merlin Fanfic

Merlin nearly got caught by the guards posted outside Arthur’s chambers as he snuck out. However, having been trapped in the prince’s rooms for nearly three weeks Merlin knew their habits already. Easily distracting the pair with a simple spell, Merlin caused a tapestry to move further down the corridor and they went off like puppies to investigate.

Good riddance. He needed to get outside. Merlin knew his alpha, Arthur, meant well by keeping him hidden, but not getting to go outside was making Merlin go stir crazy. The injuries he’d sustained from when Arthur had rescued him were on the mend. He could walk without a limp now and his shoulder only hurt minimally when Merlin tried to raise his arm over his head.

Hoping he could slip out and away to the forest while Arthur was busy in a council meeting all afternoon, Merlin continued on his way out of the citadel. The hard stone walls surrounding him only seemed to enforce the feeling of being imprisoned. Merlin knew he could leave at any time, the only issue being whether or not Arthur would come with him.

Finding out who his mate was in such a chaotic way only added to the confusion he felt. Arthur had rescued him from certain death after a bandit attack only three short weeks ago. They’d been literally thrown together under extremely stressful circumstances.  All of which Merlin was actually okay with, it was the small detail of Arthur’s father being a magic hating crazy man that made things difficult.

Merlin wasn’t sure if he should be happy or worried that Uther hadn’t come to drag him away to be executed yet. The man had seen Merlin’s magic the same night Arthur brought him to Camelot. That had been a terrible first greeting. Welcome to your new home, where we hate magic and don’t like it when people find their true mates. Good luck with everything, get out before we kill you!

Shuddering at the memory, as it was the first and only time Merlin had seen Uther so far, he hoped getting some fresh air would help clear the fog in his brain. It was obvious that Arthur felt their bond very deeply, considering he kept standing up to his father anytime the king came to shout about their budding relationship. Merlin could hear them argue clearly through the closed door to his little room.

Arthur had turned his antechamber into a mini nest for Merlin. His alpha’s reasoning was the antechamber was easier to defend if need be. They’d already gone over escape plans and what to do should Uther come to take Merlin away. It was all quite romantic if you didn’t focus on the reasoning behind it. However, the window with its little cushioned seat wasn’t enough fresh air for Merlin, he needed to be outside, and he needed to feel the earth under his feet.

Avoiding the main courtyard Merlin slipped out through the back gate of the citadel. It was wide open at this time because the maids were doing laundry. Merlin had a view of this particular exit from his room so he knew the schedule. Once his feet hit the dirt path he broke out in a run. Feeling the air rushing past him felt wondrous. The smell of the trees and flowers filled his nostrils. Gods, he’d missed this sensation.

Coming into a clearing a few minutes later Merlin immediately flopped down into the grass and lay there looking up at the clouds floating by. Grinning from ear to ear he let all the worries and stress from the past weeks melt away. It was easy enough to keep going, continue on away from Camelot, never to return. A small part of Merlin wished he could, but the reality was that he’d found his mate. There was a bond there whether he wanted to admit it or not. Arthur was his alpha. The one roadblock they had yet to overcome was Uther’s wish that Merlin be put to death. Arthur insisted that he would run away with Merlin if it came down to that, but he wasn’t sure the prince would be willing to leave his title behind simply for the likes of a peasant omega.

Pushing the thought aside Merlin tried to clear his head. He came out here to find peace not get worked up about Uther being a complete tyrant. Merlin lost track of time watching the clouds and birds fly by. Planning on only being gone for an hour at most Merlin was unexpectedly shocked into alertness by an alarm bell ringing in the distance. Something had happened at the citadel. He’d tarried too long, getting back inside with an alarm going was near impossible.   He’d seen it once before when someone had escaped the dungeons.

Standing up in a rush, Merlin tried to think of what to do. He could wait for the alarm to end but everyone would still be riled up, Merlin would be caught for sure. Groaning at his own foolishness Merlin began heading back, he’d have to hide and see if he could sneak back in, though deep down Merlin knew it wouldn’t work. Not without using a lot of magic, and that didn’t seem like such a great idea considering what Uther would do to him if Arthur wasn’t there to help.

When the turrets of the north tower came into view Merlin slowed his pace. Simply walking up to the door he’d left through was all good in principle, but actually doing it was quite another story. He couldn’t stay out here all night! Desperate to know the reason for the alarm Merlin opted to hide behind a large tree and wait. Maybe it was another escapee? The guards could easily claim he was the wanted man and kill him on the spot.

Nothing ever went right for Merlin; he was doomed to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Suddenly stuck with the idea that he might never see Arthur again made his chest constrict painfully. They barely knew each other but Merlin was having a hard time imagining life without his alpha. Damn their bond! Why was it so strong?!

Lost, wallowing in his own misery Merlin missed the frantic shouts coming from the citadel. After a moment he figured he was going crazy because Merlin was sure he could his own name drifting through the air. Peeking out from behind the tree he listened, waiting to hear the call again.  Sure enough, someone was urgently screaming his name. Oh shit.

Ducking back behind the trunk Merlin attempted to not die of panic. Why were they looking for him? Only Arthur or gods forbid Uther should have discovered his absence. There was no need to send off a bloody alarm just for an omega. Something else terrible must have happened. Maybe it was time to enact their escape plan but Merlin had ruined everything by sneaking out. Visions of armed men ruthlessly chasing Arthur through the citadel crossed his mind, causing his anxiety to spike further. Uther might try and kill his only son, the man seemed like the type to do it, he was unhinged.

The sound of a door bursting open followed by more worried calls of ‘Merlin’ forced him to look once more. The fading afternoon sun cast the man that came running out of the gate in a halo of gold light. It was Arthur; he stopped briefly and looked around, clearly fretting. When a knight came running out after him, Merlin almost used his magic to throw the man back, but upon closer inspection it was Leon. He’d been there with Arthur when they’d found him that fateful day in the forest.

Leon looked just as worried as Arthur. Unable to understand why they looked so upset Merlin waited a little longer before revealing his hiding spot. If no one else came out after them perhaps it was safe after all. Merlin was about to step out when another shadow framed the doorway. It was the king; he looked much the same as when Merlin had seen three weeks ago. Angry, uncaring, and mean.

The fear of seeing him again made Merlin’s knees weak. He didn’t want to hurt the king, but if he had any intent to maim him, Merlin wasn’t going to back down. Distracted by the figure of Uther, Merlin was unaware that Arthur had stopped walking around.

Arthur took a deep breath and turned on his father, “I can smell him, he’s still nearby. If you’ve done anything to him I swear I’ll --.”

“You’ll what? Arthur, I believe we’ve been over this a thousand times already. I’ve given my word that I won’t kill your mate.”

“Forgive me if I don’t completely trust you on that matter yet,” Arthur spit back before spinning around and heading off into the trees, straight to where Merlin was hiding.

Arthur, Merlin had learned was very good at following scents. Hence the reason they’d even met in the first place. Merlin’s distressed, I’m probably going to die, scent had lead Arthur straight to him, much like it was doing right now.

Unable to hide any longer Merlin leaned out and smiled sheepishly. Arthur was in his space a second later roughly pulling Merlin into a fierce hug.

“Thank the gods, I thought father had you taken away,” he exclaimed with worry. “Are you hurt?” Arthur asked pulling back to gently cradle Merlin’s face in his shaking hands.

“Sorry, I needed some air; I thought you were going to be in your meeting longer. I planned on being back by then.”

“You scared me half to death, if anything had happened to you I don’t – I,” Arthur trailed off with a pained look.

“I’m sorry, I’m fine, I just couldn’t stand being cooped up anymore. Are we safe? Why is the alarm going?” Merlin asked quickly.

“Huh? The alarm, I just told you I thought I’d lost you.”

Merlin’s brain skidded to a halt; Arthur had raised the alarm for him? “What? But why? I’m just an omega.”

“Merlin,” Arthur chided, “You’re more than that, don’t ever think that. Let’s get back inside; I’m sure my father won’t wait on us for much longer.”

Arthur went to pull Merlin along back towards the gate door, but he stopped after a few feet. “Why is Uther waiting? Why is he even here, he looks like he wants to stab me.”

“Merlin, that’s the reason the meeting ended early, we don’t have to hide anymore. I managed to convince father and the council to stop meddling in our affairs,” Arthur replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“Idiot,” Arthur sighed fondly, “shut up and come with me.”

If it weren’t for the smile on Arthur’s face Merlin would have bolted back into the woods. Nodding he started walking again and tried to avoid looking directly at the king. This tactic didn’t work well when Arthur drug Merlin right in front of his father.

“Father, do I have your word that you’ll allow this partnership to move forward?”

Uther scowled but nodded all the same, “Yes, but enough talk, I’m tired of standing here.”

“That’s it? Are you really alright with this now, after threatening to kill me?” Merlin blurted without thinking.

Groaning loudly Uther turned and held his gaze, “My son brings back a wounded, magic using omega claiming he is his mate, how did you think I would react?” the king answered coldly.

“I thought you’d be happy for him,” uttered Merlin. Hearing that Uther didn’t even believe the feelings of his own son was disheartening.

“Perhaps I will in time,” Uther replied. “Consider yourself very lucky that I’m willing to turn a blind eye to this – arrangement, but be warned omega, if you so much as use a lick of magic against us I’ll have you burned.”

Uther’s use of influenced alpha speech made Merlin flinch. He hated it when alpha’s did that, it wasn’t like he was ignoring him. Merlin was in fear of his life. Why on earth would he not pay attention?

“Acknowledge me omega!” Uther demanded.

“Yes, my lord!” Merlin answered, trying mightily not to shake.

The king growled once in response and without another word turned and stalked back towards the citadel. Suddenly feeling exhausted Merlin ducked his head and grabbed Arthur’s hand. The prince squeezed back and then they were all heading back inside. Merlin kept his head down as they walked through the corridors. The king had gone off somewhere and even Leon had disappeared. When the doors to Arthur’s chamber appeared Merlin let out a sigh of relief.

The second the door was closed and bolted Arthur pulled Merlin close and held him tightly. “Are you alright?” he asked softly. “I can tell you’re upset, I mean I know why, my father isn’t exactly an easy man to deal with on the best of days.”

“I’ll get over it; I don’t want to cause trouble, yet that’s all I’ve done despite doing nothing but be me, magic and all.”

Arthur stepped back and pouted, Merlin was learning this meant his alpha was feeling things but didn’t know how to talk about it. For being as protective as he was Arthur was terrible at talking about his emotions. “I know it’s been odd these past few weeks being together with only our bond to rely on,” Arthur sighed. “I trust that you’re my mate but we still have so much to learn about each other.”

At the mention of their bond Merlin began nervously shuffling his feet. “About that, what exactly is the next step for people who find their mates? Obviously we seem to get along, when you’re not being a complete prat of cour--.”

“Hey! I’m not a prat!”

“Yes, you are. Not all the time but you throw things at me and that’s not nice.”

Arthur sighed and shook his head, “You were trying to steal my last sausage for breakfast, you can’t do that.”

“You’re my alpha, I should be able to take your food Arthur.” Merlin had the pleasure of watching Arthur shudder and groan at his use of the influenced word.

“Watch it Merlin, I’m trying my best not to claim you right where you stand. If you keep doing things like that I’m not going to be able to hold back.”

At the mention of claiming, Merlin sobered again, “Seriously Arthur what’s next? I don’t have to stay in your rooms all day so what do I do and how do we become a true bonded pair?”

“Oh, right, um well I bite you and then you can bite me and that’s it.” Arthur didn’t go into any more detail and Merlin felt that there should be so much more to this process.

“Wait, that’s it? We bite each other and we’re bonded for life?”

“I think so, I’d have to ask Gaius to be certain, but I always thought that was how it worked. I know that the paired omega’s I’ve seen around the citadel have bite marks on their gland and their scent changes, or maybe my perception of it does.”

“I’m aware that paired omegas have less trouble with alphas, that would be a welcome change,” Merlin admitted.

“I’ll never let anything harm you Merlin!” Arthur exclaimed stepping back into his space, grabbing his biceps and squeezing.

“Yes, I’ve gathered that, so um, when are you going to bite me?”

Arthur looked confused and went back to pouting, great; his alpha was being emotionally stunted again. “Erm, well, we’ve not even kissed yet so maybe we should try that first?”

Right, all they’d managed so far was massive amounts of cuddling. Merlin had been bed ridden for the first week due to his injuries so all they could do was hold each other. Arthur was solidly built so Merlin had no complaints about sleeping on him. However, the only other stuff they’d done was talk about their lives and hold hands so far. Kissing seemed like fun but that might lead to something more and Merlin wasn’t sure he’d be able to push Arthur away if it came down to it.”

Arthur took Merlin’s brooding silence as a rejection to the idea and quickly back tracked, “We don’t have to obviously, we could lie on the bed and relax. You’ve not had a chance to sleep in here yet. The bed in the antechamber is too small for us to fit comfortably, you can stretch out in here,” Arthur enthused as he gently pulled Merlin over to the giant bed.

“I dunno, maybe we should go do something, now that your father isn’t out to get me. You could show me around the citadel, if you want?” Merlin asked hopefully.

“If that’s what you want, we can go on a little tour, but first, um,” Arthur paused and was pouting again. “Can I mark you before we go out? I don’t want any other alphas to think you’re available.”

Oh, shit. That actually made sense; Merlin didn’t want anyone trying to approach him at the moment. Not that they would with the crown prince accompanying him but it was always better to be safe than sorry. “I guess so; I don’t want any trouble if we go out. How do we?” Merlin asked unsure of who should make the first move.

“Relax and tilt your head, I promise I’ll be quick.”

Merlin did as instructed and waited. Arthur’s scent permeated his senses a moment later as the prince stepped closer. Next came the gentlest of touches on his neck, Arthur’s barely there stubble was touching his bare skin. Closing his eyes to keep calm, Merlin gasped when Arthur held him even tighter and pushed out his scent.  

The feeling of euphoria was so intense Merlin could barely breathe. Every nerve in his body was singing in pleasure, nothing else registered to him. His surroundings had blacked out and Merlin was only aware of the desire to be completely joined with his alpha. Breathing deeply Merlin sucked in Arthur’s scent and revealed in its warmth. If he died right now Merlin would be a happy omega, why did no one mention this absolutely intoxicating practice before? Getting marked was pure heaven.

“—lin, Merlin?! Can you hear me?” Arthur’s panicked voice asked, breaking through Merlin’s pleasure induced fog.

“Wha? M’here,” Merlin answered, not sure why Arthur was acting so strange. However, as the room began to come into focus again Merlin found he’d been literally swept off his feet by Arthur. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Are you alright? You scared me half to death!” Arthur asked as he carried Merlin over to the bed.

“That was amazing, we need to do that more often,” replied Merlin.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? I went to mark you and you went limp and I had to pick you up. What happened?”

“This fucking happened you clotpole,” Merlin answered right before he grabbed Arthur’s shoulders, and tugged him down so he could rub their scent glands together again. This time Merlin pushed his scent as much as he could. If Arthur could mark him so intensely then Merlin could too! Arthur’s full body weight collapsing on top of Merlin a few seconds later meant he’d done his job properly.

“Oh my – gods,” Arthur rasped in between breaths. “Is it – it supposed to feel that good? That felt amazing!”

“Why didn’t we try -- this sooner?” Merlin asked trying to wiggle out from underneath Arthur’s bulk.

“Merlin you broke me, I can’t move,” Arthur whined.

“Shit, does that mean we can’t go on the tour anymore?”

“My legs are jelly and my brain is mush, gods you smell so good. What are you doing? Come back here I need you,” Arthur demanded as he chased him across the bed. Merlin’s attempt at escaping failed miserably when Arthur grabbed his legs and pulled him across the covers. “Mine,” was all Arthur stated as he buried his head into Merlin’s thigh.

Giving up on getting free of Arthur’s grip, Merlin sank into the bedding and began playing with Arthur’s hair. The alpha made some sort of noise half way between a growl and a moan. Guess he liked having his head scratched. “Should we at least request dinner before you pass out and trap me here until morning?”

“M’not moving.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whined, “I’m hungry, let’s celebrate not dying and get drunk.”

“Okay that sounds like fun, but you’ll need to help me to the door, whatever you did to me broke me.”

Merlin laughed and smiled fondly at the blond alpha currently trying to squeeze the life out of him. “Promise me we’ll at least get to see the citadel tomorrow, okay?”

“I’ll show you around don’t worry,” Arthur huffed. “Right now I want to eat so we can mark each other again afterward, that was fun!”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33486670

[riverspatrick]

DC VS DISNEY

I’m compelled to perpetrate the DC versus Marvel trope despite the fact that the entertainment industry is made better by diversity and representation, not by profit and trends alone. DC VS Marvel, Mac VS PC, Coke VS Pepsi – the rivalry is engrained in our consumer minds, hard to deprogram, whilst all parties profit on the spectacle, because you can’t think of one without the other. It’s all part of the show. Villeneuve’s Dune made more than twice its budget in profits whist Black Widow did not, even though I’m willing to bet more people saw the latter than the former. Yes, Disney will sell more action figures and lunch boxes in the end, but the point I’m trying to make is how the industry’s success is hard to calculate on profit alone. Disney isn’t solely responsible for the success or failure of their franchises. Marvel and Star Wars characters mean so much to the fans that a show like The Book Of Boba Fett will score highly with its audience for nothing more than displaying their favourite characters on screen, such as the Wookiee bounty hunter Black Krrsantan, the Hutts twins, or Camie Marstrap and Laze “Fixer” Loneozner. Just ask Star Wars fans who these characters are and watch the passion on display. Challenge them to sum up the story of the show in a compelling way and they will likely falter. Boba survives from being digested by a monster, becomes one of the sand people, then defends his claim to Hutts’ vacant throne. The title alone spoils most of the story given that the character should survive for his book to be written. Writing about the cameos, easter-eggs and pants-creaming characters would require several paragraphs and a lot more context from the deepest reaches of the Star Wars lore.

I’m not on anyone’s side. DC or Marvel, I usually avoid the superhero genre, but after watching Peacemaker’s first three episodes, I realised that DC are banking on their advantage over Disney’s Marvel, and are making the best of it. Predictably, the home of Mickey Mouse would never green light Todd Phillips’ Joker or James Gunn’s Peacemaker, whilst DC can, and that’s a great thing since it brings the thriving and enduring superhero genre to that audience outside the mainstream who have been neglected for some time. I mean, what else have we got to look forward to other than another Wes Anderson delightful but formulaic work? Anderson’s work has become a Tintin-like Bill Murray serial: Billy In France, Billy In India, Billy In Hungary, Billy In Japan, whilst studios play it safe with remakes and take fewer chances on stories that could infuriate both the left and the right. It’s much too easy to offend someone these days, unless you tell the story through the superhero lens. A Ken-like enhanced male who fights with a name and costume inspired by the American flag? Only an established superhero franchise could get away with so much stereotype. The guy fights a whole planet-worth of aliens for days and there isn’t a hair out of place on his head. Whilst the Marvel universe tries to feed every bird with one crumb, DC has the freedom to play the full gamut, from G to R, blood, fleshlights and tighty whities.

You only need watching the opening title to know Peacemaker is not another CW woke-teen-pleaser, or the glossy kind of brain-starver Disney+ is known for – Peacemaker is pure, unhinged madness! Forget the action figures, I’ll buy Peacemaker branded tighty whities NOW, HBO! If I’d only look as good in them as Cena does however...

[greenninjagal-blog]

Loop Number Three Hundred Twelve

Hello who wants a quick one shot about Time Loops!

Summary: Patton is having a really bad day, and Virgil and Janus might just have a fix. He just wishes he found them three hundred loops ago.

Word Count: 5453

Quick Taglist: @alias290 @chelsvans @coyboi300 @dante-reblogs @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @mrbubbajones  @musical-nerd18 @nonasficcollection @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @themultishipperchild @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws @welovelogansanders  

Read on AO3 || My General Writing Masterlist

Janus is folding origami snakes when Virgil finds him. 

Which, in itself, is not new or unusual. Janus has been making origami creatures since before Virgil had ever met him: cutting perfect squares of papers, folding along invisible lines, creating something new from the boringness. Some people like making tiny stars, but Janus turns squares of paper into pocket sized friends. Some of Virgils’s favorite presents are books in which he found little purple and gold paper spiders tucked between the pages, or the cranes that he unfolded to find little sweet and sappy messages for him, or when he was emptying out his school bag and found butterflies hidden in the depths, left there with care and love and waiting to be discovered on a rainy day.

Janus folds origami and Virgil keeps every single one he’s ever gotten his hands on-- sometimes even going as far as to dig the few Janus recycled out of the bin and keep them in his collection.

So the origami isn’t necessarily new or weird or confusing. 

Finding him behind the school building, cutting class to fold them is.

Janus is, despite his outward appearance and his claims to the otherwise, a huge nerd. Virgil finds that adorable about him: the way he gets excited to go to school and learn something new, the bounce in his step when he was heading towards his psychology class, the rumbling of his words when he forgot to take a breath while describing history to him. He’s a nerd who reads autobiographies with crappy romance novel covers strapped on them and begs Virgil to watch the new Netflix documentaries with him.

When they had been seven, Janus had been very adamant about being a host on the History Channel. Virgil had been interested as long as he got to be the guy that went out and found Mothman to invite on to Janus’s show. 

(Sometimes Virgil finds himself missing the simplicity of being seven-years-old and knowing what he wants to do with his life.)

Still Janus isn’t the type to cut class usually. Playing hookie was Virgil’s game, not his. But Janus hadn’t shown up to meet him outside his locker at the break between their classes, and Virgil had made the decision that locating Janus took priority over Personal Finance. 

 Its nice outside, far nicer than it has any right to be. The sun is shining, with just enough heat to make Virgil consider taking off his jacket (he doesn’t), a breeze carries through the air playing with his bangs, and the bells had just rang so everyone is in class and not outside. There’s barely any noise out here: a zombie apocalypse  picturesque scene. It used to unnerve him, but now it just gives him peace of mind.

Behind the school is his fifth place to check, right behind: the far corner of the library that Janus likes to power nap in during lunch, the stairwell to the roof that is supposed to be locked but they’d jimmied open last year, Janus’s actual class where his seat was empty and several kids glanced at Virgil as he had scurried by, and the parking lot where Virgil checked to make sure that Janus hadn’t just driven away and left him in this hell alone without even a text message goodbye. 

Janus is, in fact, still at the school, sitting in grass against the wall of the school that faces the parking lot. If Virgil hadn’t been looking for him, he might have mistaken him for a dark shrub or the Art Club's newest modern art installation. His bag is next to him, half his books spilling out into the lawn and at least a whole tree’s worth of folded paper around him. The piles of origami snakes remind Virgil of noodles, a mixture of colors and then twice as many in just plain white. 

“Hey,” Virgil says, approaching slowly in case this is one of those times when Janus wants to be alone more than he wants to feel alone. 

Janus folds another crease with the edge of his thumb nail and throws his sloppily made friend into the pile with the others. There’s a stack of pre-cut paper next to him, but it's all loose leaf paper. Which meant that he had folded his way through his stash of actual origami colored paper, which meant that he had been doing this since a lot longer than before second block, like Virgil feared.

Janus sighs thumping his head back against the brick walls and picks up another sheet. Virgil takes that as a sign to sit down next to him. He drops his bag off at his feet and reaches around the assortment of pins (Xmen, Marvel, gay flag, banned books week, one from a video game he liked the art of but had never played, etc) to unzip the smallest pocket. He pulls out another stack of the thin paper in an assortment of colors and places it on top of Janus’s current stack.

“So,” Virgil says, picking a snake off the ground. “Wanna talk about it?”

Janus flips the snake over and begins the process of folding the tail, ruthlessly. “Do I want to talk about it,” He echoes sourly, pressing each fold like it was a matter of life and death. “No, I do not want to talk about it. Because its stupid and a waste of time and I shouldn’t care but I still do and you have so many better things to do than listen to me whine about Patton Hart, yet again!”

Janus folds the head down and then stars into the empty eyes with a glare.

Virgil points his own snake at Janus and wiggles it a bit, “If its bothering you this much, then it can’t be stupid. And besides I love hearing about how much you hate Patton Hart. What did he do this time?”

“I don’t hate…” Janus lets out a sigh, “He didn’t do anything. In fact he didn’t even show up to class today. I heard a couple sophomores say he was acting funny earlier so I assume he went home early.”

Virgil frowns at that, trying to think back to the morning. He’d been running late and preoccupied with a Spanish test that he had forgotten he had first block, but he does remember seeing Roman and Patton in the halls. They hadn’t been holding hands like usual, which is probably why it stuck in Virgil’s head. They were the most lovey-dovey couple in the whole school: holding hands, kissing, flamboyant declarations of love... Virgil has nightmares about the way that Roman had asked Patton to Prom Junior year and had made Janus swear that if he ever plans on taking Virgil to a dance, he wouldn’t do it with glitter, the marching band, and in front of the whole school.

Patton had also looked different, Virgil remembers. Less cheery, more despondent. He had a smile on his face, but it looked forced and his eyes were glazed over like he wasn’t listening to anything at all.

Which, okay, fair. Roman tended to say the same things every day but phrased them differently. There were really only oh-so-many ways to say the words “I love you” and Roman had used up all of them in freshman year.

“So he wasn’t there,” Virgil says, shrugs, and takes a moment of silence to hope that Patton is getting some well needed sleep: Patton is one of those guys that just...finds a way to be involved with everything. Bake sales, choir, poetry club, talent show, office runner, treasurer of the student council-- if there’s something anyone needs to get done, Patton probably can do it. Not to mention he’s the nicest person Virgil has ever met. He honestly sees the good in people and its a shame that he’s dating Roman, because otherwise he and Janus would have invited him into their relationship a while ago.

(Roman isn’t exactly someone Janus or Virgil could stand on a weekly basis, much less daily. Virgil is pretty sure if Roman ever tried any romantic shit that he pulls on Patton, on Virgil he’ll spontaneously combust. Janus gets hives from being in close proximity to the gooey lovefest that Roman brings around any time he opens his mouth. And of course, Roman isn’t the type to share anything.)

((Ninety percent of their relationship these days is locking eyes while Roman did something and fake gagging like the mature adults they were.))

“What’s the big de--” Virgil stops, “Wait, isn’t debate today?”

“And take a guess who was my partner,” Janus summarizes. He tosses the snake to the ground and picks up another sheet of paper. “He...The Dragon Witch immediately failed me because he didn’t….and I couldn’t…”

He messes up the fold because his fingers are shaking too much. Virgil gently reaches out and takes the paper from his fingertips. It floats down to join the other snakes, and Virgil gives Janus’s hands a squeeze. 

There’s a welt of anger in his chest, bubbling up in a nice simmer. He hates the Dragon Witch, although he’s never had her class or even knows her real name (Roman had coined the title in freshman year back when he had been a benchwarmer for the football team and it had caught on until the whole school used it). She’s known for being generally awful to every student that came in, a little unhinged, and even her own daughter-- a girl in the grade below them-- agrees that nobody wants to be in her class. Unfortunately, despite the many protests held by small pockets of students, the Dragon Witch has tenure and the school board’s stance is “if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it”. Ergo, she still lives on this plane of existence and Virgil thinks about egging her car often. Probably too often.

“Its stupid,” Janus repeats and the cavity where Virgil’s heart should be aches a little for him, “I know she’s had it out for me. Ever since that first day when I pointed out all the books on the syllabus were written by rich white men. But it was just… I felt really good about this one, Vee.” 

Virgil knows this. Janus had been practically vibrating since the assignment had been given out. He’d gone above and beyond with his research for the topic-- something about selflessness that had gone straight over Virgil’s head when Janus had been talking about it. Patton hadn’t even been that bad of a partner, Janus had said, despite never having time to practice for it. They had exchanged numbers and texted details and notes to one another all week.

If Virgil hadn’t spent most of the afternoons lying next to Janus playing League of Legends and listening to Janus’s black pen scratch out preparation notes, he might have been jealous of how much attention Janus had been giving Patton. (and vise versa.)

“We were going to win,” Janus says softly. “And then Patton decided to just not show the fuck up! Why can’t I count on anyone but you? Why must I suffer in a world full of idiots?”

“Hey, at least he’s cute,” Virgil says.

“At least he’s cute,” Janus agrees, resignedly. “Do you think he’s going to break up with Roman?”

Virgil shrugs, “Do you want to ask him to join us if he does?”

“I would never pass up an opportunity to spite Roman like that,” Janus says, which is actually code for “I would never pass up an opportunity to dote on Patton and Virgil, do you think he’ll let us paint his nails, I have the perfect shade of blue to match his shoelaces--” 

(They’ve had this conversation at least once every season since Janus had caught Virgil sighing at the smaller boy in the halls midway through freshman year.)

Janus wiggles his hands from Virgil’s and picks up the unfinished snake but its softer now, less angry and more care. When he completes it, he points it at Virgil and offers a guilty half smile.

“Sorry for making you miss class.” 

Virgil wants to laugh because really that was the last thing on his mind right now. He shuffles through the snakes on the ground picking out his favorites to add to his collection. “Nah, its cool. You can just do my taxes and budgeting in the future and we’ll call it even. What are you gonna do with all of these?”

Janus hums, looking at all of them, “Maybe we can hide them around school to confuse people.”

“Can we write “you’re next” in a red pen on the inside of them?” Virgil asks with a grin, “like some horror movie shit?”

“Whatever you desire, darling,” Janus says and Virgil is incredibly grateful that he’s in love with his best friend. Virgil doesn’t usually count himself as lucky, but Janus had to be some kind of miracle: a person who understood Virgil the way that no one else ever bothered to. Janus has the type of laughter that makes everyone else want to laugh as well, the type of smile that begs for mischief, the type of loyalty that reassures Virgil no matter what happens they have each other’s backs.

Also he’s pretty, and Virgil likes staring at pretty things.

Janus leans forward and gives him a peck on his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You missed,” Virgil says with a stupid ass smile, because he’s stupidly in love and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Janus rolls his eyes very fondly and leans in again, until Virgil can see every shade of brown and green in his mismatched eyes, until he can feel Janus’s breath on his face, until Virgil loses track of the nanometers between them. Virgil’s eyes are half closed already, anticipating how the rest of their newly established free time is going to be spent and not feeling a speck of embarrassment or guilt about it--

And then he sees the movement out of the corner of his eyes and freezes up. He’s certain without looking that it is a teacher and oh god they were going to get expelled for something. There’s too much stuff around them-- their bags, the millions of snakes, their own bodies-- and even if they left everything there they’d surely get found out from that stuff, and then the school would call his mom and Virgil did not want to have that conversation with her again. 

But then he does look and its not a teacher at all. Virgil blinks, once, twice to make sure he’s seeing things correctly.

“Virgil?” Janus says, still several centimetres away from kissing him and obviously aware of how Virgil had tensed to high hell.

“I thought you said that Patton went home sick,” Virgil says absently.

Janus sits back, following his line of sight to the corner of the building where-- sure enough-- Patton Hart was walking without a care in the entire world. He was dressed differently today than Virgil remembered him ever dressing: the memories of his polo and his cardigan give way to the reality of sweatpants and a soft sweater that cannot be comfortable in the heat of the day. Virgil tries to remember if that’s what Patton had been wearing earlier and… yeah it was. From this distance Virgil can’t tell the look on his face, but he doesn’t look like he’s worried at all.

He’s walking with a purpose. And that purpose looks angry. 

“Does Patton have a car?” Janus asks.

“I don’t...think so…” Virgil says tracking Patton’s progress across the lawn.

“Then who’s keys does he have in his hand?” Janus says not entirely rhetorical.

With barely a nod between the two of them, they scoop all the paper snakes into Virgil’s bag and take off after him.

Its extremely weird, Virgil thinks. Because its so quiet that their footsteps sound like slaps, and they have to duck around a red truck to avoid Patton’s glance back. Janus crouches delicately, slinking between the cars and Virgil wastes a moment watching how gracefully he moves. 

He’s like water flowing, controlled and effortless and an undercurrent of power. Virgil doesn’t doubt his ability to fight right this moment, doesn’t doubt his killer left hook, or his dirty fighting tactics that Janus picked up in the name of self defense and preservation. Virgil’s body hums with adrenaline as he watches Janus follow after Patton.

He leans against a jeep that doesn’t actually have a parking pass but no one’s complained about it and Janus peeks around the bummer to see where Patton was heading.

For a second, Virgil thought he was going after Janus’s car-- the little gold mazada 3 thats a year and a half old and a gift from his parents. He’s just about to yell, to scream, to ward Patton off, because it was already shitty of him to not show up to the debate, but touching Janus’s car? That’s like super assholeish and Virgil has never once wanted to call Patton an asshole.

Janus, however, is quicker and covers his mouth with his hand. “Look, I think...he’s crying,”

“What?” Virgil whispers, squinting-- oh shit, he should probably get an appointment to update his contacts soon -- and Patton is crying. Its the silent type of crying that's born from using a smile to hide the hurt too much and Virgil immediately decides that Patton doesn’t deserve that ever. He feels each one of those tears like a punch to the gut, each soft barely audible gasp like a knee to his jaw, each sniffle like an elbow to the back of his head.

Patton storms past Janus’s car and goes straight to the fiery red Prius that Roman (and his twin Remus) share.

“Oh my god,” Virgil breathes at the same time as Patton takes the blade of a key to the side of the car.

The noise is awful. Janus flinches curling into Virgil as they watch with morbid fascination: Patton doesn’t waver, doesn’t hesitate as he carves deep into the paint and the metal, perfecting each and every letter.

By the time he’s finished, he’s bawling big fat crocodile tears that soak all turn all his cheeks puffy and soak the collar of his sweater and Virgil’s stomach is a twisted knot of emotions he doesn’t know what to do with.

“FUCK OFF” written on the side of Roman’s car explains things very well, anyway.

Patton drops the keys on the ground and then follows after in such a dead weight fall that Virgil feels the shockwaves from where he is. He curls in on himself, sobbing horrible, gut-wrenching howls of pain.

Janus leaps around Virgil to run after him, and Virgil only stumbles slightly trying to come with him. 

“I didn’t…” Janus says, loudly--loud enough to make Patton jump and Virgil flinch and the empty parking lot feel crowded, “I didn’t know you were into Modern Art, Patton.”

Virgil thinks that if it were any other situation, he might have snorted. But when Patton turns to them with his blue eyes so full of tears that Virgil thinks he might drown in them, he forgets every other thought he has had.

Its just...rage.

“I’ll kill him.”

And Virgil means it, the same way he says that the sky is blue, or that he won't take off his sweatshirt, that he loves Janus with all his soul. He means that he will go right back into that building and search through every single fucking classroom until he finds wherever Roman spends his third class of the day and then he’ll drag him out to the parking lot by his stupid perfect hair and run him over a couple hundred times.

Virgil will go to jail for manslaughter and he wouldn’t even feel sorry.

Patton lets out a shuddering sob and frantically tries to wipe away his ugly tears, making noises that Virgil assumes are meant to be words but they come out scrambled and grated and wrong. And Patton who’s never done a single mean thing in all the time that Virgil has known of him, does not deserve to feel a hurt that bad. How dare Roman make him feel a pain that bad.

Virgil rolls up his sleeves and spins on his heel to go take care of the issue-- but Janus catches him by his hood and yanks him back.

“Patton,” Janus says softly (a tone that's normally reserved for two AM sleepovers and lazy saturday movie marathons and sad boi hours that come and go like the seasons), “What can we do?”

Patton lets out a shriek, and when he looks back up there’s no sadness. Its a fury, an anger, its frustration that boiled into a suffocating gas and Virgil guess that he’s not going to need to end Roman’s life because Patton is perfectly capable of doing himself.

“You can shut the hell up!” Patton screams, “And Leave me the fuck alone!”

Virgil and Janus share a look.

And well...Virgil has been breaking rules since he was a kid and Janus isn’t the type of follow orders simply because. Without discussing anything they both sit down next to Patton, and Virgil starts pulling out the origami paper again.

“What are you doing?” Patton hisses in a way that Virgil has never once seen him do. His fingers shake, but he keeps himself calm and cool and collected.

“Its called origami,” Janus says, although he knows very well that’s not what Patton was asking. Virgil watches his fingers flick in the air, a mesmerizing dance that once Patton looks at he couldn’t look away from. 

Patton’s tears drop, his face is still puffy and dangerous, but Janus says nothing about it. Virgil holds his breath and watches as Janus folds, unfolds, pinches, twists the paper into a jumping frog. He sets it out on his palm and lets Patton stare at it like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“I like making things when I get upset,” Janus says. “Would you like me to teach you?”

“I…” Patton sniffles, rubbing away his tears again. He sounds so small and insignificant that Virgil wants to wrap his arms around him and protect him from everything. “Why…?”

“I know how to do many animals,” Janus continues on, “frogs, snakes, spiders, cranes… Or we can just fold paper in any way we want to, too.”

Patton is silent. Janus picks up another piece of paper and begins folding it in half. There’s a breeze through the parking lot, colder than before, bitter and smarting. Virgil tugs the sleeves of his jacket over his hands and tries not to wonder what happened to the sun. 

“The motion is calming to me,” Janus explains, “I like the creation of something new and different, the repetition--”

There’s a huff.

A snort.

And then...well then Patton is laughing a terribly wet, mean laugh. Janus pauses halfway through folding the head of the frog to make sure Patton hasn't been replaced by a skinwalking alien wearing Patton’s face, and Virgil can’t really blame him at all. The small boy kneels over laughing so hard he ends up gasping for breath and Virgil shivers at how the noise steals all the warmth from the air.

“Fucking stupid,” Patton manages, through gasps that sound suspiciously like whimpers. “Everything is so fucking stupid.” 

“I see someone taught the five-year-old a new swear word,” Janus says. “Who was it? Remus?”

“Just go away, Janus,” Patton says, laying his head on the asphalt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Janus tuts finishing off his second frog, “You really don’t know where that piece of road has been.”

“Actually I do!” Patton bolts upright, “I do know! Its been right here! Its been here no matter what’s happened, never moving, never changing, and even if I marked it with chalk or paint or took a jackhammer to it or blew it the fuck up it will still be here when I wake up tomorrow! Now fuck off!”

Virgil blinks, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. 

“I am learning so many things about you today, Patton,” Janus says without missing a beat. He picks up another sheet of paper, “You’re into modern art, you’re passionate about parking lots...my, my, my. Perhaps we should have done our debate on road construction instead. Would you have bothered to show up then?”

“Like it matters.” Patton says, even more unlike himself. Virgil thinks he’s seen Patton overbook himself for commitments more times than he can count and apologies are nearly always coupled with food of some sort: cookies, fudge, pasta salad. Sometimes even to things he never even said he could be there for. Patton is more apologetic than Virgil ever has been, and Virgil likes to apologize for existing.

But here is a Patton, or a version of him, that seems so defeated, so angry, so sad and upset and miserable that he’s just...given up. Consequences be damned.

“We lose,” Patton says looking up at the sky, “We lose because Mrs. Hydrus hates you, Janus, and so she makes us do it without any notes, then every time you stumble, she interrupts and asks for clarification despite being the moderator, and she cuts down our time by a whole minute. And when you say anything back to her she sends you to the principal's office and gives us a zero for the assignment, anyway. We lose. But its fine because you never remember anyway and then you get to wake up and be humiliated all over again. And it doesn’t matter what I do! Okay? We lose!”

Janus stops folding his frog and turns to look directly at Patton. Virgil is too, and he can scarcely breathe.

“What did you just say?”

Patton turns to face him swiping away another round of tears. “Go ahead, Virgil! You’re just like everyone else. Go and call me c-crazy! Tell me I’m insane! T-take me to the doctors! Whatever! I’m so t-tired of this and I can’t even die.”

Virgil swallows hard. There’s a lump in the back of his throat, a lump that’s growing until he can barely breathe around it. Janus brings a hand up to his mouth like he might be sick right there on the concrete. 

“Patton…” Virgil breathes. “Are you a paper frog?”

Patton stares at him like he’s stupid so Virgil reaches out with shaky hands and picks up one of the finished frogs from the ground. He carefully unfolds it, piece-by-piece, until its back to the original square. Then he holds it up for Patton to see, and begins to refold it the way that Janus had.

“Are you,” Virgil asks, “being refolded like a paper frog?”

Patton’s face says everything.

“H-how,” Janus asks, “how many times?”

The other boy blinks long and slow and sniffles. “I-I don’t know. Around three hundred twelve? Maybe? I lost count so long ago.”

“Three hundred twel--” Virgil repeats, “Holy shit, Pat! That’s almost a year.”

“Why didn’t you come to us?” Janus asks, although they all know why really. Despite them being debate partners, Patton and Janus don’t talk. Janus and Virgil admire him from afar, and only talk to him in passing. For the longest time Virgil didn’t even know if Patton knew his name, and now they’re sitting here wondering why strangers would ever interact with one another?

“What about…” Virgil motions to the car, the keys, the fun words written in the red paint.

Patton shakes his head so hard his body trembles. “He doesn’t...he never...I tried so so hard but its so much easier to leave him be. It takes so much to convince him and then… then its not a true love’s kiss solution.”

Virgil’s gut twists just thinking about that. About how many times that Roman made him prove that he had seen everything before, and then for a kiss not to work when they both were head over heels in love with each other and then waking up again, convincing Roman again, then telling him the kiss didn’t work? Virgil could guess it didn’t go over well at all. 

Knowing Roman it had probably dissolved into a “we’re not meant for each other?”, followed by a “i will always love you no matter what.” , and finished with a “If it will save you from this loop then we’ll have to break up”.

From the sight of the keys on the ground, Virgil can guess how far it went this time.

“I do love him,” Patton says almost desperately. “I do, I do, I do! I swear I love him so much--”

Janus puts a hand on Patton’s shoulder and he falls silent immediately. “I believe you,” Janus says, “I’ve seen the way you look at him, Patton. No one here thinks that the two of you aren’t perfect for each other.”

Its a pain to admit because its friendzoning both of them right now, but Virgil would weather that if it meant Patton wouldn’t sound so heartbroken. Janus meets his eyes over Patton’s shoulder and gives him a nod. At least they’re on the same page for this.

“Three hundred twelve time loops,” Virgil says, “does not sound like it was fun at all.”

“Are any loops fun?” Janus asks.

“Fruit loops are fun,” Patton sniffles again. He rubs his eyes and hunches over in his sweatshirt. “Do you guys...do you guys really believe me?”

Janus’s lips curve into a wry smile, “Patton in all the time that I can remember, I’ve never seen you have the guts to key someone’s car. And now you’re saying fuck? And telling me off? That's a whole lot of character development to happen without me noticing, unless it was a time loop.”

Patton giggles, just a bit. It's still weepy but it makes Virgil feel like he can breathe for the first time. 

“Don’t worry, Pat,” Virgil says, “We’ll figure this thing out.” 

“H-how?” 

Janus sighed leaning back a little, “Well we could ask Logan.”

“Logan?” Virgil echoes, “you mean Remus’s boyfriend? You think he’s got something?”

Janus shrugs, “He is a witch.” 

“A what now?” Virgil says. “Since when was he a witch! You never told me that!” 

Janus grins sheepishly, and rubs the back of his neck, “I forgot? I love you?”

Virgil blows a raspberry at him. “Just like how I’m gonna forget to mention you when I find Mothman. But I love you, too.”

“Its a cruel love, this thing we have.” Janus says rather poetically and Virgil reaches over to shove his shoulder. Janus laughs sways so he falls onto Patton’s shoulder. Patton for his part smiles, bright and blinding and it takes both their breaths away when he laughs again.

Virgil can’t imagine having to redo the same day twice, much less three hundred times. He wonders vaguely if Patton has any idea how strong he is, how amazing, how inspiring he is to keep that glow inside himself despite everything.

He’s smile fades for a moment and he perks up all of a sudden. “Oh My Gosh! Logan’s a witch!” He makes a flurry of arm movements that forces Virgil to duck, “Oh my gosh that means--!!”

“Deep breaths, dear,” Janus suggests, although it goes ignored.

“Yesterday--like actually yesterday, your yesterday, not the last loop, Logan and Remus got into an argument over a bottle and I thought it was gatorade! Remus was trying to drink it but Logan wouldn’t let him and they ended up spilling it on the floor! I helped them keep it up but I got a little bit on my hand! I didn’t think too much of it but what if it was like some sort of potion?”

Janus considers it, “Hmmm, its a good starting place. Let’s go ask him what it was.” He stands up and offers a hand down to Patton and Virgil each. Virgil takes it and turns back to also offer his own hand to the smaller boy. 

“Come on, Hart, this is going to be your last loop.” Janus says.

Patton stares at their hands almost as if he was afraid to take them. He glances down at the origami frogs, at the keys, and their bags, then back up at them with an fearful expression. “You...you promise?”

Virgil laughs, “Yeah, we got you, Pat. Promise.”

Patton shakes from head to toe, but he grabs both their hands and smiles like he has hope for the first time in three hundred twelve days.

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Hello 👋🏼, sorry if I’m bothering u but ever since the recent chapters of BNHA I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Todoroki family. Not many of my friends are into this anime and I just couldn’t stop myself from sharing this with you because I need to let this out.

[SPOILER ALERT 🚨!!! IF U DONT READ THE MANGA THEN U CAN JUST IGNORE THIS]

First of all:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

(I’m still screaming as I write because the backstories RUINED me.)

Poor Touya having this horrible obsession over heroics and having his father acknowledge him but ever since his quirk started reacting against his body the whole family got negatively affected by it.

Rei and Enji wanted to stop at two kids but with Touya’s sudden disadvantage and the latter’s craving for power, Natsuo and later on Shouto was born (the youngest getting titled as the perfect heir from the moment he was born). I got torn seeing Touya’s eyes succumb to absolute madness at the birth of his younger brothers.

What scared me the most was how when it was just Touya and Fuyumi, the two hardly interacted despite being only a year apart in age. Touya claimed that ‘girls just don’t get it’ this small foreshadowing was later brought to light in the most recent chapter where he once again rejects Fuyumi’s company in favour of ranting to only Natsuo and where he disregards his own mother— another ‘girl’ that doesn’t understand his obsession passion for surpassing All Might and someone who plays along to the acts of those stronger than them. Touya saw his mother as a weak person who had no choice but to marry for the sake of her family and have custom children. Little Touya firmly believed his very existence depended on getting acknowledged my his father and defeating All Might but it sadly didn’t come true😭😭

Also..... LOOK AT THE BABIES!!!! They’re all so CUTE!!!

Chubby Fuyumi!!!

Natsuo with a running nose

And Baby Shouto with a meme like face since the day he was born🤣🤣🤣🤣

So ADORABLE!

And another thing. FUYUMI WAS EVEN YOUNGER THAN I THOUGHT TO HAVE STARTED ACTING LIKE A SECOND MOTHER TO HER BROTHERS!! Look at the way she defended Natsuo when Touya went on a rampage and tried to attack Touya! And during moments when Enji and Rei fought the two most notable heroes were Shouto and Fuyumi; the former fighting on the frontlines to face his father while the latter stood behind to once again care for her remaining family that though weren’t involved in the fight, they still needed emotional support to get through it.😭

I AM SO SORRY TO BE GETTING TO THIS SO LATE ANON BUT I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY!!!

TW: Spoilers, Brief Mention of Child Abuse (Physical, Emotional and Mental), General Fandom Wank

So, like, SO MUCH HAPPENED in those chapters and I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ALMOST ALL OF IT! There’s obviously all the things you mentioned above that were just amazing to see and learn! I know that a majority of the fandom has been absolutely livid about the reveals involving Touya being drastically different than what fandom thought they were all this time, but I think it honestly highlights how smart Horikoshi’s writing really is.

In Shoto, we see the effects of physical and mental abuse on a child, and how easily he could have ended up going down a troubling road much like Touya. Shoto’s saving grace is facing off against Deku in the Sports Festival, giving him an outside perspective and makes him realize that he can choose to be better, but that doesn’t just magically fix all of Shoto’s problems. Shoto still struggles with his feelings towards his Father and how he is perceived by simply being Endeavor’s son. We see that in the Provisional License Arc, where Shoto is so thoroughly rattled by Inasa. It’s even further pushed through how Shoto struggles with his feelings about Endeavor trying to better and whether or not he should forgive him. I feel like Shoto’s arc is incredibly strong and that his struggles are very realistic, which is why people love him so much. This whole concept is another thing I could rant about but I’m going to leave it here.

Meanwhile, with Touya, we see the effects of mental and emotional abuse on a child and how it can completely destroy them. I think people that act like Horokoshi “down played” and “ret-conned” Endeavor as a character to make him more sympathetic/ redeemable or that he’s simply writing Touya as “always being a bad seed” are missing the mark. This is, admittedly, something you see a lot when it comes to victims of abuse in the real world as well; the idea that if you weren’t physically or sexually abused on top of emotional or mental abuse, your abuse is somehow less “valid.” Now I’ve seen more voices speaking out against this mentality - which is relieving and positive - but it’s still a problem. The way Touya was abused is no less valid or scarring to himself as a person as what Shoto has been through was. Touya and Enji clearly had a deep bond as father and son. Hell, the fact that Enji is sobbing and saying he “can’t fight his own son” in regards to Touya, but clearly had less issue training Shoto until he got ill or passed out says a lot.

Touya was put on an incredibly high pedestal by Enji’s constant praise and attention. He was the apple of his father’s eye until the limitations of his Quirk were discovered. Enji had filled his head with promises and goals for what his future would be, essentially selling him what turned out to be a lie. We see Rei herself tell Enji that Touya “knows you expect something out of the kids.” Touya’s whole life up until that point was being told of all the great he would someday accomplish, and equating that to being deserving of his Father’s love, attention and affection.

And then he couldn’t live up to that expectation. And then his parents had two more kids following that revelation. The idea that Touya doesn’t realize that Natsuo and Shoto were meant to be his replacements - unbroken models that “deserved” Enji’s love - is clearly not missed by him. It’s evident in the way he looks at Natsuo after he’s born. He sees this as a sign that he is no longer deserving - no longer worthy - of love or support from the parent he absolutely adores.

We see this mostly from Enji and Rei’s perspectives, so we know the reasons they did it, but it’s clear they didn’t stop to think about the way this would be interpreted by Touya himself. This whole matter is only worsened by the fact that Enji refuses to make sacrifices for the sake of his oldest son. He pushes Touya to live a life outside of Pro Heroics while Enji himself refuses to do the same, thus setting a positive example and showing solidarity with his son. He instead pushes him away and distances himself, loses himself in focusing on Natuso and, once his Quirk turns out to not be what he wants, Shoto. Touya continues to push himself despite his limits in a desperate bid for Enji to look at him the way he used to; with pride and love. 

What caused the fire that “killed” Touya? His anguish over being neglected and abandoned - left unloved - by his father yet again. It’s clear that Touya’s mental health is in need of some real focus that he has never gotten - due to both his parents negligence as well as the fact that mental health is highly stigmatized in Japanese society - and pairing that with the emotional and mental abuse he suffered at Enji’s hands broke him.

So many people are claiming Horikoshi is trying to make Enji “more redeemable”, but how do you get that? Enji abused Rei, his own wife, physically and emotionally and mentally until she had a psychotic breakdown, hurt their youngest child, and then robbed her the right to mother her children further by having her locked up in a psych ward for the next decade or so; built their oldest son, Touya, up only to then emotionally and mentally abuse him to the point he damn near killed himself in a frantic bid to garner Enji’s support only to return years later completely unhinged and looking to murder his entire family out of spite; neglected Fuyumi and Natsuo to the care of each other and hired help; alienated Shoto, his youngest son, from his siblings for his entire formative years, physically and mentally and emotionally abused him, groomed him to accomplish a task he never wanted, put him through such extensive physical training that Shoto would get sick or pass out.

Enji was a shitty father. He has a long ass road to continue walking if he ever wants redemption. The fact he didn't physically hit Touya doesn’t mean that Enji didn’t abuse his son and it doesn’t make Touya any less of a victim.

* End TodoFam Rant*

On a slightly lighter note, I also like all the information with Hawks’ past and all the parallels we’re seeing develop!

I’ve rambled briefly about this in other places the Huwumi discord but I want to expound upon this a bit more here.

I feel like Touya/ Dabi and Keigo/ Hawks are meant to be parallels to one another.

Back to back, we had proper name claims by these two characters. We had Dabi reveal his true identity as Todoroki Touya and then we have Hawks choosing to abandon his hero name to instead step up to fight as Takami Keigo.

I feel like “Dabi” was always a mask, of sorts. Dabi is typically pretty calm, cool, composed with the occasional bites of snark and cruelty. Meanwhile, we see Touya emoting and moving in a manner more akin to himself as a child, dancing about in manic delight over revealing his true identity and intentions. The pair of them are two drastically different people when you stop and look at it. “Dabi” was the mask he wore to gain ground to enact his revenge, and now that he is there? Now Touya can burn everything tethered to it down to ground.

Meanwhile, we have "Hawks” as he was forced to become as per the Hero Public Safety Commission. We had it revealed quite a while back that Hawks was a man of many faces, jumping from laid-back and chill to serious and focused quite frequently. “Hawks” is the presentation for the public and the Commission, groomed to be the perfect little canary in the mine that was Pro Heroics. The reveal of his true heritage, however, is not the killing blow Touya wanted it to be. Instead, it allows Keigo, the one who wanted to be a Hero to help people, the chance to truly dedicate himself to that. In being freed from the cage of “Hawks”, he is given the change to really soar as Keigo.

Now, I feel that “Dabi” and “Hawks” are most certainly parts of Touya and Keigo as well, respectively. Even though those titles were masks, they were masks made from parts of the men who wear them. I think what we’ll see going forward is the true elements of those masks bleeding back into the whole, and seeing the truest forms of each character.

For better or for worse.