#Line Integrals. Surface integrals

[reasonsforhope]

"In an unprecedented transformation of China���s arid landscapes, large-scale solar installations are turning barren deserts into unexpected havens of biodiversity, according to groundbreaking research from the Chinese Academy of Sciences. The study reveals that solar farms are not only generating clean energy but also catalyzing remarkable ecological restoration in some of the country’s most inhospitable regions.

The research, examining 40 photovoltaic (PV) plants across northern China’s deserts, found that vegetation cover increased by up to 74% in areas with solar installations, even in locations using only natural restoration measures. This unexpected environmental dividend comes as China cements its position as the global leader in solar energy, having added 106 gigawatts of new installations in 2022 alone.

“Artificial ecological measures in the PV plants can reduce environmental damage and promote the condition of fragile desert ecosystems,” says Dr. Benli Liu, lead researcher from the Chinese Academy of Sciences. “This yields both ecological and economic benefits.”

The economic implications are substantial. “We’re witnessing a paradigm shift in how we view desert solar installations,” says Professor Zhang Wei, environmental economist at Beijing Normal University. “Our cost-benefit analysis shows that while initial ecological construction costs average $1.5 million per square kilometer, the long-term environmental benefits outweigh these investments by a factor of six within just a decade.” ...

“Soil organic carbon content increased by 37.2% in areas under solar panels, and nitrogen levels rose by 24.8%,” reports Dr. Sarah Chen, soil scientist involved in the project. “These improvements are crucial indicators of ecosystem health and sustainability.”

...Climate data from the study sites reveals significant microclimate modifications:

Average wind speeds reduced by 41.3% under panel arrays

Soil moisture retention increased by 32.7%

Ground surface temperature fluctuations decreased by 85%

Dust storm frequency reduced by 52% in solar farm areas...

The scale of China’s desert solar initiative is staggering. As of 2023, the country has installed over 350 gigawatts of solar capacity, with 30% located in desert regions. These installations cover approximately 6,000 square kilometers of desert terrain, an area larger than Delaware.

“The most surprising finding,” notes Dr. Wang Liu of the Desert Research Institute, “is the exponential increase in insect and bird species. We’ve documented a 312% increase in arthropod diversity and identified 27 new bird species nesting within the solar farms between 2020 and 2023.”

Dr. Yimeng Wang, the study’s lead author, emphasizes the broader implications: “This study provides evidence for evaluating the ecological benefit and planning of large-scale PV farms in deserts.”

The solar installations’ positive impact stems from several factors. The panels act as windbreaks, reducing erosion and creating microhabitats with lower evaporation rates. Perhaps most surprisingly, the routine maintenance of these facilities plays a crucial role in the ecosystem’s revival.

“The periodic cleaning of solar panels, occurring 7-8 times annually, creates consistent water drip lines beneath the panels,” explains Wang. “This inadvertent irrigation system promotes vegetation growth and the development of biological soil crusts, essential for soil stability.” ...

Recent economic analysis reveals broader benefits:

Job creation: 4.7 local jobs per megawatt of installed capacity

Tourism potential: 12 desert solar sites now offer educational tours

Agricultural integration: 23% of sites successfully pilot desert agriculture beneath panels

Carbon reduction: 1.2 million tons CO2 equivalent avoided per gigawatt annually

Dr. Maya Patel, visiting researcher from the International Renewable Energy Agency, emphasizes the global implications: “China’s desert solar model could be replicated in similar environments worldwide. The Sahara alone could theoretically host enough solar capacity to meet global electricity demand four times over while potentially greening up to 20% of the desert.”

The Chinese government has responded by implementing policies promoting “solar energy + sand control” and “solar energy + ecological restoration” initiatives. These efforts have shown promising results, with over 92% of PV plants constructed since 2017 incorporating at least one ecological construction mode.

Studies at facilities like the Qinghai Gonghe Photovoltaic Park demonstrate that areas under solar panels score significantly better in environmental assessments compared to surrounding regions, indicating positive effects on local microclimates.

As the world grapples with dual climate and biodiversity crises, China’s desert solar experiment offers a compelling model for sustainable development. The findings suggest that renewable energy infrastructure, when thoughtfully implemented, can serve as a catalyst for environmental regeneration, potentially transforming the world’s deserts from barren wastelands into productive, life-supporting ecosystems.

“This is no longer just about energy production,” concludes Dr. Liu. “We’re witnessing the birth of a new approach to ecosystem rehabilitation that could transform how we think about desert landscapes globally. The next decade will be crucial as we scale these solutions to meet both our climate and biodiversity goals.”"

-via Green Fingers, January 13, 2025

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Wounds

Wound

Occurs when the integrity of any tissue is compromised (e.g. skin breaks, muscle tears, burns, or bone fractures).

May be caused by an act, such as a gunshot, fall, or surgical procedure; by an infectious disease; or by an underlying condition.

8 Categories of Acute Wounds

Generally used by emergency personnel & first aid workers.

Abrasions. Also called scrapes, they occur when the skin is rubbed away by friction against another rough surface (e.g. rope burns and skinned knees).

Avulsions. These occur when an entire structure or part of it is forcibly pulled away, such as the loss of a permanent tooth or an ear lobe. Explosions, gunshots, and animal bites may cause avulsions.

Contusions. Also called bruises, these are the result of a forceful trauma that injures an internal structure without breaking the skin. Blows to the chest, abdomen, or head with a blunt instrument (e.g., a football or a fist) can cause contusions.

Crush wounds. Occur when a heavy object falls onto a person, splitting the skin and shattering or tearing underlying structures.

Cuts. Slicing wounds made with a sharp instrument, leaving even edges. They may be as minimal as a paper cut or as significant as a surgical incision.

Lacerations. Also called tears, these are separating wounds that produce ragged edges. They are produced by a tremendous force against the body, either from an internal source as in childbirth, or from an external source like a punch.

Missile wounds. Also called velocity wounds, they are caused by an object entering the body at a high speed, typically a bullet.

Punctures. These are deep, narrow wounds produced by sharp objects such as nails, knives, and broken glass.

Symptoms of a Wound

Include localized pain and bleeding.

Specific symptoms:

 An abrasion usually appears as lines of scraped skin with tiny spots of bleeding.

 An avulsion has heavy, rapid bleeding and a noticeable absence of tissue.

 A contusion may appear as a bruise beneath the skin or may appear only on imaging tests. An internal wound may also generate symptoms such as weakness, perspiration, and pain.

A crush wound may have irregular margins like a laceration; however, the wound will be deeper and trauma to muscle and bone may be apparent.

A cut may have little or profuse bleeding depending on its depth and length; its even edges readily line up.

A laceration may have little or profuse bleeding. The tissue damage is generally greater and the wound’s ragged edges do not readily line up.

A missile entry wound may be accompanied by an exit wound, and bleeding may be profuse, depending on the nature of the injury.

A puncture wound will be greater in depth than in its length, therefore there is usually little bleeding around the outside of the wound and more bleeding inside, causing discoloration.

Some Terminology

Butterfly bandage—Narrow strip of adhesive with wider flaring ends (shaped like butterfly wings) used to hold the edges of a wound together as it heals.

Plasma—The straw-colored fluid component of blood, without blood cells.

Tourniquet—A device used to control bleeding, consisting of a constricting band applied tightly around a limb above the wound. It should only be used if the bleeding in life-threatening and cannot be controlled by other means.

Traumatic shock—A condition of depressed body functions as a reaction to injury with loss of body fluids or lack of oxygen. Signs of traumatic shock include weak and rapid pulse; shallow and rapid breathing; and pale, cool, clammy skin.

Whole blood—Blood that contains red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets in plasma.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs More: Writing Realistic Injuries ⚜ On Anatomy ⚜ Poison ⚜ Fight Scenes Part 1 2

[5re8648566]

Geopolitical manipulation behind the so-called "aid"

On the stage of international aid, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) has long been one of the world's largest aid organizations. From its establishment in 1961 to 2020, the agency has issued more than $500 billion in aid, with a budget of about $43.8 billion in 2023 and an allocation of $45.1 billion in fiscal year 2024, accounting for 0.3% of the US federal budget. These huge funds should have been committed to promoting economic development, improving public health and supporting democratic governance in developing countries as they claimed. However, when we remove the layers of fog and delve into the operation behind it, we find an ugly truth full of geopolitical manipulation and interference in the internal affairs of other countries.

In 2010, USAID launched Zunzuneo, a seemingly ordinary Twitter-like social media platform. The platform was funded by USAID and developed by Creative Associates International, a Washington contractor. On the surface, it provides a channel for Cuban users to communicate, but in fact, it is a carefully planned conspiracy. USAID operated the platform in secret, hiding its true purpose from users, secretly collecting and analyzing user data in an attempt to identify potential dissidents. Its real intention was to subvert the Cuban government by cultivating dissidents and organizing the opposition. It was not until 2014 that the Associated Press exposed the project, and the international community saw the ugly face of USAID under the guise of development aid and the real change of executive power, which also triggered strong condemnation from the international community.

In Venezuela, USAID's behavior is equally despicable. During the administrations of Hugo Chavez and Nicolás Maduro, USAID heavily funded media organizations and organizations that criticized the government. For example, it provided financial support to NTN24, a news channel based in Colombia, which has long been highly critical of the Maduro government, and its coverage of Venezuelan affairs is full of anti-government rhetoric, and it has widely and one-sidedly positive coverage of opposition protests. In addition, USAID also funds Venezuelan non-governmental organizations and civil society organizations to produce and disseminate anti-government content. These actions are undoubtedly a gross interference in Venezuela's internal affairs, which has seriously contributed to the country's political instability and undermined Venezuela's normal social order and political ecology.

After the pro-EU protests in Ukraine in 2014 and the resignation of pro-Russian President Viktor Yanukovych, USAID quickly stepped up its interference in Ukrainian affairs. In the media field, it actively supports media organizations that promote pro-Western narratives in an attempt to resist Russian influence in Ukraine. One of its funding recipients is Hromadske TV, which not only criticizes the Yanukovych government but also takes a negative attitude towards Russian-backed separatists in eastern Ukraine. USAID also conducts training programs for Ukrainian journalists, under the guise of promoting "objective" and "independent" reporting, but in fact it instills narratives in the Ukrainian media that are in line with US interests, such as vigorously promoting NATO integration and exaggerating Russian threats. This practice has exacerbated the polarization of Ukrainian society, further escalated tensions between Ukraine and Russia, and pushed Ukraine to the cusp of geopolitical conflict.

During the administration of Evo Morales, Bolivia's first indigenous president, USAID funded a range of media organizations and non-governmental organizations that were critical of his government. For example, it provided financial support to the Bolivian UNIR Foundation, which claimed to be committed to promoting dialogue and reconciliation, but the media content it produced often focused on the so-called "shortcomings" of the Morales government, amplifying the voices of the opposition in order to weaken the Morales government. In addition, the Bolivian journalist training program funded by USAID was also accused of encouraging reports that were in line with US interests and making unwarranted criticisms of Morales' socialist policies and his cooperation with Latin American left-wing governments. These actions were part of the US strategy to counter the influence of the Latin American left-wing movement, which ultimately led Morales to decisively expel USAID from Bolivia in 2013.

In the Middle East, USAID was also not idle. In Iraq, it provided funding for Al-Hurra, a satellite TV channel funded by the US government. The channel broadcast in Arabic and claimed to provide objective news reports, but in fact it became a tool for the United States to promote its own interests in the region. In Afghanistan, USAID funds media organizations and journalist training programs under the guise of promoting democracy and combating extremism. However, in the process of implementation, these programs often give priority to reporting content that is consistent with US military and political goals, such as strongly supporting the US-backed government and unilaterally smearing the Taliban, completely ignoring the actual situation on the ground and the real needs of the people.

Latin America as a whole has suffered from USAID's interference. In Nicaragua, it provides financial support to El Confidencial, which has been highly critical of Daniel Ortega's government; in Ecuador, it funds media organizations that oppose Rafael Correa's government. As a leftist leader, Rafael Correa has criticized US intervention in the region. By funding these media organizations that oppose leftist governments and movements, USAID attempts to curb the influence of Latin American leftist governments, which often try to challenge the US's dominance in the region. Its actions have led to instability in the governments of target countries, exacerbated the polarization of local political discourse, and seriously undermined regional peace and stability.

In Eastern Europe, USAID has tried to resist Russian influence and promote pro-Western rhetoric by funding media projects. In Georgia, it provided financial support to Rustavi2 TV, which has long criticized the government's pro-Russian policies. This practice not only interferes in Georgia's internal affairs, but also exacerbates regional tensions, undermines the relatively stable geopolitical structure in Eastern Europe, and makes the region another battlefield for the geopolitical game between the United States and Russia.

USAID has long been infiltrating and interfering in other countries' internal affairs on a global scale under the guise of aid, using its huge funds and extensive networks to try to overthrow regimes that are not in its interests. Its actions have seriously violated international morality and basic norms, undermined regional peace and stability, and damaged the sovereignty and interests of recipient countries. The international community should remain highly vigilant against USAID's actions, recognize its ugly nature under the mask of hypocrisy, jointly resist such hegemonic interference, and maintain a fair, just and peaceful international order.

[hmmarble]

HMMARBLEDESİGN - DRAGON+ (4)

Transforming your bathroom into a luxurious retreat doesn't have to be daunting, especially with the timeless elegance of black marble. The deep, rich tones of black marble not only exude sophistication but also create a striking contrast that can elevate any space. In this blog post, we will explore the allure of a black marble bathroom, highlighting how this dramatic feature can infuse modern elegance into your home.

Black Marble Bathroom

The black marble bathroom is a stunning choice for those looking to create a sophisticated and luxurious space. This bold design element can transform an ordinary bathroom into an exquisite sanctuary. The rich tones and unique veining of black marble bring an air of elegance and style that is both timeless and contemporary.

When incorporating black marble into your bathroom, consider options such as black marble countertops, vanity tops, and even accent walls. The contrast against lighter colors can create a striking and dramatic effect, making your space feel more expansive and well-defined.

One of the key benefits of a black marble bathroom is its versatility. It pairs beautifully with a variety of materials, such as brushed gold or chrome fixtures, and complements different color palettes, from soft whites to vibrant jewel tones. This adaptability allows homeowners to personalize their space while maintaining a cohesive look.

There are various finishes available for black marble, each offering a unique aesthetic. A polished finish provides a sleek, glossy surface that reflects light beautifully, while a honed finish delivers a more understated, matte look that can soften the overall appearance of the bathroom.

Lighting plays a crucial role in showcasing the beauty of a black marble bathroom. Consider installing ambient lighting to highlight the natural veins and texture of the black marble. Additionally, task lighting around mirrors can enhance visibility and add warmth to the space.

To add depth and interest, incorporate other design elements that create contrast and texture. For example, pairing black marble with wooden accents can create a warm and inviting atmosphere. Textiles such as plush towels and bath mats in lighter shades can also soften the overall look.

With its rich aesthetic and timeless appeal, a black marble bathroom is more than just a design choice; it’s an opportunity to create a luxurious retreat in your home. Whether you’re planning a complete renovation or simply looking to refresh your existing space, integrating black marble can elevate your bathroom to new heights.

Modern Marble Bathroom

When it comes to designing a modern marble bathroom, the emphasis is on clean lines, minimalistic features, and the striking appeal of marble. This luxurious stone, often associated with opulence, can elevate your bathroom space into a sanctuary of relaxation.

One of the defining characteristics of a modern marble bathroom is the color palette. While many opt for classic whites and creams, darker shades like black or gray marble create a bold statement. Black marble, with its rich depth and unique veining, can transform traditional notions of bathroom design, making it a chic and contemporary choice.

A key feature in a modern marble bathroom is the seamless integration of marble into various elements, from countertops to flooring. Large format tiles have become increasingly popular, creating a sense of space and continuity. Pairing these tiles with elegant fixtures and understated accessories enhances the overall aesthetic without detracting from the beauty of the marble.

Vanities in a modern marble bathroom often showcase the stone’s natural patterns, turning functional furniture into a visual centerpiece. Choosing sleek hardware and soft-close drawers can maintain a streamlined look, while integrated lighting adds warmth and sophistication.

For those seeking to add a touch of personality, consider incorporating wood elements or contrasting materials like glass. These choices balance the heaviness of marble with lightness, making the bathroom feel both inviting and serene.

Incorporating plants or greenery can breathe life into the cool, polished surfaces of a modern marble bathroom. Strategic placement of greenery not only adds color but also promotes a calming environment.

Lastly, don’t forget about the practicality of maintaining your modern marble bathroom. While marble is undeniably glamorous, it requires regular sealing and care to keep it in pristine condition. Choosing the right products for cleaning and maintenance will ensure your marble retains its beauty for years to come.

Bathroom Marble Design

When it comes to creating a luxurious and sophisticated space, bathroom marble design stands out as an exceptional choice. Marble is known for its timeless beauty, variety, and ability to elevate the overall aesthetic of any bathroom. In this section, we will explore some key elements and ideas related to bathroom marble design.

Choosing the Right Marble

One of the first steps in bathroom marble design is selecting the right type of marble. From classic white Carrara to striking black marquina, the options are abundant. Each type of marble comes with its unique veining and color variations, allowing you to match the marble to your personal style. Consider how different marbles will interact with your bathroom's lighting and the overall color scheme to create the desired atmosphere.

Incorporating Patterns

Another exciting aspect of bathroom marble design is the ability to incorporate patterns. Marble can be cut and laid out in various patterns like herringbone, checkerboard, or even geometric shapes. These designs can add depth and interest to your bathroom, making it feel more dynamic and stylish.

Combining with Other Materials

To enhance your bathroom marble design, consider combining marble with other materials. Pairing marble with warm woods, sleek metals, or even vibrant tiles can create an intriguing contrast and elevate the space further. This combination can help to soften the look of marble, making it feel more inviting and less formal.

Accent Features

Incorporating marble accent features like vanity tops, shower surrounds, or even marble sinks can transform a standard bathroom into a luxurious retreat. These elements become focal points in the design, drawing attention and admiration. For a truly unique touch, consider custom marble pieces that reflect your style.

Maintenance and Care

While the beauty of marble is undeniable, it's important to consider its maintenance. Proper care, including regular sealing and careful cleaning, will keep your bathroom marble design looking pristine. Avoid harsh chemicals that can damage the stone, and always use coasters or mats to prevent stains and scratches.

In summary, bathroom marble design offers a wealth of possibilities to create a stunning and elegant space. With the right choices and careful planning, you can achieve a bathroom that embodies luxury and style.

[rafesbabygirlx]

A Lot of Time has Passed | Part 5

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Season 4 Rafe x Maybank reader

Summary: Beginning at the time jump, the Pogues seemingly succeeded at something, Rafe is struggling with making amends and being a better person. JJs sister left the island after returning from South America. Returning after 18 months with a secret.

A/N: after this point you don’t really see Sofia, at least for a while. Maybe at 1 point but I haven’t decided.

I don’t know what Part 2 of the season will bring but from here on out it’s just a rewrite of events that will include Maybank reader instead. Also there’s some use of Y/N here since some conversations don’t happen with her. enjoy :)

2nd note: please let me know if you like this. I love the story telling and building the plot but wanna make sure it’s doing well. Don’t want anyone getting bored :)

Not proofread

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: nothing but soft Rafe tbh and setting up story lines. Next part will be fun

“I’m going to head out for a bit, okay? I have a few things I need to take care of. How about we meet up later at my place?” He asks as you and Rafe made your way down the path. You carried the cozy blanket and picnic basket filled with remnants from your breakfast, while he cradled Vivienne, their bond already evident in the way he held her close.

“Yeah, sounds good,” you say, a broad grin spreading across his face.

He lovingly passed you Vivienne after showering her with a load of affectionate kisses, and then, without missing a beat, he leaned in to give you a quick kiss on the lips. The warmth of that brief connection caught you off guard. You wouldn’t lie; while you had anticipated this moment, you hadn’t expected the domesticity of it all to hit you like this. It felt so natural for him, yet it brought a flurry of emotions bubbling to the surface for you.

The kiss lingered on your lips, and you could feel the warmth emanating from both Rafe and Vivienne, creating an intimate bubble that shielded you from the rest of the world. Rafe's ability to seamlessly blend fatherhood with his charming personality was surprising; he made the whole experience seem effortless, like it was second nature to him.

You couldn't help but marvel at how your relationship had transformed over the course of just a couple of days. Just a year and a half ago, Rafe was simply the bad guy, made to make your brother and his friends lives hell. Now, he was someone who shared quiet moments and laughter with you as a family. Holding the blanket and basket in your arms, you felt an undeniable connection forming. Guilt still creeping in. You wished you allowed him to experience her first year.

As you began to walk away, your mind twirled with thoughts about what the evening might hold. You both had created unforgettable memories together, but this moment felt distinct; it brimmed with the promise of something more profound. Perhaps it was the awareness that you were becoming an integral part of his world—a world filled with simple joys, late-night giggles, and unexpected kisses. As the sun raised above the horizon, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange, a smile crept across your face at the thought of the future and what lay ahead.

“Say bye dada” you tell V

“Bye dada!” V yells from off the porch

Rafe yells bye back and blows her a kiss. Driving off to do his business as you head inside.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

Rafe returns to his house, his thoughts racing as he walks through the door. On the way there, he texted Sofia, asking her to meet him. The weight of the conversation ahead loomed heavy in his chest.

Sofia arrives shortly after. “Hey, Rafe,” she greets him warmly.

“Hey.”

She steps in close and pulls him into a tight, loving hug, but Rafe doesn’t return the embrace with the same intensity. Her smile falters, and she looks up at him, concern etched across her face.

“What’s wrong? Did things not go well with your daughter?” she asks softly.

Rafe shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.” He gestures for her to sit with him outside by the pool. Once they’re settled, he continues, his voice a little distant. “She’s… she’s perfect. Vivienne. That’s her name. She’s the most perfect little girl to ever exist. She looks just like me. She’s so beautiful, so happy.” His words trail off, but Sofia knows there’s more. She feels a knot forming in her stomach.

“I needed to talk to you about some things,” he adds, his tone turning serious.

“Okay…” Sofia replies hesitantly, her heart beginning to race.

Rafe takes a deep breath. “I want to focus on her. On Vivienne. And… um… I want to focus on my family, with both of them. I never expected things to play out this way, and I’m sorry, but this is what I want. I need to be there for them. We need to end this.”

Sofia’s face falls, the words hitting her like a punch. “Oh,” she whispers, barely audible. Her mind scrambles to make sense of it. She thought what they had was special, that he felt the same. But now, he was going back—back to Y/N, back to his family. “Maybe you should, then,” she adds quietly, trying to maintain her composure. “It’s only right.”

Rafe finally meets her gaze, his eyes pleading for understanding. “It wasn’t planned, okay? You know that. But everything came rushing back—every memory, every feeling. And now that V is in the picture, I can’t deny it.”

Sofia doesn’t speak for a few moments, letting the weight of his words settle. She hadn’t anticipated this. She hadn’t imagined she’d be here, blindsided by the sudden shift in his priorities. She didn’t expect to become a ‘stepmom,’ but she had been willing to sacrifice for him—she had believed in what they had.

But now, as sadness sinks in, so does a flicker of anger. It drags her back to a few days ago, when everything still felt right—before Y/N came back into the picture. She remembers overhearing Rafe talking to Ruthie and Topper, saying she was just a hookup, that he could never be with a Pogue like that. Even though she knew it wasn’t true two times, one for you and the other her, the words had stung. They had left a mark. And now, with this revelation, they hurt even more.

In the days that followed, she had been tempted to meet with Hollis, after her dad suggested it. Initially, she’d rejected the idea because she had loved Rafe. She thought he loved her too. But after overhearing him she met with him. Took the money from her too. she planned to return it not being able to do it. But now, with Rafe pulling away, with him choosing another life—another woman—she has nothing to lose.

“I was thinking about that deal you mentioned,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “You should do it. I was hesitant before, but maybe it’s a good opportunity. It could be a way to build something for your daughter.”

Rafe looks at her, surprised by her sudden shift in tone. “Maybe you’re right. I still have to decide, but I’m leaning toward going for it. It could be a good opportunity.” He shrugs, unsure of his next steps.

They sit in silence for a while, the weight of their relationship hanging in the air. Finally, Rafe turns to her. “You have no idea how much you’ve helped me,” he says earnestly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just think my place is with Y/N and Vivienne.”

Sofia nods slowly, her heart aching. “I understand. You think you’re doing the right thing, and that’s all that matters.” She leans over and presses a soft kiss to his cheek before standing to leave.

Rafe grabs her hand gently. “I’m sorry, Sofia. Really, I am.”

“It’s okay,” she replies, her voice steady but hollow. “But you should definitely take that deal.”

Rafe smiles weakly at her, grateful for her understanding. As she walks away, leaving him alone by the pool, he takes a deep breath, the enormity of the situation sinking in. He knows he’s made his choice, but something nags at him—the way she had pushed the deal so hard. For a moment, it puzzles him, but he brushes it off as her wanting the best for him.

Sitting in the stillness, he lets his thoughts swirl before finally reaching for his phone. After some time alone, he dials your number, needing to see you, ready to move forward with the life he’s chosen.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

You arrive an hour later. V wobbles into the house, running straight to Rafe. “Dada!” You both smile, the word now coming naturally to her. Rafe is completely smitten. She leans in for a kiss, then holds up her stuffed turtle for him to kiss too.

Rafe looks at you with a serious expression. “I broke up with her.”

Startled, you ask, “What?”

“I ended things with Sofia. I know what I want—it’s you and V.”

“Oh… That wasn’t my plan, Rafe. I didn’t want to ruin everything you’ve built.”

“It wasn’t mine either, but I’m sure now. Is this what you want? Please say yes, because I need to show you something.” He steps closer.

“Of course, yes.”

Rafe leads you and V upstairs. It feels strange not being at Tannyhill, a place you knew so well. You stop at a door with a wooden “V” hanging on it. Inside is a complete nursery—books, toys, a beautiful crib, and a cushioned rocking chair. One wall is covered with sea animal wallpaper, the others a clean white.

“I had an interior decorator come yesterday after I found out. I wanted it done quickly. The wallpaper went up this morning. Kelce stopped by to make sure everything was right.”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” You pull him in for a kiss and turn to see V already making a mess.

Later, you all head downstairs for dinner. As you eat, Rafe opens up about a deal involving Goat Island, the same place your brother and his friends recently visited.

“What are you going to do?” you ask as he clenches his fist.

“I’m not sure. It could be great—for us, for her.”

“You’ll figure it out. It does seem strange, but maybe Hollis is really looking out for you. I’ll support you no matter what.” You reach for his hand.

“I love you, Banks. You’ve always been the best to me.” Your eyes widen at the old nickname. Smiling softly, you reply, “I love you too, Cameron.”

Taglist-

@maybankslover @eringaitskill @luissa266 @lolll505 @dayyzlol @calaryssia @eg-dr3amer3 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @rafestar @bigbonenative @writtenbyhollywood @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @leilanizcals

[namisweatheria]

One Piece means a lot to me as a disabled person, which I think would be pretty surprising to anyone who only has a surface understanding of it. The supposed central theme of "follow your dreams" would be pretty alienating to someone like me, right? It really, really would be, if that's what it was actually about.

However, that ignores that Luffy's dream is to be the most free person in the world. And to attain that goal, the first thing he does is find friends to live life with. Over and over again, from the very beginning, he takes on their burdens, all in the name of being the most free.

Do you see what that would mean to me, as someone who needs more help to get by than is considered culturally normal, to the point that it puts me in a whole socially manufactured category of "other"? Not to mention, because of the infantilization of me due to that category, because of being forced so squarely into the "cared for" role, taking care of other people is deeply meaningful and empowering for me. However, the myths of independence and universal natural ability often make it emotionally difficult for my loved ones to accept that care.

The fear of asking for help, the guilt of being cared for, the weight of someone you loved who could not be as free as you, the insecurity of not contributing enough, the fear that you were born wrong, the self-hatred that says you are not worth the effort, Nami Sanji Zoro Usopp Robin Chopper Franky Ace they all explore the painful obstacles to free connection. Through deeply impactful stories that weave beautifully into the larger one.

All centered around this one person who views loving them and living with them and carrying them as essential to his freedom. Who cannot, for countless reasons, live a normalized life of Structured Relations. Who views exploring and bickering and suffering and laughing with them as the ideal way to live. Who repeatedly puts his life and limbs on the line to do so.

To me, it is an ultimate privilege and freedom to carry other people's burdens. To care for them and live with them. This is central to my whole perspective, and is completely informed by my life experience as a disabled person. I rarely see it reflected back to me. Let alone as powerfully and beautifully as Luffy does.

Nor the other half of it, of wanting to create this life with people in ways that aren't socially normal or approved. Of creating many varied lifelong intimate relations among equals, rather than conforming to the expectation of choosing One Person to live life with and then Creating More.

The utter lack of roles and norms is just as integral and powerful to the exploration of freedom and connection! It is meaningful to me as a queer person, yes, but even this is deeply influenced by my disability. I could never be that One Person, despite everything I have to offer, there is logistically far too much that I cannot do to be someone's equal partner in this society that demands so much from all of us. However, even if I could, I wouldn't want to! It doesn't make any sense to me to only have two people navigate life together on such intimate terms. Can't the demands of society be more comfortably met in a group? Isn't life more fun that way?

We are taught that we can and must do everything ourselves, I just happen to be one of the people that never had a chance to buy into that lie. To learn very early not just the necessity of interdependence, but the joy in it. To learn that it is most comfortably lived with more people involved. To me, close relationships are, love is, a natural extension of that understanding. One Piece celebrates interdependence constantly from the start, while never pretending that it is always easy.

The obstacles to free connection that I mentioned before, they are interspersed throughout the story, and they are always met with "I do the things you can't do, and you do the things I can't do." With, "Of course I can't use swords you dumbass! And I can't cook either! I don't know a damn thing about navigation! And I can't lie! I know I can't live without help from a lot of people!"

These are intentionally impactful moments, and they define the series. I found it very fitting that the Fan Letter focused on a character who was empowered by Nami to feel free and live adventurously despite not being the most physically capable. The character is able by our definition, but the story is very affirming in a disability way, and it was extremely One Piece. I loved how it acknowledged this deep connection between One Piece and the lived reality of disability and celebrated it as integral as it is.

I also believe that absolutely none of this is intentional. It is simply an earnest exploration of human relationships, emotions, and behavior, and it naturally arrives at a radical and disability-affirming viewpoint. Because we are the monkey wrench in the deeply unhealthy (lol) and dominant line of thinking that independence is all. So naturally anything that also disputes that thinking has a disabled-perspective feel to it. The best part is how much it doesn't give a fuck! One Piece is aggressively against conformity in human relationships, in a way that is hard to find in our new world of self-conscious authors.

It's also, you know, the worst part, in terms of all the outrageous bigotry and offensive character design, but god damn it if it doesn't elevate the good parts to unbearable heights. Even the bad character designs can sometimes be more impactful for their intentional "ugliness", when those characters are inevitably taken seriously despite their appearance and the stereotypes they play on, it hits hard every time. I do have a simple hatred for many choices, there is no pay-off for much of the awful problems in numerous character designs and dialogue. But no matter how upset I can be by those things, in the end they can't succeed in pulling me away from One Piece. It's just so crazy and unique and great and terrible and beautiful and I LOVE IT.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Not As Planned | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This story contains themes of sexual assault. If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, please know that support is available. I’ve included resources below to help guide you toward assistance. You are never alone, and there is always hope. Please take care of yourself as you read.

International Sexual Assault Resource Link

Words: ~14,500

Tags/TW: SA, Violence, Trauma, Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, Plus Size MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Muggle Born MC, Post Hogwarts, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Drama, Romance, Jealousy and Longing, Confessions

The low hum of the bar buzzed like a low-grade static in Sebastian’s ears. A smooth jazz ensemble played in the corner, their music rich and sultry, threading through the room like smoke. Golden light bathed the space, casting everything in soft amber hues that made the whole place feel a little unreal. Along the curved bar, bottles of rare liquors glittered like jewels, and the faint scent of citrus and something floral—lavender, maybe—lingered in the air.

It was a far cry from their usual haunts.

Sebastian ran his fingers around the rim of his glass, trailing condensation down to the base. The whiskey in front of him wasn’t his first, and it wouldn’t be his last. Across from him, Ominis sat with the casual poise that came so easily to him, his chin balanced on one hand while his other traced absent patterns along the bar's polished surface. He looked relaxed, though Sebastian knew better. If the subtle flush on his pale cheeks wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the way his lips twitched faintly every time Poppy’s name came up certainly was.

Beside him, Garreth Weasley was anything but subtle. Loud as ever, he laughed and gestured animatedly, mid-story about some disastrous experiment he’d tried at the pub last weekend.

“…and then, right as I’m about to take a sip, she snatches it out of my hand, takes one look at it, and says—and I quote—‘You have a death wish, don’t you?’ Can you imagine? The nerve!” Garreth threw his hands up in mock indignation. “It wasn’t even that bad. Just rum, peach schnapps, absinthe—”

“One day,” Ominis cut in smoothly, tilting his head toward Garreth with the faintest smirk. “You will be tried for your alcoholic war crimes, Weasley.”

Sebastian snorted into his drink, unable to help himself. He'd need both hands to count the number of times Garreth had walked into a bar and pestered the bartender to mix him something absolutely disastrous.

It was a wonder they still got served anywhere.

Garreth scoffed, taking an exaggerated sip of his neon-colored monstrosity. “You just don’t appreciate true genius.”

Ominis arched a brow. “If by ‘genius,’ you mean ‘reckless disregard for the structural integrity of your liver,’ then yes, I'm terribly ungrateful.”

Sebastian smirked, but his attention flickered toward the entrance—again. The girls weren’t even late, not technically, but every passing minute stretched unbearably. He should have been used to this feeling by now, this sharp-edged anticipation curling low in his chest.

He wasn’t. He never was. It was always like this, wasn’t it?

The waiting. The wanting.

Sebastian had spent over a decade orbiting around you, trapped in some endless, torturous loop of almosts—of lingering touches, stolen glances, conversations that danced too close to the edge of something he didn’t dare name. The worst part? It was his own doing. He’d had every opportunity to cross that invisible line, to tell you what he felt, what he ached for, but he never did.

Because once he did, there would be no undoing it.

Meanwhile, everyone else in their group was paired off now. Garreth and Natty had been inseparable since a Ministry event a few years back, and Poppy and Ominis had been as good as married the moment Hogwarts spat them out. Imelda had ended up with Nerida, to the surprise of no one, the two of them making up a formidable duo—one sharp-tongued and reckless, the other quietly cutting.

Sebastian was happy for them. Truly, he was. It was almost sickening how well it had worked out for everyone. They’d all somehow ended up with their Hogwarts sweethearts, riding off into the sunset with picture-perfect endings that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

And then there was him.

The idiot who’d spent 11 years hopelessly in love with his best friend and done absolutely nothing about it.

At first, it had been easier to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. You were best friends. You had always been best friends. Of course you were close. Of course you knew each other better than anyone. So what if you had a habit of leaning against him whenever you were tired, or if you always reached for him first when something made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe? So what if you touched him more than anyone else, if you let your fingers brush his wrist when you passed him a drink or hooked your ankle around his under the table without thinking about it?

It had always been like that. Until one day, it wasn’t. Until one day, when he was 15, he’d looked at you, and his stomach had flipped, and suddenly, every innocent touch, every laugh, every glance, felt different. Felt like something else entirely.

And now? Now he was fucking trapped.

Ominis’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll get wrinkles early if you keep scowling like that.”

Sebastian glanced up, narrowing his eyes at the smirk tugging on Ominis’s mouth. The bastard didn’t even need to see him to read him like an open book.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Sebastian muttered, taking a long sip of his drink.

Ominis didn’t respond, just tipped his head slightly, his expression bordering on smug. He didn’t need to say anything. The unspoken truth hung between them like smoke—Sebastian’s feelings for you were obvious to everyone but you.

Garreth leaned in suddenly, jarring him. “Relax, mate. They’ll show up. Natty wouldn’t miss this for the world, and she’d drag the others along if she had to.” He paused to sip his drink, a mischievous grin spreading over his face. “Although, Poppy’s probably the one making them late. You know how she loves to test Ominis’s patience.”

“More like Natty’s,” Ominis muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and turned toward the door again, restless. The moment stretched, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his glass. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t waiting for you—not like that. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t counting down the seconds until you walked through the door, wasn’t anticipating the sound of your voice, wasn’t wondering what you’d look like tonight, what you’d—

And then the door opened.

And everything else stopped.

Because there you were.

You moved through the room with easy confidence, utterly unaware of the way you were undoing him. That dress—fuck, that dress—it wasn’t something outrageous, wasn’t scandalous or overtly suggestive, but it didn’t need to be. It followed the soft curves of your body, hugged your waist, your plush thighs, the full flare of your hips in a way that made his pulse hammer violently against his ribs. Every step you took made it shift, just enough to tease, just enough to remind him that he should not be thinking about this.

And yet, his mind was already lost to darker places, caught in the dangerous, helpless imagining of how it might feel beneath his fingers. The silky fabric sliding beneath his hands, the warmth of your skin under it. How it would be if he were close enough to touch, to trace the shape of you properly, to press his hands into the softness of your waist and feel the weight of you against him.

His fingers tightened around his glass so hard he swore it might crack.

Garreth chuckled under his breath, clearly entertained, “Good luck tonight, Sallow."

Ominis said nothing, but Sebastian didn’t need to see him smirking to know exactly what was going through his mind.

It was humiliating, really, how easy it was for them to see right through him. And you? You just kept moving, oblivious to the chaos you were leaving in your wake.

Sebastian watched as you approached, your laugh bright and sweet as Natsai caught your hand, spinning you once in an exaggerated flourish as if to show you off. You humored her, swaying playfully, rolling your eyes when Imelda cat-called in approval.

Then, before he could steel himself, before he could brace for the inevitable destruction you always left in your wake, your eyes landed on him again.

And fuck, that smile.

It was warm, unguarded, laced with something soft. The kind of smile that was effortless, unconscious, the kind that made his stomach drop because it meant you were happy to see him. Because you looked at him like he was something good, something familiar and safe, and it tore him to shreds inside.

He forced himself to exhale. To not look like some love-struck fool drowning in you.

“About time,” he said as you sidled up beside him, leaning back against the bar in a way he hoped looked casual.

You rolled your eyes, slipping onto a stool, your shoulder brushing his. “I had to make sure you suffered a little first.”

“You’re a cruel woman.”

“I’m a patient woman,” you corrected, lifting a brow. “I got us on the guest list here weeks ago, so if I have to hear you complain about the wait, I will take my very expensive cocktail and pour it directly into your lap.”

Sebastian huffed, feigning offense. “You wouldn’t.”

You turned, propping your chin on your hand as you looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Try me.”

His stomach twisted violently. He didn’t know how you did this—how you made him feel like you could see right through him, like you knew exactly how wrecked he was and were enjoying every moment of it.

He forced himself to focus, to shift his attention somewhere safe.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere safe.

Because now, he was looking at your lips, parted just slightly in a teasing smirk, glossed and inviting and fuck—

He needed another drink. Immediately.

Before he could even flag the bartender down, Garreth leaned into your space with a dramatic sigh his arm wrapped around Natsai's waist. “Seriously though, what took you so long? Sebastian’s been brooding all night.”

You shot him a knowing look. “Has he now?”

Garreth smirked, tipping his glass toward Ominis. “Oh, yeah. Gaunt here tried to warn him about wrinkles.”

You chuckled, leaning slightly into Sebastian’s shoulder in a way that sent a full-body shudder down his spine. “I told you, Seb. Stress is bad for you.”

He tried to smirk, to give you some smart remark, but he knew it wouldn’t come out right. His brain was still lagging on the fact that your body was pressing against his.

Garreth, oblivious as ever, continued rambling. “Honestly, it was embarrassing. I think he almost—”

Sebastian elbowed him sharply, causing Garreth to spill his drink.

Natty, taking pity, pulled him back. “Come on, Garreth. Leave the poor man alone.”

“Fine, fine.” Garreth grinned, clearly not remotely deterred, but let himself be steered away.

Sebastian sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before turning back to you. “So? Was it worth the wait?”

You hummed, taking in the warm, intimate atmosphere, the soft glow of the speakeasy lights. The way the gold hues caught in your eyes nearly killed him.

“Oh, absolutely,” you replied with a smile. "It looks so authentic, like just look at the bar, Seb. The design is almost spot on to the real ones from the Prohibition era—mahogany, brass accents, those exact kind of light fixtures..."

Sebastian tried to focus on your words, really he did.

You were onto talking about speakeasy history now, eyes gleaming with excitement as you gestured toward the dim lighting, the low, rich hum of the jazz band. You’d clearly done your research, and you were rattling off facts with that same enthusiasm you always had for things you loved. It was so endearing. You could make anything sound interesting.

“Well, technically, speakeasies originated during the Prohibition era in America,” you were saying, leaning forward slightly, the low L ight catching in your hair. “They were hidden bars—illegal drinking spots since alcohol was banned. They had secret passwords, hidden entrances, all that. Some were even run by gangsters—people like Al Capone—because bootlegging was so lucrative.”

Sebastian nodded, trying to pay attention, but it was impossible. Because, as much as he loved hearing you nerd out, his brain had zero capacity for historical facts when every single one of your friends had immediately paired off around him.

At the bar, Natty was leaned into Garreth’s side, her hand resting lightly on his chest as he ordered her a drink, his voice dipping into something low and teasing that made her smile. A few feet away, Poppy had sidled up to Ominis, fingers barely brushing against his wrist in that quiet, intimate way they always did. Meanwhile, Imelda and Nerida had wasted no time making themselves comfortable, tucked into a plush booth, heads close together, already lost in each other.

And then there was you. With him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you belonged here, beside him. Like you were his.

Except—you weren’t.

Sebastian swallowed hard, fingers curling around his glass.

It was a cruel fucking thing, this closeness you gave him so easily. Because it wasn’t real, was it? Not really. You were just you. His best friend. Close enough to touch, to tease, to wreck him without even realizing it. But never his.

Never really his.

“…they even had hidden tunnels sometimes,” you continued. “The really fancy ones had hidden rooms, secret staircases, all kinds of tricks. Some of them were in basements, some behind fake storefronts. People had to whisper the password when they got in, which is where the term ‘speakeasy’ comes from.”

Sebastian barely registered what you were saying and you sighed, finally noticing the way he was watching you.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

Sebastian blinked.

“No,” he admitted, because what was the point in lying?

You rolled your eyes, exasperated, but there was no real bite to it.

“Well, at least you’re honest.”

Sebastian smirked. “Always.”

You huffed, clearly unimpressed. “So, what were you thinking about?”

He should have said something teasing, something to deflect, but then you leaned in, just slightly, your head tilting, and Sebastian was drowning.

There was too much warmth in your eyes, too much softness in the way you looked at him, and for one reckless second, he thought maybe. Maybe this wasn’t one-sided. Maybe you knew. Maybe you felt it too.

Sebastian cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away, to wave down the bartender like they might save him.

“Nothing important,” he lied.

You studied him for a beat longer, and then, before you could say another word—

“What can I get for you?”

Mercifully, the bartender appeared, their voice smooth, professional.

Sebastian exhaled and leaned against the bar, grateful for something else to focus on. “Whiskey and Coke.”

The bartender nodded, about to turn away when Sebastian jerked his chin toward you. “And whatever she wants.”

You huffed then rolled your eyes. “I can pay for myself, you know.”

“I know,” Sebastian said, smirking as he propped his elbow against the bar, resting his chin in his hand. “But since I’m clearly suffering through your history lesson, consider it payment.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, suffering, are you?”

“Excruciatingly.”

“Fine,” you sighed, faux exasperation in your tone, turning back to the bartender. “I’ll take the signature cocktail then, since it’s on his dime.”

Sebastian smirked, shaking his head. “Figures.”

The bartender chuckled and disappeared to prepare the drinks, leaving the two of you to settle back into the warmth of the speakeasy’s golden glow.

Sebastian let himself relax, narrowing his eyes slightly. “So? This drink of yours—what’s in it?”

You lifted a brow, amusement flickering across your expression. “Trying to impress me with your knowledge of mixology?”

“Absolutely not.” He snorted. “Just trying to gauge how badly I’m about to regret funding your expensive taste.”

You laughed, the sound warm, easy. “You’ll live. It’s gin with elderflower liqueur, citrus, a little honey, some kind of infused vermouth—oh, and a sprig of rosemary for flair. They call it The Whisper.”

Sebastian snorted. “That’s a lot of effort for a single drink.”

“That’s the whole point of a speakeasy, you loser,” you teased, nudging your shoulder against his. “It’s all about the craft.”

He rolled his eyes but grinned. “And here I thought we were just here to drink.”

“Well, that too.”

Your drinks arrived, and you lifted your cocktail, inspecting it with a satisfied little nod before taking a sip. The moment your lips met the rim of the glass, Sebastian had to fight back another surge of inconvenient thoughts—the gloss on your mouth leaving the faintest sheen against the glass, the way your lashes fluttered slightly as you tasted it, considering the balance of flavors.

“It’s so good,” you told him, swirling the liquid lightly in your glass. “Floral, a little sweet, but not too much.”

Sebastian hummed, sipping his drink as he watched you. “Glad to know my money’s going to a worthy cause.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “You know, you never did answer my question.”

Sebastian blinked. “What question?”

You gave him a look—one that told him you knew he was dodging. “What you were thinking about earlier while you ignored my history lesson.”

His grip on his glass tightened for half a second, but before he could come up with a clever retort to get out of this, a new voice cut in—bright, excited.

“Hey you!”

Poppy.

She appeared out of nowhere, seizing your wrist before you could protest. “Come dance with us!”

Your eyes widened. “Poppy—wait—”

But Poppy was relentless, already tugging you toward the dance floor with surprising strength. “Nope, no arguments! Come on!”

Sebastian watched, amused and relieved, as you shot him a look over your shoulder—half entertained, half exasperated—before you disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the glow of the dance floor, and just like that, you were gone.

A slow, knowing voice hummed beside him.

“She got away from you rather quickly.”

Ominis.

Sebastian scowled. “Don’t start."

The blonde sipped his drink, the picture of smug amusement. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Sebastian shot him a flat look. “You were absolutely going to say something.”

Ominis smirked. “Well, if you insist—”

Sebastian groaned, tossing back a sip of his whiskey and coke before slamming the glass down with a bit more force than necessary. “I don’t. I really, really don’t.”

“You’re in rare form tonight,” Ominis continued, swirling the last of his drink lazily in his glass. “I think I might even pity you.”

Sebastian shot him a glare. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, but you do need a strategy,” Ominis mused, setting his empty glass down with a soft clink. “Because, at this rate, I fear I’ll be married before you confess to her.”

Sebastian scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you. Took you 8 years to say anything to Poppy.”

Ominis simply smirked. “And yet, here I am, in a committed relationship, while you’re still over here brooding into your drink like a lovesick schoolboy.”

Sebastian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s sake, Ominis.”

“What?” Ominis asked, feigning innocence. “It’s painful watching you, you know. I can hear the longing.”

Sebastian scowled. “I do not long.”

Ominis turned his head toward him, lips curling ever so slightly. “Sebastian. Poppy said you stared at her mouth for a full ten seconds while she was talking about her drink.”

Sebastian flushed, gripping his glass a little too hard. “It wasn’t ten seconds.”

Ominis hummed. “It was.”

Sebastian wanted to slam his forehead into the bar.

This was his own personal hell.

Garreth sauntered over before he could wallow too deeply, plopping onto the stool beside him with a lazy grin. He slung an arm over the bar, casting a glance toward the dance floor.

“Mate, you are so obvious,” Garreth said, sipping his drink. “It’s honestly impressive.”

Sebastian gave him a flat look. “Did you come over just to harass me?”

“Pretty much,” Garreth said cheerfully.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw back the rest of his drink.

Garreth followed his gaze toward the dance floor, where you were now laughing at something Natty had said, your body swaying to the rhythm of the music. The warm amber lighting bathed your skin, the movement of the crowd shifting around you in slow, rhythmic waves.

And fuck, you looked good. Too good. Sebastian took another sip of his whiskey, trying to ignore the ache curling in his chest.

“So,” Garreth said, propping his chin in his hand. “What’s the plan?”

Sebastian glanced at him. “What?”

“The plan,” Garreth repeated. “You know—the one where you finally do something about your massive, crushing, soul-consuming love for her?”

Sebastian groaned. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Mate, we have to do this right now,” Garreth said, motioning toward the dance floor. “Because if you don’t do something soon, some other guy will.”

Sebastian stiffened. Because this? This was the one thing he never let himself think about for too long.

For years, he had convinced himself there was time. That things would work out naturally, that you’d both just… fall into place.

It wasn’t as if you had never been with anyone. You had, a few times during school, in the careless, fleeting way that teenagers fell in and out of things. But nothing had ever stuck. Nothing had ever felt like it mattered. And when they ended, Sebastian had always been there.

Your constant.

The one person you always came back to.

It had reassured him, in some selfish, pathetic way. Let him believe that you weren’t really going anywhere. That whatever was between you—whatever was building between you—would always be there, waiting, until you both figured it out.

But then you’d fallen for him.

Your first real, serious boyfriend. The one who had made Sebastian’s life hell for over a year.

He had hated every goddamn second of it. Hated watching you be with someone else, hated the way you had looked at him—like that—like he was yours. Hated seeing another man have what should have been his.

And what had he done? Nothing. Because he hadn’t been brave enough.

He had let it happen. He had let himself smile and nod and pretend to be happy for you. He had let himself sit on the sidelines and watch.

And then, when it was over—when it had all fallen apart—he had been there. Of course, he had. But you never told him what happened, and Sebastian never asked for details. Never pressed, never pried. All he knew was that one day, it was over, and you didn’t talk about it.

And if Sebastian had felt relieved? If some ugly, selfish part of him had thrived in the knowledge that you were single again?

Well. That was between him and the whiskey.

But that was over a year ago now, and Garreth was right.

You were moving forward, and Sebastian no longer had the luxury of time. You weren’t seventeen anymore. You weren’t in school, fumbling through fleeting relationships just for the sake of them. You were a grown woman—beautiful, incredible, desirable—and when you chose someone now, it would be for something real.

Something long-term. Something permanent.

And the idea of someone else—some faceless stranger—walking up to you on the dance floor, flashing you a grin, letting their hands wander over your waist, pulling you close like they had any right—fuck. That alone was bad enough. But the thought of someone keeping you, of some other man being the one you turned to at the end of the day, the one who got to wake up beside you, touch you freely, know you in ways Sebastian never had the chance to—

It made something inside his chest splinter, burn so hot and fierce he swore it might ruin him.

Across from him, Garreth was watching, expression infuriatingly smug.

“So,” he said, lazily swirling the ice in his drink. “How’s that plan coming along?”

Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to groan.

“Garreth.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Garreth grinned. “See, I would, but you’re being so fun to watch right now.”

Sebastian scowled, about to say something sharp and unhelpful, but his tongue turned to lead the moment he caught sight of you again.

You had slowed, your dancing shifting into something softer, something more. Natty had turned away, distracted by Poppy tugging her toward another group, and now you were swaying on your own, hands drifting absently down your sides as if lost in the rhythm. Your body moved without thought, your dress hugging the curves of your hips in ways that sent something dark curling in Sebastian’s stomach.

He watched as your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the music, the soft golden glow of the lights painting your skin in honeyed warmth.

And then, like clockwork, it happened.

Some man—some fucking man—noticed you.

Sebastian saw it before it even began, could feel the exact moment the stranger’s gaze landed on you, lingering.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of polished that came with old money, and he was looking at you like he wanted you.

And you—unaware, oblivious—were still dancing. Still open. Still approachable.

Sebastian’s blood ran hot.

Garreth, always a shit-disturber, let out a low whistle. “Ohhh, this is gonna be good.”

Sebastian didn’t even register him, because the stranger was already moving, crossing the floor toward you with intent, cutting through the slow sway of bodies, an easy grin sliding into place.

Sebastian barely heard Garreth mutter, yep, there it is, before he was already moving.

Not thinking—just moving, standing, glass forgotten, feet carrying him across the floor with single-minded purpose.

The stranger reached you first, but Sebastian wasn’t far behind, and he saw the exact moment the man’s hand started to lift—reaching for you, moving into your space.

And he saw the way you instinctively leaned back, a subtle but unmistakable recoil, your easy smile dimming as you shook your head, declining whatever offer the guy had just made.

And before the bastard could press further—before he could try again—Sebastian was there.

His body cut smoothly between you, stepping into your space so fast and close that you had to tilt your head up in surprise, your eyes widening at him.

The stranger hesitated, thrown off by his sudden arrival, but Sebastian didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t even fucking blink in his direction.

Because you? You were looking at him. And only him.

Your lips parted slightly, something caught between confusion and surprise, but Sebastian didn’t give you a chance to question it.

Sebastian held out a hand.

“Dance with me.”

Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.

Your brows lifted slightly at the shift in his voice, but you didn’t hesitate. Because of course you didn’t. You trusted him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and soft, and Sebastian nearly exhaled in relief.

Because just like that, the moment was over.

The stranger lingered for only a second longer before turning away, disappearing into the crowd.

Gone. Good.

Then you sighed—a small, quiet thing, barely noticeable over the music—and glanced up at him, a flicker of something unreadable in your expression.

“Thanks for that,” you murmured, voice lower now, more serious than it had been all night.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed slightly. “For what?”

Your lips pressed together for a second, as if debating whether to say anything. Then, finally:

“That guy was talking to our group earlier, too.”

Sebastian’s grip on your waist tightened, his mood immediately souring. Because how had he not noticed? How had he been sitting at that bar this whole damn time, so hyper-focused on you, so obsessed, and not seen some asshole lurking around you and the other girls? A slow, simmering anger curled in his gut.

“Did he say anything to you?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.

You shook your head. “Just… you know.” You made a vague gesture, rolling your eyes slightly. “The usual.”

Sebastian’s jaw flexed. No, he didn’t know. Because he wasn’t you.

He didn’t know what it was like to be someone like you—gorgeous, open, effortlessly magnetic—constantly dealing with men who thought that just because you were kind, just because you smiled, just because you laughed and danced, it meant they had a chance.

It made something dark coil inside him, something ugly. Something possessive.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying—failing—to push it down.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, voice quieter now, lower, but hard.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.

“No,” you said after a beat, shaking your head.

Sebastian didn’t realize how much tension he had been holding until the word left your mouth. Didn’t realize how furious he had been, how much his hands had itched to grab that bastard by the collar and drag him outside just for thinking he had the right to put his hands on you.

“You don’t have to look like that,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly.

Sebastian raised a brow, his smirk automatic but strained. “Like what?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Like you’re about to storm out of here and commit a felony.”

Sebastian didn’t deny it.

"You should let me fight someone for you at least once," he muttered, only half-joking.

You grinned. "Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?"

"More than you know."

"Violence isn’t the answer, Sallow," you sing-songed.

He smirked. "It’s a good answer, though."

You shook your head, still laughing, still entirely too light while Sebastian was over here barely holding himself together. And then, just to kill him, you leaned in, pressing your forehead lightly against his chest.

"I’m okay, Seb," you murmured.

Just like that, the anger drained from his body. Because if you weren’t upset, if you weren’t shaken, if you were still smiling up at him like this—like he was something good, something safe—then how was he supposed to hold onto his fury?

The song slowed, the deep bass fading into the last lingering notes of the melody. The hum of conversation filled the space again, bodies shifting, moving apart, laughter rising over the murmur of the next song beginning.

Sebastian barely noticed because you were still close—your forehead resting against his chest, your breath warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. And just as easily as you had leaned into him, you pulled back and reached for his hand, fingers sliding against his.

“I need another drink.”

And Sebastian—who would have followed you anywhere, who always had—went without question.

He let you lead him through the crowd, past shifting bodies and hushed conversation, back toward the bar where your friends had gathered, voices raised in lively debate.

Garreth was the first to notice your return, his grin downright wicked as he clocked your joined hands.

“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” he drawled, handing Sebastian a pint of beer. “Have a nice dance?”

Sebastian ignored him, but you just rolled your eyes, releasing his hand as you slid onto a stool. “I did, actually. What’s all this?”

Nerida, perched beside Imelda, snorted. “They’re making bets on what Poppy has gotten Ominis into this time.”

You blinked. “Where've they gone?”

“She dragged him off about twenty minutes ago,” Imelda said, smirking over the rim of her glass. “Into one of the side rooms.”

Sebastian felt your laughter before he heard it—the way your shoulders shook, the way you leaned slightly into his side, your warmth pressing into him once again.

“Oh no,” you breathed, shaking your head. “Poor Ominis.”

Garreth grinned. “Poor Ominis?” He gestured wildly with his glass. "That man's probably having the time of his bloody life right now! In fact, Natty, I'd be more than happy to—"

Natty cut him off with a sharp look, arching a brow. “Don’t finish that sentence, Weasley.”

Nerida, still nursing her drink, smirked. “So, what are the odds? Did she lure him in with something harmless, or is Ominis about to lose all dignity?”

“Fifteen galleons says he’s getting head at this very second," Imelda said with a grin, tapping her fingers against the bar.

Garreth howled with laughter, nearly spilling his drink. “Oh, Merlin, I wish I had that kind of faith in Poppy, but in public?! I don't know, Mel.”

Natty groaned, covering her face with her hands. “For the love of God—”

Nerida just smirked, tilting her glass toward Imelda. “Bold bet. You really think Poppy’s got it in her?”

Imelda snorted. “Look, I’m just saying—quiet ones are always the freakiest.”

Sebastian choked on his beer.

Garreth, still grinning, wiped at his eyes. “Ten galleons says she is at least getting handsy.”

“Five says he’s just standing there awkwardly while she tells him fun facts about kneazles,” Natty countered, shaking her head.

Sebastian smirked, shaking his head. “I’d put twenty on him hexing us all into oblivion if he knew what was going on right now.”

Garreth cackled. “A safe bet.”

The conversation was rapidly descending into chaos when, right on cue, Ominis’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and unimpressed.

“I hate all of you.”

The group collectively turned to see Ominis standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed, Poppy at his side looking suspiciously pleased with herself.

Garreth, delighted, clapped his hands together. “There he is! So… how’d it go, lover boy?”

Ominis’s expression darkened. “I will hex you.”

You grinned, still trying to contain your laughter. “Tell us what happened, Omins.”

Ominis’s face went red. Not just a faint flush—fully red, the kind of embarrassment that spelled immediate entertainment for everyone involved. And Poppy, the absolute menace, lifted a hand to her mouth, failing miserably at stifling her laughter.

The group lost it, and Ominis looked like he wanted to die.

Garreth cackled, nearly spilling his drink as he clutched his stomach.

Nerida slammed a hand on the bar, wheezing. “Oh my God."

Imelda, grinning like the devil herself, leaned forward. “Right, then. Who’s paying up the fifteen galleons?”

Ominis exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear to Merlin, if one more person so much as suggests—”

Garreth clapped him on the back, grinning wildly. “So, that’s a no on the getting head, then?”

Ominis’s expression darkened so fast it was almost impressive, but before he could truly commit to murder, Nerida—ever the peacemaker—tilted her head toward the back corner of the bar.

“Alright, alright—before Ominis does something irreversible, who’s up for a round of pool?”

This was met with general agreement—mostly because the alcohol was settling in enough that no one felt like sitting still anymore.

Sebastian, still thoroughly amused, tipped back the rest of his drink before pushing away from the bar, waiting for you to follow.

And you did. Of course you did.

In fact, Sebastian was pleased—very pleased—when you stuck by his side for the rest of the evening.

You could have easily wandered off, flitted between groups, danced again. But instead, you leaned against the table, sipping your drink, laughing at Garreth’s terrible pool skills, rolling your eyes at Imelda’s trash talk, nudging Sebastian with your hip whenever he made a particularly cocky shot.

It was good.

The night stretched on in a golden haze, full of too much laughter, too many drinks, and the kind of warm, buzzing atmosphere that made it far too easy to forget that the outside world existed at all.

Except.

Sebastian noticed—drunkenly, hazily, slowly noticed—that something was off.

It wasn’t obvious, but it was there nonetheless. The girls were still laughing, still drinking, still teasing them mercilessly over every terrible shot at pool. But they weren’t leaving. And that was weird.

Because usually—after enough drinks, after enough games—the girls always migrated. They’d get bored of pool, tired of darts, and drift off to dance, or find a quieter table to sit at and gossip.

But not tonight. Tonight, they were sticking close.

Poppy, usually the first to suggest another round on the dance floor, was still here, sitting comfortably at Ominis's side, chatting animatedly with Natty while Garreth ordered them drinks.

Nerida and Imelda, who normally found excuses to disappear for a bit, were locked in an intense conversation while still staying within view of everyone else.

And you were still beside him.

And maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way the room had tilted slightly when he stood up earlier. But Sebastian’s brain, slow and sluggish, finally caught up to the creeping thought that had been lurking in the background since you'd danced with him.

Was it because of him? That man from earlier?

Sebastian turned his head slightly, scanning the bar. He hadn’t thought about him in hours, but now that he was... where the hell did he go?

Sebastian’s fingers tightened around his drink, a slow, simmering anger curling back into his gut. Because if you—and the others—had been sticking close all night, had been keeping within reach of them instead of doing what you usually did…

Then what did that mean? Had that bastard scared you?

But then—

“Seb?”

Your voice cut through the haze, your fingers curling around his wrist, tugging lightly. He turned, and whatever dark, brooding thoughts had been creeping into his mind vanished.

Because fuck, you were drunk. Not messy, not too far gone, but just enough. Your eyes were hazy with warmth, your grin lopsided, and when you pulled him slightly closer, there was the faintest slur in your words.

You swayed slightly. “D’you wanna sit? M’legs feel all… floaty.”

And just like that, Sebastian forgot about everything else. The man. The unease. The lingering feeling that something was wrong. Because now? Now he was only looking at you.

You, standing just a little too close, your body warm with alcohol, your hair a little mussed, your expression soft.

You, blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted like you were trying to work through whatever lazy, meandering thought had just slipped into your mind.

Sebastian smirked, setting his drink down. “Those cocktails stronger than you thought?”

You huffed, swaying slightly as you nudged his arm. “So much stronger.”

Sebastian barely bit back a laugh. “Lightweight.”

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “How dare—”

Sebastian grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulders before you could wobble too much.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, guiding you toward one of the plush loveseats behind the pool table. “Let’s get you off those floaty legs.”

You hummed, leaning into him a little too easily, like it was natural, like this was where you belonged. And fuck, if that wasn’t a dangerous thought.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, guiding you down before sitting beside you, letting his arm rest along the back of the chair, leaving just enough room for you to lean into him if you wanted to.

You let out a small hum, tilting your head back slightly to look at him, eyes half-lidded, hazy with alcohol. Then—out of nowhere—you reached for his hand.

Sebastian blinked, watching, completely dumbfounded, as you grabbed his wrist, pulling his palm toward yours. You pressed your hand flat against his, comparing sizes, your fingers barely reaching the first knuckle of his own.

And you beamed.

“Merlin,” you murmured, like you were discovering something truly profound, flexing your fingers against his. “Why are your hands so big?”

Sebastian swallowed hard, staring at the sight of your palm against his, at the way your much smaller fingers curled slightly around his own.

He barely found his voice. “Dunno. Why are yours so small?”

You giggled, tilting your head at him. “D’you think if I had big hands, I’d be better at pool?”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, his chest tight. “You’re already better than Garreth. No changes necessary.”

You gasped dramatically. “Poor Garreth.”

“He deserves it.”

You snorted, then curled your fingers between his, lacing them loosely together. Just resting there. Just holding. Sebastian nearly blacked out.

You didn’t even seem to realize what you were doing, just looked down at your intertwined hands with an easy, alcohol-softened smile before shifting again, tucking yourself even closer into his side.

“You always smell nice, too."

Always. That meant you’d noticed before. You noticed him.

Sebastian forced himself to clear his throat, trying for something casual—something to keep from absolutely combusting.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “What do I smell like?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Like…” Your brows scrunched slightly, like you were trying to pinpoint it exactly. “Something warm. Like... like… cinnamon. And cloves. And something kind of… smoky? But not in a bad way. Just… cozy.”

Sebastian was about to die. Right here. Right fucking here, in this speakeasy, drunk with you pressed against him, completely unaware that you were absolutely wrecking him. And then, because you weren’t done ruining his life, you sighed. All content and pleased and nestled against his side like you belonged there, like this was normal, like you weren’t setting his entire fucking world on fire.

“And you’re always so warm,” you murmured.

Sebastian’s throat bobbed as he forced something out.

“You cold?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected.

You hummed, nuzzling slightly into his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

Sebastian was dangerously close to losing his mind, and he needed a distraction. Immediately.

“So,” he said, shifting slightly, trying to ignore how easily your body moved with his, “since I did such a terrible job listening last time, how about another speakeasy lesson?”

You perked up instantly, blinking at him in adorable surprise, then huffed, amused. “Oh, so now you’re interested?”

Sebastian smirked. “Figured I should at least pretend to be an attentive student.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly in your seat to face him better—though, in your drunken state, that mostly meant you leaned even more into his side.

“Well,” you began, slipping into a more thoughtful tone, “like I was saying before you zoned out completely, speakeasies got their name because people had to speak easy—keep their voices down so they wouldn’t get caught.”

Sebastian nodded like this was brand new information, even though he vaguely remembered you mentioning it earlier. Meanwhile, you draped your arms over your lap, tilting your head against the back of the loveseat as you spoke, your words a little slower, your thoughts a little more meandering.

“But what’s funny,” you continued, your finger tracing absentminded circles against the fabric of your dress, “is that even though the entire point was secrecy, some speakeasies were huge. Like, big bands, huge dance floors, completely over-the-top. They wanted the allure, the glamour, y’know?”

Sebastian did not know.

Because he was too busy watching the way your lips moved around your words, the way your lashes fluttered when you got lost in a thought, the way your entire body seemed to sway slightly with the rhythm of your own storytelling.

This was not helping his situation.

At all.

“So some of them weren’t hidden?” he asked, if only to remind himself to keep his brain functional.

You shook your head, a little slower than usual. “Not really. Like, technically, you still had to know someone to get in. They had passwords, secret entrances… but everyone knew where they were.”

Sebastian hummed, watching the way you twirled a loose strand of hair around your finger. “So what you’re saying,” he mused, smirking, “is that criminals are just show-offs?”

You snorted, rolling your head to the side to look at him. “That’s what you took from that?”

He grinned. “Am I wrong?”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “No, you’re not wrong, but historically speaking—”

Sebastian could have stayed here forever. You, curled into his side, talking about some random bit of history you’d read in a book. Your voice laced with alcohol, your words a little softer, a little slower, but still so full of excitement. It was so easy. So perfect.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of your dress, twirling the soft material between his fingertips, completely absorbed in the warmth of the moment, in the way you looked at him, in the way—

Then you let out a heavy sigh, shifting against him.

“I need to break the seal,” you muttered, groaning dramatically.

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown from his thoughts.

You pouted, stretching slightly as you tilted your head toward him. “I have to pee,” you clarified. “And I don’t wanna move.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “That is a tragedy.”

You groaned, snuggling further into the cushions, making no move to actually get up. “Ugh, this sucks. I'm so comfy.”

He nudged you lightly. “Go on, love, I'll be right here when you get back.”

You whined, literally whined, before finally, reluctantly pushing yourself up. You stretched as you stood—your dress shifting dangerously as you straightened yourself—and Sebastian was definitely not looking. Not at the way your dress shifted up the curve of your thighs, not at the way your arms lifted over your head, making every inch of you somehow even more tempting.

Nope.

He was absolutely looking straight ahead, nowhere near you.

But as you turned away—taking slow, slightly unsteady steps—something in his chest twisted. Not the usual ache, the fuck-I’m-in-love-with-her feeling he’d been drowning in all night.

Something else. Something wrong.

He tried to shake it, tried to tell himself it was just the drinks, just his dumb possessive instincts making him hyperaware of you.

But still.

His smirk faltered slightly as he watched you make your way toward the washrooms.

It wasn’t far. Just across the lounge, past a few tables, through a hallway.

But still.

Sebastian shifted in his seat, his foot tapping idly against the floor. You’d be back in a few minutes. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

Sebastian knew it the second too much time passed.

At first, he kept himself distracted, letting Garreth and Imelda pull him into their bickering over pool shots, letting Ominis make dry, unimpressed comments about their collective lack of skill. Sebastian nursed his drink, felt the warmth of the alcohol hum through his veins, tried to tell himself you were just taking your time.

But then a song ended. And another. And you still weren’t back.

Sebastian’s fingers tapped against the rim of his glass, his brows pinching slightly.

Then he checked the time. And the wrongness that had been sitting, low and uneasy, in his chest all night curled tighter.

He straightened in his seat, setting his drink down, his entire body suddenly too alert.

It was fine. You were fine.

Maybe you’d just gotten distracted. Maybe you were reapplying your lipstick, or fixing your hair, or—

No. No, something was wrong. And suddenly, Sebastian wasn’t drunk anymore.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Just moved, ignoring the way the others glanced at him in mild confusion.

“Be right back,” he muttered, already walking away.

His heart picked up speed as he cut across the bar, past the lounge, weaving through groups of people, gaze sharp as he scanned the room.

The hallway to the washrooms was dimly lit, tucked just slightly away from the main bar, just enough that it made something uncomfortable roll through his stomach.

He stepped into the corridor, his footfalls suddenly too loud in the muffled quiet. The wrongness in his gut went from unease to something razor-sharp.

Where were you?

Sebastian glanced toward the entrance to the women’s washroom, waiting—listening—for any sign of you. Nothing.

His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched at his sides. He turned his head—

And froze.

Just past the corner of the hallway, tucked slightly out of view, a sound. A muffled whimper. Quiet. Shaky. Then a voice. Low. Murmuring. Unfamiliar.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists, he rounded the corner so fast he nearly slammed into the wall, and there you were.

Pressed against a door, your shoulders curled inward, hands shaking as you tried to push him away. Your dress, torn at the strap. That man—his hands on you, gripping your waist, his body too close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured something low, coaxing, like he was trying to convince you, like you weren’t already crying.

Sebastian’s mind went blank. One second, the bastard was pressed up against you, gripping you like he had any fucking right, and the next—

Crack.

The man hit the opposite wall, hard, eyes blown wide as he let out a stunned, choked gasp, lip split and bleeding.

Sebastian was already on him.

His fist caught the bastard’s shirt, dragging him forward, shoving him so hard the walls rattled.

Sebastian was breathing too fast, seeing too much, his pulse roaring in his ears. The man let out a pained groan, hands grabbing at Sebastian’s wrist.

“Hey—”

Sebastian slammed him back again.

“You think you can touch her?” His voice was low, deadly, his face so close that the bastard flinched.

“She was asking for it,” the man spat, mouth bloody, words slurred. “Didn’t say no, just got shy—”

Sebastian snapped. His fist came down hard—one, two—again—

“How fucking dare you?”

The man gasped, wheezing, hands scrambling to stop him.

Sebastian was going to kill him. Was going to beat him into the fucking floor.

And then a hand. Light. Shaking. Fingers curling around his arm.

“Sebastian?”

Soft. Trembling.

Sebastian’s lungs seized. He turned his head, still breathing hard, still shaking. And fuck—

Tears streaked down your cheeks, your lip trembling, your eyes too wide, too stunned, too afraid.

Sebastian’s stomach dropped. His grip tightened for a breath, then, with a sharp, ragged exhale, he let go.

The man hit the floor hard, scrambling back on his hands, panting, nose crooked.

Sebastian didn’t even look at him. Because you—

You were still standing there, your hands clutching your torn dress, fingers shaking, chest rising too fast, breath uneven.

Sebastian felt sick.

And then voices. Footsteps. A sudden surge of noise as the dim corridor flooded with people.

Sebastian barely turned in time to see Ominis, Garreth, Natty, Imelda, Nerida, Poppy—the whole group—rounding the corner at full speed.

Garreth’s face twisted into something Sebastian had never seen before, his usual easy demeanor vanishing as he took one look at you, then the man on the floor, then Sebastian—still fuming, still shaking, still breathing too fast—and understood immediately.

Natty sucked in a sharp breath.

Nerida froze.

Poppy clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and horrified.

Imelda’s knuckles cracked from how hard she clenched her fists.

And Ominis—

Ominis, usually the calmest among them, took one step forward, and his voice came out cold. “What the fuck happened?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight. You hadn’t moved.

Then another voice, unfamiliar, but undeniably authoritative.

“Out. Now.”

Sebastian turned his head to see the bouncers push through the group.

One of them grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt. The bastard let out a choked noise.

“You’re done,” the bouncer growled, dragging him toward the exit. “Get the fuck out of here.”

The man spluttered, voice slurred from his split lip. “I—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sebastian watched. Watched as the man who had his hands on you got ripped away, thrown out like trash, shoved into the night where he fucking belonged.

And yet Sebastian still wasn’t breathing right. Still wasn’t calm. Because you were still shaking, still—

“We’re leaving.”

Ominis.

His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. Sebastian nodded automatically. They all did.

The group moved quickly, no hesitation, no time for words as they all started toward the door, the bouncers giving them a wide path through the crowd.

Sebastian barely noticed the murmured whispers around them. All he noticed was you. Still silent, still staring down, still breathing too fast.

The cold air outside hit like a shock, cutting through the drunken haze that had lingered over the night.

Sebastian barely felt it, but the moment the chill hit, you shivered violently. Ominis moved instinctively, shrugging off his jacket in one smooth motion.

“Here.” His voice was still tight, still controlled, but softer than before.

But when he stepped forward, offering it—

You flinched. Sharp. Instinctive.

And Sebastian—watching it all unfold—felt something deep inside him break.

Because it wasn’t just anyone you flinched from. It was Ominis. One of your closest friends. The gentlest, kindest, least-threatening person you knew. And if you recoiled from him—

Sebastian swallowed hard, his throat tight as the entire group went silent, the weight of it suffocating.

Ominis stilled, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the fabric of his jacket before he pulled back, his face unreadable, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try again. Just exhaled slowly, fingers twitching once before he let his arms drop to his sides.

Poppy, who had always been the most gentle of them, shifted half a step toward you, lips parted like she wanted to say something—but stopped herself. Because she saw it, too.

You weren’t just shaking. You were wrapped up inside yourself, arms clutched around your middle, shoulders drawn in tight, like you wanted to disappear.

Sebastian’s chest ached. He didn’t know what the fuck to do. Didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to make the world feel safe for you again.

He wanted to grab you, hold you, whisper that he would never let anyone touch you again—but he couldn’t. Because what if you flinched from him, too?

Ominis—always steady, always rational—was the first to move.

"Let's go, we need to get off the main street," he said, voice measured, composed—but there was something else beneath it. Something tightly wound.

No one argued. The group moved as one, huddled close, protective.

Imelda and Nerida flanked either side of you like an unspoken shield, while Natty and Poppy stuck close behind.

Garreth, for once, was silent, his face set in a rare, grim seriousness as he cast sharp glances at every single person still lingering outside the club, as if daring someone to look at you wrong.

And Sebastian stayed right in front of you, hands curled into fists, jaw aching from how tight he had clenched it.

Together, they moved toward the nearest side street, somewhere quieter, somewhere out of the open. Only once they were tucked into the dimly lit alleyway, far from the club and the weight of watching eyes, did Ominis finally speak again.

"Who’s flat is closest?"

"Mine," Sebastian said instantly.

That wasn't technically true.

Natty and Garreth’s place was closer—objectively the better option. If this had been any other night, any other situation, logic would have dictated the choice. But logic didn’t mean shit right now.

Not that anyone protested. Because of course it was going to be Sebastian. Of course he was the one taking you home.

Garreth let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Right. Let’s get you a cab, then."

"Fuck that," Sebastian muttered. "I’ll Apparate."

That stopped everyone in their tracks.

Ominis immediately frowned. "Sebastian, we’re in Muggle London—"

"I don’t give a shit." His voice came out sharp, barely restrained. "I’m not making her sit in some goddamn cab, not after—" He cut himself off, exhaling hard, trying to shove down the fresh wave of anger clawing at his throat.

It was the last thing you needed right now.

The group exchanged uneasy glances.

Apparition was dangerous under the best circumstances—let alone when he was like this, let alone when you were like this. Not to mention, doing magic in a heavily populated Muggle area was risky as hell.

But fuck that. He wasn’t going to make you wait. Wasn’t going to let you sit through some excruciatingly long cab ride, squirming in silence, trapped in a moving metal box.

No. He was getting you out of here. Now.

Natty stepped forward, voice level. "Sebastian."

He clenched his jaw. "Natty, I swear to—"

"Sebastian."

She was stepping in front of you now, her dark eyes steady, sharp, cutting through the thick, suffocating tension like a blade.

Sebastian knew that look.

Natty had always been practical—calm, calculated, always thinking a step ahead. And right now, she was looking at him like she was measuring him, like she was assessing him.

"You're not going anywhere with her," she said, her voice even, "unless she wants to go with you."

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His gut reaction was to be offended. To snap that of course you wanted to go with him, because who else would it be?

But Natty’s expression didn’t change. Didn’t waver. Because this wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about what he thought, what he wanted, what he was sure of. This was about you, and whether you still felt safe with him.

Sebastian swallowed hard. The thought that you might not be wrecked him, made his stomach twist, made his ribs feel like they were caving in.

The idea that you—his everything—might not want to be anywhere near him right now. Might not trust him. Might not even be able to look at him after what had just happened. But if that was what you needed then he wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t blame you. Wouldn’t say a damn word.

Sebastian nodded, and Natsai turned to you slowly, her movements deliberate, careful. Her voice softened, but still held its steady, grounding weight.

"Do you want to go with him?"

A moment passed. Sebastian held his breath.

Then you nodded. It was small, barely more than a twitch of your chin, but it was everything.

Sebastian exhaled, something sharp and unbearable unwinding in his chest. He stepped forward, slowly, his movements deliberate, careful.

Held out his hand and waited.

Your fingers trembled, but you reached for him, sliding your palm into loosely into his.

"Ring us when... when you have a minute," Ominis said, his voice level, steady—but heavy. There was something unspoken in it, something Sebastian understood immediately.

Sebastian nodded once. No words. No drawn-out goodbyes. He didn’t have it in him.

Then, without another thought—he turned on the spot, pulling you with him.

The world twisted. The sharp pull of Apparition coiled around his ribs, wrenching them through the dark, until—

Home.

Sebastian’s flat was silent. Dark. The shift from the crowded club to the emptiness of his space was jarring.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was your breathing. Uneven. Shallow. Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, and he didn’t want to let go, but after a second, he forced himself to loosen his grip. A silent offering. A choice. And after a beat, you pulled away.

Sebastian felt it like a wound. The warmth of your skin slipped from his grasp, and the absence of it left something hollow in his chest.

But he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t let it show. Because this wasn’t about him.

He unsure of what to do now, though. How to talk to you, what he was even supposed to say. He felt like he was balancing on the edge of something sharp, a thin, precarious line between giving you space and giving you what you needed—except he didn’t know what you needed.

So, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice hoarse, heavy. “Let's sit you down. Get you comfortable.”

He turned toward the living room, motioning toward the couch as he moved. “I’ll—” He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “I’ll get you something else to wear.”

But before he could take more than two steps, you shook your head.

Sebastian hesitated. “You don’t—”

“I’ll go with you,” you murmured.

Your voice was quiet. Unsteady. But certain.

Sebastian blinked, thrown off. He didn’t understand. You had to be exhausted, had to be drained, and the couch was right there, waiting.

But you weren’t moving toward it. You were waiting for him. And something in your expression—something small, something subtle—made the words click in his mind.

You didn’t want to be alone.

He swallowed hard then nodded. "Okay, come on.”

When he turned toward his bedroom, you followed.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping inside first, letting you follow at your own pace.

Sebastian’s room was… messy. Books stacked haphazardly on his nightstand, a half-open wardrobe in the corner, a few stray clothes abandoned on the chair near the window.

He ignored it all. Went straight for the dresser.

He rifled through the drawers, trying to find something soft, something comfortable. Something that wouldn’t remind you of tonight, that wouldn’t feel like a weight pressing against your skin.

A worn sweater. Sweatpants. That would work.

He turned, holding them out for you. “Here.”

You hesitated. You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was down, locked on the clothes in his hands like you weren’t sure what to do with them.

He softened his voice. "If you want something else, just say the word.”

Then, quietly, almost too soft to hear.

“Can you... will you help me?”

Sebastian stilled. For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

Help you?

His first instinct was confusion. You’d flinched from Ominis outside. You hadn’t wanted him near you. Hadn’t wanted to be touched. After what happened, Sebastian had assumed you’d want privacy, that you wouldn’t want to be seen at all.

But then he looked at you, really looked at you, and he understood.

Maybe, right now, this wasn’t about not wanting to be touched. Maybe it was that you didn't want to touch it. Didn’t want to unfasten the dress yourself, didn’t want to peel the fabric from your skin, didn’t want to register the places it had been touched, gripped, pulled by someone who had no fucking right.

Sebastian exhaled, slow and careful, schooling his expression into something even.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Turn around for me?”

You hesitated for a moment, fingers trembling where you clutched the hem of the sweater he’d handed you. But then you did, shifting slightly, your back to him.

Sebastian took a slow step closer, hands hovering just behind your shoulders, giving you the chance to change your mind.

But you didn’t move away.

So he gently, carefully, reached for the zipper at your back.

And fuck, he’d imagined this before. Ten thousand times, maybe more. Peeling the layers off you slowly, seeing what was underneath, watching the fabric slip down the curves of your body. His hands, his, mapping the warmth of your skin as he uncovered inch after inch, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starving for it.

But this—this wasn’t like that.

This was the first time he had ever done this, maybe the only time he ever would if he didn't get his shit together, and the circumstances were so utterly, sickeningly wrong that it made his chest feel hollow.

He wasn’t looking at you with desire. He wasn’t seeing the expanse of your skin the way he would have if things had been different.

Seeing you like this just hurt.

The fabric was still warm from your body, but that wasn’t what made his stomach twist. It was the broken strap, the torn seam, the evidence of what had happened—of what he hadn’t been able to stop sooner.

Slowly, he dragged the zipper down.

The dress loosened, slipping slightly off your shoulders, the weight of it threatening to pull away completely—and for a second, he panicked, his brain scrambling to make sure he wasn’t making this worse for you, that he wasn’t exposing more than you were comfortable with—but you stayed still.

So, with a deep breath and slow, careful movements, he tugged the dress down, guiding it past your arms, your waist, your hips. The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your feet.

His stomach twisted. Seeing it like this—abandoned, discarded—it felt like something sick and wrong. Because that dress had looked so fucking beautiful on you. Had clung to you like a dream, had made him ache. Had made him stare.

And now... now, it was nothing but a reminder of what happened.

“Step out of it, love,” he murmured, voice low and gentle despite the ache in his chest.

You obeyed, lifting one foot, then the other.

Sebastian grabbed the discarded fabric from the floor and tossed it far away—out of sight, across the room, like it didn’t deserve to be near you.

Then he picked up the sweatpants from the bed.

"Step in," he murmured.

You did. The sweater came next.

"Arms up for me."

You obeyed again, and he tugged the sweater over your head, guiding it gently over your arms, down your torso, covering you, shielding you from whatever still lingered on your skin.

The moment it was on, Sebastian exhaled deeply.

"All done."

You let out a breath. A slow, shaky thing. Then, for the first time since entering his flat, you met his gaze.

And Sebastian felt his chest cave in. Because you still looked so shaken. Still looked wrecked. But the difference was, you were here now. Fully.

"Thank you."

Your voice was small. Quiet. But present.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the unbearable ache in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.”

You shifted slightly, like you wanted to say something else, but the words didn’t come. Instead, your arms wrapped around yourself, small, like you were still trying to make yourself disappear.

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to touch you. Wanted to reach out, wanted to pull you into his chest and hold you there until the shaking stopped.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

So, instead, he exhaled carefully, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded toward the doorway. “Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Let me make you some tea.”

You blinked at him, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to you. But after a second, you nodded.

So, he turned, leading you back into the dimly lit apartment, moving toward the kitchen. And you followed. Because you still trusted him.

Sebastian pulled open the cabinet and reached for your mug—the oversized one printed with tiny blue flowers, the one you always used when you visited. It had been a birthday gift from him last year, and after unwrapping it, you’d immediately set it in his cupboard and said, This one stays here.

He set it down on the counter and filled the kettle, flipping the switch with the practiced ease of routine. Something about the motion, the normalcy of it, settled the restless tension in his chest.

His hands worked on autopilot—pulling down the tin of loose tea, measuring out just the right amount, stirring in the fixings the way you liked. Far too much sugar and milk for his taste, but he didn’t hesitate, mixing it the exact way you always did.

By the time he turned around and pressed the mug into your hands, steam curling between you, he finally caught the way your fingers trembled as you curled them around the ceramic.

And then—soft, broken, barely above a whisper—

“I’m sorry.”

Sebastian went completely still, something sharp, something furious, coiling in his chest.

“What?”

Your gaze dropped, staring into the depths of your tea. “I—I don’t know. Just for all of this. For ruining your night. For—”

“Don’t.”

He took the mug from your hands, just for a moment, long enough to force you to look at him. His brows furrowed, his mouth tight, like the words physically hurt to say aloud.

“You don’t apologize. Not for this. Not to anyone.”

You swallowed, hard, but you didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less fierce, his grip tightening briefly around the handle of your mug before handing it back. “Not one single fucking bit of it. Do you understand?”

You hesitated, like you weren’t sure you could understand. And fuck, that made something ugly rise in his throat.

Sebastian had never felt anger like this—like something helpless and raging, burning at the back of his skull, at the hollow space in his chest where you had been hurt and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

You sniffled, swiping your sleeve across your eyes, shaking your head like you were mad at yourself. “I should’ve—” Your voice was thick, strained. “I should’ve pushed him away harder. Been more assertive. Asked one of the other girls to come to the bathroom with me, or—or been more aware, or not drank so much, or—”

“Stop.”

You shook your head again, watery, miserable. “I just—”

“No.” His voice was hard, unyielding. “This wasn't your fault, there's no magic combination of things you could have done differently to make someone else not be a fucking piece of shit. It wouldn’t have mattered, because he's still a monster. And you—” His voice softened, just a fraction, his chest aching. “You did nothing wrong.”

You swallowed, throat bobbing.

“It wasn’t even that bad.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened.

You let out a wet, unsteady laugh, shaking your head. “It could’ve been worse. I just— I just froze because of Tyler.”

The second the words were out of your mouth, Sebastian saw it—the way your face froze, the way your lips parted slightly, like you hadn’t meant to say that. Like you wished you could take it back.

But it was too late.

Sebastian’s brain snapped back to a year ago.

The breakup.

How you had shown up at his door, quiet and withdrawn, a forced little smile on your lips as you told him your relationship was over. No details. No explanation. Just done.

How he had asked if you were okay, and you had nodded, too quickly, and said you didn’t want to talk about it.

And he’d let it go. Because you always told him things when you were ready. But now—now he was seeing it, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way you were smaller, like you wanted to disappear.

And something inside him snapped.

What the fuck had happened back then?

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “Tell me,” he said, voice low, but steady.

You blinked. “What?”

“Tell me what happened. Please.”

You hesitated, curling your hands around the mug like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. “It’s not—” You swallowed, eyes darting away. “It’s not important.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Minimize it.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, but he couldn’t help it. “I need to know, love.”

At the nickname, your fingers tightened around the mug, just slightly. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Sebastian waited.

He’d wait all fucking night if he had to.

And then, finally, you exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. “It was at a party,” you murmured, not looking at him. “I—I don’t know why I froze tonight. It wasn’t even the same. Not really. I just… the moment he grabbed me, I was back there.”

Sebastian hated how softly, how passively you said it. Like it wasn’t something that had haunted you. Like it wasn’t something that still had its fucking claws in you.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t push, because you were still talking, and if you stopped, he didn’t know when you’d let yourself say these words again.

“I told him no,” you whispered. “Tyler. I told him I didn’t want to go upstairs with him, that I was tired. But he kept—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He just kept talking, kept trying to get me to change my mind. And I just—I shut down. I just let him. I didn’t fight, I didn’t—”

Sebastian couldn’t take it anymore.

“I swear to God,” he said, voice hoarse, pained, “if you say you should’ve done something differently, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Your throat bobbed, eyes flicking up to his.

“He was supposed to stop," Sebastian insisted. "That’s it. That’s the only thing that was supposed to happen.”

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. Like no one had ever said it to you so plainly before. And then, finally, you spoke—so softly, so small.

“But I let him.”

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. “No,” he said, voice firm, unwavering. “You didn’t.”

He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, trying to say the right thing, because fuck, he couldn’t mess this up.

“If someone keeps pushing, keeps coaxing, keeps pulling you in when you’ve already said no—you didn’t let them. They took advantage of you.”

The words sat heavy between you, and Sebastian saw the way they hit you. Your grip on the mug went white-knuckled, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, and then you were crying.

Silent at first—just the shake of your shoulders, just the quiver in your lips. But then your breath shuddered, and your face crumpled, and the first broken sob escaped.

Sebastian stood there, feeling useless. Helpless.

Should he reach for you? Should he give you space? Did you want to be touched, or would it only make things worse? His hands hovered, twitching at his sides, unsure. And fuck, he hated it. Hated not knowing what to do, hated feeling like he was just standing here while you broke apart in front of him.

But then—

You set the mug down too quickly, tea sloshing over the rim, spilling onto the counter, and Sebastian barely had time to react before you collapsed into him.

His breath hitched, his arms automatically wrapping around you as you buried yourself against his chest, shaking, small.

And then he wasn’t thinking anymore. He just held you. Tightly. Protectively.

One arm wrapped firm around your back, the other cradling your head, fingers threading gently into your hair, like maybe if he held you close enough, it would put you back together.

Your fingers fisted into his shirt, and Sebastian closed his eyes, exhaling shakily against the crown of your head.

What the fuck do I say?

What words could he possibly put together that would make any of this better? He quickly realized there were none.

So he didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless reassurances, didn’t tell you to calm down, didn’t tell you it would be okay. Instead, he just held you, strong and steady, like a wall—one you could press into, lean against, fall apart against.

Your breathing was uneven, shaky against his chest. Each sharp inhale like it was trying to hold back the flood.

Sebastian pressed his cheek to your hair, gentle, careful. “I got you,” he murmured, voice raw. “I got you.”

You let out a sound, a soft, aching thing, half a sob, half relief, as the tension in your shoulders cracked, your weight fully sinking into him, like you’d been trying to hold yourself up all this time and just couldn’t anymore.

“I got you,” he whispered again, like maybe, if he said it enough times, you’d believe him.

You stood there for a long time. You didn’t pull away, and Sebastian didn't let go. He would have stood there all night if you needed him to.

The tea sat abandoned on the counter, growing cold, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the air while the kitchen clock ticked away the minutes.

Your breathing—ragged at first, gasping, uneven— slowly, so slowly, steadied, fading into quiet sniffles. And that was when Sebastian finally moved. Carefully.

He slid one arm under your legs, the other holding you steady against him. “Up we go, love.”

You let out a soft noise of surprise as he scooped you up, pressing your face instinctively against his shoulder.

“You don’t—”

“Shush” he murmured gently, affectionately, and you didn’t fight him as he carried you across the room, lowering you onto the couch.

But the moment he tried to pull back, your fingers tightened in his shirt again.

Sebastian obeyed, sitting down and letting you tuck yourself against him, curling into his chest. His arms wound around you again, warm and solid. His hand moved instinctively to your hair, fingers slipping through the strands, slow, soothing strokes.

It had always been this easy, hadn’t it?

Sebastian wasn’t sure how long you both stayed like that. Long enough that your breathing evened out. Long enough that his own heart stopped pounding with anger and ache.

And then, after a long silence—your voice, quiet, hesitant:

“I’ve been stupid.”

Sebastian’s brows furrowed. “Don’t—”

Your hand shot up, pressing lightly against his mouth, and whatever Sebastian had been about to say died instantly.

His breath caught. His lips parted slightly against your palm, startled, thrown completely off balance. But it wasn’t the touch that had him frozen.

It was your eyes.

Raw. Red-rimmed from crying, but so fucking clear. Like you had figured something out—like whatever had been sitting between you for so long, uncertain and unspoken, was now suddenly blindingly obvious.

“...You know I love you, don't you?”

Sebastian froze.

He did know. At least, sort of.

He’d always known you loved him as your best friend, as your constant, as the one person you always turned to. He had felt it in the way you sought him out first in a crowded room, in the way you always made one too many cups of tea just in case he wanted one. He had seen it in the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, in the way your hand lingered when you touched him.

But he didn't know if you loved him as more.

Of course, he'd imagined your confession the late hours of the night, when exhaustion blurred the edges of his thoughts. In the quiet spaces between glances, in the way his chest always felt too full when you laughed. In the way he always waited for you to arrive at his door.

But he always imagined hearing those words for the first time in a moment of joy, in the golden hush of a summer afternoon, in the warmth of a stolen moment where nothing hurt, nothing felt too heavy.

His throat bobbed. “You—are you saying—”

But the words felt too big, too heavy.

You huffed a laugh, sniffling softly as a stray tear rolled down your cheek. “I was so stupid. Maybe if I had just told you how I felt, if I had just—”

Sebastian cupped your cheek before you could finish your sentence, his palm warm and steady against your tear-streaked skin.

His mind was racing, his chest too full, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something so fierce, so all-consuming, so fucking relieved that it almost hurt.

Because you meant it. You loved him. Not just as his best friend. Not just as his constant. But as something more.

He searched your face, memorizing everything—the way your lashes were still damp, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your breath trembled under his touch.

And fuck, he didn’t know what to say.

He hadn’t been ready for you this moment to happen like this. Not when your voice was still raw from crying. Not when your hands still shook in your lap. Not when he had spent the last hour trying to piece you back together after something that should have never happened. Not when you deserved so much better than this moment.

He couldn't stop his mind from imagining what this would have been like if things had been different.

If tonight had just been another night.

If you had just come over, curled up with him like you always did, nudged your socked feet against his under a blanket, laughed at something stupid on TV. If he had turned to you and just fucking said it, just let it be easy.

But it wasn’t easy.

And yet, his the words left his mouth in a breath, like they had been waiting there, like they had been sitting at the back of his throat for years, clawing at his ribs, aching to be spoken. Because they had.

"Fuck, I love you too."

And the second they were out—

Relief.

Like something had cracked open inside him, something tight and suffocating finally letting go, leaving his chest too light and too full all at once. Because it was the truest thing he had ever said.

But right behind that relief came the guilt, because he should have said it sooner.

He should have said it a thousand times before now—should have said it when you were laughing, when you were happy, when you were light and warm and untouched by pain.

He should have said it last week, when you had fallen asleep on his couch, curled up with his sweater wrapped around you, mumbling something incoherent before sighing in contentment.

He should have said it months ago, when you had grabbed his hand without thinking at the crowded market, weaving through people like you had never once considered not holding onto him.

He should have said it years ago, when you kicked his ass in that very first duel.

Sebastian huffed a humorless laugh, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "God, I wish I’d just told you sooner. Over a bowl of popcorn, some dumb movie playing in the background.” The corners of his mouth twitched, a rueful little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I imagined it a thousand times—telling you. Watching your eyes light up, seeing you smile like you do when you think I’m being stupid.”

Your lips quivered, the hint of a smile breaking through the tears.

“I wish it had been easy," he said. "Because you deserve easy. You deserve soft and gentle and everything good.”

You leaned into his touch, your hands reaching up to cover his. Your eyes searched his—gentle, knowing, certain.

“Easy’s never really been on brand for us, has it?”

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard for half a second. And then a breathless, broken sound left him, something between a scoff and a laugh, something small and raw and achingly fond.

Because you were right.

Since the very beginning, since the moment you had first collided into his life, it had never been simple. Never straightforward. There had always been something else—a complication, an obstacle, an unsaid feeling caught between glances and lingering touches that neither of you were ever brave enough to name.

You sniffled, wiping at your face with the sleeve of his sweater—the one you were drowning in, and fuck, you were so beautiful even now, despite the weight of the night still lingering in your shoulders.

“Do I wish none of this had happened?” Your voice was quiet, raw. “Of course I do. But fuck, Sebastian, you were there. You're always there." You gave a watery laugh, the smallest, softest thing. "When I'm at my best, when I'm at my worst. It's always been you. And I—"

You exhaled shakily, voice thick with too much. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t there tonight,” your voice dropped to a whisper, eyes locked onto his. “There's no one else I would have gone to. No one else I would have let see me like this. No one else I trust the way I trust you.”

Sebastian’s throat felt tight, his breath coming uneven, chest aching under the weight of realization.

This wasn’t just about tonight. Or last night. Or last week.

It was about every night. Every stolen glance, every quiet moment, every time you had reached for him first. It was in the way you always found him before anyone else, in the way you always chose him, in the way you always trusted him—with the good, with the bad, with everything.

When things went well, when they didn’t, when you needed comfort, when you needed a co-conspirator, when you needed someone to just be there—it had always been him.

It settled into him all at once—the weight of years pressing against his ribs, filling every empty space inside him that had ever questioned what he meant to you.

Because it had always been this. Not a revelation. Not a shift. Not something new.

It had simply always been.

And you must have seen something in his face—the way he looked at you like he wanted to fall apart, because you gave him a small, wobbly smile, something barely there, something hopeful, something real.

“Say something, Sallow," you teased.

Sebastian let out a breathless, unsteady laugh, shaking his head. His eyes burned, his own tears threatening to fall. He let his hands move—one tangling in the fabric at your chest, the other sliding to the nape of your neck.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, like he was giving you the chance to pull away, like he was making absolutely sure—but your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him in the rest of the way, and then—

Then you kissed him.

It was soft. Hesitant. Testing. Like neither of you could quite believe this was finally happening.

But then Sebastian felt you melt into him, felt the warmth of you, the way your grip on him tightened, the way your lips parted—

And suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant at all.

A soft sound rumbled in Sebastian's throat, something relieved, something grateful, something aching with all the things he had never let himself say, and he kissed you like his life depended on it, because maybe it did. Like he had been waiting for this for years, because he had. Like you were the only fucking thing in the world that mattered, because you were.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync.

Sebastian huffed a soft laugh, his lips brushing yours. "…'bout time, huh?"

You let out a wobbly, teary laugh, nuzzling closer. "About time."

And Sebastian held you—tightly, unshakably, like letting go wasn’t even a possibility, like something fundamental in him wouldn’t allow it.

Because maybe this wasn’t how he had ever imagined this moment. Maybe it wasn’t wrapped in golden light, in laughter, in the warmth of an easy, stolen moment where everything was simple and good.

Maybe he hadn’t gotten to plan for it, hadn’t had the chance to say it first, hadn’t gotten to look at you when you were smiling, when you were happy, and tell you what had been the truth for so damn long.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to be saying I love you in the aftermath of something that had hurt you.

But this was still you. And this was still him. And that was all that mattered.

Because love wasn’t just about the easy moments. It wasn’t just about the days when the sun was shining, when your laughter came freely, when things felt light.

Love was this too—love was holding on, love was being there, love was standing in the wreckage of something awful and saying I’ve got you. I’m here. And I’m not leaving.

Sebastian pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, his grip tight, his fingers curled against the fabric of his own sweater on your frame, holding you close, keeping you safe.

And he knew, with every piece of himself, that he wasn’t letting go.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

[meanbossart]

regarding the drow as a companion, do any of the others have little quips when he's recruited? something along the lines of shadowheart's little remark about karlach throwing her over her shoulder.

I can imagine Gale saying something, like "OH! Really? He's coming with us? Well... Erm, sure, better with us then loose in the wilds, I guess" while glancing around nervously LOL

You did get me thinking of something else though, camp reactions!

Shadowheart: "I'm aware that drow aren't known for their integrity, but theirs is a perseverant kind. I think having one at our side in our present predicament could serve us well." (TAV: "Have you had any experiences with drow before?") Shadowheart: "I might have. I might haven't. All kinds gravitate towards my Mistress's calling… And the spider queen hardly leaves them a choice."

Gale: "Our new friend is surprisingly shy for a man of his stature, couldn't get as much as a "good morning" out of him yet… Well, with a little time, I'm sure he'll warm up to us. Maybe a nice pot-roast will help! He does have ah... Hungry look in his eyes."

Lae'zel: "A blade is only as effective as the one wielding it, and I'm not sure who - or what - is handling the drow you've dragged into camp as of recently." (TAV: "I'm wielding him.") Lae'zel: "Tchk! Have it your way. But I won't come to your rescue if you fall on your own sword."

Astarion: "You have quite the flair for rescuing rabid strangers off the side of roads, don't you? Not that I'm complaining, the more the merrier! Just make sure to put this one back in his cage when we go to bed at night."

Wyll: "A drow on the surface is strange enough a sight… But this one seems… Especially peculiar. I hate to be the one making hasty judgments, but I hope you've made the right choice in allowing him to shelter at our camp."

Karlach: "New guy's a little closed-off, but hey - I sure as hell don't mind just looking, for now. Speaking of looking, Can't wait to see the big lad in a fight, I bet he can mince a fucker to bits in an instant."

[kathaelipwse]

Guarded By You - C.Seungcheol

Chapter 4: Miami scandal

Series Masterlist <<< previous chapter ; next chapter >>>

Warnings: Public scandal, implied intimacy, sleepwalking, risk blur professional lines. Word Count: 1810 words ; Reading Time: 10-ish mins

A/N: request's are open!! Taglist is open!! Its a rushed chapter I feel. Welp TT

-- Next Morning The Miami sun, a relentless, voyeuristic eye, beat down on the beachfront, transforming the BVLGARI photoshoot into a spectacle of orchestrated glamour and frenzied media attention. The air buzzed with the electric energy of flashing cameras, the murmur of excited fans, and the clipped commands of the production crew, a symphony of manufactured perfection.

You, the face of BVLGARI, were a radiant beacon, a carefully curated image for the world to consume, a digital goddess bathed in the harsh light of public scrutiny.

Cheol, ever-present, ever-vigilant, was your shadow, a dark, imposing figure against the vibrant backdrop, his presence a constant reminder of the thin line between security and the burgeoning chaos, a silent guardian in a world of manufactured illusions, a fortress of composure in a storm of fabricated realities.

The tension between you was a tangible force, a silent dialogue that crackled beneath the surface of professional courtesy. Playful banter, a dangerous dance of flirtation and denial, masked the unspoken desires that simmered beneath the surface.

You teased, he deflected; you challenged, he retreated. It was a game you both seemed determined to play, a dangerous dance on the edge of something forbidden, a silent battle of wills played out in the harsh glare of the public eye, a constant push and pull that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed walls between you, a silent war fought with words and glances, a battleground of unspoken emotions.

"You look like you're about to apprehend someone for unauthorized sandcastle construction, or perhaps a rogue hermit crab attempting to steal a diamond," you quipped, adjusting the diamond necklace around your throat, your voice laced with amusement. "Or maybe you're waiting for the signal from your seagull informants? I heard they're running a very sophisticated surveillance operation."

"Professionalism is not negotiable," he replied, his gaze scanning the crowd, his voice tight, his posture rigid, his eyes constantly moving, a silent sentinel on high alert. "Especially in this environment, where every glance is scrutinized and every action is recorded. We are under constant observation, and any lapse in judgment could be catastrophic."

"Oh, come on," you countered, a mischievous glint in your eyes, stepping closer, the scent of his cologne a heady mix of spice and something undeniably masculine, a dangerous allure that both intrigued and unsettled you. "Loosen the tie. Let the sand get between your toes. Live a little. Or are you afraid of getting your pristine shoes dirty? Or are you afraid of what might happen if you let go of control? Are you afraid of the feeling of something other than duty?"

"My priorities are clear," he stated, his jaw set, his voice unwavering, his gaze unwavering. "Your safety. And maintaining the integrity of this operation. Nothing more. Personal feelings are irrelevant."

"And what about your sanity?" you teased, your voice dropping to a low, sultry murmur, a dangerous whisper that hung in the air. "This whole 'stoic bodyguard' act is getting a little… predictable. Don't you ever want to break the rules? Don't you ever want to feel something other than duty? Don't you ever want to feel… human? Like yesterday?"

A flicker of something, perhaps amusement, perhaps annoyance, perhaps something else entirely, a raw, unguarded emotion that made your heart skip a beat, crossed his features, a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the mask, but he quickly masked it, his expression returning to its usual impenetrable mask, a fortress of composure that guarded a hidden vulnerability. "My sanity is perfectly intact. And I have no desire to break the rules. Rules exist for a reason."

Then, the chaos erupted. A jealous fan more likely an obbsesive one, emboldened by the electric atmosphere, surged forward, breaching the security perimeter, a desperate attempt to touch the untouchable. Or a light stand, loosened by the wind, threatened to topple, a sudden, unpredictable danger. It didn’t matter. Cheol’s reflexes were lightning-fast, his hand a swift, decisive barrier between you and the perceived threat.

The moment, captured by a dozen cameras, was a blur of motion, a split-second of close physical contact that the world would dissect and misinterpret, turning a protective gesture into a romantic embrace, a carefully constructed narrative for the masses, a digital fairytale that would soon become a viral sensation.

The internet exploded. Social media platforms erupted with a frenzy of speculation, fueled by blurry photos and breathless conjecture. "Secret Romance!" screamed the headlines, accompanied by fabricated narratives and carefully edited videos. Fan theories dissected every glance, every gesture, transforming a professional relationship into a scandalous affair. "The Bodyguard's Obsession," "Forbidden Love on the Miami Sands," "BVLGARI's Secret Affair" – the hashtags trended worldwide, a digital wildfire that spread with alarming speed, consuming everything in its path, turning your lives into a digital soap opera.

You and Cheol were bombarded with questions, forced to navigate the treacherous waters of public perception, while trying to maintain the illusion of composure. Every interview, every public appearance, was a minefield of loaded questions and suggestive innuendo. The lines between reality and fiction blurred, the manufactured narrative threatening to consume you both, turning your lives into a reality show for the masses, a digital spectacle for the world to devour, a constant barrage of invasive questions and fabricated stories.

--

Back at the beach house, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. The once-luxurious sanctuary felt like a gilded cage, the constant scrutiny a suffocating weight. You were amused, frustrated, and increasingly claustrophobic, the loss of privacy a bitter pill to swallow. Cheol, his stoic facade unwavering, was a study in controlled discomfort, the situation clearly grating on his nerves, yet he remained silent, like a tightly coiled spring, his emotions locked away behind an impenetrable wall, a silent sentinel guarding a secret he couldn't reveal, a man trapped between duty and desire.

"They're saying we're planning a secret elopement to the Bahamas," you announced, scrolling through the endless stream of fabricated news articles, your voice laced with wry amusement. "Apparently, we're going to have a beach wedding, with synchronized swimming dolphins as our bridesmaids. And the crabs? They are the best men. They also have a detailed plan for the honeymoon, which involves a submarine, a treasure chest filled with pearls, and a secret island owned by a pirate ghost."

Cheol’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek, his eyes dark with concern. "This is absurd. This is dangerous. This is a complete invasion of your privacy. This is getting out of control."

"Absurd?" you echoed, a wry smile twisting your lips, your voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "It's a digital circus, Cheol. We're the main attraction. And the clowns are having a field day. They are writing fan fiction at this point. They are saying we are childhood sweethearts, reunited by fate on a sun-kissed beach. They even have a detailed backstory about our time in the orphanage."

A flicker of something, a shadow of a memory, a flicker of pain, crossed Cheol’s features, a fleeting glimpse of a past he seemed determined to bury, but he quickly masked it, his expression returning to its usual impassive mask, a fortress of composure that guarded a hidden vulnerability. You noticed this reaction, this brief moment of vulnerability, and wondered why he reacted that way, what secrets lay hidden beneath his carefully constructed facade, what echoes of the past haunted his present.

The constant attention, the relentless scrutiny, began to take its toll. You found yourself retreating into the quiet corners of the beach house, seeking a moment of respite from the relentless onslaught. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and disturbed, plagued by vivid dreams and a constant sense of being watched. The lingering unease from the stalker threat, a phantom menace that refused to dissipate, added another layer of anxiety to your already frayed nerves, a constant reminder of the vulnerability that lurked beneath the surface, a chilling undercurrent in the digital tempest, a silent threat that hung in the air like a dark cloud.

That night, the stress reached a crescendo. You tossed and turned, the images of flashing cameras and invasive questions swirling in your mind. The rhythmic crashing of the waves outside seemed to mock your restless state, a constant, rhythmic reminder of the chaos that surrounded you, a relentless symphony of the digital age, a constant barrage on your senses.

Unbeknownst to you, the overwhelming stress triggered a rare episode of sleepwalking. You rose from your bed, your movements slow and deliberate, your eyes glazed and unfocused. Drawn by an unconscious sense of security, you wandered through the darkened beach house, your bare feet silent on the cool tile, your subconscious seeking a refuge from the storm, a place of safety in the midst of the digital tempest.

Cheol, ever vigilant, had been running on minimal sleep, his focus unwavering as he monitored security and anticipated potential threats. The lack of sleep had made him more vulnerable than usual, his guard momentarily lowered. He had finally succumbed to exhaustion, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, his body finally surrendering to the relentless fatigue, his mind finally at peace.

You entered his room, your movements guided by an unseen force. He lay on his bed, his dark hair tousled, his breathing deep and even. Quietly, you lay down beside him, your body seeking the warmth and comfort of his presence, a subconscious desire for solace in the midst of chaos, a silent plea for protection in a world gone mad.

Your peaceful, sleeping face inches from Cheol’s, the intimacy of the moment heightened by the knowledge that it was unintentional, and the public scandal that had made the situation so complicated. A soft exhale escaped Cheol's lips as he shifted slightly in his sleep, his hand instinctively reaching out, almost touching your hair.

The air in the room was thick with unspoken desires, a dangerous proximity that threatened to shatter the fragile boundaries between duty and longing, a silent conversation in the language of touch and proximity, a dangerous dance on the edge of something forbidden.

The algorithm of attraction, it seemed, was rewriting the rules of engagement, while the echoes of a forgotten past threatened to resurface, adding another layer of complexity to the tangled tides of desire, a dangerous game played out in the harsh glare of the digital tempest, a silent battle fought in the shadows of fabricated narratives and unspoken emotions.

...To be continued

---

a/n: Btw, The stuff done during sleepwalking can't be remembered by the one who is in that phase the next time they wake up ~

[blueiscoool]

Ancient Roman Bridge Discovered at Elefsina, Greece

A Roman-era bridge was recently discovered in the ancient city of Elefsina, west of Athens during works for a suburban railway line.

The bridge was discovered by archaeologist Katerina Daskalopoulou and her team at a depth of just one meter below the surface close to the center of the modern city.

The team is currently examining the site to determine when the bridge was built and how it survived almost intact for over two thousand years.

Roman Emperors and ancient Elefsina

The ancient city of Elefsina, also known as Eleusis in ancient times, is a city in Greece with a rich history dating back thousands of years. It’s most famous for the Eleusinian Mysteries, ancient rituals and ceremonies dedicated to Demeter and Persephone, which were among the most important religious events in ancient Greece.

The city itself was strategically located on the fertile plain of Thriasian, about 18 kilometers northwest of Athens. In addition to its religious significance, Eleusis was an important center for trade and politics in ancient Greece. It played a role in various conflicts and alliances throughout its history, particularly during the Persian Wars and the Peloponnesian War.

The Eleusinian Mysteries, however, remain its most enduring legacy. These rituals were celebrated annually, and participation was believed to bring spiritual benefits and a hopeful afterlife. The secrecy surrounding the Mysteries has left much of their details shrouded in mystery to this day.

During Roman times, the city continued to be an important religious center, particularly for the Eleusinian Mysteries, which were embraced and supported by Roman emperors. The Romans, known for integrating Greek religious and cultural practices into their own, not only preserved but also enhanced the significance of the Eleusinian cult.

Several Roman emperors were initiated into the Eleusinian Mysteries, including Hadrian, Marcus Aurelius, and Julian the Apostate. Their support helped maintain the sanctuary’s prestige even as Rome dominated Greece. Hadrian, in particular, was a great admirer of Greek culture and contributed to Eleusis with construction projects.

Under Marcus Aurelius (161–180 AD), Eleusis saw significant renovations, including the construction of the Roman Triumphal Arch at the entrance to the sanctuary.

The Greater Propylaea, an impressive Roman-style gateway modeled after the Acropolis Propylaea, was built. The Telesterion, the main hall where the sacred rites were performed, was further developed.

In 2023 the ancient Greek city celebrated its ancient past by being nominated the Culture Capital of Europe.

By Tasos Kokkinidis.

[featherspiral]

Hi again! Fan of Chara here!

Do you think Chara still cared about Asriel and his family despite theIR love for efficiency and maximizing everything?

They did say in the newsletter that once they became invincible, "nothing can hurt anyone anymore."

Just love to hear your thoughts if it's no trouble at all.

oou interesting question!! thank you very much I looove when ppl ask me about characters teehee

I actually draw chara a bit more charitable than I actually see them, tbh..

the way I interpret it is that chara DID care for the family, certainly. someone who doesn't care doesn't make a pink "mr dad guy" sweater, assuming that was made by them lawl, but also... I don't think chara was the nicest individual tbh. I always thought the small bits of characterization we get of them before death is very indicative of someone who probably wasn't treated very well, and thus has warped perceptions of what a loving environment should be and how to reciprocate these things

specifically, in the true lab, even though we don't know directly what they say, the tapes very much imply that they probably belittled asriel for things like crying, showing weakness (which certainly did NOT help his mindset down the line) and that they seem to bring his faith in them into question as a way to goad him on when he showed hesitation ->

not that I'm on the "chara popped out a villainous monster" train ofc, I very much think these things are even more evidence they didn't have the best life ever on the surface. and that's pretty much confirmed with asriels dialogue from the pacifist ending where he says chara "hated humanity" and climbed the mountain for an "unhappy reason"

and speaking of that dialogue, I think it very strongly implies that the reason chara made asriel pick up their body and bring it to the surface was because they knew he didn't want to do this, and wanted to force him into a self defense situation. I know that sounds like an unfairly cruel analysis, but there isn't really any other reason we would've been given that information in the way we were, just like.. narratively speaking. I believe that they either DID want to actually free monsterkind, or, less charitably, destroy the humans they held a grudge against (i could accept this either way because i dont think the core reasoning is actually integrally important to how the events ended up playing out, and its fun to keep things flexible here). in any case, I believe they definetly prioritized the plan over asriels safety, which isn't all that surprising considering they prioritized it over their own life.

overall I think their drive for efficiency and getting stronger is a product of the more than likely poor environment they came from, and maybe they want that strength to ensure some kind of safety for themself or the ones they love (nothing can hurt you anymore, nothing can hurt anyone anymore etc etc...). I think that whole attribute is a sort of vessel through which they show how they care, but it gets twisted into something more heartless through the genocide run. anyway this is long as hell. my god

[solrabi]

A drop of blood (in milk) - chapter 2

(GOJO x READER)

PLOT:

You’ve always prevented your blind childhood best friend from fighting your battles for you.

That is until you find out he’s a dragon who refused to participate in a war until he had you safe and sound in his lair.

or: the dragon shifter x witch au

fanfic masterlist

—

There’s not much Gojo can do to interfere in your life, not without raising suspicion about himself anyway.

At age twelve, he watches you huff in frustration as the rune you’d drawn on the fireplace refuses to incinerate the piece of wood in it. Like most young children, you’re both petulant, wanting what you want almost immediately, and sulking when things don’t go your way.

And at age twelve, he sees the way your eyes brim with tears, and he feels compelled to help you, his inner dragon aching for his mate’s happiness. He watches you from a secret window into the room, fingers ready to snap, and if he timed his magic right, the wood would burn up almost immediately in blue flames.

With a steady breath, he raises his arm, but instead, he bites the inside of his cheek to resist a yowl when his arm is twisted behind his back.

“Where’s your blindfold?” Yaga, your mage master and Gojo’s caretaker in the mortal realm, reprimands with a harsh whisper. “Nothing good will happen if she sees you this way!”

“I got tired of wearing it.” Gojo’s whisper is a decibel louder than Yaga’s, not loud enough for you to hear, but loud enough for his dragon to fantasize that you somehow magically listen to him and seek him out yourself.

“You were not sent to this world to do your bidding. If you want her to be with you truly, then you must do your due diligence before you show your true self to her,” the wise mage instructs the young dragon.

Gojo stares at you longingly, his dragon rumbling sadly in the depths of his mind. Yaga was not wrong; if the dragon wanted to be truly loved by you, he needed you to like his true self with genuine regard, not a facade that he had created to integrate himself within mortal society.

The bulging slits in his eyes contract to thin lines when Yaga hands him his blindfold.

--

Gojo’s heart aches when he sees you quickly wrap your hand around his elbow as you wipe your tears with your other hand–the one that has been bruised beyond recognition after you had just punched your ex.

Mahito and his girlfriend clamor behind you as you pull Gojo towards another empty street to drop him off at home. Your grip tightens around him as you sniffle harder. He knows you’re trying your hardest to hide your true feelings from him, which stirs sorrow and anger in his chest. He resents Mahito for treating you as a status symbol, like you were someone who never mattered.

Your steps begin to stagger when the heel of your boot gets stuck between the cobblestones of the streets, and Gojo finally stops you. He pulls you back with your hand still wrapped around him and hugs you, your spine pressed against his wildly beating magical heart.

He muted Yaga’s phantom voice in his head, telling him to control his dragon’s urges to love and protect you, especially in his human form.

But your existence was infinite to him. It was all he cared about since the day he first met you, when your parents had left you to be Yaga’s pupil, when eight-year-old Gojo had peeked out from behind Yaga’s cloak, blindfolded eyes meeting yours for the first time. The urge to rip them off was strong. He had no clue what he was feeling, but it was beyond comprehension.

His father never told him how intense the feeling was when he first met his mother, leaving Gojo to tend to his feelings alone. And Yaga had only ever taught him how to shut them out, control them till they bubbled to the surface, and he released his frustration by burning something. Unhealthy, but it was all he knew.

Gojo was brought into the mortal realm to create peace and earn his dragonhood to ascend to the magic realm. Yaga knew as such, but he knew keeping the original mission in mind would be the most challenging task in the universe once you entered Gojo’s life.

Gojo wraps his arms tightly around you, encircling your shoulders as he buries his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent of your sadness. Your body goes limp as your hands fall to your sides, but Gojo’s strength holds you in place.

“Do I not matter? Am I so easily disposable?” you blubber out. Gojo strokes his palm down your shoulders, squeezing the joint whenever his hand comes up. He would deal with Mahito later; his mate needed him now.

“You matter to me,” Gojo mumbles into your temple before leaving a small peck.

“It’s not like that. It’s more like, ever since I left the team of royal mages after Master Yaga’s death, I’ve lost all value in front of everyone. It feels like the only thing I was ever good for was being a mage and helping the king.”

He wanted to take you away from all the selfish people in your town, away from Rosenrot to where he lived–a sanctuary he had built where he could store his loot and live with you for the rest of eternity. Dragonhood and protecting the innocent mattered little to him if you were sad and were not of sound mind.

The bond that tethers him to you tugs on his heartstrings.

‘Claim her. You have the rest of eternity to protect the world. Take her now .’

But he knew all his pretending would be futile if he immediately shifted and took you away. Besides, like most prideful young dragons still wet behind their ears, he wanted you to love and appreciate him in his true form. 

He was just glad that he could finally kill Mahito discreetly in cold blood. However, the fact that he could not sign off on his work annoyed him to no end. 

“I want to be my own person. See where my beliefs and magic take me. It’s what Yaga told me to do right before he died,” you said, turning around in Gojo’s hold and resting your ear against his heart.

Right, Yaga’s death. You were still recovering from that. He wishes he could tell you the truth about that, too.

“And I agree with him. I never really felt drawn to what the mages were doing. While yes, we helped many people in neighboring kingdoms, we were also honing our magic to use it as weapons against those whose views did not align with ours. It was so conflicting. I knew I had to find purpose outside of that,” you continued to rant. “I thought being an apothecary would help. You know, starting small, but all I get is scrutinized.”

The young dragon heaves, pulling you back, and the surprised look on your face is irresistible to him (he admits that to himself with much shame). Your lips swollen, your cheeks dewy, and your eyes red. His hands slowly move from your shoulders and drag themselves up your neck, making you sigh. He knows what’s going on in your mind–you’re grateful that he cannot see your face, how you bite the corner of your lips from the inside and furrow your brows when his large hands finally encompass your cheeks, thumbs lightly digging right into the apples of your cheeks.

“You matter more than any of these imbeciles ever will. None of them are as bright as you. This society you worry about so much–they lack the brain power to understand just how much they need you to survive. And about Mahito? That freak’s a coward. He’s afraid that he will never measure up to be as capable as you so he digs beneath the surface to find the scum of the earth to be his match. You, my love, are infinite, and these vermin can only dream of becoming someone like you.”

He expects you to pull him closer and kiss him senseless in a feverish daze, but you only widen your eyes.

“Satoru, is everything okay? You’re not…usually so high-strung and seem much angrier than I am about this,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as it caresses his ears.

“The dragon’s rage,” he hears Yaga faintly warn him in an unseen corner of his mind. “ It gets harder to hide as you grow older. The more you suppress it .”

With a tense frown, you grab Gojo’s hand and drag him towards the main street to drop him off at his apartment. “I'll drop you home. Thank you so much for trying to comfort me, but I think I just need some space.”

His heart aches when he hears your voice tremble. Like most geniuses, you were always sure of yourself, life mapped out as soon as you became an apprentice. But for the first time in ages, he sees you all turbulent and disturbed.

“I can stay over,” he insists, but you shake your head before catching yourself and refuse out loud. He tries to prolong his hold on you for as long as he can when you begin to pull away. You’re still out of it, eyes glazed over and body all shifty. The walk to his apartment was silent all the way too, which made him deeply uncomfortable because all he wanted to do was fill the silence to comfort and distractions.

--

The moon hangs high in the navy sky, but its light does nothing to brighten the dark and quiet streets after the festival’s end. Gojo treads around Mahito’s estate with a hood around his head. The essence of gold calls to him like a moth to a flame. His blue eyes glow and the slits curve out into ovals as his hands feel around the walls to sense the gold’s energy.

The walls are thick, but the young dragon immediately senses the riches—new additions to his loot back at the sanctuary. The brick wall is rough against his fingers as he concentrates on vanishing the treasure from the room. He senses that there isn’t much volume, making it easier for the gold to disappear faster.

Looks like Mahito was marrying you for something more than your potential status. That makes Gojo reason with himself to pull one more stunt.

He hears the distant neighs of the horses and slowly walks towards the barn’s entrance. The area is surrounded by straw and boxes of fodder, making Satoru’s boots crunch on the ground.

The guard sleeping beside the barn door stirs, squinting at the hooded figure staring down at him, glowing blue orbs with straight lines going down the middle.

“What the—“

The man is nothing but a pile of ashes at the bottom of Gojo’s feet. He grimaces with a gag and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe off the incinerated guard’s remains from his boots.

He unlocks the barn door with ease and walks in, making haste with his plan. Gojo ushers the horses outside the barn, and they scatter in different directions as soon as they’re given the chance.

It was finally time.

Gojo places both his palms on the ground, his skin heats up slowly, first, comfortably warm, till they start sizzling with heat. The fodder remains on the ground begin to burn, easily connecting the flames to other materials in the barn and the surrounding area.

Gojo’s body begins to change to resist the heat, pearlescent white scales appearing on his skin like armor.

He walks out like a man unharmed, not a hair out of place, and flees as fast as he can, the barn burning up in bright yellow flames. The heat gets a hundred degrees worse because of the summer humidity.

When Gojo reaches far enough, he can hear faint screams and shouts to stop the fire.

-- 

You wake up with a sour mood and a sour taste in your mouth. You had fished out your oldest ale and drank yourself to sleep in your tub, as you stared at your wedding dress that was hanging on the other side of the room. A reminder of the wedding festivities that would’ve been taken place around this time of year. Now that dress only reminds of the scoundrel who cheated on you.

The sounds of birds chirping hurt your ears and your soul, so you slam your window shut and pull the curtains close to keep sunlight away from your eyes.

But alas, there is no rest for the wicked, so you rest up as much as possible for two minutes and decide to get dressed for the day.

It’s eerie and cluttered, the atmosphere of your store, so you brush the floors and organize your shelves of ready-made salves and potions. They’re mostly made for hair growth and other vanity-related concerns. You usually have a system of taking orders for medical potions two days in advance, unless it’s an emergency.

Once you’re done tidying up the place, you draw away the curtains from the display windows. But when you do so, what you see is not what you expect. Usually, you’d get an inquisitive stare or two as people would walk by, but today, you could have racked up a small crowd of whispering townsfolk.

“What now?” you ask in vain to yourself as you turn around, trying your best to ignore the old woman who has her face pressed against your window to peer at you.

You hear dull voices talking about what you’re doing in the store, so you draw a rune beneath your ear to mute them. You couldn’t be bothered to be nice to customers when you were hungover.

With slow hands, you prepared the potion you were required to have ready by the afternoon, pouring the thick green liquid in three flasks before you sealed them with corks and anti-leak magic.

All was going well until you noticed a man spit at the entrance of your shop before walking away.

Confused, you ran outside to stop him, but he had already gone far enough to pretend as if he hadn’t violated your property.

You were never the object of admiration or respect after leaving your apprenticeship, but you were being scrutinized more than usual to say. Which is rich, because you know how badly people require your help. The accessibility to your antidotes and potions has significantly helped the community, but they would never admit that because of collective pride and backward beliefs.

You rub off the rune beneath your ear before you go back inside, but then stop in your tracks when you hear a barrage of murmurs.

‘Look at how carefree she is. ’

‘But there was never any evidence .’

‘It was sudden, and that is more than enough to know .’

The looks only get more judgmental, and you stare at them in confusion.

The situation only begins to simmer with mangled accusations when your customer walks in.

“Good day, Todo, I have your muscle strengtheners right here. The price will be—“

“Hold it,” the brawny man commands. He grabs the crate of potions and tucks it under his arm as he stares at you with an accusatory gaze.

“You know, I used to think you weren’t like what people said of you, that you were smart and wanted to help people out of pure kindness. But last night? That was horrendous. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

You nearly knock over a tray of glass vials next to you when you try to ease the pulsing headache that grows with the hour. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, confused. Todo had never been one to conform to societal opinions, so it was astonishing to see how it only took him one night to villainize you.

“Oh, don’t act so sly. I bet you have something to do with the disappearing elfin villages, too. Well, so that you know, the court police will come for you. Rightfully so.” Todo mutters the end of the sentence under his breath. His long legs carry him towards the exit of your store before you can walk around the counter to stop him for your payment.

You call out to him again, with confusion, but he only stomps away as more townspeople gather around your shop.

Your mind only finds solace when you see Gojo come into your shop, his cane finally in hand.

“I see you found your cane,” you quip.

The blindfolded man smiles, but it doesn’t match his usual blinding one; the type he’d have when there was hot gossip from the castle to spill or when he needed to blackmail you to buy more sweets.

His cane drags itself along the small magical indentations you made on the floor for him that automatically lead him to wherever you are in the store. Gojo stops before the counter, the register between you two, before he speaks.

“Why is everyone in the town blaming you for the mass disappearance of elves?” His question sounds more like a statement, but you answer it anyway.

“There’s a whole rumor going around about that? I had no clue.” No wonder Todo falsely accused you of it earlier. “I haven’t left the shop since this morning—well, except for when a man spat by my shop’s door, but—“

“A man spat on your door?” Gojo asked you, his forehead wrinkling as you noticed his eyebrows peeking out from the blindfold.

“No, it was by my door, if it was on it then—“

“The logistics don’t matter. I hope you didn’t let him get away with it,” he said, his voice laced with concern. Maybe you had too much to drink the night before, but you could almost hear the astonishment in every sentence.

“Well, I kind of did so—“

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Gojo drops his cane with a clang and grabs hold of your shoulders, large mitts gripping you tightly.

“Quit interrupting me! And I think he had black hair, I don’t know…he walked away too quickly and I had to man the shop.” The sulk on your face mimicked a child who couldn’t get their way. The magic that courses through your veins urges you to do something; to give in to your dark side so you can finally take revenge for being tossed around, but you knew better.

It was never worth sacrificing your humanity for a temporary salve like revenge, especially when those who were attacking you were simply misled.

Your attitude always frustrated Gojo, but there wasn’t much he could do, and all you could blame was your goodwill.

You were one of the unfortunate souls who had too much of it.

“Do you at least know what he looked like?” Gojo is still hung up on the spitter, so you try to shut the conversation quickly. He often pushes you to get revenge, to be treated respectfully, but you knew that if you forcefully commanded it then you’d be feared instead of accepted.

“I am not going to hunt him down!” you reason, a final statement to keep his mouth shut from trying to persuade you further. Only, he was pushing you towards the edge of mania added with the shitty nausea because of the hangover.

“Why are you even here anyway? Don’t you have work to—“

“You scornful witch!” Mahito barges into your shop. You notice how he has burn marks over his arms, and you gasp, pushing Gojo’s hands off your shoulders before you walk around the counter.

Mahito’s skin looks raw, like he’d almost been roasted on an open fire, his hair is a mess, out of its usual ugly ponytail, and his eyes have dark circles under them.

“You couldn’t handle me marrying a woman I love, so you steal all my gold and burn my barn down? How am I supposed to feed my wife now?” he yells, his voice guttural as it rubs his throat raw. His face is red and blotched, like he’d been screaming and crying to your shop.

You try your best to deescalate the situation, drawing your hands up to show him you mean no harm, and you walk to him slowly. “Mahito, you are clearly disturbed. But I did not do that,” you answer firmly.

Mahito’s eyes narrow at your answer, and then he begins to laugh maniacally before looking at you with a type of hatred that you wouldn’t even expect to see in your worst enemy. He growls like a beast who has been starved for days, desperation seeping out through the cracks of his splintered mind.

Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo slowly following behind you, his cane tapping the ground with each step.

“Look, I will take you to the castle, I know some helpful people there and I will get you help, okay?” You couldn’t believe that you were willing to help your ex so much. Too much goodwill indeed.

But Mahito's eyebrows furrowed to the point where they almost met. You think about how his facial muscles must hurt with how harshly he seems to be expressing his anger.

“I am done living in the same world as you. I’ve had enough.” At this point, it seemed like Mahito was talking to himself.

Which he indeed was, because he simply grabbed your elbow and dragged you out of your shop. When you try to struggle, he twists your hand behind your back, making you yowl in pain. Gojo rushes behind you two, but he’s unable to find the right direction in time once he’s out of the shop. Mahito throws you on the ground, and pain shoots up your hip when you land with a thud, dust flying around your skirt. A crowd of gossiping spectators surrounded you two.

When you try to get up, two brawny men hold your shoulders down while Mahito’s girlfriend ties a rope around both your hands.

You’re officially helpless, wrists bound with anti-magic ropes (making you wonder how Mahito acquired them in the first place). You cannot draw runes, nor can you ask anyone for help from within the crowd, as all of them seem to have the same idea about you: you were supposedly an arsonist.

Gojo calls out your name. “What’s happening?”

“I’m fine, Satoru. There’s just been a misunderstanding. Please get the royal police as fast as you can!” you yell out when Mahito begins to drag you further out in the town.

“But—“

“There’s no time! Just go!”

You notice that Mahito is taking you to the square, where there’s a giant post on a platform. 

Were they …surely not, right?

“What’s going on?” you ask, but your voice falls onto selectively deaf ears. You notice that the crowd has grown larger, many people holding pitchforks, and some even holding torches in the middle of summer. The afternoon sun beats down on your head till your scalp feels hot and raw, but there’s not much you can do to ease the discomfort.

You try to push Mahito off, trying to make a run for it, but he kicks your ankles, making you twist them unnaturally. You yowl and fall to your knees, but Mahito’s henchmen carry you by your arms instead.

“I didn’t even do anything! I’ve been in my shop since last night!” you cried out, but Mahito only yanks your hair, jerking your head back.

“Keep your mouth shut unless you want me to burn that blind whore of yours like you burnt my barn,” he sickly whispers in your ear. Mahito always hated Gojo, considering how close you were to him. He always assumed the worst whenever you’d even mention the man’s name, so you chose to keep them out of each other’s worlds.

Yet, that suspicion never left Mahito’s mind.

You think of Gojo, who has a hard time already with snide remarks from the townsfolk who like to demean his abilities, and you cannot imagine Mahito taking advantage of his lack of sight. It wouldn’t take long for everyone else to agree with him and collectively bully your best friend. 

You grit out a small sound of agreement. Mahito throws your head forward, and you groan at the whiplash you get.

Mahito momentarily unties you, and the brawny men hold on to you so tightly that your skin begins to bruise. They tie you to the post, keeping you upright on your painful ankles. The townsfolk watch you as if you were the little play that had taken place in the festival the night before.

“This woman…” Mahito begins while staring at the crowd.

“…is more than witch. She is a monster. She has a hunger for vengeance, and she uses her cunning ways to make people depend on her!”

The crowd clamours in agreement, men waving their pitchforks in the air as women holler.

“Today, I am going to condemn you for your wrongdoings. You, witch, are responsible for the mass disappearances of elves, stealing my family fortune, burning a part of my estate, and killing my horses in the process!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t do any of that!” you deny once more, but that earns you a sharp slap on your face. You feel blood immediately rush to the numb part of your face, as you stare up at Mahito with contempt.

“You can’t kill me for something like this,” you snap.

Mahito leans toward you, his sour alcoholic miasma hitting you instantly as he condescendingly smiles at you. “You should’ve thought of that before killing my horses. A life for, well, a few other lives. And once I rid the world of you, I will be loved and rewarded handsomely,” he answered.

The men pour oil around the post, dousing you in it afterward. They leave a trail on the ground as they walk away from you.

You stand like an example to the people—anyone who defies collective thinking is to be eliminated.

But everyone suddenly grows quiet when they notice a perfectly sunny day begin to darken, thick grey clouds covering the skies instead.

The wind picks up, making your skirt blow almost in a straight line. Your hair moves wildly, and when it finally moves out of your eyes, you notice how the grey clouds now have a yellowish hue to them.

The men in the crowd hold onto their hats and children, as the woman gather their skirts. The wind is so strong that every torch’s flames are quelled. With bated breath, everyone looks around, trying to make sense of the sudden shift.

“There is no need to worry, the punishment will continue as planned!” Mahito announces. He pulls out the magic matchbox you bought him as a birthday present. It was nothing too crazy, the flames just had different colors, but it amused him, so you’d given it to him.

And now your heart felt like it was rotting because of the unnecessary kindness you’d shown.

Much to your surprise, Mahito’s knees wobble and he loses his balance, as the ground rumbles. The matchbox falls out of his grip, and the matches spill out on the ground, vibrating because of the moving earth. Dust and small rubble begin to whirl around the square, and your hair now flies completely out of your face. The wind gets even stronger, and you close your eyes because of how harsh it feels against your skin, almost like it’s ripping it.

When you open your eyes, you expect to see a storm on your way, maybe a tornado, but what you feel is the ghost of a dark veil on your eyelids.

A child screams, and a man yells at the people to run. You hear Mahito wail, and suddenly, you hear the crashing of wood. It’s a cacophony of chaos. The smell of burning wood hits your nose, and you can only fear that someone may have accidentally set a building on fire, leading to a chain of burning buildings.

Your heart nearly beats out of your chest when you open your eyes, though.

Because in front of you, a dragon was standing humongous and proud. The sheer size of his wing encompasses half the town. His claws dig into the ground because of his weight, and his canines are long and sharp to puncture through any well-muscled human easily.

A shiver of fear goes down your spine when you see its icy blue gaze fall on you.

And after that, you fall into a dark abyss.

—

tag list: @eva-616 @luv3nti @leafynightmares @n1vi @uhkaey @heyl820 @kittsoraxx @asuritam @ratedrrrr @mentallyunpresent @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @starlight5cat @birbwithhat @ressyshi

@strawberrymilkshakes-posts @qyuin @gh0stlyreader @ssetsuka

[scribescrawls]

tfone Starscream is so fascinating, bc here's an untold story there. Like, implications that he has some moral integrity, as ruthless and cynical as he is now.

Because here's the thing - there's people claiming the High Guard was pissed at Sentinel bc he made them lose their high standing in Cybertron. But the thing is... If that's true, they could easily just gain that same high standing back if they just pledged loyalty to Sentinel and his caste society. They could still be the High Guard to a "Prime" and still do the same things they do. If their moral integrity is that low.

But they didn't. Instead, they stubbornly survived on the surface, choosing to live hand-to-mouth and at constant risk of being killed by either Quintessons or by Sentinel because they're rebelling against him. Heck, even Starscream - you can't really JUST claim the reason why he chooses exile was just to maintain his leadership and power over his group. Like, he could have done that while not at the constant threat of starvation or death because let's face it - some incarnations would have him cozying up to Sentinel, still live in Iacon and maintain his privilege and comfort in any way he can, and then just find an opportunity to stab Sentinel in the back and then rule over Cybertron himself. But he doesn't. Their exile is straight up a horrible situation, but they still chose it over serving Sentinel. It just gives off implications that they aren't really as self-centered nor immoral at the start as you'd think, that there ARE some lines they won't cross. It's more heavily implied that they DID use to be a prestigious group with ideals, but repeated travails lead to said ideals corrupted over time.

YES!! You put it perfectly like I agree with everything you said and it is so fascinating the implications the movie gives us about TFOne Starscream and the rest of the High Guard in general! So many different possibilities! Rotates them in my brain like a rotisserie chicken!

I think Transformers One Starscream has so much potential as a Knight in Sour Armor with Jade-Colored Glasses trope.

For those who are unfamiliar with the trope Jade-Colored Glasses is like having the opposite of Rose tinted glasses. Basically you have or have gained a cynical way of looking at the world. Meanwhile the definition of the Knight in Sour Armor is: “The world is filled with Wide Eyed Idealists who believe in truth and justice and devote their lives to fighting for it. And then the dark, cruel and brutal world keeps letting them down. For them, Being Good Sucks. But rather than giving up on their goals, they choose to fight, not because they believe they will truly make a difference, but because it's the right thing to do…They're usually survivors who have largely given up on believing in Honor Before Reason, but still strive to be Lawful Good or as close to it as reality allows them to be. They are willing to bend the rules to save them.” (Definition taken from TVTropes)

I just think there’s something really interesting that TFOne Starscream was leader of the High Guard working directly with the Primes and the fact that he states they witnessed the Primes fall and have been doing whatever they can to sabotage Sentinel has so many unsaid possible implications. Like you don't stay in exile and commit guerilla warfare on someone in terrible dangerous conditions just for your average run of the mill leader who passed away, like there's the high possibility that the High Guard personally cared for the Primes a lot and believed in their cause. You explained it really well, that going against Sentinel does the High Guard no favors and yet they still do it. They obviously have the odds stacked against them and if they genuinely pledged their loyalty, Sentinel could have a trained fighting force with years of experience under him which they could use as their bargaining chip to get him to agree plus it probably strokes his ego if the High Guard bowed to his rule. They could have been living much more comfortably if they just sold out to Sentinel, but they don't.

I also think there’s something to think about how yeah Orion during D-16 and Starscream’s fight stopped Dee cause he firstly did not want D-16 to go committing a murder right then and there, but I think there’s also something to be said that Orion used the words and recognized that “he’s not the enemy” in reference to Starscream in this moment. And tbh at that point in time he’s not their enemy yet. The High Guard have such knights in tarnished armor vibes. (I also have some thoughts about possibilities of why they chose to follow Megatron over Optimus even if the Matrix chose Orion but this response is already really long so perhaps I will save that for a separate post lol)

[myownsummerhall]

“and horrors. he can do horrors as well.” is such a compelling line appearing at first glance to be a throwaway about qyburn’s experiments yet it’s an integral moment for cersei’s characters and what qyburn specifically represents for cersei- the repressed horrors of the patriarchal westerosi system surfacing from being buried deep down in the dungeons. just as the horrors of the misogynistic system that produced & victimized cersei are buried, the internalization & consequence of those horrors are to be released through cersei (and qyburn).

which also connects to the (more controversial, i know it’s not everyone’s favorite concept but i don’t care) narrative of the suppression of magic in the asoiaf world. if it can be buried and ignored, then where can its victims seek shelter? where can the accountability be? this is the system where maggy the frog can dish out words of fate and death, where qyburn can reanimate flesh and make the dead walk. who could cersei have told? what are men like tywin and robert baratheon going to do about about any of this? what is any of this cycle of suppression & repression going to do besides bring even greater horror/abuse to the surface? in this society - a society of codified misogyny & constant patriarchal abuse, a society where both wonder and horror of magic is denied by anyone close to her (save qyburn) there could never be justice for cersei.

obviously the magic narrative is of lesser importance for meta-textual reasons (the reality of misogyny in the real world while magic is a device of fantasy fiction) but these narratives are fundamentally intertwined!!

so from the darkness of the dungeons where all unspoken systemic evil is left to dwell comes the undead champion robert strong, and in his arms a woman willing to unleash whatever horror and wild fire on her enemies so she may never have to bury herself again.

[o-craven-canto]

Selected recurrent patterns or "laws" of evolution, of potential use for speculative biology. List compiled by Neocene's Pavel Volkov, who in turn credits its content to Nikolay Rejmers (original presumably in Russian). These are guidelines, and not necessarily scientifically rigorous.

Dollo's Law, or irreversibility of evolution: organisms do not evolve back into their own ancestors. When mammals returned to the sea, they did not develop gills and dermal scales and change back into fish: they became whales or seals or manatees, who retain mammalian traits and show marks of land-dwelling ancestry.

Roulliet's law, or increase of complexity: both organisms and ecosystems tend to become more complex over time, with subparts that are increasingly differentiated and integrated. This one is dodgier: there are many examples of simplification over time when it is selected for, for example in parasites. At least, over very large time scales, the maximum achievable complexity seems to increase.

Law of unlimited change: there is no point at which a species or system is complete and has finished evolving. Stasis only occurs when there is strong selective pressure in favor of it, and organism can always adapt to chaging conditions if they are not beyond the limits of survival.

Law of pre-adaptation or exaptation: new structures do not appear ex novo. When a new organ or behavior is developed, it is a modification or a re-purposing of something that already existed. Bone tissue probably evolved as reserves of energy before it was suitable to build an internal skeleton from, and feathers most likely evolved for thermal isolation and display before they were refined enough for flight.

Law of increasing variety: diversity at all levels tends to increase over time. While some forms originate from hybridization, most importantly the Eukaryotic cells, generally one ancestor species tends to leave many descendants, if it has any at all.

Law of Severtsov or of Eldredge-Gould or of punctuated equilibrium: while evolution is always slow from the human standpoint, there are moments of relatively rapid change and diversification when some especily fertile innovation appears (e.g. eyes and shells in the Cambrian), or new environments become inhabitable (e.g. continental surface in the Devonian), or disaster clears out space (e.g. at the end of the Permian or Cretaceous), followed by relative stability once all low-hanging fruit has been picked.

Law of environmental conformity: changes in the structure and functions of organisms follow the features or their environment, but the specifics of those changes depend on the structural and developmental constraints of the organisms. Squids and dolphins both have spindle-shaped bodies because physics make it necessary to move quickly through water, but water is broken by the anterior end of the skull in dolphins and by the posterior end of the mantle in squids. Superficial similarity is due to shared environment, deep structural similarity to shared ancestry.

Cope's and Marsh's laws: the most highly specialized members of a group (which often includes the physically largest) tend to go extinct first when conditions change. It is the generalist, least specialized members that usually survive and give rise to the next generations of specialists.

Deperet's law of increasing specialization: once a lineage has started to specialize for a particular niche, lifestyle, or resource, it will keep specializing in the same direction, as any deviation would be outcompeted by the rest. In contrast, their generalist ancestors can survive with a marginal presence in multiple niches.

Osborn's law, or adaptive radiation: as the previous takes place, different lines of descent from a common ancestor become increasingly different in form and specializations.

Shmalhausen's law, or increasing integration: over time, complex systems also tend to become increasingly integrated, with components (e.g. organs of an organism, or species in a symbiotic relationship) being increasingly indispensable to the whole, and increasingly tightly controlled.

[gatheringbones]

[“The American soldiers in Vietnam discovered their own ignorance in an immediate way. The NLF guerrillas chose the night and the jungles to fight in, similarly, and they chose to work with that part of the population which was the most obscure to the Americans and to the Saigon government officials. For the Americans to discern the enemy within the world of the Vietnamese village was to attempt to make out figures within a landscape indefinite and vague — underwater, as it were.

Landing from helicopters in a village controlled by the NLF, the soldiers would at first see nothing, having no criteria with which to judge what they saw. As they searched the village, they would find only old men, women, and children, a collection of wooden tools whose purpose they did not know, altars with scrolls in Chinese characters, paths that led nowhere: an economy, a geography, an architecture totally alien to them. Searching for booby traps and enemy supplies, they would find only the matting over a root cellar and the great stone jars of rice. Clumsy as astronauts, they would bend under the eaves of the huts, knock over the cooking pots, and poke about at the smooth earth floor with their bayonets. How should they know whether the great stone jars held a year’s supply of rice for the family or a week’s supply for a company of troops?

With experience they would come to adopt a bearing quite foreign to them. They would dig in the root cellars, peer in the wells, and trace the faint paths out of the village — to search the village as the soldiers of the warlords had searched them centuries ago. Only then would they find the entrance to the tunnels, to the enemy’s first line of defense. To the American commanders who listened each day to the statistics on “tunnels destroyed” and “caches of rice found,” it must have appeared that in Vietnam the whole surface of the earth rested like a thin crust over a vast system of tunnels and underground rooms.

The villages of both the “government” and “Viet Cong” zones were pitted with holes, trenches, and bunkers where the people slept at night in fear of the bombing. In the “Viet Cong” zones the holes were simply deeper, the tunnels longer — some of them running for kilometers out of a village to debouch in another village or a secret place in the jungle. Carved just to the size of a Vietnamese body, they were too small for an American to enter and too long to follow and destroy in total. Only when directed by a prisoner or informer could the Americans dig down to discover the underground storerooms. Within these storerooms lay the whole industry of the guerrilla: sacks of rice, bolts of black cloth, salt fish and fish sauce, small machines made of scrap metal and bound up in sacking. Brown as the earth itself, the cache would look as much like a part of the earth as if it had originated there — the bulbous root of which the palm-leaf huts of the village were the external stem and foliage. And yet, once they were unwrapped, named, and counted, the stores would turn out to be surprisingly sophisticated, including, perhaps, a land mine made with high explosives, a small printing press with leaflets and textbook materials, surgical instruments, Chinese herbal medicines, and the latest antibiotics from Saigon.

The industry clearly came from a civilization far more technically advanced than that which had made the external world of thatched huts, straw mats, and wooden plows. And yet there was an intimate relation between the two, for the anonymous artisans of the storerooms had used the materials of the village not only as camouflage but as an integral part of their technology. In raiding the NLF villages, the American soldiers had actually walked over the political and economic design of the Vietnamese revolution. They had looked at it, but they could not see it, for it was doubly invisible: invisible within the ground and then again invisible within their own perspective as Americans. The revolution could only be seen against the background of the traditional village and in the perspective of Vietnamese history.”]

frances fitzgerald, from fire in the lake: the vietnamese and the americans in vietnam, 1972