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shorthaltsjester · 2 months

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so, so many thoughts about ashton’s words and position re the gods but nothing really struck me as much as “i’d like to see them pray to us.” (or whatever the exact wording is) because yeah, that’s extremely ashton, that’s the same attitude of a person who has been hurt and broken by life in an unfair manner and tried to absorb a shard because they thought it would fix it, ignoring all warnings that it would make it worse, and then insisting it wasn’t about power, despite the fact that it explicitly was about power — the power to render their life fair. it becomes increasingly clear every time that ashton opens his mouth that, along with being an incisive translation of certain kinds of punk politics to exandria, ashton is more set on vengeance than justice, even if he insists his motivation is that the gods are a source of injustice, it seems more like what he admitted after the shard: he’s spent his life looking for someone to blame, and while he’s happy to hate himself, it took a while for them to realize they were an agent in their own story, culpable for the life they’ve lived. ashton looks at the gods and sees a metaphorical vehicle of all the harm and hurt and pain that’s befallen him due to people in positions of power and cannot (or refuses) to see that a) the gods position isn’t actually all that powerful without the mortals who choose over and over to fulfil divine will for good or evil or in between and b) the gods already have a relationship to mortals that is akin to prayer.

and this is all extremely in character, as much as a lot of ashton’s comments echo many a political stance that makes me roll my eyes, it’s always with an attitude of yes of course ashton would say that. what is mildly more irritating (or perhaps concerning) is the readiness with which aspects of the audience concur with ashton’s assessment, when we have seen countless interactions of gods with mortals that shows us that the gods, though not actual prayer, have a very similar kind of belief in mortals that they ask of those who believe in them. like, vox machina had two episodes dedicated to talking to the gods, where it was revealed that the everlight didn’t just know pike but has beholden to her as the one who brought her back into import. where vex proved herself to pelor not just through completing his challenge but by having long been an imperfect but true source of good for the family she’s chosen that they convinced pelor that vex was a suitable champion by pointing out that she has earned several of their belief, she protects the same city pelor blessed with the sun tree, she’s protective and protected, and her heart and her intelligence are equally sound when it comes to her ability to make judgements, (all things we’ve learned since c1 are important to pelor) resulting in pelor deciding he would also believe in her. where ioun pointed out that while she keeps all stories, scanlan is a storyteller, and what could she possibly cherish more than that.

each god when vox machina spoke to them was quick to correct them when vox machina suggested things like their paths being determined or their lives being beyond their control or the world being down to the will of the gods. vex apologizes to the everlight for not realizing that the gods were really beings and she tells vox machina that she doesn’t ask for the belief of all, only those who wish to give it, as the gods chose to give mortals the ability to choose as they wish upon anything, including their faith in the deities. when vox machina asks pelor to whether they should do something with vecna’s eye, he insists that they make the decision whether they’d like to destroy it or use it — he will help however they decide, but he insists it’s on them to choose the outcome. they speak with ioun, who knows their and every story, and she tells them that the gods do not choose the individual fates of mortals, it is up to every person to choose who they will and will not be, and sometimes that guides them to places the gods have predicted, but never without the choices a mortal makes to arrive there.

the concept of belief throughout the three campaigns has been an complex and ever shifting one — as it deserves. in campaign 1, it’s largely in the context of coming to understand what it means to believe in gods when they obviously do exist, but what are you believing in, and why might you choose not to. in campaign 2, jester’s presence complicated things by pointing out that it isn’t just the divinity of the gods that earns them their power but that belief itself is a kind of divinity and with yasha, caduceus and fjord we see that the role of the gods isn’t just power-granting, it comes to be an essential part of many of those who follow the gods. and in campaign 3, we’ve seen both of those explorations come up but the difficulty is we have none of the perspective of someone who actually believes — even fcg was new to worship couldn’t offer much insight on what the loss of the gods might do to people who believe in the gods not because they grant power but because like jester they were lonely and the found a friend in one, or if like yasha they were lost and were saved by one, or if like fjord the asked for help and were aided by one. to be clear i don’t think this a weakness of the story being told — i think it’s a particularly interesting aspect of bh’s position, but i do think it weakens the perspectives of thinkers like ashton who haven’t even heard what a god means to some people, let alone taken seriously the pain that losing the gods would constitute for countless people.

so, ashton might be particularly charged against the gods — even to the point of being the only one to outright make a noise of disagreement when it’s brought up that while bells hells disagree on specifics, they all agree on saving the gods — and he has plenty of reasons to have that position that can easily result in the audience going, yeah, i understand why he’s made that judgement. but that is not the same as hearing what ashton has said and going (with all the knowledge we the audience have that ashton does not) “he’s right, actually” when there are two campaigns telling you, explicitly, “he’s not.” and this isn’t me saying things can’t be revealed that complicate or recontextualize knowledge from previous campaigns, i’m just saying that, thus far, if anything, campaign 3 (especially downfall) has only cemented the degree to which the prime deities have to believe in mortals.

truly the first thought i had when i heard ashton say his line about the gods praying to mortals instead was the fact that several of his party members received a vision from the raven queen asking for help, that fcg asked the changebringer if she was scared and she said yes, that earthbreaker groon looked at imogen and saw her self-doubt And the belief that bells hells has in her anyway and kord reached through him to tell imogen that she had the potential for greatness and that the gods are counting on her. the prime deities have long been praying to mortals, they believe in the power of mortals (for good and ill) — that’s exactly what downfall was about. the power that gods still have is entirely mediated by the mortals who believe in them, who choose to believe in them. the power of mortals does not have those bounds, and while that doesn’t mean they get to sling 9th level spells at will and multiply their damage by 10, it does mean that, in this particular moment in exandria, ludinus’ power is a much more likely (and, historically and contextually proven) source of injustice than the prime deities.

beyond the magic limitations and considering the ill-fitting metaphor of the gods as being a position of power in a sociopolitical sense, the distance of the gods means that if they want to manipulate people into maintaining their position, it’s quite difficult to do. in comparison with ludinus “cult tactics” da’leth, it strikes me as odd when the parts of the cr audience react to the prime deities doing things like . allowing mortals agency (which, as every existentialist writer ever has correctly pointed, out is both a burden and gift) as if it is actually a long-con manipulation or something.

anyway, TL:DR, ashton is an a interesting character whose beliefs and ideas make sense given his placement in the story and their experiences, but an audience who has seen campaigns 1-3 and says they agree with him with their whole chest should definitely consider either a) rewatching or b) taking a critical thinking or media literacy class

#cr spoilers #ashton greymoore #cr fandom #critical role #cr3 #the prime deities #vox machina

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troublesomesnitch · 7 months

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Make Your Hands Unclean

Aemond x Wife!Reader - Period sex drabble

Premise and bits of dialogue shamelessly stolen from The Borgias.

Contents: drabble, pure filth. Menstrual sex, p in v, anal touching, graphic imagery. Internalised misogyny and harmful attitudes towards menstruation. Aemond is an asshole. Porn with weird plottish vibes.

Words: 2300

idk what this even is, this thing kind of wrote itself and I just went with it. It is kind of a mess tbh.

You were supposed to marry a lord.

That is what you were raised for, and those are the skills you were taught. To sing, to dance, to play the harp; to make yourself look pleasant. Your septa taught you to sew, and a woman from Essos taught you to weave, and in the afternoons the maester taught you history and linguistics, astronomy and arithmetic, and other things that ladies rarely speak about, but nevertheless must learn.

For it is the lady, not the lord, who runs the castle. Who manages the household, and oversees the people it employs. Such a lady must ideally be both kind and commanding, generous and frugal. She must know how to handle serfs and noblemen alike, and she must be proficient in numeracy; able to record expenses and perform difficult calculations.

To be a prince’s wife requires no such skills.

This castle already has two queens, and besides it is not for royal women to concern themselves with practical matters. There are ladies-in-waiting for that, and stewards, chamberlains, maids and matrons; an army of servants hundreds strong to ensure that you may always be spoiled and idle. More than a lady, but less than a queen, left to twiddle your thumbs and wonder when, if ever, the oppressive walls of Maegor’s Holdfast will begin to feel like home.

You do not like it here.

The days are long in King’s Landing, and the air is foul, polluted by the smoke of ten thousand hearths, by the stench of filth and unwashed bodies. It seeps through every crack and crevice, and you like the early mornings the most, when a cleansing mist blows in from the sea, and the ship’s bells ring over Blackwater Bay.

Your husband rises early too, though it is for different reasons. Prince Aemond adheres to strict routines, to noble pursuits and rigorous discipline. He is exactly as people say: a stoic, severe in both temper and countenance, condemning indulgence and deriding depravity.

Yet for all of his moral posturing, he does seem to have developed a taste for it rather quickly.

You couldn’t say the exact number of times the prince has had you, but it has been many, and often, and in every position imaginable, and you dutifully report it all back to your family. As they have instructed you to do.

Before you were sent off to the capital, you were relentlessly reminded that there will never again be an opportunity such as this. That a marriage to a royal prince is a rare honour for your family, and one that was only made possible because the crown finds itself at war. Your house is not a great one, and your father is not the noblest lord, but he is very wealthy. And on the field of battle, wealth does tend to triumph.

You do not know what other promises were made, what lands or titles were negotiated. Only that so much now depends on you; on your ability to please your husband and give him healthy children. Preferably male, but even a daughter would markedly strengthen your position. So you play your part as best as you can , and you pen your secret letters, divulging all the details of your intimate affairs. That the prince sleeps with you frequently, and seems to find great pleasure in it. That he performs his movements to completion, and expends his semen inside your body.

It is a grave responsibility to have on your shoulders, and you were utterly crushed when you woke to find your insides churning, and your sheets stained with blood.

They will be most displeased, your mother and father. Your brothers and uncles, and your cousins too. Prince Aemond's seed has not yet taken.

In the evening he knocks on your door. Two determined raps, and you are thoroughly surprised. Your maid will have told his mother of your ailment, and she will have told him, and he too must be disappointed. But you know it is the prince, for there is no one else who would visit you at this hour.

You know very well what he has come for, too.

“We can’t tonight,” you sigh.

“And why is that?” he says, amused, as if the idea that you would refuse him is ridiculous.

“My blood - I am bleeding.”

Prince Aemond hums, but he walks to your couch and begins to undress himself, unbuckling his doublet and unlacing his breeches, tugging off his boots while you wring your hands.

He can’t be serious. He can’t mean to take you like this.

“It’s not - it isn’t proper,” you protest. “Our maester said it is ill-advised - most men find it unclean - “

“I am not most men,” he scoffs.

There is no arguing against that, and he says it with all the confidence of someone who knows it to be true. Aemond is a royal prince. A dragonlord, a scion of a greater people. Second to no one but his king and brother, and if he wants to get himself all bloodied, then you suppose that is his right.

He rids himself of his undershirt, and you reluctantly move to the side to let him join you in bed. It isn’t proper, but your insides flutter when he pulls you against his naked body, letting you feel the warmth of his skin, his manhood against the back of your thigh. It is hard, and twitching when he runs his hands over your figure, your breasts and your stomach, your waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs -

“No, you mustn’t - ” you squeak, but he rucks your gown up anyway and slips his hand in between your legs.

You are wet there, with blood as well as with desire, and you can feel the stickiness when he spreads your lips, curving his fingers and sliding them back and forth along your slit. His breathing is hoarse just from caressing you, from feeling your wet, your warmth, your little swollen nub begging to be touched. You whimper when he circles it with the gentlest of strokes, light and teasing, until you arch your hips up in frustration and breathe oh please.

Prince Aemond likes it when you beg. Only then does he press down, but not enough to bring you to a peak. Just enough to make your insides tighten, and more blood gush from your womb.

You always did find it strangely beautiful, the blood of your cycle. Deep maroon, and scarlet red - but you are ashamed to see it coating the prince’s fingers when he withdraws them. It is thick, and clotted, and he takes a moment to study it before he wipes his hand clean on your shift.

“Are you not displeased with me?” you whisper. He should be, given that you have failed to conceive. That there is no way of knowing if you can bear children at all.

“One mere month is not cause for concern,” the prince says.

You breathe a faint sigh of relief. It is a comfort to know that at least your husband doesn’t hold your failure against you - yet.

He tugs on your shift, eager to expose your body, but you cross your hands over your chest.

“Let me keep it for tonight,” you plead.

You can’t rid yourself of the thought that you are unclean, and you would feel so much more at ease if he didn’t see your heavy, aching body. But you don’t want to entirely deny him access to it, either. Seeing as you are bleeding, the chances of begetting a child are small, which means that his wish to sleep with you must come from genuine desire rather than obligation. And that makes you very happy, as you imagine it would any wife.

You will make sure to include it in the next letter you send back home. Hopefully it will lessen their disappointment.

The prince looks somewhat displeased, but he lets you keep your dress, resorting instead to bunching it up around your waist. He is stern, but never cruel to you, even if he does pull at the neck to bare more of your breasts. He pinches your nipple, and then his hand moves downward again, and you throw your leg over his hip to give him more room to touch you.

This time he does it properly. His fingers find your pleasure right away, and he swiftly brings you to your rapture, impatient as he is to have you. It leaves his hand stained and tainted, and once again he wipes it off on your shift, but this time you don’t care.

With the position you’re in, it is easy for him to crawl over your leg and take his place between them, and he kisses you as he presses against you, deeply and hungrily, rocking his hips, his manhood throbbing and leaking between your legs.

Your parts are soaked, but he is careful when he pushes inside. Despite the prince’s relentless pursuit of knowledge, he must not know all that much about a woman’s blood, at least not in practical terms. Where it hurts, and how much, and whether this intrusion will make it worse. You can’t hold it against him - you don’t believe there are many scholars who would want to write about the topic, and how then was he supposed to learn?

“Harder,” you pant, and he obliges, moving faster and pushing deep inside.

You let him find a steady rhythm, hooking your legs over his hips, and letting your hands wander over his body while he has his way with you. You stroke his balls, imagining that what he keeps inside will take root in you. You pinch his nipples, all hard with pleasure, and you slide your hands down to his lower back, to the base of his spine, where the skin is dusted with downy hairs. Where you can feel each of his thrusts; the rolling movements of his hips, the rhythmic clenching of his buttocks.

Your dainty touch makes him shudder, and you move your hands to his arse, and then further still, slipping your fingers in between his buttocks. To where he is warm and tender, and where his skin starts to pucker.

It is filthy, the way he twitches there. The way he throbs. A dirty place to touch, and a sinful thing to do, but you have found that the prince likes it. No added pressure or attempts at entry, just gentle strokes with the tips of your fingers. Soft caresses over his opening.

He buries his face in your neck and groans, and you can feel that he is nearing his peak. His movements are fast and shallow, his chest heaving and slick with sweat.

“Yes, my prince,” you whisper. “Fill me with your seed, put a son inside me - “

He likes that. He hisses loudly, gripping the headboard for purchase, and you look up at him when his hips stutter. Prince Aemond’s face is always handsome, but never more than when he is on top of you, in the throes of ecstasy. His brow is furrowed and his eye squeezed shut, and the tension in his body makes the damaged side of his face convulse, his lip twitching up towards the scar.

He wouldn’t like for you to see that, but in this state he does not feel it happening.

You lie still as he peaks, allowing him to rut into you wildly, groaning and grunting as he spills his seed. Hot, and wet, and adding to the mess inside you. He lies limp on top of you to catch his breath, and when he finally withdraws, the blood is everywhere. On his softening organ, on his sack, and crusted to the soft hairs on his thighs.

“I’ve made you dirty,” you state.

“Yes, you have,” he says. “In more ways than one.”

You look the other way to give him some privacy when he rises to tidy and dress himself. On your wedding night he stayed with you until the morning, and he has done it a few times since, but it is not a common occurrence. Prince Aemond prefers to sleep alone, and your mother chastises you for that too. She says that to rouse a man’s desire is less than half the battle, and that you must make your husband love you.

Of course if it were really that simple, then there would be no unhappy marriages and no children born as bastards, and if you knew how to make a man fall in love, you would be the richest woman in all the world.

But you must at least try.

“Won’t you stay with me?” You ask. “It is - important, for a woman to be embraced - to be treated gently, afterwards…”

“Next time, I will,” he says. And that is the end of that, for you will not stoop so low as to beg for his company.

He smoothes out his shirt and pulls on his breeches, and you sit up and comb your fingers through your tangled hair. When you look down there are stains on your sheets, and a thick rosy fluid trickling out between your legs.

“You may want to abstain from riding,” the prince says over his shoulder. “It is known to upset the balance of the womb.”

You nod, bound to obey what is clearly a command posing as a suggestion.

“Did you know,” you muse, “that the blood of the womb is the only blood that is not born from violence?”

Prince Aemond looks at you with a thoughtful expression, one that suggests he had in fact not considered that before.

“Quite the philosopher you are,” he remarks, with a little raise of his brow. Coming from him, that is the highest praise.

It does not change his mind about staying, but he does press a noble kiss to your temple before he leaves you. Sore and bloodied, but content.

You did well tonight.

Notes

“Most men find it unclean/I am not most men” is from S1E7 of the Borgias.

“Menstruation is the only blood that is not born from violence and yet it’s the one that disgusts you the most” is a quote by artist Maia Schwartz. I couldn’t find any more information about her unfortunately.

Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond smut #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic

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literaila · 2 months

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Do u think gojo is a good partner in a typical family? P.s I really like all the nuances you've added to all the characters but I was just wondering ur pov on this

gojo is not perfect—despite what he claims—but he is intelligent, and he cares. he cares maybe a little bit too much, sometimes.

and sure, he sprung two kids on you when you were freshly graduated and he hadn’t spoken to you in the six months prior—but that’s because he trusts you. it’s because if there’s someone he knows will be there, even ghosted, it’s you.

plus he was only eighteen so give him a break.

but gojo is prone to growth. he always has been.

when he was a kid and people watched him become an anomaly—the kind of sorcerer that they couldn’t teach, simply because they would never understand. or when he was a second year at jujutsu high and he changed radically. in an instant. because that’s who he is—that’s who he’s always been.

gojo doesn’t do well with change, and maybe that’s why it’s so drawn to him.

but he started out just annoying you, and a couple months in, he began to care about you.

and then he admired you, and trusted you, and wanted you to be there with him while he navigated a newfound responsibility—and gojo hates change, but if you’re there to change with him then who is he to argue?

yes, he’s too quick, he’s too insensitive, he jokes too much and he struggles to let anyone in—maybe because he doesn’t want to be misunderstood, or maybe because he’s protective.

but you’ve never been the type to turn away from a struggle, and you do understand him. in a way that gojo can’t even comprehend—for nine years, at least.

and before he was even your boyfriend, or your husband, he was a good partner.

gojo might not understand humanity, or simple morals, but he’s always had that intrinsic need to take care of you. to protect you from harm, and find a way to reassure himself that you’re not going to leave too—that he’s not going to give you any reason to leave.

so what if he takes at least seven years to kiss you?

so what if you’re twenty five when he finally admits that he’s in love with you after knowing you for almost a decade?

you’re the one that taught him that actions speak louder than words, anyway.

and gojo might be good at lots of things. he might be a natural at everything he’s ever tried.

but being in love doesn’t come naturally. it isn’t something you can control, something you can cater to.

being in love is about growing.

and if it comes to you, gojo is willing to grow until he dies.

he’ll learn how to communicate better. he’ll learn the fine line between amusing you and pissing you off (though, that one takes more practice). he learns how to soothe you when you’re upset, how to pick out dinner for you when he’s out with megumi, how to buy you birthday presents.

he learns what your favorite color is and wears it whenever he wants to make you blink. he learns what your favorite flowers are and keeps them on the counter at all times.

and most importantly, he learns how you interact with everyone. he recognizes the sound of your voice, and can guess what you’re going to say when one of the kids is in trouble.

gojo will learn how to lean on you eventually, but you’ll just have to give him some time.

and would it really be so bad to teach him how love? to learn with him?

#gojo x reader #a typical family #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jjk x reader

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canisalbus · 8 months

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The thing with "love yourself before getting into a relationship" is so real lmao.

And regarding the harmful message it sends; I am someone that always has been struggling one way or another. Before I even really thought about romance I have found it and decided that those people are right and that I don't want to burden others with my presence. Fast forward to the present time and you'll see that while I did learn a lot of valuable lessons I have also grown so "emotionally independent" that romance is just a fictional concept to me. It's like this thing that I get to enjoy through art in the morning with my coffee and then I go about my day. It also has impacted my friendships as well and in general my ability to relate to others and connect since I would avoid that because "no one will love me because I don't love myself and I wouldn't choose my own company over someone's else's" .

It's kind of ironic how it was created because people with self esteem problems often can find themselves in harmful relationships but it was used by people who essentially want their partner to be this unrealistic perfect person who can take perfect care of themselves and has no problems at all. Essentially they want someone they won't have to take care of and it speaks volumes about their character

Ah, you have no idea how validating it is to hear that! I responded to that ask right before heading to bed and even thinking about it soured my mood so severely had trouble falling asleep ´v`'

("No one will love me because I don't love myself and I wouldn't choose my own company over someone's else's" geez, yes, sounds familiar. When the bad brain takes over I keep thinking to myself how it's perfectly logical, understandable and expected if people didn't like me for some reason, I wouldn't like myself either.)

#answered #anonymous

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librarycards · 3 months

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do you have any resources or advice on how to help people who have manic episodes or who could possibly harm others according to antipsych principles? my friend diagnosed with bipolar disorder has been looking into checking themself into a hospital, and their home situation isn’t the best though their dad somewhat tries to be supportive, but i wonder what other options there are. the most i can do is offer some emotional support and give advice since i live too far away to be of much help otherwise. sorry if this is the wrong place to ask.

hello, and thanks for your patience on my response - this week has been busy and i'm only just now getting to asks!

here is an excellent piece by Stefanie Lyn Kaufman-Mthimkhulu on providing support for comrades in crisis, many of these tips are very applicable to distance-relationships too! bipolar comrades/others who have manic episodes are also welcome and very encouraged to reply and share what kinds of supports work best for them.

There are also a series of free zines/books by the Fireweed Collective (FKA the Icarus Project), particularly Navigating The Space Between Brilliance And Madness: A Reader & Roadmap Of Bipolar Worlds. This is a great way to learn more about a variety of bipolar experiences to better contextualize your friend's.

here are some tips based on personal experience being close to multiple people with bipolar, while not being bipolar myself:

create balance within yourself + project it - it's tempting to get yourself wrapped up in others' big feelings, especially if they trigger you. but it's crucially important to maintain a (porous!) barrier between you and your friend, both as a way of maintaining your own peace and providing something sturdy for them to lean on. this means taking what they say/do in the midst of crisis and placing it "beside" your own feelings, rather than integrating it and responding viscerally in the moment.

neither "reality checking" nor "reality confirming". this is tricky. it's pointless to tell someone "you're wrong, you can't do that, etc." when they're experiencing a different reality than you. it is also harmful to encourage someone to act on beliefs that are not actually aligned with their values, but instead the result of a state of crisis. i try to use phrases like "that sounds ___," "that must be ____," "i can see how you'd feel ____" and similar, both to affirm their own lived experience and to avoid reifying it as objective truth.

know when to step away. mania is draining for literally everyone involved, and what people do to their loved ones in the midst of a manic episode can be incredibly harmful, even if occurring alongside grand gestures of generosity, productivity, etc. you are not your friend's keeper, and your feelings and well-being matter just as much as theirs. do you both have mutual friends you can tap into to provide support when you're burnt out? these friends might also be able to offer some strategies that you or i haven't thought of. it's important to say that this support shouldn't be constant "did you use substances today" "did you drive recklessly today" other surveillance type stuff. try to maintain a normal rhythm to your conversations, and when something that makes you go ??? comes up, try framing your response as a question. "i'm going to finish writing and editing my novel today and start two new books and apply for this and that grant" - you could say, "that's a ton of stuff. why do you need to do it all today?" this creates space for other possibilities without forcing it.

your friend doesn't need advice right now, they need support! the person who needs advice, i think, is your friend's dad. are you and him directly in touch, and is there any way that you could get in touch with him? since you're online, i don't know the details here; it may work best when your friend is no longer manic and you two can speak frankly about how best to support them. i do suggest making a crisis plan with him/whoever they're close to irl.

I hope this is somewhat helpful!

#the shadow answer here is that my d*d has bipolar and i'm giving you some of my (modified) survival tips from 17 years of living with him #ask #anonymous #world healing #madness #harm reduction #antipsychiatry

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sempersirens · 8 months

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the fig tree | rotten

pairing: therapist!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+ mdni. discussion of heavy and potentially triggering topics such as sa, self-harm, infertility, various mental illnesses, self-hatred and drug use. these topics are only mentioned and do not occur in real-time.

chapter summary: a twenty-something, seemingly lost cause, meets her match in the form of psychotherapist: dr. joel miller.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

updates: @sempersirenswrites

series masterlist

Maybe it was time to accept you were never as good as you'd always thought you'd been.

For four long years, you had spent most of your waking hours dissecting epic poetry and papyrology.

Still, the most your degree had done for you was rouse a satisfying disappointment from your mother’s side of the family when they realised you weren’t actually going to be that kind of doctor.

Not to say such in a self-deprecation; you hardly suffered from any semblance of an imposter syndrome. Your mother used to frequently remind you that you were far too vain to not believe in yourself.

It was more of a philosophical framework. Platonic realism. Knowing your muted beauty could earn you a free drink from below-average men who felt their trousers tighten when you addressed them through your eyelashes.

But it wasn't an obvious enough beauty for the attention of the men you imagined exchanging bodily fluids with between stops on the underground.

Besides, you had been a student of Classical Studies; a degree that doesn’t require the intellectual strain of learning Latin or Ancient Greek. The inclusive way for people like you, having attended a run-down state-funded school, to get a glimpse into the Bullingdon boys' and grammar schoolgirls’ fallback plans.

It wasn't even that you disliked Classics; you'd borderline gotten off on reading plays written by men about wicked women; but that was because the brilliant women were always the wicked ones.

You particularly enjoyed the assumptions men made about the female condition – how women were too wet, too porous; couldn’t keep their wombs from wandering. And assumptions they were. No Greek physician ever sliced a woman from chin to cunt to confirm their hypotheses. Although, ancient men hadn't been all too familiar with the insides of a woman anyway.

Sometimes, you thought you would quite simply die if you were reduced to only understanding people through your assumptions of them.

It was just that you could never stop thinking about what people thought. It was all you could ever think about. You wanted to peel people's skulls apart and scream at their horribly grey frontal lobe:

Are you ok? Have I done something to upset you? Do you still love me? Do I look like someone that has been raped? Do you think that girl we just walked past has a firmer ass than me? Do you like my new bangs?

For a short period of time, you'd been desperate to know how your therapist felt and thought of you. There is a sick irony in baring your bones to a stranger in the reclined chair opposite you who never even takes off their cardigan.

You needed to know if your traumas made him sad, or if he saw things that made him think of you outside of your sessions. You supposed he both pitied and admired you in a twisted, surrogate-daughter kind of way.

Then again, he probably wouldn’t have been a very good therapist did he not pity his clients.

At one point you thought you might be in love with him.

You'd met weekly in his high-ceiling office on a busy street. It was a romantic setting to unload twenty-four years of trauma to a kind man wearing a knitted cardigan. The sun would peak through clouds and shine onto the both of you through two large windows, between which sat a Japanese peace lily.

You soon realised he was just the first man to let you speak uninterrupted.

You spoke at him mostly, finishing observations that had been years in the making with “Does that make sense?” Even though you knew it made sense. You were certain, actually, that everything you had articulated came from somewhere deeper inside of you than any man could reach. You just couldn't leave it hanging there like an exposed nerve.

Maybe it was because he didn't speak much that you liked him. Sometimes he would offer anecdotes or remedies for PTSD-induced panic attacks that you both knew you would never use.

In most sessions, you had simply basked in the divinity of being listened to. You wondered if this was how devout Catholics like your grandmother felt at confession, or perhaps it was how all of your ex-boyfriends had felt.

You weren't even particularly attracted to him. He had been ten years older than you, and when your sessions first began, you'd been casually fucking someone a year older than him – but he didn't need to know that.

There were a lot of things you'd decided he didn't need to know. Like the fact you snorted cocaine until your nose bled, sliced into your thighs a couple of evenings a week, and let men use your body to masturbate as a feeble attempt to reclaim your sexuality - as if it had ever been anyone's for the taking.

Had he known the dirtier parts of your life, you feared he would have crossed out the word victim in his black Moleskin notebook and replaced it with bystander.

Maybe he would think you were a pathological liar and diagnose you with a personality disorder. This was something you'd been warned about by the first friend you had made at university.

“My mother is a therapist, you know. Don’t tell them you cut yourself or that you’ve told anyone you cut yourself – they’ll diagnose you with BPD.”

“But I’ve told you.”

“Trust me. They’ll put you on an SSRI and you’ll never be able to orgasm again.”

You were freshly eighteen and had never had a real orgasm anyway, but this terrified you enough to reel in your catalogue of symptoms for the GP appointment you had scheduled later that day.

In the end, you'd buckled and sobbed as the doctor sat adjacent to you. You didn’t mention the self-harming or the suicidal thoughts, but did tell her that you didn’t know where to go from here.

She'd slid a leaflet from the university's self-help website across the table before pushing her chair back and motioning toward the door.

“Call 999 if things get worse," she had said. "But let’s just hope it doesn’t get to that point. A&E is very overwhelmed at the moment.”

So you got on with it. Boats against the current, or whatever. You made the hurt so small and buried it so deep within you and swore you'd never let anyone get close enough to pick at the stray thread to your undoing.

And for a little while it worked. You became what you knew you should be; you presented your face for fucking and never let the door slam on your way out.

These days, you'd felt as though you were slowly becoming rotten.

It started on the surface; a bizarre case of adult acne that no dermatologist could diagnose for love nor money. Blood tests, topical steroids, antibiotics, potentially-baby-deforming drugs. You tried them all to little avail. In the end, it was simply the passing of time that had rid you of the rot.

Next, it had been your womb. Decomposing from the inside out. Your body had made the decision for you that goodness couldn't form in your guts.

The final straw had, embarrassingly, been your heart.

You hated to say it aloud. So much so that you hadn't. But it had been a quiet promise of yours; one you'd kept quietly close to your chest - that your suffering would never turn you ugly.

But here you were, alone and swearing at the wind, the rage beneath your skin growing like a tumour.

You hated it.

You hated yourself.

You hated that you were angry but had never been taught how to be angry, because anger wasn't a pretty emotion; it was one that should be starved and kept in the corner of your wardrobe to rot like black mould.

So here you stood: before a Victorian townhouse with your scarf furiously fighting the wind, droplets of rain threatening your freshly straightened hair, scanning various names scrawled on the building's buzzer.

S. PHYSIOTHERAPY

A & R SOLICITORS

J. MILLER PSYCHOTHERAPY

You bit the inside of your cheek and ducked further into the doorway, pressing the buzzer for the last option.

A voice had answered quicker than you'd anticipated, soon followed by a harsh buzz of the intercom.

"Come on up."

Dr. Miller's office was on the third floor.

You huffed, struggling with the combination of the stairs and attempting to wrangle your wet coat from your back. Amidst your struggle, you hear a door open somewhere above you, followed by a couple of soft and slow footsteps.

Your chin instinctively lifted toward the source of the noise, feet carrying you round and round the spiral staircase.

Light poured around his silhouette from the window behind him. It was ridiculous, actually. The sight was almost holy.

Neither of you spoke as you made your way up toward him. You felt as though you were on your knees beneath him, transfixed in supplication.

The sleeves of his blue cotton shirt were haphazardly pushed up just before his elbows, arms outstretched and fingers wrapped around the wooden bannister.

You were supposed to be actually trying with this one, not fantasising about the ways the veins in his arms probably bulged with his hand around your throat.

After being politely let go by your previous therapist, you'd promised yourself that the colleague he'd recommended to you, Dr. Miller, would be the one to fix you for good.

"Hello." He nodded, not quite managing a smile.

He reached a hand toward you, which you shook with the little strength left in your body.

"Hello." You tried your best to imitate his stoic cadence, your hand still tightly in his.

You let him break the handshake first, playing a petulant, one-sided game to see how quick he would be to scare.

"After you." He gestured to the room behind him. "Take a seat wherever you feel most comfortable."

"If there is any cowboy paraphernalia in that room I am not paying for this session."

"Excuse me?" His eyebrows knitted together, no sign of humour registering on his face.

"Your accent - it was a joke. I mean, I paid already anyway." You fumbled your words awkwardly. "Jokes are always much funnier when you explain them."

He cocked his head slightly. Hesitant to embarrass yourself further, you saw yourself into his office.

The room was dim for a space endowed with Victorian-style floor-to-ceiling windows. It felt like you could get lost in it, hide away, tuck yourself into a corner and be lost for days.

"I have your notes from Dr. Hughes." He said.

"Anything juicy?" You asked, still surveying the room.

You couldn't put your finger on the specifics of his scent, but it was familiar; like passing a man in the street wearing the same aftershave as your father, or a boyfriend you hadn't seen for years.

"I'd like to figure that out myself."

You'd eventually settled on the armchair positioned opposite his own.

You had briefly wondered if this was a test, that he would be psychoanalysing whether you chose the armchair or the adjacent sofa.

Maybe you'd failed already.

For the majority of the session, you'd gone through the necessary motions of admin, confidentiality, and what you eventually wanted to get out of therapy.

"I don't have the ability to fix you, y'know that right?" His question had caught you off guard.

"I know that." You'd replied meekly.

"It's just, I don't know what kind of promises Dr. Hughes made you. We trained together, you see. He had always been more, how do I put this, hopeful than I am."

"Oh wow. Forty minutes into our first session and you're already hopeless?" You were only partly joking.

"I'm a big believer in transparency, and I can see you were meeting on and off for a few years. I'm just intrigued as to what your end goal here is."

You bit down on your cheek, swallowing the ember of rage that was burning in your throat.

"Do you think I do this for fun? Carve out an hour a week to relive my deepest, darkest traumas?"

"Not at all. I just find it interesting that after almost three years of therapy, you still can't use the word rape. You've referred to it as the thing that happened four times already."

The rot crept up your throat, threatening to pour out of your mouth and fill the room with the ugliness that grew inside of you.

"What is this, some kind of tough love therapy?" You scoffed. Was he trying to get a rise out of you?

"It can be whatever you want it to be."

He was kind of annoying, actually.

The two of you sat in silence, defiantly holding eye contact with one another to see who would be the first to break. And when he finally spoke, it was more of a statement than a question.

"That's time. I'll see you at the same time next week."

"How are you so sure I'll come back?"

He smiled for the first time that afternoon.

"I'm not."

#my fic #the last of us #joel miller x f!reader #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal characters #tlou hbo #tlou #joel miller fanfic #joel x reader #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedrohub #pedrostories

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spinchip · 3 months

Text

Bloat

(Warnings: disrespectful discussion of self harm/suicide by a side character. murder. Lots of death.)

They're here about a series of murders. Nya doesn't know why they dragged the ninja out to this nothing town with its stone castle and still water lake, with its missing persons and their empty spaces. The ninja aren't detectives, even if Zane likes to pretend. With twelve people missing, Zane keeps his fedora at home and approaches this delicately. Nya wishes he'd put on that stupid hat.

She's also not sure why she keeps slipping up and saying murder when it's really just missing persons, officially. Eight men, four women, varying ages. All different kinds of backgrounds vanished without a trace.

The ocean mourned each dead fish, every shrimp swallowed alive, but it didn't interfere. Nya struggles to find the point to this. Everyone is somber and cold in the rainy afternoon fog. Jay tries and fails to speak to her several times, slinking away with his tail between his legs each time. She could have been nicer, less blunt, when she ended things. The river does not apologize to the stone it shaves to dust. Her thoughts still feel disjointed and off. The lake's surface is so serene it's mirrored, reflecting gray clouds and dark nights.

The first two victims were teenage boys who snuck out to buy cigarettes. They were supposed to meet a mutual friend but failed to show up. The living boy is distraught, a mess, consumed by guilt and grief and fear for his friends. Kai takes Nya by the upper arm and hauls her away from the group when she says something uncouth, insensitive, cruel. The ocean had no use for manners.

She dreams of drowning in a bathtub, but she doesn't struggle. She simply sinks under cold water, closes her eyes, and-

She wakes up vomiting brackish water over the edge of her bed and doesn't tell anyone.

The seventh victim is hardly considered a victim at all. She'd tried to kill herself three weeks before she went missing, and the rude cop with the badly trimmed beard scoffs at her inclusion in the list. Probably snuck off to the woods, he sneers, finished slitting up her wrists. Nothing to do with these other cases, just lumped in there to do it.

But her mother said she'd changed her mind. What is the significance in wanting to live when death will come for you regardless? She thinks about that girl the most, and hopes she found peace.

Nya feels more aligned with the blood under her skin than the rest of her body. Flow. Liquid. It rushes through her veins like whitewater rapids.

She dreams of inky blackness, encased by water. She wakes up vomiting water again, but Zane is sitting by her bedside with a bucket and paper towel. His eyes are cold despite how he tries to hide it. They're always cold, now.

Bad dream? He asks, reserved. It's a trap but she doesn't know how.

Go back to bed She says instead, rolling over and ignoring him for the rest of the night. He doesn't leave. She doesn't fall back asleep.

Cole gets her to eat even when bread and eggs taste like salt water and seaweed. She hates the taste of the water from the tap. The lake is covered by a thin layer of mist and it smells old and stagnant. Settled water, too much of it.

Charles, the older man who tends to the castle grounds, tells her it's a man-made lake. Put together by the previous lord and lady of the land, dug out by workers paid pennies. He worked on it when he was just a boy. He doesn't say much, and he doesn't do much around the castle. Old and feeble, his mind has gone spoiled. He looks at Nya like she's inhuman.

The last victim was the lord's son, Albert. He's the only one whose name they learn immediately, the police placing his file on top of all of the others and ranking him at priority number one. It's time to do something now that the lord's son is missing.

He'll have my head, Lord Vonnet will, if I don't return his son safely The lord's royal guard dabs his sweaty forehead with a damp towel.

You poor bastard, Nya says before she can think, get your affairs in order.

Lloyd is the one to drag her out of the room looking mortified. Zane follows him out and they exchange a handful of quiet words that Nya can't hear behind the raging waves crashing in her ears. Zane takes her out to the lake.

They are all dead he says simply.

Since before we even set foot in town she confirms.

They are in the lake.

She closes her eyes and sees still, black water. At the very bottom.

The wind blows a sour smell off the surface of the lake. It might have been beautiful, once. When it was fresh and the water was clear and blue. Before it was filled with rot.

I do not know who did it he confesses I keep having bad dreams.

I dream I'm drowning she offers.

I dream I am throwing bodies in the lake he gives back.

She stares at the horizon I feel nothing. Isn't that awful.

He shrugs the ocean does not care to investigate every whale fall.

Interesting choice of words. Whale fall. There are no fish in this lake, it's all man-made she looks at him with dull eyes you think something is eating

When I toss them in the lake i Am certain they will never be found

You're not bothered by this either

He shrugs again, an entirely human act for a man whose eyes are so detached, an Emperor does not care to investigate the death of every subject

She stands and ties her hair into a bun, I'll draw them up, can you make them float?

She doesn't bother waiting for an answer, sinking her awareness down down down to the bottom of the lake. She focuses on the vaguely human shaped masses in the water, cupping them and hauling them to the surface where she lets them go and returns to the bottom. She's so powerful now she doesn't need to step foot into the water to raise up the bodies. She begins to find cow and deer carcasses alongside men and women. She finds bones. She finds old jewelry and clothes.

Finally, she finds the animal.

It was given the name stronsay by the whales and sea lions up north, where these things are typically found. Giant sea serpents, rare in the ocean- non-existent in freshwater lakes. Especially never found in man-made ones like this, too barren to support life. It was juvenile, small, and had not yet shed its baby skin. It was not thriving in this fresh water, but it would have lived until it was too big to move in this thing.

Zanes frozen the bodies of the dead and dragged them ashore.

The lord's son is one of the dead, his body in a poor state. When the rest of the ninja and the police come, after they thaw out his body, they find a leather-bound journal where he talks about the pet he hatched from an egg he found in the cold waters on his last holiday. He wrote extensively about how hungry it was, and exactly how he fed it.

He couldn’t keep up with its appetite, Nya says, staring down at his wet, bloated body.

Icarus Zane mutters at her side.

What will become of the beast? The mustaches policeman asks.

We shall slaughter it! The Lady of the land wails, And stick its head on a pike!

It will be safely and humanely relocated Nya corrects her cooly, Do not allow anyone near the lake before it is moved. Unless you don't like them.

Nya Kai warns.

Later, while Lloyd oversees the beasts removal and the others are likewise occupied, Zane asks do you think we are like them?

Dead?

Changed forever. Call it rot, putrefaction, trauma- altered and, ultimately, lost He murmurs.

I would prefer to just be dead she says without thinking, a thrum of shock at the admission the first tangible emotion she's had in days. She remembers the seventh victim. She'd changed her mind.

Zane grins and it's all teeth, a baring of bone.

Where does that leave us, if we are changed? She looks away, staring out at the lake.

Alone He says simply.

We have each other, don’t we? You understand me. I understand you.

We do He looks at her and she looks at him.

The kiss tastes like saltwater and blood. She kisses him again.

#ninjago #zane julien #nya ninjago #spinchip fic #death #suicide #self harm #braincellshipping #this was a really experimental piece sorray

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timmydraker · 4 days

Text

CW: drugs

When Tim is seventeen, Bruce gets a call from his principal asking for a private meeting to discuss Tim’s education. It’s not abnormal, but the parent teacher meetings weren’t due for another month and something about the tone of Professor Wilcot’s voice leaves Bruce concerned.

He organises it for the next afternoon and politely tells the timid looking man to please get to the point.

Wilcot answers with a tight lipped frown, “I recently discovered that Tim has a few nicknames. Now, that in itself isn’t a probably but the names themself are… concerning.”

Bruce immediately thinks of Red Robin and worries his son has been caught, but that makes little sense when Tim has shown to be the best at contingencies and secret keeping.

“Such as?”

With a deep sigh the man continues, “Well, there’s ‘Benzo’ and ‘Opi’. As well as ‘27’, which is recently learned references a so called ‘club’ of celebrities who die at that age for-for drug abuse.”

Even if he wasn’t a detective, Bruce could easily put it all together. Benzodiazepines and opioids, both drugs and a number well tied to such a thing all regarding a famed person.

It’s like he’s just gotten inside from being drenched in snow and had hot water dunked on him as dozens of different moments come to mind. He remembers Tim going from being down and low, tired and drained to suddenly being extra alert and chatty. He assumed it was coffee, but Tim often had a red nose and sniffled like mad.

He also got shakes, was made fun of by his brothers for being a sweaty person, and irritable at the best of times. He was jumpy and easily spooked, which everyone connected to him growing up safe and getting no sleep.

Tim also had forgotten basic case information a few times but usually managed to cover it up.

Bruce had noticed and responded by trying to lessen his work load, only for Tim to scream at him, storm off and come back looking drowsy a couple of hours later.

Wilcot doesn’t speak for a while, seemingly giving Bruce the chance to process his words but when he does it’s just to put forward the last bit of evidence Bruce needs.

“I admit it isn’t exactly ethical, but I check Mister Drake-Wayne’s locker and… I thought it would be best if I let you chose how to proceed lest I harm his reputation.”

A bottle, almost empty, of Oxycodone and a half full bottle of Oxymorphone.

Bruce looks away when the last bottle lands on the table, it’s a benzodiazepines called Dalmane and there are no pills because they’ve all been crushed into a powder.

Bruce doesn’t even want to think about how those drugs interact.

Wilcot says one last thing before he leaves the room, quit clearly giving Bruce a moment as the reveal settles in his mind, “Tim is a good kid. He’s kind to everyone and I truely hope he can get help. Please, if there is anything I can do, contact me. Other than that, I will keep this quiet. Please take care of him.”

Let it be said that Bruce Wayne loves his children, he genuinely cares for them and most importantly, he likes who each of them are.

But he’s not always the best father to them, not when he’s too far in his head and his head is too far up his arse.

He tries to confront Tim calmly and with compassion at first but it becomes clear he isn’t qualified to deal with it and he should have gotten Alfred or even Dick. When Batman deals with addicts all he has to do is get them to a hospital and show he isn’t judging them, but with his own son and when he’s not being Batman…

Tim instantly locks up when Bruce shows him the bottles and his defences go straight into overdrive, “Bruce, don’t. That’s not fair! Did you go through my fucking stuff?! That’s fucked up!”

Bruce looses his composure quickly, “Don’t you dare curse at me, Timothy. You are a goddamn hero and you’re doing this? Why did you tell me?! I could have helped you! Why, Tim?! You e seen what people who abuse drugs end up like-“

Tim screams so loud Bruce can practically hear how it hurts his throat, “WHAT FUCKING DRUGGIES?! IS THAT WHAT THEY END UP LIKE?! TOO FUCKING LATE BRUCE, YOU’RE TOO LATE! I GAVE YOU EVERY FUCKING SIGN AND YOU DID NOTHING SO FUCK OFF! I. AN HANDLE IT ON MY OWN!”

“This ain’t handling it, Tim. You’re addicted. You’re erratic, you’re bouncing from mood to mood and, have you seen how skinny you are? I’m worried, Tim.”

Maybe Tim would have been able to handle it better if he hadn’t been a few hours into withdrawal, but all he does is swing. He manages to catch Bruce of guard and hit him square in the jaw, only to realise what he’s done and start hitting himself the same way.

Bruce breaks as he watches his son who is usually so calm and controlled break down in a fit of aggression and pent up energy.

When Tim manages to hit himself hard enough Bruce. An hear a crack from his hand.

As he speaks again he dooms himself to a life time of regret, forever wishing he had gotten Alfred’s advice first.

“I’m sorry son, but until you’re clean, you will no longer be Red Robin.”

There’s a silence before Tim releases a wheezing laugh of disbelief.

It’s soon followed by the most enraged, harrowing scream Bruce has ever heard. It feels as if it shakes the walls before Tim kicks at his father’s stomach and bolts.

Bruce is too stunned to follow and foolishly assumes he can track his son anywhere.

Tim, even after he manages to shakily pull out the Dalmane he had in his pocket just as he passes the gate and take a big inhale, manages to put his mind together enough to remove his watch and key.

Bruce is forced to shamefully admit what happened a few hours later when he can’t find him and realises that Tim isn’t coming back.

Alfred for the first time in Bruce’s entire life actually glares at him.

Dick shouts at Bruce about how unbelievably stupid he is.

Jason just scoffs and says the kid will come back while Damian makes a comment about Tim being weak.

Maybe they would have reacted better if Bruce told them why Tim left, but he shamefully doesn’t want to admit he didn’t notice that Tim was a dealing with addiction under his own nose.

But Bruce has never been good with honesty.

#batfam #tim drake #bat family #dc comics #batfamily #dc universe #tim drake is red robin #dc #tim drake is a menace #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #tim drake angst #tim drake centric #tw drugs #drug addiction #please heed warning

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yoonia · 5 months

Text

the bedroom hymns ● chapter xvii

⟶ Chapter summary | After failing to gain favours from Lady Laurel to help you with your magic, you try to find other ways to get what you want while you have the chance to. The last thing you had ever expected is to gain what you have been seeking of from an unlikely source who is willing to risk it all for you.

chapter xvii. divulgence

Once your tutoring hours with Lady Laurel is over, Lord Gordan enters the library to fill in the final tutoring hours of the day with his lessons in defence and royal principles.

However, since your physical condition is yet to be fit enough for any rigorous activities, he had instead decided to bring out the textbooks and help you run through everything that you have learned from your lessons so far.

Still having a foul mood after your last conversation with Lady Laurel, while still feeling lightheaded after spending hours staring at the flickering flames of the candles used for your practice, you initially feel unenthusiastic about getting into the next lecture. The candles have now been set aside, with most of the ones used already burned in half. Leaving behind the mere scent of burnt wax and lavender, a faint sight of smoke still swirling around the burnt wicks, and your dwindling resolve thanks to the lack of clear result from the practice.

But the moment Lord Gordan begins talking about the statute of territorial defence and the royal orders that you would need to learn by heart—in the rare case that you are needed to take over the King’s duty to protect the empire—you are taken back to the conversation you had with Yoongi the other day.

You are suddenly reminded of his story; about the kingdoms that are believed to have utilised powerful protection spells to secure their home territories and the people within from any kind of harm coming their way. Be it in the form of an outside threat or something that comes from within. Just like what had happened to the King back at The Citadel.

You carefully bring this up to Lord Gordan, claiming that you had simply read about this in one of the books of magic theories and practices that your tutors have been making you read throughout the weeks you spent learning from them, and you have grown curious about these spells.

Bringing this matter seems to have caught Lord Gordan by surprise, judging by the flicker of amusement you see briefly appearing in his gaze. It is quite subtle, and you would have missed it if you haven’t been so accustomed to Lord Gordan’s stoic expression when he is on duty, or when he is dictating the law and regulations of the empire, and perhaps even when he is observing you in your lessons in royal etiquette with Nanny Abigail.

But at the same time, it is quite obvious that he is also pleased that you would talk about this matter with him, much less for you to mention about your concern in protecting the people of the empire. You can see it through the spark of amusement growing in his eyes while he is listening to you speak up your mind.

Reaching out to pick up one of the magic books that Lady Laurel has left behind after the previous lecture, Lord Gordan flips through the book before stopping at a certain page. He slowly places the book back down to show its content to you, and then starts rubbing at the thin beard growing on his jawline as he leans back in his seat.

“The use of magic as a form of defence is something that has been done for centuries,” he says, while you peruse the opened page of the book to see an entire page filled with enchantments, theories of magical spells, their different purposes and how to conjure them, with half of the texts written in ancient tongue—the old language that you are still struggling to learn.

Lord Gordan continues to speak, explaining some of the spells that are written in the book and how to read them, when your gaze stops at the part which mentions about the protection spells similar to what you were talking about. Seeing them mentioned here so clearly quickly sparks your interest that you straighten up in your seat to get a better look at the texts.

If there had been any doubt about this type of magic when you first heard of it from Yoongi, it has certainly evaporated the moment you are seeing it with your own eyes. Granted, they are merely written in theories, but the more you read, the more clues you are getting about the spells and how they work, it becomes an eye opening moment that you just cannot stop reading about them.

Even more so when you come to the part of the text explaining how the spells could be altered depending on the one casting them. That they could be used to either protect a vast territory to a single person, even to protect something as small and trivial as a piece of jewellery.

“I’m going to assume that it would need a powerful mana to be able to cast such a spell to protect an entire territory as vast as the territories under Nythelean Empire, or to simply protect the entire empire as it is,” you cautiously wonder as you lean back in your seat, staring straight at the royal aide as you question him further,

“Could it be that the same applies to our territory then? Are Nythelean Empire and all the territories under the King’s ruling all protected by the same kind of spell? Lady Laurel spoke of magic that is protecting the castle, so I know that there is magic existing in every corner of the castle.”

A look of pride manifests on Lord Gordan’s face. “Yes, that is correct, Your Highness. Every single territory under the empire is within the protection of the spell.”

“But the empire is spread so wide, if we are to include The Citadel, the home castle, and the surrounding territories as well. Who would be strong enough to cast the spells, then?” you ask him, even if deep down, you can roughly guess who might have been capable enough to be casting these powerful spells.

Perhaps a part of you is still in denial, unable to believe that a single person would be capable of casting such a spell, something that is strong enough for it to stretch far and away, not only to cover a vast territory such as the Stargrave Castle and its surrounding areas, but also beyond, crossing over different realms to have the outer lands of the empire protected just as well.

You make yourself believe that there is a group of powerful mages receiving the King’s command to conjure such a spell to protect his empire, until Lord Gordan calmly answers, disrupting your beliefs by saying,

“His Majesty himself casted the spells to protect us all.”

This time, you are the one who is caught by surprise. Although, the thought of your father using his magic to protect the empire shouldn’t be too surprising to hear, not after what you have witnessed and learned for yourself to know what the King seems to be capable of. The magic portals, the disguises, and the ability to be in different places in a short amount of time. Finding the vast spread of farmland within a territory under a different kingdom which he secretly owns, and recalling what the history books have written about your father’s journey in establishing the empire also help you to believe that when it comes to the King, anything is possible.

But then a new wave of uncertainty comes to you the more you think about your father and his supposedly powerful magic.

You cannot help but recall Lady Laurel’s words—both from today’s lecture and from the letters that she had sent to you while you were indisposed—of how she talked about the possibility that your magic may be similar to the King’s. Something that she had deduced after observing the possibility that your illness may have been caused by the fact that your mana was responding to the King’s magic that is present within the home castle.

Is it really possible that you may have such a powerful magic inside you as well?

The idea makes your head spin. Because it seems too inconceivable for you to gain such a strong mana inside you, when you could barely contain the raw energy that you have encountered since the day you started living in this castle.

As if it isn’t enough for you to deal with, already finding it hard to process all of this new information, Lord Gordan takes it a step further as he continues to say, “The King has been doing so for a long time, for as long as the empire exists and even before, when he first protected the land to begin building his new home. It is something that many other rulers have done to protect their kingdoms, and just like other Kings and Queens, the task of using their magic to protect the empire should be passed on to the direct heir of the throne.”

Lord Gordan levels his gaze to yours when he later adds, ”And that person is none other than you, Your Highness.”

In contrary to the prideful look that he is giving you, the only thing you feel is the weight of responsibility that you suddenly have to carry with you, leaving you with a sense of uneasiness and a tightness in your chest that makes it hard for you to breathe.

To think that you have been so unknowingly carrying such a force inside you, yet you have no knowledge about it nor the power to control it. Unsurprisingly, it makes you feel wary. Having such an unidentified force inside your body doesn’t seem to be something that you can take lightly. But knowing this only gives you more reason not to remain idle about it. It makes you feel even more curious than ever before about your magic.

You want to learn more. You want to be able to see it. And you also wonder if you would one day be strong enough to harness your magic and to do exactly what your father has done.

With this idea running through your head, you find yourself confiding in Lord Gordan, expressing your thoughts and feelings, your curiosity, and also the disappointment that you still feel for not being able to gain Lady Laurel’s guidance to help uncover your magic. You cannot help but also open up about the questions that are filling your head right now about your magic.

What does it do?

What kind of form does it take once unleashed?

Why is it locked? What should you do to be able to unlock it?

Has it always been there all along, or does being in this realm had somehow triggered it from blooming, and will you ever have the chance to use it in the future?

Much to your surprise, Lord Gordan seems to be more open to listen to your concerns. While rubbing his thin beard, he begins murmuring something about different ways that you could possibly try to unlock your magic—while insinuating that he is interested in helping to guide you through it.

“Lady Laurel’s practices would have been able to help unlock your magic, if only you are made to focus on releasing it and opening up your mana instead of simply manifesting it into a flowing energy which remains inside your body,” Lord Gordan calmly says, his gaze suddenly turning sharp as he adds, “But it wouldn’t be fair to say that her practices had been without a purpose or positive results.”

“What does that mean?” you wonder.

Lord Gordan hums softly. “I could tell, just by looking at you right now, the changes that have occurred ever since you started the magic lessons with Lady Laurel. It seems to me that her practices may have helped sharpen your senses. That’s the one change that I’ve felt the most,” he explains. “And if I may guess, you may have started to feel a connection with your mana, detecting its presence inside you even if you haven’t been able to manipulate it in its full form.”

His startling deduction leaves you speechless.

As neither of your other tutors have been able to notice any changes or progress that have happened ever since you learned how to manifest your mana the way you have been using it, you haven’t thought of the possibility that Lord Gordan—the King’s aide who you have rarely spent time with outside of his lectures, unlike the way you are with Nanny Abigail—would be able to notice something like this simply by observing you closely.

“Perhaps I can help you with it,” Lord Gordan suddenly suggests, just as an uneasy feeling sets in.

“Help me with—unlocking my mana?”

Lord Gordan shakes his head. “I’m afraid I am not adept enough with that matter, Your Highness. Nor am I confident enough to go against His Majesty’s order to keep myself from meddling with your magic lessons,” he says, with a cryptic smile and an unreadable glint coming out through his gaze which reminds you too much of the look that Yoongi gave you when he first coaxed you into revealing your magic.

“Of course, the safest solution would be to wait until His Majesty returns and guides you through it himself, assuming that the King is the only one who truly understands about the mana which you had inherited both from His Majesty and the late Queen, and how to control your mana once it is unleashed. But it doesn’t mean that we should wait until then to learn how to manipulate your mana into a different kind of energy. It may help to prepare yourself to deal with your magic before it is awakened completely.”

A small grin escapes you just as you are starting to feel hopeful. “Does that mean you’re going to teach me how to cast a spell? Or maybe use this little mana I have to maybe hypnotise my guards, or my governess maybe, just so I could have a free time?”

Lord Gordan barks out a laugh. His smile turns cryptic once again once he sobers up. “Something like that,” he says.

“And this is something that wouldn’t force you to break His Majesty’s rules?”

With a soft chuckle, Lord Gordan leans closer. “I can only hope that by guiding you through this, His Majesty himself would be grateful in the end that I have chosen to meddle even when I shouldn’t,” he continues, and when he notices that he may have only left you confused with his words, he carries on to ask, “I was informed by the royal physician about your condition. He mentioned that your exhaustion may have come from having your mana drained quite rapidly. Have you any idea what may have been the cause?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you silently ponder how to answer. How are you supposed to explain the real reason why you have been draining up your mana without telling him about your father’s magic portals?

But wait, as someone who knows the ins and outs of the empire, and also the one responsible of taking care of the castle in His Majesty’s absence, does he really not know about the portals?

“I, uh—I’m afraid I don’t have a clue,” you choose to answer, unable to tell just yet if he is trustworthy. But the dubious look that he is giving you makes you doubt if he truly believes anything that you just said.

“Hmmm, I see,” Lord Gordan softly hums while once again rubbing at his beard, a habit that you have noticed to appear whenever he is in deep thought.

“There are a myriad of reasons that may have caused a person’s mana to be drained and exhausted. Much like yours did,” he calmly continues, showing no sign of having any curiosity about your latest—and without a doubt, quite risky—activities.

“Seeing that you are still adjusting with this realm, I am not entirely surprised that you are now facing the consequences from having to encounter new things. The different mana and overflowing energy that exist in your surroundings, the flow of magic, everything that you never once had to face.”

“Lady Laurel mentioned that perhaps being within a place where magic exists had woken up the magic I have inside me too abruptly, and I wasn’t ready for it,” you wonder loudly, referring to another part of her letter where she talked about the possible reasons why you fell ill. “And since I had no control of it, it made it possible for the new energy I had to be drained out.”

Lord Gordan lets out a soft hum. “Back when you were living in The Citadel, have you ever felt something similar to this? The kind of exhaustion that left you feeling listless?”

Holding back a smile, you question him back with a tease, “Like something was sucking my soul? Yes, I think I have. It didn’t feel as intense as what I felt for the past few days, however.” Looking back now, you have experienced a few occasions where you experienced unexplainable fatigue, something that even the royal physician working at The Citadel could never account for.

With a smile, Lord Gordan explains calmly, “With the lack of presence and knowledge of magic at The Citadel, any form of mana exhaustion that happened to you then would only be interpreted as any regular physical exhaustion. You may have felt too tired, too sleepy, without any thought of it having anything to do with your declining mana.”

Lord Gordan pauses, giving you a moment to take this all in before continuing, “The only difference you have now is that your self-awareness of magic has made you more sensitive to the declining mana as it happens.”

Your eyes grow wide, surprised to how his theory makes perfect sense. You remember how often you had ever felt similar to what he had just described. The only difference would be the fact that instead of having your mana drained by your father’s suspicious portals, you had only felt this way after spending an entire day with your father, or when you were dealing with your royal duties under Nanny Abigail’s guidance.

“Can you think of the reason why you would feel drained back then?”

“I can’t really explain it. Mostly, it would happen after I spent my day doing my royal duties, or—” you sigh as you remember the days you spent at The Citadel, the long afternoons filled with lessons and duties, before you would join your father in the training field. “In the afternoon, I would spend a few hours training with my father or with the royal knights. My father, he insisted that I should learn some skills in swordsmanship and martial arts, so I would be able to defend myself if needed, whether I would protect myself with weapons or my own bare hands.”

After listening to what you have to share, Lord Gordan falls silent for a moment. The sparkle in his eyes almost seems to grow brighter. As if the piece of information that you had just given him has all the answers that he has been seeking ever since you began talking about all of this.

“That would certainly—explain everything,” you hear him murmur to himself.

Tilting your head, you look at him closely to question, “What do you mean? What are you thinking?”

The smile that appears on Lord Gordan’s face is different, almost warm, as he openly shares his assessment. “I have reasons to believe that His Majesty hasn’t truly been denying you the chance to learn about your magic. As a matter of fact, it seems to me that he had already started preparing you to harness your magic even before His Majesty finally decided to bring you back to the home castle.”

“W-what makes you think that?”

With his hand rubbing lightly at his beard, Lord Gordan explains further, “Judging from what you had just told me, it seems that you were not only training physically through your coaching with the King. I’m quite sure that during your training with His Majesty, he would have used a little bit of his magic to help you get used to dealing with hidden mana or to somewhat awaken your magic. A subtle action that may have gone unnoticed, if only you were to remain in The Citadel instead of being here at Flagon, right where the main source of his magic lies.”

Taken aback, you are once again left speechless. Just a while ago, you were feeling despondent because of your tutor’s unyielding rejection and your father’s strict rules which have been keeping people from meddling with your magic lessons.

But what if Lord Gordan is right, and that your initial thought about your father preventing you from harnessing your magic hadn’t been the truth at all? Had he truly been preparing you for it for a long time instead of keeping you away from it?

“That might explain why you would be losing more energy than you normally would when going through these training sessions with the King and his knights. His Majesty must have been training you not only for the purpose of self defence, but also to prepare you to physically withstand the force of your magic once it is unlocked so you could channel it better.”

“I—I never thought of it that way,” you murmur softly as you look down at your open palms. “So you mean—he hasn’t been completely keeping me away from learning about my magic?”

Father—has been preparing me for it all this time, training me to harness magic without me realising it?

With a low chuckle, Lord Gordan nods his head. “I can only imagine that once you resume the King’s physical training, you would exert even bigger energy. Especially once you are able to channel your mana into your swordsmanship,” he says to you with a reassuring tone that further sparks the hope you have brewing in your chest.

“In fact, I believe that it isn’t the only thing that the King had set up to get you into shape before he could introduce you to your special magic, Your Highness,” he adds, adding to your curiosity.

“It’s not?”

“Lady Laurel’s lessons in magic,” he says, as if that alone would answer your question. “She has been teaching you everything that you needed to know about magic and this realm as a whole, has she not?”

You nod, and Lord Gordan continues, “She has also taught you the basics in magic, spells, about the mages that are gifted and trained to cast their magic, the different forms and sources of powers. And what had been her lesson today, may I ask?”

Biting your lips, you recall the practice that she introduced you today after you requested her to help you unlock your magic. Again, the dismay you felt when you had thought that you had gained nothing much of it is being lifted as you glance over to the burnt candles and answer, “A practice in centering my attention, to focus on my mana flow.”

To your answer, Lord Gordan makes a delighted sound which startles you. “I see it now. Your Highness, I don’t think that His Majesty has completely been denying you access to your powers.”

“He is not?” The glimmer of hope reappears within you. “But how? I don’t understand.”

“To be able to harness a powerful magic that is equal to the King’s magic, you would need a strong vessel to contain it and a strong core to help you channel your mana,” he begins to explain, “Your body is your vessel, and I believe that the King has been using your training to prepare your physique while your magic is still contained under its restraint. Practicing your focus will help strengthen your core, allowing you to channel your mana and build a strong connection with it so you would be able to call upon it as easily as any strong mage could.”

Surprised, pleased, and elated, you let out an incredulous laugh while staring at your palms once again. “So what you’re telling me is that my father has been helping me with my magic all this time, instead of restricting me of it?” you question Lord Gordan, meeting his gaze and the cryptic smile that has once again appeared on his face while returning it with your own. “I suppose it wouldn’t be right for me to continue being angry at the King, would it?”

Lord Gordan laughs. “No, I suppose not.”

Shaking your head, you rest your hands on your lap and wonder loudly, “If what you said is true, then I don’t get why my father would have to be all secretive about it, even going in a roundabout way before helping me with my magic directly.”

Lord Gordan gives you a warm smile for a change when he answers, “I’m afraid only the King himself who could explain his reasons why.”

“Then I guess that means I won’t have my answers until he returns to the home castle then,” you murmur with a light scoff.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But—” he stalls, waiting until he gets your full attention before adding, “At least now, I know how to help you with your—predicament, Your Highness.”

You tilt your head in wonder. “How so, Lord Gordan?”

“Since you already have your physical training and your focus accounted for, I might be able to combine both practices and help you learn a useful skill that may become crucial for your future practice in magic.”

“What would that be?” you ask him, “What would I learn, if not to unlock my magic just yet?”

A small grin rises on Lord Gordan’s face as he answers, “Total control.”

True to his words of keeping you from exerting too much of your energy today, since he believes that you are still recovering from your illness, Lord Gordan simply spends the next hour of your lecture making up plans and listing out the practices that you are going to have on your future lessons with Lord Gordan until the day the King returns.

Unfortunately, the designated hour of his lesson ends too soon without you having the chance to try out some of his practices, but you still end the day with a new hope growing within you, and a promise to keep the planned lessons a secret from your other tutors.

“May I ask you something, Lord Gordan?” you ask him right before he walks out of the library at the end of your lecture.

Standing with one hand in his pocket—right where he keeps his pocket watch—Lord Gordan turns to face you. “Of course, you can ask me anything and I’ll see if I could help.”

“Why all the secrecy? Why did His Majesty prevent Lady Laurel and Lady Abigail from helping me unlock my magic? Why would my father create these conditions to make it seem as if he doesn’t agree with the idea of me learning about my magic and how to use it?”

Lord Gordan takes a moment to mull over the answer before giving it to you. “Here, in this realm, there is an unspoken rule related to the magic that the most of us have within us,” he begins to explain,

“Those who are gifted with magic would often keep everything about their powers a secret. About their magic, where they come from, what they do, in order to protect ourselves and oftentimes, the source of our magic. Most of the powerful mages wouldn’t speak of their magic so openly unless it is with the people they trust, their own people and followers, or those directly affected by the magic itself.”

He briefly stops, before continuing, “And when the magic itself comes from an ancient source, from beings that are as old as time itself, the more it is restricted, kept as a secret by the ones who still wield them or those who are these powers are inherited to, simply to keep it from getting into the wrong hands.”

An uneasiness settles in your chest. “Because they could be used against us?”

Lord Gordan nods. “Precisely. And that is only one of the many reasons why we all keep any information about our magic so close to us.”

Your father’s warnings about keeping everything about the magic portals a secret come back to haunt you. The cryptic way he said it leaves an unsettling feeling inside. “A family secret. That’s what my father would call it.”

A small smile appears on Lord Gordan’s face as he thinks about the King. “The King’s magic is—special. I’m sure His Majesty will eventually tell you everything there is to know about his family’s magic, but all I can say to you is this,” he says as he takes a step closer to explain further—

“Most rulers, the Kings and Queens and the mightiest Emperors of any Kingdoms and Empires of the realm have always had one thing in common. They have always used their magic to rule their empires, their home territories, and to lead their people. Their magic allows them to keep things in order, for the people to be protected, for the empires to flourish, and for every living being within their power to keep living a prosperous life.”

As you let his words to sink into your thoughts, you are reminded of the flourishing land of Smotia and wonder if your father’s magic has anything to do with its prosperity.

But why doesn’t he do the same here, at the home castle, that is somehow appears almost barren aside from the glimmering coastline?

“This is probably why His Majesty is limiting the amount of people who could be exposed of his magic directly, and I am sure that he is trying to protect you by doing the same, to help you shield the magic within you from being exposed to the wrong people until the day you are ready to harness it for the sake of the empire.”

You can understand where he is coming from, even if you still cannot understand why the King would keep everything about this realm and the family’s magic a secret even from you for so many years. You express this thought to Lord Gordan as well, as you wonder why your father had to wait for so long to move you to the home castle, to this realm, and to expose you to magic.

With a sigh, Lord Gordan reminds you once again that the King had already begun to prepare you to deal with everything since back at The Citadel. “Contrary to what you might have believed, you have always had the magic inside you, Your Highness,” he later adds, “It’s just that for some people, that magic may take different times to manifest into their final forms instead of staying in the form of a passive mana circulating in your core the way yours still do now.”

Frowning, you try to guess what he might be implying. “You’re saying that he already tried to help unlock my magic since back then.”

Nodding, Lord Gordan shares his thoughts with you to say, “I might surmise that it could be the reason why His Majesty had chosen to bring you back to the home castle at this time.”

You shake your head lightly as you recall the day the King informed you about moving you here. “My father said that he wanted to protect me. To bring me to safety. There are threats being made against the empire and it would have been too dangerous for me to be at The Citadel should any of his enemies strike us.”

“His Majesty was telling the truth, but I wouldn’t be too surprised if that had not been the only reason why he made the move to bring you home,” Lord Gordan says with a small smile, “Because if your magic is truly in the midst of manifesting into its final form already, then imagine what could have happened if you had been at The Citadel when the enemy’s attack does come.”

The unsettling feeling returns. “Would it be terrible?”

Lord Gordan nods. “It would have left you completely vulnerable if you haven’t mastered a way to control your mana. Not to mention, your magic—if it is as suspected to be a mirror of what the King possesses—would serve as a beacon, attracting any form of threats that may have been aiming for the King’s source of power.”

Putting it that way, everything that you had just learned about your father’s scheme of secretly teaching and preparing you to harness your magic finally makes sense. He must have had everything thought of, planned out thoroughly to be able to help you manifest your magic to its full form—as Lord Gordan explicitly explained.

“There is also another thing that you must be wary of before you delve deeper into your magic,” Lord Gordan adds just as you are slowly beginning to understand more about what your father may have planned for you.

“More things to worry about?” you jokingly ask him with a bitter chuckle.

But the light mood instantly fades when you notice that Lord Gordan’s expression has turned serious, the humour that he previously showed you is long gone, while the smile that he is giving you seems to be filled with a hint of remorse.

“You must remember that magic comes with a price. Especially with the kind of magic that the King and his family possess. For a significant and powerful spell such as what the King has cast upon the empire, he would have had to give up something for an exchange of the power that he would have needed to be able to do so.”

All so suddenly, fear grips tightly at your chest. Chill runs through your spine when you ask him, “Give up something—like what?”

Lord Gordan sighs. “Something other than mana. Something that would be most precious to the King.”

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