#and subsequently find this distasteful...

[sapphuric-acid]

Thinking about that part in the Moomin series where after getting transformed by the magic top-hat Moomin has to convince everyone that it's actually him.

Specifically the version from the 90s anime where he's crying and sobbing to his mother, who treats him with tenderness as she searches the supposed stranger's eyes, as if trying to find Moomin's very essence within this new monstrous form. And Moomin's getting really desperate because the long silence makes him think nobody believes him and he's ready to break down completely and give up knowing he's stuck in this new body.

Until Moominmama determines that yes, this is her darling child, and through the power of a mother's love he is transformed into his former self. Her love is what allows everyone else in the room to see that this is the same Moomin they've always known and loved.

Like, I know that entire novel and its subsequent adaptations are one big queer allegory, but that part really fucking hit hard for me as someone with a very tenuous relationship with their own mother. When I come out to her, will she be blinded by her ignorance and distaste for "alternative lifestyles" and antagonize me? Or will she too be able to see in my eyes that I am the same child she has always loved and that she will continue to love in this odd new form?

[santsukii]

ᯓ✿ hurts to put in words

ˋ°•*⁀➷ anemo boys realizing they’ve fallen out of love with you

ˋ°•*⁀➷ venti, xiao, kaedehara kazuha, shikanoin heizou, wanderer x gn! reader

₊˚ angst!! very angst!! established (toxic) relationship, small amount of violence, cheating, mentions of alcohol

ᯓ✿ VENTI

it’s not like the anemo archon really knows his way around love despite having lived for thousands of years. for him, it was as simple as the spark between the two of you had faded. he had grown apathetic towards you, even emotionless at times. it wouldn’t take a genius to realize what was going on. the love that once resided in his eyes when he looked at you was replaced with a look of pain. he didn’t know how to leave a relationship, but he doesn’t want to hurt you more than this drawn-out and dead romance already has. he’d find himself sipping on some wine, reminiscing the time before the love had faded. he misses those days, but he couldn’t force himself to fall for you again.

ᯓ✿ XIAO

he swore to protect you, but his devotion only weighed more heavily on his psyche as time went by. what was once pure love and passion became hurt. it stung to meet your eye, even more so when you cleaned and bandaged the wounds he may have sustained in battle. he told himself it was to protect you from getting hurt, forcing himself to shut down his emotions and subsequently kill his love for you with his bare hands. playful banter was replaced with arguments in which so many hurtful things were hurled at each other. sometimes he really did look at you with pure hate in his eyes, regarding you as nothing more than a nuisance and hinderance to his job of protecting the people of liyue.

ᯓ✿ KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

the various things he had written for you would gather dust in his room, having gone to waste as his whirlwind romance ended silently. he realized he no longer loved you when you kissed him and he felt nothing. his heart had once fluttered whenever he was near you, but those butterflies in his stomach had simply fluttered away. he’d find himself wondering if it was love at all, choosing to categorize it as a temporary infatuation to justify his growing apathy towards you. he’s quite literally free as the wind, so it wouldn’t take much to simply leave. he’s not going to force himself to be with you when he feels nothing. the love had simply faded with no rhyme or reason.

ᯓ✿ SHIKANOIN HEIZOU

he’d spend more time at work when he realizes he’s fallen out of love. the excuse for avoiding you is that he’s just busy with work, when in reality he’s often just pacing around his office, figuring ways to break up with you painlessly. whenever he’d say he loves you, it was strained and forced, obvious that he didn’t mean it. he had loved you at one point, but his forcing himself to still be affectionate despite having fallen out of love with you is simply exhausting. it’s all he could do to avoid you and the way you hadn’t seemed to stop loving him. maybe he’d start seeing other people behind your back and fall for someone else the same way he had with you.

ᯓ✿ WANDERER

he’s the only one who’s blunt about it. he’d simply tell you that he doesn’t love you anymore with disgust in his eyes. he doesn’t have it in him to be nice, and you had known that when you started dating him. it took so long for him to open up to you and begin being affectionate, but it had simply faded and been replaced with distaste and words that sting when they come out of his mouth. he had never said he loved you, but he at least acted like it sometimes. nowadays, his affection was replaced by disgustingly blunt and mean comments that seem to be true. he had simply been betrayed too many times to truly love anyone again, and you were the prime example of a failed attempt to love.

[genericpuff]

We know how Hera feels about Apollo, but how does she feel about Artemis since she's Apollo's twin and Zeus' bastard daughter?

Hera's definitely not on good terms with Artemis, but compared to Apollo, it's kind of more mutual indifference as they're fairly good at avoiding each other and keeping within their own lanes. Artemis spends most of her time in the Mortal Realm, after all, and for the most part, she's pretty good at keeping her head down and out of the drama of Olympus.

That said, neither Artemis nor Hera are goddesses who are willing to take things lying down, so when they have gotten on each other's nerves in the past... it hasn't been pretty 💀😆

Apollo, on the other hand, takes a lot more after Zeus, and subsequently irritates Hera very similarly as she finds him very obnoxious, rude, and arrogant. While he definitely won't go out of his way to antagonize Hera directly (when he can help it), he's also not keeping himself out of the spotlight as much as Artemis does - so even if they avoid each other physically, Hera still has to put up with seeing his face everywhere in tabloids and magazines and that definitely compounds her distaste towards him LOL

[optimisticgardenhologram]

Something I noticed in my re-reads of the manga is that Light and Near’s inner monologues tend to pretty directly state what exactly they mean with minimal ambiguity. However with L and Mello their internal thoughts often taper off before reaching their conclusions, or are otherwise just positioned more mysteriously leaving their true feelings and intentions to the imagination of the reader.

For one example, something I always find interesting are Mello’s comments around Misa. 

Let me explain. It's this panel I mean:

What I'm curious about is when he says: "if she had the eyes that in itself could be enough to make her worth something to Kira...still for Kira to be using a girl like this..."

While his statements read plainly enough the interpretation can go in a couple very different ways. And of course this being manga (oh and being CUT from the anime doesn't help) the absence of tone makes his intention all the more ambiguous. 

I'm curious where is the emphasis on that statement? Is it:

"...still for Kira to be using A GIRL like this..."  (implying some general objection to using a girl in the role of the second Kira)

OR

"...still for Kira to be using a girl LIKE THIS..." (implying a specific distaste for exploiting this woman's stupidity, the loss of her parents, and subsequent devotion to Kira and possible willingness to sacrifice half her remaining life for the eyes to help her heroic savior).

My own position is I tend to lean to the latter interpretation. I think he's bothered by the way Kira is weaponizing Misa's trauma and idolization of him. Yes I am biased, yet still believe there's more than enough textual basis to back up that reading. 

Remember at this point Mello's been listening in on her and Mogi's conversations for almost a week (side note note that this shows Mello is fluent in Japanese since there's no reason Mogi and Misa would be speaking English when they're alone together). But it appears that nothing overtly suspicious is going on with them, and more than that their apparently inane and tedious conversations by this point are (understandably) grating on Mello's last nerve. He wonders how "This stupid girl is the second Kira? But I think of any other reason Mogi would be with her...her...". Yeah it's kinda mean to call her stupid, but the point is IF Kira was using her, it certainly wasn't for her brilliance. Also notice he repeats the word "her" twice, showing that he's thinking of her as in the individual sense not as a generic member of the female gender.

Also if his statement was just as a general sexist comment meant to say there's something fundamentally undesirable in entrusting a woman with that sort of power, there would have been no need for the panels showing him mulling over her personal history and possible motivations, making those connections in such detail.  Plus unlike some other characters in the series, Mello isn't known make prejudicial comments about women.

Being a fellow orphan himself, and one whose trauma and devotion was ALSO exploited similarly --  raised to be a tool serving someone else's vision, and not only that but similarly having bought fully into it and making it his own life goal -- he might be able to relate to Misa's situation more than most.

It's also worth mentioning that I wouldn't necessarily consider it out of character for Mello to be rubbed the wrong way by how Kira is using Misa. Mello is shown multiple times throughout the manga to be openly empathetic (which goes hand in hand with his infamous trait of unapologetically having emotions), including to his enemies. See Soichiro Yagami, Kiyomi Takada. 

Anyway, it's a small detail to devote this much thought and rambling text to, but I think it's interesting so...

/shrug/

[dailynoodlezz24]

I was going to keep away from all the Nevermore drama originally, however somethings new had just come to my awareness, and i just cant anymore Cw: very aggravating texts

This is my friend/source asking the person(who was under Red's interrogation) for their Dm's with Red.

The purple one is my friend, the blue and yellow censors is the person giving us the information.

Here are the Dm's: again, cw: for aggravating texts

Not only pressuring an obvious child here, Red-- you have the audacity to ask why they think they have "control in the conversation?" and should you "pardon their attitude?" If feels so egotistical, that you're on a constant authority high.

This and the time you shut down anyone who asked about the situation of those who were banned for apparently no reason other than being a suspected alt-- Your aggression and foremost, above all apparently, sassy attitude to a group who you're(I assume) aware are minors, is downright just gross. If i would be so frank, it feels majorly like an ego stunt than anything else.

This display of witch-hunt-- the blatant disregard to this child's mental safety here, and their just panicky responses. Why ask in the first place if all you're going to do is force your assumptions on this kid? Playing "bad cop" is and will never be the correct reaction when it comes to trying to figure out an uncertain situation(even with how you sound so sure, you still came to ask).

And honestly, I am even more enraged by the fact just a few days prior about the Crimson's Unbanning argument you chastised the discord audience about "witch hunting," despite acknowledging you know less than those actually included(who have spoken out, and whom were subsequently banned. Such as .milo, a victim of Crimson) (not saying I am for witch-hunting)

All I have to say, Red, is personally I find the more I learn of you, the more I grow a certain distaste of you. I really wish i had a semblance of hope that really, truly wasn't you. But hells, with how much I've seen from you...

and the poor kid. All because of some paid-for art(that most definitely is on Pinterest)

@gothwineaunts

[spicerackofblorbos]

Labyrinth | Vendetta Leon Kennedy x gn!Reader

☾ summary ➼ Leon comes home after an impromptu mission and 'finally' meets his neighbor, you.

☾ content/warnings ➼ alcohol, allusions to being an alcoholic, fluff, canon, non-descriptive reader (except you have a mom that cooks and have friends idk lmao)

☾ a/n ➼ hey I really think this song is Vendetta!Leon coded and I just think he needs a warm meal and a big hug. This takes place right after Vendetta, btw. And idk if he even has an apartment at this point since he was in a whole other country at the beginning of it but let's pretend! Proofread once!

☾ wc ➼ ~1k

It had been a few days since defeating Arias and saving New York from his zombification plan – barely. Leon Kennedy was sick of this shit, cleaning up after the disasters of others. There was a reason he was hiding out and drowning himself in bourbon and whiskey before Redfield sought him out.

Now, Leon finds himself practically crawling his way up his apartment complex stairs to his home and subsequently, hopefully, his bed. His body aches in too many places, but honestly he couldn’t care less. He needed a drink and a pillow to rest his throbbing head.

The moment Leon stepped into his spartan apartment, he leaned back against the front door and audibly groaned – half from frustration and the other from pain. His heavy boots thud against the cheap wood panel floors as he makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and pouring himself his amber liquor of choice.

The dark haired man barely even sat down, didn’t even take a sip yet, before a knock on his door made him jump. On instinct, he pulls the gun he had tucked in his pants out and aims it at the sound, as if there were an enemy right there.

Another knock, gentle and precise.

“One second.” Leon grumbles, setting his glass down on the coffee table, before pulling himself up from the chair with a strained grunt.

When he opens the door, his eyes are drawn instantly to a person standing right in front of him – you. With your warm smile, friendly eyes, and something held out to him.

He’s not even fazed. Exhaustion threatened to crush him, and he just wanted to lie down.

“Listen, I’m not interested in whatever you have to sell. I assure you, I have everything I need.” Leon say dryly, preparing to close the door in this stranger’s face.

“Even your wallet?”

The door stops moving as Leon halts before patting his hands along his jeans. The noticeable bulge that’s usually there in his back pocket is gone.

“Shit.” He mutters. The door opens back up, and Leon sees your small frown and downturned brows.

“I found it on the stairs, figured you might need it.” You remark, handing it out to him again.

“…Thanks.” He grabs the wallet out of your hand, the action a little rougher than intended. That was kind of his thing though, wasn’t it? Being rough around the edges. “Have I seen you before?”

“Um. Yeah, I hope so. I’m your neighbor?” you point to the apartment door behind you with a thumb. Instead of a look of distaste or offense that he had expected, you give him a puzzled yet amused expression.

For the first time in a long time, Leon feels his face heat up in embarrassment. He clears his throat awkwardly as he stuffs his wallet into its designated pocket.

“Right… well. Thanks, neighbor.” He mumbles before turning to close the door again, but he does so gentler than before.

“Hey, do you want something to eat?”

His steps falter again, leather-clad back turned to face you as he processes what you just asked.

“It’s just… I kinda had plans to meet up with a few friends for a potluck dinner tonight and they ended up canceling so I have all this food and it’s too much for one person to eat alone.”

Leon was not in the business of believing in the success of relationships whether it be romantic or platonic. In his line of work, shit like that was dangerous. He used to be a slight flirt – but it’s not like he expected anything to come out of it. It was all a coping mechanism anyway, a way to ease tension that was wound up so tight in him that he thought he might suffocate on his own air.

In fact, he looked forward to the inevitable rejection of his initiations as if it were proof that relationships were a farce and being unlikeable was working out for him.

But to have someone initiate a conversation with him for once? For something completely non-work related, something so mundane as asking to share a meal. Were you expecting anything out of it?

“Depends, what is it?” he asks, turning around to face you again with the door half open. Leon’s dark fringe covers his eye and he shakes it back with callused fingers, only for it to fall back into his face. He really needed a hair cut.

A smile breaks out on your face, so warm and inviting. How had he never paid attention to you before?

“It’s nothing exciting. Chicken and dumplings. My mother’s recipe… sorta. I changed it a lot, actually. She would kill me if she heard me say that. They just don’t know how to season things, you know?” you ramble on, fingers fidgeting with each other as you meet his gaze with more excitement than he’s used to seeing.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” Leon finds the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Is that yes?”

A pause.

“Sure, I can eat.”

“Great! Uh… okay, so I didn’t think past giving your wallet back. Why don’t you come over and grab some now while it’s hot? And then when it cools, I’ll pack some up to take with you.”

“It’s fine, I can wait until-“

“Please, it’s so much better when it’s just been made. Trust me.” You wave your hand dismissively before turning on your heel to take the few steps needed to your apartment.

As you open your door invitingly to him, he takes a moment to look back into his sparse home, dark and in need of a good dusting. His eyes catch his glass of whiskey, waiting for him on the coffee table.

“Are you coming?”

He turns to face you, a small smile finally breaking through like much needed sunshine.

“Yeah.” He closes his door, the sight of his abandoned drink disappearing behind him.

☾ tagging ➼ @lucysarah-c @antagonize-me-motherfucker @ceruleanrainblues

☾ wanna be part of my tag list? click me!

☾ Leon masterlist!

[im-a-wonderling]

Let's Not Give the Game Away ~ George Weasley

Previously titled: "Is It Still Punishment if It Was Worth It?"

Summary: Y/N's whole goal in life is to keep her head down and protect her brother. George Weasley's whole goal in life seems to be making sure Y/N can't hide.

Warnings: Umbridge *shudders*

Word count: 2.4k

Please Don't Say You Love Me masterlist

As I left the atrocious pink office, nothing around me stirred, as if the whole castle was frozen, lying in wait for the dawn. Light streamed through the open doorway, heralding my late release from detention. 

“Off to bed, dear,” said that sugary, poisonous voice behind me. “Don’t let Mr. Filch catch you lingering instead of being safe asleep in your bed.” Was it my imagination, or did the throbbing of the back of my hand pulse in time with her voice? 

I wanted nothing more than to scurry away as fast as my legs would allow, but like any predatory animal, Professor Umbridge could smell fear, so I simply bowed my head as demurely as possible, avoiding her deep-set gaze. “Yes, professor.” I could feel the horrid woman’s toad eyes following me as I walked down the wide staircase, heading for the dungeons. 

The door closed behind me with an ominous thud, and the light disappeared. 

Stopping in my tracks, I immediately turned the corner to a little alcove, slumping next to the window. I stared at the colored glass, depicting a dragon breathing flames up into the sky. My wound gave a particularly violent throb. “Ouch,” I hissed under my breath, staring down at the shiny red letters.

I must obey the rules.

Cradling my aching hand to my chest, I let out a long breath. Every pang seemed to ring through my whole body, and yet, instead of acting as a deterrent, I was all the more resolved in my actions. If Umbridge had forced my brother to write those words and endure this pain, even her title as High Inquisitor would not have saved her from my wrath. 

“Well, that’s a first.”

I jolted. At first, I wondered if it’d been the dragon that spoke—often things at Hogwarts spoke when one might think they shouldn’t. But the dragon didn’t move. I looked around me, just in time to see the tapestry further down the stairs shift, and a red-headed boy came out from behind it.

George Weasley. Certified troublemaker with an un-shuttable gob and downright homemade values, the very personification of Godric Gryffindor’s ideal student. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

George gestured to my hand. “I didn’t know she punished Slytherins too.” He spoke the word without distaste, but with an emphasis all the same.

I just shook my head and left my alcove, heading for the Slytherin common room. There was no point in arguing in Slytherin’s favor; the history in this castle chronicled many a Slytherin who tried and subsequently had to run for the Hospital Wing before a toenail-growing hex grew too painful to walk.

Unfortunately, the redhead sidled into my path. I took several steps back, checking for the location of his wand, prepared to whip out my own before he could cast anything. But his hands were empty, and judging by the way he watched me, his head was regrettably anything but.

“You’re in my way,” I said calmly.

“Malfoy shouldn’t have done that.”

The simple statement made my lungs falter for breath, but I kept my face impassive. “He didn’t have a choice.”

“No, he had a choice.” George’s maddeningly certain tone set my teeth on edge.

I scoffed, walking down the staircase. “You don’t understand, you couldn’t possibly understand what he faces.”

“Oh, yes,” George’s voice grew louder and mocking, following me on my heels, “poor little rich Malfoy, head of the Inquisitor Squad, can’t handle–”

“Sod off.” My gritted teeth added all the threat I wanted, but George wasn’t deterred.

“What a slog it is, having everything one could possibly–”

I whirled around, my hands finding George’s chest to shove him as hard as I could. “You don’t know what it’s like!” I hissed, glaring at him. “You and your brothers just do whatever you fancy at the moment, whatever wicked thing halfway crosses your mind. Well, not all of us have the luxury of doing what we want.”

George looked as serious as I’d ever seen him. “He could’ve spared you this and he didn’t. No true friend would scurry off to Umbridge to report you like that.”

For a moment, I considered starting a row, but Umbridge’s office was still within earshot, and I didn’t want another round of writing with that cursed quill. So I chose not to acknowledge him, walking down the stairs with my head held high, reaching the bottom of the stairs and quickly walking down the corridor, hoping my feet could outrun George’s mouth. But when I looked to my right, there was George, loping alongside me.

“Seriously–”

“Seriously, George, shut it.” I came to a stop, glaring up at him. “What are you even doing here? It’s past curfew.”

“Some of us are taking turns behind the tapestry,” he said easily. “Watching in case any first or second years get turned out of Umbridge’s office with bleeding hands.”

“Oh?” I tossed my head, moving my hair to one side. “And if it were a Slytherin first year, would you have greeted them the way you greeted me?” If my kid brother had been the one walking out of the office, I silently asked, would you have comforted him? 

“Perhaps, but I’m willing to bet that they, unlike you, would accept a hug and a trip to the kitchens for some dessert afterwards.”

My stomach rumbled, and I placed my uninjured hand over it. “Well, I’m no first year, so you can go.” I resumed my furious pace.

George easily kept up. “It wasn’t fair of Malfoy to do that.”

Was it impossible for him to leave well enough alone? “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Everyone knows you were just protecting your brother.”

I seized the collar of George’s robes, dragging his face down an inch from mine. “Don’t you dare–

“I’m not going to tell,” George said, remarkably calm considering how quickly his position had changed. 

“How am I supposed to trust that?”

“I’m not Malfoy.” 

I considered him for another moment before letting him go. He straightened, smoothing out his robes. “How did you know?” I asked. 

George gave a short laugh. “You’ve never touched a broomstick outside of Flying class, and yet I’m supposed to believe you even have a broomstick to bring into the castle?” He shook his head. “Anyone with eyes knows you’d do anything for your brother, so of course Umbridge is the only one daft enough to fall for your switcheroo.” 

I pondered his words for a moment before turning to walk back to my room. Like before, George kept time beside me. “She shouldn’t have given detention just for having a broomstick.” 

I shook my head. “There are rules.”

“And rules were made to–”

“–be broken?” I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a Gryffindor.”

“Says the Slytherin who just got out of detention.” I bit my tongue, trying to stay silent. “You should tell your head of house what Umbridge’s doing, maybe Snape’ll do something about–”

I let out a short laugh. “See, there’s the difference between you and me, George–”

George leapt forward, covering my mouth. Next thing I knew, I was being tugged behind a statue, finally pulled to meet George’s alarmed expression.

This was it. I should’ve known better than to trust a Gryffindor. Now he was going to hex me or curse me or even forgo a wand altogether and use his own two fists. 

Eyes wide, I tried to shove him away, protesting loudly from behind his hand. “Shush!” George said harshly. “Filch!”

I instantly stopped fighting, my heart pounding for a different reason. If George and I were caught by Filch right now, not only would I have another detention with Umbridge, but word would get out. I couldn’t even imagine the trouble I’d be in with my house if they found out I was out at night past curfew with a Gryffindor, and a Weasley at that!

The light of the lantern the caretaker always carried with him after hours grew closer and closer to the statue we crouched behind. George lifted his hand from my mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. I rolled my eyes. As if I didn’t already get the memo. 

“Anyone about, my dear?” Filch’s haughty voice asked. Mrs. Norris meowed back, and I heard the sound of a dark chuckle. "Professor Umbridge might allow us to try our new manacles.”

George and I met eyes. 

He made a stop gesture and then started to creep forward towards Filch. What could he possibly be planning? Filch would see him! 

Then it occurred to me. The noble idiot was about to sacrifice himself so that I would stay undetected. 

Oh no you don’t, I thought, seizing the back of George’s robes, dragging him back. I was not about to owe a Gryffindor anything. I pulled out my wand and a tissue I'd forgotten was there.

Snufflifors, I mouthed. 

The tissue morphed into a white mouse, which immediately scampered down the corridor. Immediately, Mrs. Norris sped after it. 

“My dear!” Filch protested, running after her, the light from his lantern growing farther and farther away until George and I were left alone in the dark. 

“Wow,” George stared in the direction Filch had gone, “that was quite impressive.”

The compliment made my cheeks warm. “Well, some of us jump into things without thinking about the consequences and some of us actually use our brains for more than pranks.” I shoved my wand into my pocket, about to storm down the corridor. 

“So you thought it through beforehand?”

“I didn’t necessarily plan to get caught by–”

“No, you thought through taking the blame for your brother?” 

I stopped short, allowing George to catch up with me. I eyed him warily. Was he fishing for evidence to get my brother in trouble? Or was he fishing for other reasons?  “Of course I did,” I said finally, deciding that my word against George’s was hardly any competition. 

A strange look twinkled in his eyes at that. “You actually thought about getting in trouble?” I didn’t reply. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t need to, because George could easily carry a conversation by himself. “You knew you could lose house points? And Hogsmeade could become off-limits to you? And that you might end up with words scratched into the back of your hand?” 

My silence was the only answer. Truthfully, he was right. I’d thought through all those possibilities. 

I’d earned Slytherin enough points throughout the years that any deduction wouldn’t damage my reputation too badly for anyone not in the Inquisitor Squad, especially under Umbridge’s reign. As for Hogsmeade, the castle itself was large enough to keep me from feeling claustrophobic. And, yes, I even budgeted for the possibility of getting detention with Umbridge; that’s why there was a Soothing potion waiting for me in my room. 

What I hadn’t anticipated was Malfoy being the one to report me. 

So much for being friends. 

George shuffled closer, bringing me to the present with his brown eyes. “You thought through the possibilities, and you still did it?” I nodded, and a grin broke out on his face. “Are you sure you aren’t supposed to be in Gryffindor?”

I made a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. “How dare you,” I said blandly. 

“I’m serious,” he said with a smile that said the opposite. “You’re quite the little risk-taker.” 

“Is it really risk-taking,” I murmured, “if you’re prepared for all the risks?” 

The inner corners of George’s eyebrows turned upward, his smile dimming to a more serious affect. “Was it worth it even though you got caught and punished?” 

“Is it still punishment if it was worth it?” 

His freckled face relaxed at the question, smoothing out until it was without pucker or twinge. “Should there be a rule against it if it’s still worth it?” he murmured.

I brought out my hand, looking down on it so I could once again read the message waiting there. The shiny letters didn’t hold any answers within their crimson hue. “I’m not sure.”

A hand reached out to touch mine, and my breath caught when I saw, on the back of George’s hand, familiar words, written in narrower handwriting.

I must obey the rules.

“Funny,” George said softly. “Regardless of what happened beforehand, we ended up the same.”

I slowly dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Not quite.” I smiled sadly. “I’m apparently friendless.” 

“Not friendless,” George murmured like a promise. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

I studied him, searching for any sign of deception. His locks had darkened over the years. In our first year, they could only be described as flaming, his hair as dangerous as his tendencies, but now they’d tempered into a comforting copper hue. His freckles also faded, though there were still just as many of them. His eyebrows normally promised even more trouble than his mischievous eyes, but now, nothing in his face seemed disingenuous. “Can Slytherins and Gryffindors even be friends?” I asked.

“Is it risk-taking if you’re prepared for all the risks?” George echoed.

I gave a short laugh. “Touchè.”

“Besides,” George said with a smirk, “you could do with friends better than that old tosser.”

I wanted to laugh, truly I did. Or perhaps I wanted to care little enough to be able to laugh. But alas, I cared too much, so I simply shook it off. “I’d better go, before Filch actually finds us.” 

“Fair enough.” George dropped my hand, and I missed the warmth immediately. “See you around, Y/N?”

I took great care to lessen my smile into a smirk. “If you’re lucky,” I replied.

George gave a relaxed salute before walking back the way we’d come, presumably to take up his place behind the tapestry.

I watched him go. Funny, I may not have been a first year, and he may not have taken me to the kitchens for dessert, and yet…I was glad for anyone else who might leave Umbridge’s office when George waited for them behind the tapestry.

-

Read the continuation here!

If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy my other George fanfic: Seven Years of Bad Luck

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

[tenderwatches]

summary: viktor and jayce feel close to cracking their current problem pressure builds from all sides, including from within

“The Council isn’t going to wait forever, Jayce.” Mel’s voice, diplomatic and calm, even in frustration.

Viktor doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Walking to Jayce’s lab each morning isn’t exactly easy for him, and his lungs demanded he catch his breath. Now, the moment sounds a little… tense. He doesn’t want to intrude. So, he makes his way slowly, his fingers tracing the cold stone wall as he walks. The interruptions between tiles mark his daily progress like notches on a measuring stick; how far can he go before needing to rest, how many breaths between each step?

Jayce groans something he doesn’t hear, continuing, “Something about these crystals just feels… wrong, Mel. They’re unstable in ways I can’t really explain, and we know nothing about the byproducts of the energy output.”

The mention of the Hex crystals sends a tendril of adrenaline racing through him—the promise of progress, of change, of maybe finally bridging the gap between Piltover and the Undercity. But Jayce is right. Ever since his return to the City of Progress, they've turned Jayce’s runic patterns over, sideways, backwards—but nothing they do makes the crystals react in the ways they should.

“Councillor Salos says Clan Ferros is considering changes to their support of the Council,” Mel intones, her voice low. Viktor’s veins run cold at the clan’s name. He hasn't heard it in a while, but the mention and the subsequently conjured image of their intelligencer brings a nursery rhyme singing out from the fog of childhood memories.

‘Keep your fingers out of pockets, keep your fingers off the green, else a lady with stilettos will come and slice them clean.’

He tightens his grip on his crutch and tries not to think too hard about a blood-thirsty, amoral family “supporting” the council in any way. Audible clacks from deliberate, sharp motions of his cane accompany his next few steps, allowing the conversation to fall to a hush before he enters.

“Good afternoon, Councillor Medarda,” he greets with a polite incline of his head. He expects she will give him a thin-lipped smile, polite but tinged with distaste, like she’s stepped on a viridian beetle. When he catches her gaze, however, he finds it’s… warmer than he anticipates. This is actually slightly alarming.

“Viktor,” she calls as she turns towards him. There is a chary distance between Mel and Jayce, a space where casual comfort should be. Their bodies tell a story, one of paths diverged. Mel’s usual poise carries none of the coy softness she once reserved for Jayce, whilst the man himself curls forward, hands gripping the edge of the workstation he leans against. By the way Jayce stares into the middle distance instead of acknowledging his arrival, Viktor can see he’s still deep in thought.

“I was just leaving,” Mel continues, sweeping across the room, towards him and the door. She stops to put a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, and he almost reflexively shrugs out from under it. He’s far from accustomed to most people’s touch, and much less so, that of Piltover’s ruling classes. “But it’s good to see you back—I’m looking forward to seeing what you and Jayce do next.”

The underlying meaning in her words is obvious, and he’s not sure if she has deliberately made her motives known to him, or if he’s become reacquainted with the ways the people here say things beneath the words they speak. Mel, of course, is one of the greatest examples of this—if he didn’t have his misgivings about her ties to the more violent parties in Noxus, he might even appreciate her shrewdness.

Viktor offers her a smile he hopes is polite, but the way she returns his expression is full of the sharp political intelligence she’s known for—nothing cruel, but knowing. She both acknowledges Viktor’s wariness whilst also offering to him that she’s grown beyond whatever he might remember of her. There’s a slight tilt of her head that suggests she’s not offended by his guardedness—if anything, she respects it. Her eyes, as they meet his, seem to say, “Your caution is warranted—but perhaps not necessary in the way you might think.”

She waves an elegant hand over her shoulder at Jayce, a motion that dispels his absorption. He begins to pace the room with a restless energy Viktor recognises. His former partner has never been an early riser, but over the years, they've both spent countless nights in the lab with Jayce walking circles around their latest conundrum until dawn breaks.

Viktor makes his way over to the workstation. The reports he recovered from his lab floor after their argument, back on his first day in Piltover, are still strewn across the desktop. Both men’s handwriting litters the papers, bold strikethroughs mingling with notes scribbled into the margins. Some of the diagrams have been replicated and reworked on the chalkboard. and a tired sigh escapes Viktor as drops into a chair and ponders one of them now.

“So the Council is getting impatient,” Viktor tests, his voice neutral. He doesn’t mention the Ferros clan.

“It’s hardly a secret.” Jayce runs his hand his hand through his hair, further exacerbating its dishevelled state. Has he always done that? Viktor remembers him being more composed, his appearance perpetually neat, even after long hours spent in the lab. He pulls his bottom lip against his teeth, deliberately averting his gaze from the soft expression of deep thought that Jayce wears. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows that suggests concentration, the slight press of his lips hinting at both his focus and a touch of worry or uncertainty. Viktor has always enjoyed observing Jayce in these moments of quiet intellectual engagement; Jayce is so invested in the outcome of their work. He knows Jayce sees so much more than numbers—he sees the future, the possibility of progress, the greater implications their discoveries hold.

In their time apart, his love for the other man has hardly diminished. Even when he was at his lowest, when he wanted to detest Jayce with every cell in his body, he never could. It’s hard, almost impossible, he thinks, to hate something that you love. Love always wins out. He’s not sure if he’s grateful.

He’s pulled from his rumination by the steaming mug that Jayce wordlessly places next to his hand. When he looks up, Jayce meets his eyes for only milliseconds before they both look away.

This is not the first cup of tea Jayce has made him. A couple of weeks into their reunion, when their interactions still felt prodding a fresh wound to see if it still hurt, Jayce had held out a mug to him for an embarrassingly long time before awkwardly setting it down on the desk, where it stayed for the entire day. Viktor was certain that it had been an accident—Jayce, simply going through the motions of preparing himself a drink, had mindlessly prepared one for Viktor, just like he used to.

This is the first mug that Jayce given him, instead of only offering. Though the familiarity echoes the effortless routines of their past, Jayce flutters about in his periphery, suggesting this presumption is hardly intentional. Jayce has always possessed this rampant desire to be needed, to be useful, to hold secrets of you that no one else could. No matter how good, admired, lauded he is, he seems unable to quiet his own anxieties until he fulfils a singular purpose for every person in his life.

Maybe this is why Viktor pulls the mug closer to him by the handle and takes a sip. Heat floods him, washing his body of tension as the dark sweetness of brown sugar mingles with the rich taste of evaporated milk. How long has Jayce been keeping these very specific fixings? Since the day he knew Viktor had returned? Viktor hopes not—the waste would be incredibly distasteful, especially considering how Jayce had once called his preferences ‘completely insane, illegal, even’.

Though Jayce has certainly noticed that Viktor has accepted his umpteenth peace offering after almost a full month of previously ignoring each one, he, wisely, says nothing. Instead, he pulls a series of molecular renderings closer, pen tapping idly against the page as he considers the elements he’s drawn.

There is no real purpose to his review; at this point, they’re certain about their calculations, rune matrices, and stabilisation frame design. Both are restless, eager to move on to the next step, but the parts ordered from the artificers have yet to come in (on more than one occasion, Sky has had to stop Jayce from storming off to the forge to take things into his own hands). At her urging, they take waiting period to study the composition of the synthetic crystals, which both of them admit is a better use of their time. “About the energy signatures you mentioned to Mel,” Viktor starts after a while, idly rolling the warm mug in his hands, watching the tea swirl in lazy circles along the edges. “They are… paradoxical. The crystals are dense, but the readings are unusually erratic.”

Jayce almost looks relieved. “Yeah, you noticed it too?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow at him before reaching across the desk to trade his mug for one of the rough, synthetic crystals, his other hand simultaneously reaching for a loupe. He brings the crystal up for study, squinting one eye shut to peer through the magnifying lens. “There is something here I recognise, I think.” He’s afraid to dig into what that might mean, especially when Clan Ferros is involved somehow. But they feel close to something, again, some fragment of information that will be the loose thread they need to unravel this whole mystery. “It is… subtle,” he continues, sparing a glance over the edge of the loupe to see Jayce hanging on to his every word. His expression is knitted into that characteristic mixture of scientific rigour and personal concern. “Do you have the reports from our mineral testing?”

Jayce rifles through papers until he finds what Viktor has asked for, and slides it over to him. “I don’t know what you’re expecting to find.” Arcane energy makes composition testing difficult, and, as Jayce alludes, the findings from the report are less than satisfactory. But Viktor isn’t looking for the precise makeup of the crystal—he just needs to see what makes it up.

Uranium.

Sulfur.

Carbon. Hydrogen.

His eyes flick over to the diagrams in front of Jayce, narrowing slightly as his thoughts race ahead of him, towards potential solutions. “These elements,” he starts, indicating each one to forcefully slow himself down, “They’re common, environmental—nothing unexpected when creating new minerals.” He smooths out the relevant report pages on top of the drawings. “And you’ve drawn them here, as alkynes, with the expected triple bonds.” He picks up a pencil and scribbles away a connecting line. Jayce opens his mouth to protest, but Viktor silences him with an impatient hand and proceeds to circle two separate groups. There is again some recognition here, though he can’t place why. “But what if proximity to the arcane disrupts them, leading to the instability we see?”

Jayce’s fingers brush Viktor’s as he takes the pencil to hurriedly sketch out another set of connections, more clearly representing what Viktor has pointed out. “Then we’d have these compounds here—which leaves them free to form a chain over there…”

Viktor is almost too wrapped up on the precipice of discovery again to concern himself with the way the energy leaps between them as Jayce’s thoughts intertwine with his—almost. “And that,” he emphasises, commanding his own focus as well as Jayce’s with an emphatic tap on the newly rendered molecules, “would explain why your last test melted.”

”This is huge,” Jayce murmurs, sitting back in his chair with a dazed quality to his expression. “We would need account for the interference and deal with the output of the fission—”

“But it could work.”

Optimism tempers Viktor’s curtness; viability could completely change the game for the Undercity, but he hardly dares to think of the possibilities. But for the first time since they began working together again, Viktor feels that old spark of discovery—the same energy that spurred the meteoric rise of Hextech years ago. Despite the rift between them, working together like this feels natural. Their ideas harmonise and build upon another, effortlessly leaping from one point to the next without ever having to pause for exposition. Even changing directions is simple for them, like pivoting in a waltz. Slightly dizzy with excitement, he sinks back into his chair. Exhales slowly. Coughs. Ignores the way Jayce’s attention snaps to him, faster than an electric shock.

“We should document these findings properly before we proceed with any modifications.” Clearing his throat, he reaches for his crutch and hauls himself to his feet, stiffening his posture in an effort to quell his body’s trembling. He feels foolish for leaving so soon after initially arriving, but he needs to get out of this enclosed room.

The familiar rhythm of collaboration makes it too easy to forget himself, to slip back into treating Jayce like the past two years haven’t happened. He’s learnt better to than trust show too much vulnerability, as much as some part of him cries to allow himself this reprieve. His mostly full mug of tea still sits where he set it down earlier by the synthetic crystals, unfortunately abandoned.

Jayce, though, seems eager for something to do. He nods, bright with enthusiasm for their breakthrough, and Viktor can see the scientist he talked back from the ledge so many years ago. Jayce flips his journal to the next clean page, snatches a pen from the desktop, and swiftly records the date at the top. “I’ll take down the preliminary notes and then we can work on a fresh draft.” He pauses, pen nib hovering over the paper. His expression suddenly looks troubled, serious. “I know you hate when I, uh,” he waves hand in a complicated gesture, ‘you know,’ and Viktor comprehends the motion is supposed to encompass the complicated experience of being cared for by another whilst grappling with his own sense of autonomy. “But you could, maybe—well. You seem like you want to get some rest.”

In spite of his efforts to keep walls between them, Jayce reads him like a favourite book, even down to his mindfulness in not outright dictating what Viktor ought to do. “You’re… perhaps right,” he agrees with only a small amount of reluctance. The ease with which he’s fallen back into working with Jayce feels like a trap; the last time he’d let Jayce in on matters concerning his health, under the insistence that they were partners, had ended with Jayce proving himself to be like every other Piltie: someone whose grace was fickle, who seized on opportunities.

The truth of this clashes against his memories of his former partner, clashes even still with the image of the man in front of him, looking at him with warm irises gleaming with amity. He’d struggled to reconcile how this was the man who’d betrayed his trust, struggles still now to see it. He can’t begin to fathom Jayce’s motivations and, despite their proximity, can’t bring himself to ask. Some things are better left unknown. “I’ll look at your notes tomorrow,” he finishes, and Jayce beams at him as he makes for the door. Is this the shape of progress in their new, germinal relationship? This juxtaposition of timid hope for the future and fear of the past?

Behind him, he hears Jayce’s hand whispering as it dances over pages. The sound is as familiar as his own heartbeat, or his cane on the tile floors. 𓊈 first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3 𓊉

AN: Chapter 7, 'Interlude' !! i really loved writing for mel in this so we will see more of her for sure (you can read wayyy ahead on Ao3!! we're posting ch. 21 tomorrow)

[neokamui414]

Once again I have woken up from a nap feeling ever so slightly irritable and see that Supernatural and Destiel, a show and pairing that I find so infuriatingly terrible, is trending......

Thusly I am once more ever so slightly tempted to pull a Martin Luther and nail my thesis about how this websites obsession with this aggressively heteronormative piece of media both misdirects from and paradoxically lays bare the fundamental disgust and distaste and discomfort the vast majority of fandoms on Tumblr and their constituent members have to AMAB sexuality, particularly towards bisexual men, to the proverbial door.

About how no matter how many pieces of fan art or analysis posts they make of Dean and Cas it will not distract me, a AMAB Bigender Bisexual who identified and understood themselves as a Cis Gay man for a very large portion of their life, from the fact that Dean as a character is an aggressively cis het dude bro conventionally attractive white man. One that women who have some level of internalized hetero pessimism and queer tweens living in working and lower middle class neighborhoods project a fantasmal ideal of bisexual sensuality onto as a psychological ruse in order to justify their attraction to a character who's archetype of heroism is inseparable from cis heteronormative American patriarchy.

About how Destiel is this vacuous construct of "safe" and unchallenging male sensuality and intimacy that has absolutely nothing in common with either genuine expressions of MLM eroticism in the real world or how it is expressed in fandom and media. One that acts as a mediocre pastiche of past homosexual/homoromantic pairings in organized fandoms and homoerotic interpretations of subtext such as Kirk and Spock.

About how one of the only genuine expressions of inter-male intimacy and subsequent subtextual homoeroticism that exists within Supernatural, accidental though it is and mostly sublimated into aggression and violence, is one that the vast majority of Destiel shippers are uncomfortable with because it's between two men that are within the bounds of this fictional universe, blood siblings. Sam and Dean are two dude bro heros played by two heterosexual actors, who were chosen specifically because they both have the photogenic qualities that heterosexual media assumes heterosexual women find appealing. These two actors come from our real world and cultural context, one that has very strict rules about what level of intimacy is acceptable between men lest they be perceived gay and therefore unmasculine. These actors in performing the role of siblings, one of the only "acceptable" relationship dynamics in which men are allowed to have some sort of vulnerability and physical (nonsexual) intimacy, paradoxically and unintentionally combine with the audience's knowledge that these two men (who they were supposed to find attractive hence why these two actors were cast in a CW show) are not in fact siblings, to create an interaction that positively oozes and drips with repressed erotic tension. And the early fandom for the show was absolutely not incorrect or crazy for detecting these unintentional elements and playing with them in their fan works. Of course the fact that this was a relationship dynamic that outside the constructs of fiction and fandom spaces would be justifiably taboo and morally abhorrent means that there was always going to be an element of the fandom that liked what Wincest gave them emotionally and erotically, but were unable to sufficiently separate the homo eroticism of the fiction (which again, was there and viewers were not crazy or deviant for pointing out or finding emotional resonance in it) from the reality that's such a relationship between siblings is bad obviously*.

About how when Cas was introduced to the show, played by another conventionally attractive ostensibly heterosexual man, it gave fans an opportunity to continue to indulge in their fandom, more specifically an erotic attraction to Dean (and by extension his actor) while carefully avoiding any sort of guilt or shame that might come from acknowledging an attraction to a figure that they knew on some level was an example of a archetypal figure of heterosexuality while being part of or identifying with a group that had a antagonistic relationship with heteronormativity. The fact that they also got to maintain a moral superiority against other "deviant" members in the fandom was an incidental bonus. A bonus they enjoyed all while not recognizing that the parts of their mind that correctly understand incest as deviant are also the parts of the brain that store cultural narratives and socializations that categorize male sexuality, particularly those aspects maligned by hetero pessimism and sexual / romantic expression between two men, as "deviant" and conveniently ignoring all the incredibly complex sociopolitical, cultural and historical reasons erotic and romantic art and fiction created by and for queer people ESPECIALLY trans women, and gay and bisexual men have frequently explored the taboo and depicted sexual and relationship dynamics that exists outside the confines of real world ethical or healthy sexual practices.

........Despite the length of this post this isn't actually the aforementioned thesis. In the end I'm merely indulging in my freedom to complain and will for the most part simply continue to avoid interacting with those fans who like this show or their content.

There's still plenty of art and fan content that I do find agreeable and genuinely queer on this website so now that I have this out of my system I am content to live and let live.

This website and its user base can continue to indulge in their delusion that somehow a throwaway line said by an actor who really really irresponsibly indulged in the fandoms addiction to a imaginary interpretation of a mediocre show written and performed and created by people who very clearly did not like it's queer audience but were very very willing to pimp them out and get a buck out of them, in the finale only for that character to immediately be killed off in an incredibly homophobic way that once again clearly demonstrated the fact that the writers and actors really hated these fans (and despite this fandom's efforts to lampshade this blatant exploitation of their emotional connection and devotion to this media through the use of ironic memification, those Destiel react memes that show up every time there's a new piece of news on the trending page are idols that I wish I could violently iconoclast), somehow proves that Destiel is canon and that there is anything meaningfully or revolutionarily Queer about this shitty CW monster hunter show.

I sincerely hope that all the fan artists and fic writers continue to participate in something that gives the meaning and joy and community.

I THINK, that Destiel is the fetishized and sanitized mask over the reality that is so exquisitely and succinctly expressed by those "getting railed in a sun dress by Dean Winchester as he feeds you pie" scented candles bought by straight women who have dissatisfactions with how men are socialized in patriarchy but who still date and marry conservative men........

But you all do you babes 🫡 😽

*the fact that the Destiel fandom would end up doing the opposite and indulge in massive amounts of behaviors rooted in a fundamental disregard for the separation of the fiction from reality such as writing real person fic (while simultaneously demonizing it like some sort of deeply repressed Christian) or getting extremely, inappropriately, parasocially attached to the actors of the show and doing things like giving them essays on why they think their characters are totally boning, has the sort of poetry that I can't quite articulate right now but is very much apparent and worthy of ridicule.

[choerypetal]

Lost Souls / Sejanus Plinth

summary : You were Coriolanus's closest companion, much like Sejanus. While you and Coriolanus seemed to embody the ideal image of true love, the snowfall couldn't dispel the lingering shadow of a phantom, preventing anyone, including Snow, from witnessing the genuine happiness you sought. Consequently, you were implicated in Coriolanus's criminal act, coerced into playing a role in his misdeed alongside Sejanus, only to be betrayed. What if this entire ordeal was a meticulously crafted plan to make Coriolanus face the consequences of his actions and instill in him a yearning for a love that was forever out of reach? The roots of this scheme trace back to District 12, where Sejanus fled, ultimately reuniting with the one he truly loved—you. Two fractured souls, both attempting to escape a haunting past that seemed destined to linger.

ps: english isn't my first mother tongue language so i deeply appolagize for the small errors etc. (which will be corrected shortly) also this story was requested by @anonys-world! hope you will all enjoy. + pls do not copy my work without proper credit as it can be marked as flagged or being ban if doing the case, thank you!

Snow embodied the ethos of his era—a man rooted in tradition when deemed necessary, yet undeniably a shrewd egotist with a proclivity for favoring purity over squalor. In his aspirations for the presidency of Panem, he envisioned himself alongside a woman he once loved and now considered his closest confidante, Sejanus. Sejanus played the roles of both friend and foe in Snow's perception, especially when faced with the earnest plea for forgiveness. This plea stemmed from actions Sejanus himself had committed, contingent upon Snow's willingness to acknowledge his own transgressions. However, Snow staunchly denied any possibility of having erred, viewing Sejanus' contrition as nothing more than a theatrical display in his own eyes.

Fortuitously, Sejanus managed to elude capture, albeit not without difficulty, as he had been keenly aware of his vulnerability during Snow's attempt to eliminate another tribute. Subsequently, when he found himself compelled to take the life of his closest friend. The revelation of these events came to you, ensnared in the intricate web woven by Snow's devious plans. You, too, were drawn into the narrative when Coriolanus's name was invoked in a plea for release, a plea tinged with the assertion that the situation was a grave misunderstanding. Contemplating how this news would reach you, it was likely to be delivered abruptly, considering Snow's peculiar interest in your affairs. This was a certainty that Sejanus was intent on ensuring. And for Snow, it wasn’t enough. 

On a rainy day, you discovered that Sejanus had managed to find his way back home, despite your exile and nomadic lifestyle. Luck favored him, when he had heard that a small group of familiar Peacekeepers aligned themselves to escort you from your current dwelling. This meant that Sejanus had to navigate through various deals and threats to pinpoint your new residence. However, even with his friend Snow's assistance, it was clear that no amount of persuasion could make Snow divulge the truth. Conversations with him only yielded a cascade of lies. Thus, Sejanus began his journey to find you– Find home. 

While you held onto a glimmer of hope that Sejanus would come home, it wasn't because he sought to return to his District and face a father intent on shaming him as a distasteful and ignorant child. Sejanus's primary aim was to reunite directly with you. He longed to hear the soothing cadence of your voice, feel the delicate touch of your fingers in his curls, and share deep, comforting embraces, all while listening to your soft singing. However, this desire became complicated as Snow's intense animosity toward the Plinth escalated, leading him to harbor resentment towards you as well. Consequently, both of you became the targets in the crosshairs of a man driven solely by aspirations of wealth and power. 

Before his departure, Sejanus had intended to pen a letter expressing the sentiments he had shared that night. The letter encapsulated his commitment to stand by you even before tending to the needs of his own people. He envisioned a future building a family with you, whether it meant establishing a life beyond the District or securing an apartment in the Capitol with you at his side. Regardless of the path chosen, Sejanus planned to formalize the relationship upon his return. Despite the vehement hatred from his best friend, Snow, Sejanus remained indifferent, embracing his own pride. The prospect of witnessing Snow's rage only fueled his determination, understanding that Snow would never comprehend a love as profound and meaningful as the one he sought with you.

It was in that same day, you received the letter, and read it as followed: 

                 Dear, Y/N. 

How I yearn to be in your presence. My comrades and I successfully completed our duties ahead of schedule, taking strategic measures in our actions. When our commander learned of my last name, suspicions arose, prompting him to curtail my Peacekeeper duties and training. At my father's urging to return home promptly, little does he know that I won't be heading to District 2 but to our shared sanctuary with you. Fear not; I've discovered through fellow Peacekeepers that they aided in your escort right after the Games. My love, please be patient as I make my way back to our home. I'll be reunited with you soon.

Love, 

Sejanus. 

The letter was a gift from Tigris, and as you held it, you couldn't shake the suspicion that it might not be Sejanus's handwriting, at first. Yet, as you read the words and felt the essence of his expression, it became clear that it was indeed his authentic account transcribed on paper. Unbeknownst to Snow, the spectacle of witnessing his best friend's hanging was merely a staged performance. Sejanus, genuinely fearful that any Peacekeeper might release the cord prematurely, managed to escape District 12 right after the act. Consequently, as long as Snow remained alive and well, both of you would need to conceal yourselves, disappearing from sight to avoid any further repercussions. 

"I disclosed nothing to Snow." Tigris asserted during her visit to assist you in unpacking at your new home. "He's only kept tabs on your well-being and made sure to update you on Sejanus..." Despite recognizing Tigris as a friend, a twinge of sympathy welled up within you, understanding that she was acting only to bring joy to her cousin. With the realization that she still had some family left while you faced complete exile, survival instincts kicked in, overshadowing any sense of pride. "As long as he remains unaware that Sejanus is alive, I'm content with the information." You quietly expressed, hoping not to arouse suspicion when Tigris communicated with Coriolanus in the future.

Sejanus's journey appeared to be heading north. As he received updates about your whereabouts, he understood that in a short while, he would be left alone. The companions who had accompanied him would return to their respective Districts. However, for Sejanus, a compelling need drew him back to the person he cherished the most. This individual had once too, been broken by the actions of Snow, experiencing a sense of betrayal and utter brokenness that could only be healed by genuine love. Sejanus's plans centered around reuniting with the one thing he loved above all else—you.

Arriving home, he was aware of finding you peacefully asleep. Not far away, a cabin caught his eye, and a wave of relief washed over him as he noticed the subtle glow of light inside. It signaled that life had continued to thrive. Approaching, he made his way to the front door, eager to be the first to comfort you as you shed tears in your slumber. These were tears he would gently wipe away, planting a tender kiss on your cheek. After all, the two of you were nothing more than broken souls, central figures in Snow's machinations, destined to be reunited for a chance at living in undisturbed peace. 

The knock on the door that evening caught your attention, and though you suspected it might be Tigris with her usual errands, Sejanus casually heard your voice, responding with a quick "Coming." A surge of relief and comfort washed over him, and excitement filled him at the prospect of seeing your beautiful and now rested face. As the door began to creak open, your face and entire body froze in place. Sejanus smiled at the sight of you, standing right in front of him. You wore your usual flowery dress that he adored, but this time, Sejanus's hair had been shaved into a style that brought out the depth and honesty in the color of his eyes. "Seja—" you began to speak his name, only for him to chuckle at your disbelief. "But Tigris told me you would only arrive later—" He cut you off, gently cupping your flushed cheeks with his hands. His face drew closer, his breath mingling with yours, and your lips almost brushed against each other as he spoke in his defense.

"That doesn't matter right now, Love. Did you receive my letter?" Sejanus inquired, and you nodded, exhaling a soft sigh of relief. "Snow doesn't know I'm here, and neither do my parents. Everyone believes I'm dead. I was planning on bringing you back to the Capitol with me, but father knew about our plan long ago." There was a hint of sadness in his voice as he attempted to spare you from further difficulty. However, in the grand scheme of things, the chaotic planning didn't matter as much to you in that moment. What truly mattered was seeing him here, alive and well.

"You can't imagine how long I waited for you, Sejanus." You confessed, your voice delicately threading through the words you had struggled to find. The vulnerability stemmed from Snow, who had taken great pleasure in exploiting it to your disadvantage. "At this moment, Snow couldn't care less about me, either." You finally expressed your feelings toward the situation. The emotions resurfaced not long ago, with Snow killing Mayfair and Sejanus being thrown under the bus. The plans were twisted, part of Snow's undoubtedly sadistic scheme, leading him to believe that his closest friend was now dead.

Sejanus’s features darkened at the mention of a friend he once trusted. “Does he know anything of your whereabouts?” He asked, a little serious this time, as you shook your head a confident ‘no’. “I made sure that Tigris would only use the “She is okay” or “Living in the Capitol safely.” He has no idea about your current status. You have no idea how scare I am, what if she has to accidently slip away our little secret. Little do we know he could become aware of it anytime soon.” You tried to make sure not to sound frightened yourself when in reality you were completely aware of what Snow was capable of and please what he favors in the moment. If only you had the audacity the object his actions but if you had done such things– who knew if you’d remain alive at the very least. 

"Hush..." Sejanus's voice softened as he realized the tremble in your fingers, a manifestation of your grief. It wasn't just the fear of the plan's potential failure that shook you, but also the realization that, had things gone differently, Sejanus might not be by your side at this very moment. His hand gently caressed the back of your head as he allowed you to bury yourself in the comfort of his chest, absorbing the familiar scent you had longed for. "Snow acted recklessly for our benefit. If we maintain our resolve, he won't come close to us, let alone lay a finger on you. I promise." He reassured. Little did both of you know, Snow was already privy to your whereabouts. It was only a matter of time before he discerned his cousin's peculiar behavior while inquiring about your well-being, signaling an impending discovery. This time, however, Sejanus might not be in the equation. 

However, in the current moment, the present took precedence. Being in Sejanus's company was all you desired, and he shared the sentiment. As you reluctantly broke away from the embrace, you noticed a piece of paper threatening to slip through Sejanus's uniform pants. Your curiosity piqued, and you furrowed your brows, prompting you to reach for it. Yet, Sejanus, with a swift reflex, intercepted your hand, his eyes pleading for you to refrain from picking it up. "Don't—" He uttered firmly, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on yours, his grip tightening as a silent plea to respect his request. It became evident that whatever the object was, it held significant meaning for Sejanus. "Quite amusing, isn't it?" He remarked with a touch of sarcasm as he retrieved the crumpled item from his pocket.

"And I used to believe that this moment would mark the beginning of a special friendship." His hands seemed almost compelled to crumple the already battered piece of paper, which once held a photo of Coriolanus and Sejanus together. It was a day etched vividly in your memory, a day when he had also taken a photo with you. Snow had envisioned celebrating the exceptional prowess of two extraordinary peers for the 10th Hunger Games. However, it turned out to be a complete disaster, a spectacle that Sejanus perceived as a grotesque display orchestrated by a man devoid of humane intentions. As you gazed at the photo, you noticed Sejanus's voice cracking on the last sentence. His tears were tainted with bitterness rather than sorrow. How could someone so heartless, someone who only considered his own interests, be the same person you once admired? 

"Hey—" Your fingers gently cradled his face, echoing the comforting gesture he had extended to you just moments ago. It was a consoling touch you had inherited from Sejanus's mother, a gesture he had come to hold dear. His lips formed a strained yet hopeful smile, and he endeavored not to falter in your presence. "Snow manipulated both of us. He was the puppet master... But we won't let him control us any longer." you asserted, striving to convey confidence in your words. However, a lingering suspicion gnawed at you, especially as Snow's persistent quest to discover your exact whereabouts began to cast a shadow over your assurance. 

Honestly, Snow eventually uncovered the location of your exile. However, uncertainty shrouded Sejanus's whereabouts, leaving room for the unsettling possibility that his old friend might still be alive but in a place where Snow could find him with nefarious intentions. Despite Sejanus hanging onto your every word, he found himself unable to restrain the tears he had been trying to hold back. While you continued to cradle his face, he leaned in to touch his forehead to yours, closing the gap until he could feel the tender brush of your lips against his own. In the paradox of the situation, love felt secure within each other's arms, leading both of you to share laughter through tears. Sejanus, in a spontaneous gesture, swiftly tossed a memory he once cherished directly into the fireplace. 

"We'll face this together." He uttered in that moment, fervently desiring that the two of you could navigate through whatever challenges lay ahead, even if it meant making sacrifices to cherish every precious second and moment together. 

“Together.”

[goodappleapyl]

Sohna x Calyx - Calyx POV

((I couldn't sleep last night so I wrote this for @starrysnowdrop An imagined backstory for Calyx and his feelings towards her OC, Sohna, told from his POV))

In my mortal life I came across a woman of otherworldly beauty. Back then however, it was not meant to be. My body was stricken with frailty and, in my pursuit of a cure for my ailment, the levin sickness that plagued our world took her from me. In a cruel twist of fate it was I that endured and she that succumbed to illness.

Still, her face haunted me. A ghost that lingered behind my eyes, calling for me. We were robbed of our love and so I heeded her siren song, resolving to find a way to break free of the bonds of aging and await my lover's return from the aetherial sea.

Immortality was a trivial goal to achieve. Transcending the biological confines into an endless was the easiest part. The flaw in my otherwise perfect plan was maintaining the ability to remain in an eternal state, which came at the price of no small amount of aether. The solution to my problem was simple: souls. The density of aether that makes up the human soul is by far the most efficient power source. Of course this requires harvesting them from the living, which subsequently means terminating lives. Death is a distasteful byproduct of this method, but a necessary one in order to achieve my goal. Harvesting straight from the aetherial sea would risk accidentally consuming the soul of my objective, and I am not willing to jeopardize my work having come thus far.

~*~*~*~

At last my patience has paid off. Everything that I have endured, all the plans I had put in place in order to ensure my eternity with the woman that has haunted me since I first laid eyes on her. The wait is finally over. I saw her again today. I would recognize that face anywhere. It had not occurred to me that she might be alive on another shard. Despite my research into the merging of worlds, I did not factor that possibility into my plans. How fortuitous then that, as it was the first time I laid eyes on her, she walked back into my life. I would not have forgiven myself had I harmed her in my efforts to wait for her rebirth.

~*~*~*~

She hates me. No. Hate is not a strong enough word to describe the way in which she looks at me. I am like a mere insect that she wishes to crush under her foot. I admit, though I have purged myself of most emotions in order to endure the test of time without spiraling into despair, it still hurts. But no matter, I am a patient man and time is no longer an obstacle for me. I will make her see. She will come to me in the end…

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

One thing I like about Nimona that I haven't seen brought up yet (and maybe I'm alone here) is that Nimona becomes more sympathetic to the audience at the same pace that she becomes more sympathetic to Ballister (kinda long analysis below sorrys)

Like, I know not everyone agrees, but on my first watch of the movie, I found her downright annoying for the first like, quarter of the film. I don't find her annoying upon rewatch at all, I absolutely adore her, but the first time I watched it I reacted with a similar distaste as Ballister-- not because she was a shapeshifter or queer, obviously, but because she appears completely tone-deaf to Ballister's situation when the man is experiencing probably the worst thing anyone could imagine, she jeopardizes his reputation even more by pretending to be him while menacing the public, constantly undermines his efforts to minimize harm and clear his name, and just does as she feels without regard to others.

Then you start to learn why she acted that way, just as Ballister does. You (and Ballister) start to see that his efforts are in vain, that trying to minimize harm or clear his name doesn't work in his favor and is impossible to achieve, and Nimona knew that all along so of course she didn't care! She's seen this film before enough times to stop taking it seriously. If the outcome is always the same, why not have a little fun with it?

Her whimsical mannerisms start to look less annoying and tone-deaf and more powerful and brave (that she could be so determined to be herself despite everything). She starts to look less carefree, and more jaded. You realize that she's only carefree because it hurts too much to care.

And Ballister's line "Let's break stuff" is the turning point where we see that she (or rather, the Institute) has taught him to embrace chaos and be himself, because they're not going to listen either way.

And the subsequent scene, where Ballister offers to take her away from the walls and she says "No, this isn't right, we have to take the Institute down" shows that Ballister taught her to care again because he proved that people can change. They both had an important lesson they needed to learn from the other, basically: "Don't expect the system to work in your favor but don't be a doomer about it either" lol

And it hurts when Bal turns on her because you can kinda see where he's coming from, it would make sense that a lonely, lonely creature would possibly sabotage someone else hated by society so that they could finally have a friend. It would explain why she acted so cavalier about his reputation, constantly threatened people and undermined him, made them both out to be far more villainous than they were. She was acting out of indifference, but it came across to him as malice, and while we the audience know that obviously the eponymous character isn't a twist villain, Ballister wouldn't, and further, how much easier would it be to believe that this one person double-crossed you, rather than to believe everything you ever knew was a lie? So he turned his back on her.

And he, and the audience see what a huge massive fuckup that was.

What I like is you don't even NEED her backstory to sympathize with her, and neither did Ballister. This isn't a case of "character was unbearable for the entire time but they have sad backstory so they're now likeable I guess Snape). She was already sympathetic and likeable. We already understood her. The backstory was just extra context, nothing more, and that is fucking excellent writing.

We slowly learn to love Nimona for herself at the same rate that Ballister does, rather than being irritated wishing she was something else. And I absolutely, absolutely love that. She doesn't "become" more likeable, you learn that she was likeable all along.

[tobyislame]

general eyeless jack headcanons

ik i literally just said this will be an exclusively ticci toby blog but u guys get one (1) ej post as a treat bc i have a biiiiig phat crush on him

- he has a strong distaste for his given name. constantly being referred to as "eyeless" just feels like twisting the knife. so, he really appreciates it when people shorten it to ej. he prefers to just be called jack, though.

- he has black blood. does that subsequently mean his blush would be black?? idk i’m thinking maybe it shows up on his skin as like a dark bluish-purple, kinda like a bruise but… he’s blushing.

- he's got a nice set of large, pointed teeth. when he speaks those chompers are on FULL display, so if he happens to have his mask off, he’ll mumble to try to keep them as concealed as he can.

- what used to be fingernails are now blackened, talon-like claws, which will rip through everything if he isn’t careful. with enough concentration, he can keep them folded down to make them less obtrusive, at least enough to get dressed without making his clothes all… holey.

- that being said… he has no control over his claws when he’s asleep. his sheets are absolutely shredded, pillowcases torn through. they’re also perpetually stained with his eye goop. he's learned to just not bother with patching up his sheets anymore.

- he is LARGE. he is a LARGE MANTHING. he's 8'2 and well aware that he towers over most because people won't shut the fuck up about it. he's also just stocky, with big burly shoulders and enormous hands and man he is just BIG.

- despite his size, he moves quietly and swiftly. he carries himself like he's much smaller than he actually is.

- he isn't really aware of his own strength — he still surprises himself with the damage that he can unintentionally administer. he finds himself having to make a conscious effort to hold back.

- he's completely blind. the way that he “sees” is similar to snakes — utilizing infrared sensors which lie somewhere in those eye sockets of his (eldritch being rules it doesn’t have to make sense), he can sense the heat given off by objects in his environment. this becomes especially useful when tracking down potential victims. somewhere along the line, he learned or “evolved” to use echolocation as well, gaining the ability to make the same sonar clicks that bats do to make their way through the world. these can’t be heard by human ears, but if you’re close enough, they can be felt in your teeth.

- also similar to snakes, he’s cold-blooded. just absolutely cold to the touch. he wears warm clothes all year round, even in summer. he should be sweltering in multiple layers in the middle of june, but really, he’s just fine.

- his senses have all evolved to compensate for his lack of sight. most sensitive of all, though, are his ears. he can identify individual footsteps from miles away. this makes it near impossible to get away with muttering something under your breath. even from across the entire house, he’d be able to hear what you said. (i am aware actual blind people don't have superhuman abilities i just think this is the way it'd present in an enigmatic being)

- his skin is thick, sort of like a rhino's. bullets essentially ricochet off of him, blades snap... this, however, doesn't make him invincible. high frequencies are a surefire way of disabling him.

- he feels hunger much more intensely than any normal person does. when he goes too long without eating he'll become rabid, driven by instinct alone. at that point, he isn’t himself anymore. his body isn’t his.

- in this condition, he'll take on more bestial qualities, sprouting (larger) claws, a second row of teeth, additional tongues... he also exhibits heightened strength, speed, and agility. he'll behave more like an animal than anything else, tunnel vision pointing to only one thing: eat. he does everything in his power to keep this at bay, because in the past… incidents have occurred. let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be caught in the same forest with that thing prowling around. he hates to hurt others when he doesn’t mean/need to, especially since all he can do in those moments is helplessly watch behind the eyes of something that isn’t him.

- he really isn't a killer. although he's lacking in the sympathy department, he has the ability to put himself in the shoes of others and feel what they feel, which is his biggest weakness — as you can probably imagine, being an empath isn't so convenient when you have to kill to survive. often, he feels the pain of those who have the misfortune of ending up beneath his scalpel. beneath his hands. he’s aware that he’s taking that person away from someone, and it hurts him. he just powers through.

- he couldn't eat human food even if he wanted to, and believe me, he wants to. it's just that, if he even makes an attempt, his body flat-out rejects and regurgitates it. think that one tokyo ghoul scene... basically like that. he seems to be able to ingest coffee and tea just fine, though. earl grey is his favorite. on rainy days, his favorite thing to do is brew a cup and sit on the steps to the front porch, listening to the drops plinking off puddles.

- he doesn't particularly like for anybody to see his face. would rather keep it to himself. he's not exactly sure what he looks like, but he can take an educated guess that it isn't pretty. he'll usually just keep his mask on when he's around others, only taking it off if it ever happens to be absolutely necessary. if someone were to take his mask from him, that’d probably be the closest he could get to his rabid state without fully submitting to it.

- when he’s angry (which seldom happens) the tar in his eyes seems to boil and pop, kind of like hot oil in a pan. if it happened to get on you, it’d fucking burn and begin to dissolve right through your skin in the same way acid would. stay out of the splash zone ig.

- he can cry, but the way it presents is similar to ghibli tears — thick, messy glops of black that stain his skin, clothes, and whatever else they happen to spill onto.

- he doesn't just eat kidneys, he tries to make use of the entire body. it’s the least he can do. he doesn’t want to just throw the rest out like it’s trash. even when they’re dead, dissected, splayed out, closer to meat than human, he tries to respect his victims. they were people once, too. just like him.

- he also tries to make harvesting from his victims as easy of a process as possible, for the both of them. he injects them with anesthesia, enough to kill, then uses surgical tools to make the job as quick and clean as possible. no screams. no thrashing. easy.

- he can't remember much of his past life. most of what he can recall are just bits and pieces of out-of-place memories, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together no matter how hard he tries to make them. however, the one thing he was able to definitively grasp was his affinity for physiology, human anatomy, and surgery. because of this, he held onto it fucking tightly and devoted himself to it — just so he wouldn’t forget it, too.

- before, he was going to college to become a general surgeon. in fact, he was just about to move on to med school. now he's essentially the mansion's resident surgeon/doctor, and he does his job quite well given that he doesn’t have the resources most other medical professionals have at their disposal.

- he's especially interested in the medicinal qualities of plants. often, he'll go on nature walks in search of herbs that he can put to good use. he uses what he finds to make ointments and medicines and such, often utilizing his own resources in his procedures. in his room is a little garden of his own in the form of pots hanging from the ceiling, holding plants that he meticulously tends to with GREAT precision and care. he'd never trust anyone else to take care of them for him, not even for a day.

- he cannot stand disorganization, it drives him fucking insane. everything has to have a place, and everything has to stay in its place; it becomes difficult for him to find things, otherwise.

- if he can't rely on his sight, then he figures he can at least rely on his memory — it’s why he marks the position of his furniture and such with tape so that if anyone does happen to move something, they can at least put it back exactly where it was.

- messy people get on his nerves. leaving stuff in random places and on the floor is just incredibly inconvenient for him. he's tripped because of people's misplaced laundry and stuff.

- he's a man of few words and lacking in expression. often, a tilt of the head is the most he will react with. when he does speak, his voice is deep, so deep that it seems to vibrate. he keeps his voice soft and quiet, though, as if he's afraid of being too loud. and he is.

- since he doesn't speak much, he empties his thoughts into a journal. he'll write about anything: how his day was, what he did, how he feels, what all had happened in his surgery that day, the things he'd observed... although, if you look through it, ramshackle scraggles that almost resemble words litter the pages. he thinks he's writing words, and will continue to do so until it gets pointed out to him.

- a gentle giant. he's incredibly composed and docile, qualities that betray his physical attributes. he isn't "friendly", per se, but he tries to stay far away from hostility when it isn't needed.

- he has an overbearing need for control. he hates the thought that fate could rip everything out from underneath him whenever it pleases. it happened to him once before. he won’t let it happen again.

- he displays an... almost catlike vigilance. the slightest noise is enough to make his head snap towards the source. it's incredibly difficult to sneak up on him, especially since he hardly ever allows himself to drop his guard. he doesn’t like to be at the mercy of anyone or anything. a lot of his mental energy is put towards preventing bad things from happening to him.

- he can purr .

[conclaveconfessions]

re: most recent anon, i am the anon with the long ahh essay once more. thank you for your nuance and for wording it so well and respectfully! i fully agree with you in the regard that yeah, people are gonna be mean. all of us appear to be big old haters, and i 100% agree that everyone should write what they want and read what they want. how every fandom should be! i'm a bit shocked that nowadays people find criticism offensive to such a degree. in my day, when someone told you your ship sucked and you subsequently did too, you ignored them, not went to war about how rude some people are. people are always gonna be rude, always gonna disagree, the beauty of debate is that one who does not agree with you will probably not beat around the bush and use kind language when expressing their distaste. if i hate something, i'm gonna say it.

now, re: everything else. as of now, the only thing i hate is people getting so hard pressed over the fact that i just said more analytic fics would be awesome along with smutshots lmao. and that i said that, in my opinion, this is the core message of the "haters" or "complainers", not some performative piousness that some of y'all label it as. keep the sex coming guys, plenty of people enjoy it! however, again, the thing that really pissed me off was that one person saying that people who dislike sex fics are virtue signalling and trying to be cute or different. because what the fuck, respectfully? that is a very harmful rhetoric to push. especially during pride!! i know there is divide in whether asexual or aromantic people are LGBTQ or not, but how about we respect us either way? like can people express their personal dislike for sex fics that are simply not their cup of tea without being hounded for being "anti sexual liberation" or whatever seems to be going down here? it'd be amazing. i personally spent lots of time coming to terms with how i am not what most consider "normal", or that i am "broken" in some way. so being told by some anon that my sexuality (or lack thereof) and my personal opinions and tastes that stem from it are "just trying to be different" and that i should stop because it isn't cute? dude. what. do you hear yourself lmao.

here's my two personal cents, separate from any previous things other anons said: read what you want. write what you want. write what you want to read. me personally, i can skim-read smut most days. and some other days it makes my skin crawl and i don't wish to consume it. and some days, and in some situations, like when it is part of a larger story, i read it and it's wonderfully fine. i just wish there were more analytic fics in a fandom with extremely analysable characters for me to enjoy. yes, i show love to the existing ones! and yes, i write my own. but admittedly, it is very very disrespectful to label people as just virtue signallers trying to be cute. because for me, every time i "complain" about this, it is in regards to my own sexuality. now of course, that anon couldn't have known this, as i am not very open or comfortable with this, but i really ask people to think about the possibility that we are not all alike. have a nice day and thanks!

~

[mrepstein]

The Flat That Epstein Bought - Liverpool Echo - July 11, 1964

HOME - with the man behind the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Cilla Black, Billy J. Kramer, etc, etc.

Reported by Barbara Anne Taylor

---

I don’t want to brag or cause any jealousy, but I used to queue for the Saturday matinee at a cinema that was next to a furniture shop that was called Epstein and Son and that Epstein’s other son manages the Beatles.

And that is as exciting as dancing with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales.

The other son is Brian, who has in his time pursued many careers until he found his present crock of gold. He did originally embark, with no lack of enthusiasm, on a career in his family’s furniture business.

CRAFTY CHERUB

“I was 21 at the time,” said Mr. Epstein, who looks like a sharp-clothed, crafty cherub, “and extremely interested in design and interior decorating - still am. I served,” he added stoically, “my apprenticeship with the Times Furnishing Company in Liverpool.

“I was fanatically keen on what I regarded as contemporary at the time. I felt quite a missionary zeal about it, so I wasn’t fired with enthusiasm about the furniture in my father’s shop. It all looked to me like greasy great walnut bedroom suites.

“I was full of notions about the customers really wanting the sort of furniture I wanted them to have. I overlooked the fact that my father is a successful business man because he knows what his customers want. However, I persuaded him to stock some of the furniture of my choice.”

When I asked Mr. Epstein if his chosen furniture sold, he received the question a trifle incredulously: “I saw to it,” he said stonily, “that it did” - and having subsequently witnessed something of his adroitness as a salesman, who can fail to believe him?

Mr. Epstein is clever at picking people; he picked his parents very wisely, for his indulgent father then set him up in his own furniture shop in Hoylake.

He was able to revel in the furniture of his choice and provide an interior decorating service to boot. “It was the interior decorating side I enjoyed most, I had lots of ideas and I love experimenting with colour.”

When I asked Mr. Epstein if he was able to submit his clients to his ideas he replied: “The customer is always right.”

Mr. Epstein inhabits the top floor and the roof, where he has potted plants and wrought iron furniture, and swinging chintz hammocks and a splendid view.

He has two bedrooms and a study and one large, long combined living and dining room, which is decorated in white, grapish green and amber and is inspiringly tidy.

“I can’t bear clutter, I’m obsessive about plainness and simplicity, in fact, this room looks cluttered to me,” he said, eyeing with some distaste this positive precedent for orderliness.

The Buyer of Antiques

“I like buying antiques, although I have no knowledge of them. I don’t care about their period or their history. I just care about their shape. I couldn’t live with only modern furniture now, you grow out of such utter devotion. It’s rather sad really.”

“I find it completely absorbing searching for exactly what I want but there’s really not much choice, is there? I mean, there appears to be a lot but when you get down to it there is really very little.

“And isn’t it sad when finally you’ve found exactly what you want, then you discover that it’s exactly what hundreds of other people want too. It sort of spoils the specialness of it.

“I found it an exciting experience furnishing my first home, it takes a lot of time and thought, because you are imprinting something of yourself there. I think there is something of me in this flat, though it’s not exactly right. I long to have a separate dining room... well, what I really long for is a house.

Knows What He Wants

“I know exactly what I want. I can’t describe it to you, I could perhaps draw it. It is certainly nothing like the castles and follies I keep being offered. It’s a house I’ve had in my head for ages, I’ll know it the moment I see it.

“Till then I’m happy here. I look forward to coming home, that’s the big test, and my friends seem to like it and that’s also important because I love entertaining.

“Yes the Beatles approve - at least they approve of most of the furniture: they were a bit scornful about the antiques. Paul is very fond of the rocking chair, but what they all approved of most was the way I had their photographs framed. Cilla thinks it is all fab.”

[irithnova]

About my Siberia ocs...

So I think it's important to balance their characterisation in a way in which they are distinctive characters with interesting personalities and backstories but also acknowledges the challenges they face without making their entire character essentially "They're sad all the time because of Russia" or "Stop talking about their struggles under Russia I don't like politics."

I think both are problematic however I find the latter to be far more distasteful because well. This is a nation personification OC we're talking about and not only that, they're essentially nations within a nation (Russia) by virtue of colonisation and so are minority groups within the larger nation. Hell - because of displacement and immigration from European Russia , a lot of these groups are minorities within their own lands. It's a special case when dealing with minority groups/occupied people personifications and it's particularly egregious when someone wants to forgo any kind of acknowledgement of these power imbalances yet still insists that their interpretation is sensitive.

I've seen some pretty bad OCs of Siberian groups which are the product of the creator going "I hate politics stop talking about politics!" or, an almost direct quote, "I hate when people shove politics into historical hetalia." Which... Is an interesting take to say the least considering how history feeds into politics and vice versa. Historical hetalia is a beast in an of itself and is one of the only hetalia communities/bubbles in which "no politics" will get you laughed out the door from what I've seen considering *gestures to my previous statement*. If you've ever taken a history course - you'll know how much history and politics are intertwined.

This is how you get interps which consists of the likes of "Russia was wandering around the empty lands of Siberia" which not only blatantly disregards the brutality of the Russian colonisation of Siberia but also promotes the concept of "Terra Nullius" or "Virgin Land". I'm quoting myself from an even bigger post I have in store which focuses on anti Mongolian sentiment however stereotypes about Mongolians and Siberian groups often overlap because of their placement in Northern Asia, hence why it applies to both,

"In addition, to hone in on Mongolia being an "untouched, pristine" land - this is also a common trope that is launched towards traditionally nomadic "unsettled groups” (such as Siberian and Native American groups). The concept of "Terra Nullius", a Latin word meaning "nobody's land". It completely disregards the presence and rights of the people who inhabit the land and has been historically used to justify the colonisation and displacement of such groups - their land belonged to "nobody" so it was essentially up for grabs...It divorces the people from their landscape and paves the way for dangerous misconceptions and justifications to blossom.

Here is an example of "Terra Nullius" in action in a Russian propaganda poster, encouraging Russians to move to Kazakhstan."

Or interps such as "[Siberian group] has forgiven Russia for everything he did/most things he did and is in love with him" which implies that the mistreatment of the Siberian groups is merely something in the past when it is in fact ongoing. The mistreatment of Siberian groups such as the Sakha, Buryats, Chukchi and Tuvans has been all the more highlighted in their disproportionate mobilisation in the invasion of Ukraine - and the heaps of scapegoating that was subsequently shovelled onto them.

That's not to say ethnic minority soldiers in the Russian army shouldn't be held accountable for their crimes - however that and the fact that they themselves are victims of Russian imperialism can both exist as true statements. The scapegoating is so bad that even Pope Francis joined in, blaming the brunt of the war crimes committed onto "Non Russians" such as Buryats and Chechens, as they do not come from "Russian culture."

Back to my main point... I think the resistance to do research on and publicly acknowledge how these groups live under Russia and what kind of struggles they face in some kind of bid to "not paint them as victims!!11" is sorely misinformed and ignorant. Because well. They are victims.

Not in the sense that you should portray them as sad, pitiful, weak little meow meows but in the sense that yes they are living under Russian occupation and are an occupied people who's been subjected to centuries of Russification, and so compared to making an OC of Mongolia who is an independent nation state at least I think there is far less room to be hauling around "leave politics out of historical hetalia!" "don't talk to me about politics!" "stop victimising them!!" because then it leads to tone deaf interpretations such as "They've forgiven Russia for everything and is in love with him ♥️💖", "Russia is actually [Siberia groups] father", "Here is my singular Siberia OC who represents ALL Siberian groups and by the way Russia is their father" (yes these are all real interpretations I've seen and I've made a separate really strongly worded post ranting about it) and worse. I mean I've literally seen an "aph Siberia oc" who was Russia and France's love child. Terra Nullius executed Hetalia-style.

I don't really think I need to elaborate on why a singular Siberia OC is problematic - Siberia is filled with a myriad of different groups who speak different languages, have different origins and ways of lives and practices, different religions, who've experienced eras of peace and conflict with each other, etc and yeah to shove them all into one personification is an erasure of the sheer diversity that is in Siberia. I definitely don't need to elaborate on why making Russia a father to any of these groups is problematic, to say very the least.

On the point of "don't only portray them in a victimising lense", I think making Siberian groups all depressed all the time is also a Russia-centric perspective. Of course it's ignorant at best to not acknowledge their shared suffering because of Russia however when this point and this point alone is central to their character I believe in a way that it strips them of their autonomy and ability to feel things and do things outside of Russia's gaze. There is absolutely a lot of joy to be had despite their current situation, perhaps even in spite of their current situation. It's ok to give them odd quirks and put them in funny situations as well as acknowledge that they are an occupied people and approach that territory carefully when need be.

For example, I made my Buryatia bubbly and loud but made my Tuva a bit more deadpan because I see them as a pair who often associate with each other and I think the dynamic is funny. I also made Buryatia an overbearing "husband" to Soyot who is perpetually tired™ from all the se- .

I made a crack dynamic between Sakha, Evenkia and Dolgan where Evenkia was Sakha's teacher at first but then became a deadbeat dad leaving Sakha to primarily raise Dolgan, thus Dolgan takes after Sakha and is uh lawyermaxxing👍. Yukaghir is the little old lady of the group who is often forgetful but very nifty and Chukotka acts like a big sister to people which Koryak (who I see as her brother) always finds annoying and they often bicker. Ket is on the slightly edgy side and is extremely particular about his routines and Nganasan terrifies Nenet because he eats reindeer whereas Nenet doesn't.

All of these quirks/ more lighthearted interpretations and "they are an occupied people under Russia" can coexist. One should not be thrown out for the sake of the other.

I think there's also problem - though I've seen this far less, in making Siberia ocs purely as a middle finger at Russia. As in, you made the OC because you wanted to say loud and proud FUCK RUSSIA which well yeah, fuck Russia, but I highly doubt your interest in this group lies outside of wanting to #own the Russians which is dehumanising in and of itself. At least pretend to care about the history and culture instead of using an entire group of people to make a virtue-signally oc purely to try and upset some Russians.

Anyways yeah Siberia 👍