#and to just accept that life is seldom perfect

[izayoichan]

On good days, and on bad days, always talk. 🎶

(poses by @herecirmsims )

[sgiandubh]

Just so stories: Mommy and Daddy

In the (questionably) blessed White Picket Fenced America of 1955, things were deceptively simple:

Mommy stayed home, while Daddy was earning enough cash to buy that new Frigidaire.

Uhm. No, not really: see what happens to Mad Men's Betty Draper, the pearl-stringed suburbia matron. Not exactly a cheerful look, but perhaps a true, albeit neurotic, one.

For some unfathomable reason, one of the main dismissive arguments used against shippers reads along some very similar lines. I paraphrase, as this is a collective POV (probably stemmed from CO's laboratory and snowballed to great success across their dashboards):

'Oh, aren't they stupid! How can they expect C to follow him around the world, children in tow, at his beck and call? Or to wait for him, military wife style, as he traipses from Vegas to London to Paris to Belgium? What are these, The Fifties?'

To this Dorothy Dixon, along comes one of the Tumblrette Pundits, with a ready-made answer, always the same:

'Of course they are stupid! Of course she doesn't! Every time she is working somewhere, she brings McSideburns and The Blonde Bambino around! And McSideburns takes care of Blonde Bambino, as he should! Reality, not fantasy!'

Let alone they have absolutely no clue about the real state of play, given the almost complete, paranoid opacity reigning since at least a Certain Sad Event. Let alone that no other logical/common sense argument provided is accepted (cults seldom deal in both acceptance and common sense);

Nannies? Pah, so 1992! Family safety net? Pah, so suburban! Working parents? Pah, these people are stars, their life is a cornucopia of perks and freebies and glam!

So, in a nutshell, according to them:

Mommy is busy working and Daddy follows all along/ stays at home with Blonde Bambino, hoping that Mommy will bring enough cashola to finish that double glazing people usually install in December.

In other words, we immediately picture C as a 'starke, titanische Weib' / the strong, titanic woman German poets were so fond of back in the 1800's. Dragging along a diminutive, shy, understanding and private McSideburns, trousered Vestal extraordinaire. The rest is taboo (or should be, in my book), at any rate.

Something wrong with this vision? Yes. It's exactly the 1950's one they accuse us of espousing (we don't), but this time the male/female symbolic roles are reversed. As a result, a shrink would have many thoughts and probably a handful of questions about that need to completely castrate the Goddess's Consort to perfect oblivion. Obliterating his life, his story and even his name, for Christ's sake!

Not a good look for either C and The Prop and, to be honest, quite a weird, borderline insulting one, especially when coming from 'respectful, realistic' fans. The real utility seems to be concealing the emptiness of a Tale Forever Untold. It will be effectively replaced by the chorus with the perfect fantasy of a modern dad, a successful producer/manager and so on and so forth.

Reality is a bit different, if you just take a look on The Fratellis' Wikipedia page and follow the links:

But, but, but... 'additional personnel' (😱😱😱) - how could that be?

And yes, remember (LOL) David Eustace and the FMN shooting photo of the Happy Dynamic Duo? Happy to oblige to a friend who provided a work project (that album was postponed two or three times, then released in 2021) during COVID, probably.

The mere thought of a young, urban, sophisticated, committed and trusting couple, living and loving their best life, traveling separately or together, allowing 'spaces in their togetherness' (wasn't that The Prophet quote she liked and shared?) is something that gives them the shingles. Anything but this. Anything - even that sad The Empress and Her Additional Personnel narrative.

You see, they don't like The Obvious. At all.

[art-tism]

In Our Silence- Dean x Fem! Reader

AN: I want to make this a longer multiple-part series with a slow burn friends to lovers trope. Eventual (probably) Smut in future parts. This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, so I hope it's okay!

(Part 1: Movie Night?) | (Part 2: Coming soon) |

Word Count: 2.1K

Warnings: None, just fluff

also okay, can we appreciate this gif, dear GOD

Movie Night

Leaning against the side of the Impala, I arched my neck back, tilting my head toward the car's roof. The August sun cast a golden hue over everything, its warmth caressing me from my neck down to my toes. The air was filled with the scent of late summer, a mix of fresh grass with a faint hint of wildflowers. I savored the beautiful weather, the temperature a perfect eighty degrees, with a gentle breeze tousling my hair pushing the clouds along lazily in the sky—it was a moment suspended in time. I wished to stay in this rare opportunity to truly be present forever.

As I passively watched particles stir around in the light beams burning through the dense leaves above, I couldn’t help but be transported back to a time when I spent my free time outdoors, immersed in nature's beauty, trying to connect with the world around me and traversing the landscapes of North America. I still drive across the country and back, but for very different reasons. The hunter life keeps me constantly on the move, now always on edge waiting for the next creature, the next battle, the next world-ending event. It was a life of constant vigilance, with little time for reflection or stillness.

Despite the chaos of my life, at this moment, leaning against the sleek metallic black of Dean’s prized possession, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. The world lulled to a momentary pause, for just a moment, as stay there. I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of the sun and the soft caress of the wind soothe my senses once more. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different life filled with moments like this again. But that was nonsense, a distant memory now softened by time. I've come to find satisfaction in the life I've made for myself today. Everyone in the hunting world has a reason for being there, and it's often born from tragedy. I accepted this life because it led me to the Winchester brothers. My entry into the hunting world was marked by meeting Sam and Dean Winchester, an event that, as anyone familiar with the name 'Winchester' might guess, was perhaps the most harrowing night of my life.

I lost my family to a rogue vampire, one that had been terrorizing my town for about a week before setting its sights on my home. The reasons for their choice will forever remain a mystery to me. At that moment, I lost everything and nearly lost my life as well. It was then that Sam and Dean intervened, saving me at the eleventh hour as I resigned myself to my fate. The details of that night are hazy, and I prefer to keep them that way. But what I do recall, even when I try to forget, is the sensation of lying in the back of the Impala, Sam's comforting presence as he silently held my trembling body.

Sam was my rock, a beacon of kindness and support in the aftermath of my tragedy. He refused to let me drown in despair, always there to gently nudge me towards self-care, ensuring I ate and got out of bed, even when the world felt like it was collapsing around me. In Sam, I found solace and a sense of belonging, a reminder that I wasn't alone in the dark. Dean, on the other hand, was an enigma. Beneath his tough exterior, I sensed a tender heart, a vulnerability he seldom revealed. I knew he cared for me, just as Sam did, but his approach was more guarded, more hesitant. It was as if he struggled to find the right words, the right way to express his concern for me, a stranger whose life had become entwined with theirs after what, to them, was just another case.

Dean was reserved, his approach cautious and measured, especially considering all I had just endured. His way of showing compassion was subtle yet profound, offering silent support, giving me space when I needed it, and denying me space when he knew it wasn't good for me. For all they had done for me, I felt a love unlike any I had ever known. It was a love that transcended blood, a bond forged in the fires of hardship and loss.

When I lost my family, I believed I would never experience that kind of connection again, and that I would spend the rest of my life alone and disconnected. I thought holidays would be empty, void of meaning. But the Winchester brothers showed me that the bond of a chosen family can be just as strong, if not stronger, than the ties of blood. They taught me the true meaning of "the Blood of the Covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." My hands wandered up to the side of Baby, absent-mindedly tracing circles lightly in the thin layer of dust on her exterior. Thoughts of Dean flooded my mind, his love for this car evident in every lovingly maintained detail. I chuckled softly, a fond smile tugging at my lips as I marveled at how this car could always lift his spirits, just as he had done for me so many times. As I continue lingering on that thought for a moment longer, I am snapped back to by a sudden voice.

In the warmth of the afternoon sun, Dean's teasing words danced through the air, his playful tone echoing with affection. "That's where the hell you've been the whole time?" he chided lightly, his voice carrying a melody of lightheartedness. "I was about to start up a search party looking for you." Though his smile radiated warmth, there lingered a glint of concern in his eyes, a silent plea for reassurance.

I couldn't help but chuckle at his jest, my heart swelling with fondness. "Just enjoying the nice day, no case, no research, and a warm breeze," I replied, my voice soft with contentment. A beam of happiness graced my lips as I finished speaking, the simplicity of the moment washing over me. As my laughter mingled with the gentle breeze, Dean's shoulders slightly relaxed, a subtle release of tension I hadn't noticed before. With a sense of serenity, I straightened myself, the day's dust clinging to my clothes like a reminder of our shared adventures.

I turned to face him, “Apologies, did I worry you, Mr. Winchester?” I teased him lightly, catching his gaze momentarily, our eyes lingering for just a moment. “Well,” he laughed and shifted slightly in discomfort “just don’t like to worry, you know?” He looked down, flickering his eyes back up to meet mine. His striking eyes captured mine once more, pausing briefly before he tugged his gaze away towards the bunker door. “Sam and I just finished cooking, Sammy wasn’t interested in another night of Diner food,” he laughed more light-heartedly than before, “and I figured you’d want to enjoy my homecooked burgers before they got cold.” He shot me a smirk, Dean was fully aware of my love for his cooking, especially his burgers. They were a million times better than one from any of the hundreds of restaurants you guys have eaten at across the country.  “You got me there,” I giggled slightly, following Dean inside.

"Oh, Dean," I let out a small gasp of pleasure as I chewed my first bite, savoring the taste of his culinary masterpiece. "This burger is amazing," I exclaimed with my mouth full, unable to contain my appreciation for the dinner he helped prepare. I closed my eyes, relishing each bite as I ate slowly, letting the flavors dance on my tongue. "I swear, you get better every time," I added after taking another bite, savoring the moment. I took a sip of the Kombucha I had swiped from Sam, enjoying the raspberry hibiscus flavor he had deemed unsuitable. Dean smirked at me, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "I'd love to hear you say that again," he teased, winking at me “But I’d like to hear it in another context.” A warm flush crept up my cheeks at his words, his playful banter never failing to send flutters through my body. Though I knew he was joking, the sincerity in his eyes made my heart skip a beat.

I averted my gaze, striking up a conversation with Sam to avoid more flirtatious joke from Dean. "Sammy, thank you for letting me drink the Raspberry Hibiscus ones, I really like them," I said, raising my half empty kombucha bottle in a slight cheers gesture and giving him a playful smile.

"Of course," Sam chuckled. He shifted gears, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Hey, I was thinking about going out, maybe bar hop a little tonight. You down to come with me?" he asked, his gaze flickering between mine as he waited for my reply. I knew I didn't have the social battery for a night out; I had spent most of the morning doing some much-needed deep cleaning in the bunker.

"Actually," I began, my voice playful but resolute, "I think I'll pass on the booze, and hooking up with strangers for tonight. Cleaning up after you and your brother's messy acts has left me utterly exhausted." I rolled my eyes with exaggerated flair, making it clear that my words were laced with affectionate exasperation. Teasing the boys was always a delightful game; it was our unspoken way of showing how much we cared.

Turning to Dean, I pointed an accusatory finger at him. "You," I chided, a smile playing at my lips, "need to stop leaving your dirty clothes strewn about. I washed, dried, and folded them," I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in, "but if you continue leaving them everywhere, I might just have to start tossing them out." It was a lighthearted threat, and I knew I would inevitably find myself doing both Sam and Dean’s laundry again soon. But it was all part of our dynamic, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Teasing Dean always brought a sense of warmth to my heart; he was so much more animated than Sam.

"You wouldn’t!" Dean gasped; his tone mockingly scandalized. He played along with my joke, knowing full well that I would never actually discard any of his clothes, except, perhaps, those stained with blood from our hunts.

"Will you stop leaving your dirty clothes on the floor then?" I said through a smirk.

Dean paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he responded. "I think it would be much more fun if both of our clothes ended up on the floor," he winked at me, his innuendo not at all subtle. Dean had a knack for turning anything into a suggestive remark. It was one of the things I found both exasperating and endearing about him.

"Douchebag Jar!" I exclaimed, pointing at him, unmoved by his pleading eyes.

"What! Oh, come on, Y/N, it's all in good fun," Dean protested, flashing a charming smile, hoping to escape my playful reprimand.

"Nope, sorry Dean, rules are rules, and you already hit your dirty joke quota for the night" I replied firmly, crossing my arms with mock seriousness. "Right, Sam?" I turned to Sam, who was grinning and clearly enjoying the banter. "She’s right, Dean, rules are rules. You owe a dollar to the Douchebag Jar. Maybe consider not making dirty jokes all the time, and you wouldn’t lose all your money to it." The jar was filling up fast again, thanks to Dean's basically daily innuendos. He always had another dirty joke or pick up line his sleeve, ready to blurt it out the second someone slips up and says something slightly suggestive. It was a wicked game to him, regardless of how innocent and respectful his behavior with me actually was. It wasn’t like Dean to ever mean it, Whenever he whipped one of his classic dirty jokes, his eyes crinkled and his face slowly morphed into a mischievous smile. I knew he only did it to get a ride out of me, and it’s not like he can direct all of his flirtatious energy at Sammy right?

I would, however, be a liar if I tried to claim his words never brought butterflies to my stomach, I know it’s just jokes, but something in his eyes makes them feel that much more real…

“Sammy!” Dean exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock despair and snapping back from my wondering thoughts.

“Sorry, Dean, but rules are rules," I said, a hint of amusement in my tone. "You can't escape the Douchebag Jar that easily." I watched as Dean fished out a dollar, grumbling playfully as he dropped it into the jar.

"Happy now?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Ecstatic," I replied with a grin, the tension of the moment melting away. "Now, what do you say we watch a movie or something? I haven’t had my semi-monthly Pride and Prejudice screening." My eyes twinkled mischievously, knowing full well how much Dean despised anything remotely related to period dramas.

[ctitan98official]

Anonymous: Donna Beneviento is my favorite character in RE8, thus I have a request: Donna meets the newcomer on the village, who happens to be skilled in healing magic. Upon meeting, they heal Donna's Cadou Scar to where she looks like her portrait; completely human but she can still control her powers. Donna falls in love with the healer and wants them to be hers and hers alone.

So, the last sentence of this request “Hers and hers alone” Made me… Want to go dark lol. Guess I’m just in a weird headspace lately and want to write about some crazy ladies 🤷‍♂️ As the story progresses, I want Donna to start developing yandere traits. The potential for angst (But also comfort) In this prompt is too good for me to pass up! Let’s get into it!

You found yourself in a quaint village nestled within the fog-shrouded valleys of Eastern Europe. The stories of its unsettling inhabitants and the tales of supernatural happenings sent shivers down the spines of most, but you were no stranger to rural towns and their local superstitions. Spooky happenings always turned out to be coincidence or had logical explanations, so you weren’t very concerned. As a skilled practitioner of healing medicine, you believed your abilities could be of help in this mysterious place.

You were able to find a nice little cabin to rent near the forest surrounding the village. You began by offering help to people with obvious maladies who you passed on your daily errands. At first, the villagers were wary of you. Outsiders were seldom accepted into the social fabric of the village. However, as word began to spread of your miraculous abilities, you soon had people flocking to your house for medical advice and assistance.

As your reputation grew… Someone else began to take notice.

Donna had been locked up in Beneviento Manor for decades. She couldn’t stand to be out in public where people could see her. That’s why she started wearing her veil. If she ever ventured out, her face was always covered. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it at least gave her some semblance of a barrier between her and other people. She also… Hated looking in the mirror. She had always been self-conscious of her looks but… The scar that was left by the cadou made her sick to even think about. When rumors of your healing practices reached her, she dared to dream. Tales of your work sounded too good to be true, but… What if you really could help her? Even just minimizing her scar somehow would bring her so much joy. So finally, after days of agonizing over what to do… She made her decision. She sent a messenger to give you a letter. In her note, she explained her situation and how she now lived her life in solitude because of her scar. She begged for you to come and assess her. 

Her story broke your heart. Of course you would help her. You set out the very same day with your supplies and made your way to her mansion. To be honest, it looked like the very definition of a haunted house. You stuffed down your sudden nerves and knocked on the door.

… You almost had a heart attack at what greeted you. 

A little doll, no taller than your knee, answered. She cackled excitedly when she saw your medical bag. “Oh… Are you here for Donna?” She asked.

Your eyes almost bugged out of your head. Can this doll… Talk? You stood there for a moment, not knowing how to respond.

The doll sighed and crossed her arms. “Wow, what a genius,” She snarked. “Are you sure you’re a medical professional?” She asked.

You flushed violently at her words. “I… I’ve just never spoken to a… Doll before,” You whispered, worrying that you were going insane. You blinked several times just to make sure your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

The little doll laughed. “Yeah, I am pretty stunning. It’s okay to be intimidated by my beauty,” She said proudly. “I’m Angie, Donna’s best friend. Why don’t you come on in. She’s waiting for you,” She giggled, waving you inside.

You couldn’t help but smile. This was the craziest thing you’d ever seen. Angie had sass and you liked her style. You thanked the little doll and followed her into the mansion. 

“So, what’s your name?” She asked curiously.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Y/N,” You said. It turns out that it’s a little hard to remember your manners when you’re talking to a literal toy.

Angie was about to say something back, but you… Totally embarrassed yourself just then.

You shrieked (Very unattractively) As you two turned a corner and entered a sitting area. You saw a near motionless woman standing and waiting there for you. She had a mourning veil on and her dainty hands were clasped tightly in front of her.

Angie tried to stifle her laughter, but failed miserably as she looked at your wide eyes. “Hahaha! What a scaredy cat!” She said, pointing at you.

Your cheeks once again turned bright red. Damn, what is with this place? You feel like a total imbecile today. “I-I… I’m so sorry! I just got startled for a second there. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone,” You tried to explain.

For as embarrassed as you were… Donna found that she quite liked seeing you flustered. She certainly wasn’t expecting you to be so good-looking, but your nervousness was adorable in and of itself. Plus, it felt good to not be the one apologizing all over herself for once. Thank goodness she was wearing her veil. She didn’t want you to know that she was smiling at how cute you were.

At Donna’s prolonged silence, you felt yourself start running your mouth out of discomfort. “I came to… Well, I guess you know why I came. You sent the letter, after all. Oh, by the way! I just wanted to mention how pretty your handwriting is! When I write, it looks like a total mess. Anyway, I made my way over as soon as I could. I had a rather difficult case this morning. That’s why it took me so long! I’m really sorry about that. I hope-”

“It’s fine, Y/N,” Donna eventually says softly, putting you out of your misery.

Angie’s eyes shoot to Donna in shock. Normally she has to voice what Donna is thinking to strangers. The doll suddenly adopts a shit-eating grin. She realizes that despite just meeting you, Donna feels safe in your presence. It’s meant to be… She can’t wait to be the flower girl at your wedding.

While Angie is busy planning you and Donna’s future together, you immediately stop talking when you hear the mysterious woman’s gorgeous voice. Wow. It’s all you want to listen to now.

“Why don’t we have a seat over here, Y/N,” Donna says, gently offering you a place to sit.

You shoot her a nervous smile, taking a moment to catch your breath. “Thank you, that sounds nice,” You say.

The two of you sit across from each other and Angie jumps up to cuddle on Donna’s lap.

You watch how loving Donna is with the little doll. She carefully adjusts Angie’s outfit and holds her close. It makes you smile at the display.

You soon begin to ask Donna some questions and get a bit of her medical history. “Would it be alright if… I asked you to take your veil off?” You ask after a while.

Donna bites her lip. She’s already beginning to like being around you. You’re so kind and intelligent. The last thing she wants is to drive you off with her appearance. But… This is why she summoned you here, after all. She has to be brave. She soon nods and begins lifting the covering from her face.

You gasp, soon overtaken by the sight in front of you…

Note: Hmm… I wonder what took your breath away, there at the end? I’m gonna break this into another part! I hope you enjoyed!

Masterlist

[dreams-writings]

Reverse Interrogation - Part 1

[sub!Feitan Portor x top!Reader]

‼️ NSFW/MDNI‼️

Synopsis: For the first time in his life, Feitan fails an interrogation. Refusing to admit defeat and give up his perfect track record when it comes to his specialty, he begrudgingly allows reader to strike a bargain in exchange for her secrets.. and is shocked to learn what she truly wants. His body. Frustrated and furious with his predicament, he angrily accepts her conditions purely for the sake of the Troupe, agreeing to do as she says. No other reason...

Tw: eventual smut, torture, violence, NSFW/MDNI, vulgar language, Feitan gives verbal consent but still isn't happy with the situation/ (dubcon????)

Feitan's thin, pale fingers were as cold as his heart, a detail that all of his victim's vividly remembered. They always retold their horrid experience with the notorious Phantom Troupe interrogator with a glaze of shell shocked terror in their eyes. The graphic recollection of such chilled skin gripping and tearing harshly at their own flesh would make them sob even years later after the torment. That is, of the few that survived the ordeal. The man in question wasn't necessarily aware of this, he just did his job, striking an unfathomable amount of fear into the hearts of the unlucky few who crossed his merciless path, and whom were ordered to be dragged off to his eery torture chambers. He'd bring them all to the point they'd do anything in the entire world to escape it. Even giving up precious secrets, his most treasured prize for the effort.

He was nonchalant about it. Indifferent, even. Perhaps he could revel in the glory of it, just a bit - the assignment easily giving a man like him a power trip seldom found elsewhere in his youth. Anyone from Meteor City had been conditioned by a brutally unforgiving childhood.

His eyes might crinkle in delight beneath the mysterious cowl at a particularly profound scream, or those empty grey depths could also glimmer amusedly if they begged for his nonexistent mercy. But such was the nature of his upbringing. At the end of the day.. it was the pride of serving his Troupe which overruled any form of guilt or shame that a normal, perhaps more sane person could feel about butchering people into submission. He never failed an interrogation. And he didn't plan to start today, even as the woman before him.. his newest little nut to crack open, was giving him a challenge.

Someone who survived more than perhaps ten minutes was refreshing. But only at first - as he was about to discover. Feitan was accustomed to the disappointment of most human beings succumbing to their primitive instincts and fragility, interrupting his creative ideas at the worst time. It left him unsatisfied, and pent up. The confessions would soon follow after the initial wave of shock passed.. the pathetic blubbering and hiccuping sobs, as his victim unashamedly spilled their intel before he spilled more of their guts. A part of him pitied them. Only a small, miniscule part. But most of him loathed them, too. Not only for their weakness, giving in so easily... but also betraying whomever it was they worked for or served. Mostly, it was his judgement for their inability to endure. He could only think to himself at such times:

Really? That's all you can take? I could've done better in your shoes.. I wouldn't have broken so easily. I would never be a liability to my allies. How detestable.

In his opinion they belonged beneath his boot, to finally suffer the way they caused others to. Feitan trusted Chrollo's judgement. Always. He firmly believed that not one single innocent person had ever, ever found themself in his chambers beneath his vengeful will. An underground lair of hell, which Chrollo gave the order to utilize when a person was seen as fit for punishment. Another rotten pile of garbage and greed for Feitan to pick apart. He embodied a diety of unforgiving justice in his mind. Long ago, he'd stopped asking what the reason was, and just got straight to carving away.

Feitan was currently preoccupied observing today's victim. Except.. she wasn't really acting like a victim, so what was he to call her? Narrowed, steely grey eyes continued to dart up and down her feminine figure as if searching for clues to piece together a puzzle. He couldn't solve this one, not yet... Even his keen attention for catching any signs of weakness wasn't able to determine a chink in the armor. If he thought he'd found one and explored into it a bit, he was only met with the same resilience as before. Her heated, intense stare of defiance. A smirk began to play across his features, it wasn't often he maybe felt a glimmer of respect for someone in his chair.

"Tough girl. How you become immune to shock?" He asked, pausing to idly run a bloodstained cloth over one of his nasty metal tools. He tossed the mechanism back to a metal tray where it gave a harsh clatter.

A clever glint in his eye, he circled her similarly to a jungle cat closing in on alert prey. She snickered right back at him, and he quirked a brow, noticing the bizarre nature of her mental state. Or rather, it was outlandish to him, to see someone with freshly stripped fingernails acting so present and grounded.

By now, almost at this exact time in the routine, the animalistic "deer in headlights" look would appear as his victims squirmed and twisted to find an escape. Hyperventilating through a full bodily trauma response. But not her. She looked as casual as the first moment he forcibly sat her down... Expression careful and aware, but definitely not in the midst of a primitive meltdown. He couldn't help but feel a little bit of curiosity... And interest. He could treat someone like this as a human, even if his cruelty would remain the same.

He did so by talking to her. She was clearly sound enough to respond.

"You been trained? To handle your secrets like big girl?" He inquired condescendingly, pacing restlessly in front of her, looming over her with menace in his intent.

His ghostly slender hand reached forward to grip her by the hair, yanking on the tufts to force eye contact, and her face twisted into an expression he couldn't quite understand, her sharp exhale of surprise leaving a warm feeling tingling against his skin as it swept past his cheeks.

Stripped bare, she was panting lightly, a reaction he noticed. He kept his victims this way to understand them better - an expert in anatomy; he wanted to be able to take in every reaction. Every last possible weak point that could be weaponized or utilized to coax someone into unbearable agony. Being naked psychologically left an impact, making humans feel more vulnerable and insecure through the interrogation process. Subsequently, it urged them to feel cornered and small in more than one way, and let their treasured secrets slip all the easier.

But this wasn't what he was looking for. She wasn't gasping with pain or flinching away. Instead, her soft pants left her cheeks flushed red. So what was going on?

"You could say that," she purred. "Is it frustrating? You haven't had to really work for this before, have you?" She mused.

The way she was looking at him made his skin crawl just a bit. Mostly because he really legitimately couldn't read her face, and he found that unnerving. He was used to total control in this environment. Given the circumstances it should be something totally different - so how was he supposed to understand her at all? He watched a gash on her face ooze slowly with more blood, a little droplet finding it's way down to the ice cold basement flooring with a faint pattering echo. The woman was unphased by his demeanor apparently.

Feitan just sort of stared after such comments, calculating towards her with a hint of annoyance creeping into his gaze. Was she taunting him? For a moment he second guessed it because he couldn't determine why someone in their right god damn mind would mock a life threatening predator actively approaching with a set of torture tools in hand. Not to mention, she was helpless and restrained. Was she bluffing? Either way he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she most definitely was batshit crazy, based on how there was seemingly no logical gain in being so bold.

"...Can't feel pain. As much. Can you?"

After a pause this was all he had said. Coming to this final conclusion, realizing that his vigilant eyes hadn't missed any signs after all. Initially he had thought she had gone through some sort of intense training in pain endurance, for the sole purpose of keeping her sacred, crucial information safe. But now he was realizing what he was actually dealing with. He'd broken trained torture survivors before. Easily. They always reached their limit eventually. This was different.

"That's right!" She chimed. "You finally got it, darling. I can feel pain but my nervous system doesn't work the same way as yours.. my pain receptors aren't very intense. So you're playing a losing game here. Tell me though, will you give up? Is this it for you, little sadist? Or are you the creative type~?"

He watched her give him a once over, smug expression still plastered to her features as he felt himself essentially being sized up. He wasn't sure how he felt about it other than the fact he didn't like it.. Feitan believed her close observance of him from head to toe was probably a show of her humiliating him. Maybe searching for weaknesses the same way he knew how to do.. and he hated that possibility. Who was she to reflect his behavior? She MUST be thinking up insults about him silently, that he was too short or something.. the very idea made his blood boil.

This infuriating concept made him loom closer to her, his intimidating nature taking over while his eyes bore daggers into hers. Mere inches away from her face, this was how he typically issued a challenge without speaking a word. Most people would fall apart and quiver with terror being subjected to inescapable closeness with him. Yet another unexplainable reaction followed from her instead, and his eyes darted down at the first sight of movement, noticing she was squirming and rubbing her thighs together under his fierce stare. He didn't put two and two together; he just watched, dumbfounded, unsure if maybe she was attempting to break free to no avail.

"There's more than one way to get information out of someone, you know~ but I get the feeling all you know how to do is rip people apart. The easy method. Boring. You want my suggestion-?"

"Shut up," Feitan snarled ferociously, offended and disgusted with both her and the situation, unable to stop himself before he found his hand wrapping tightly around her neck, violent fingers locking over her jaw in a vicious grip. He hated all her irritating chatter, it made his temper flare. But even more than that, although he would never admit it.. he just hated that she could take away what made him feel the most powerful and secure, simply by existing. He wasn't threatening or scary to someone if he couldn't cause them pain. And he struggled to accept that. It didn't fit in place with his comfort zone.

Gurgling, her eyes squinted with pain, but to confirm what she'd just said.. indeed, a normal person would be screaming, and this was bearable for her, even if fairly uncomfortable. His inhuman retractable claws were digging into her soft skin, causing beads of blood to appear beneath five piercing knives. Quickly, the wounds turned into crimson streams. Yet, she wouldn't yield.

Unfortunately, her time spent suffocating in his merciless grasp also gave him enough time in silence to come to another realization. He let go, instantly - watching her drop back down with a hunched head, coughing and spluttering for air.

He could accidentally kill her this way because her body and mind wouldn't be responding with the queues he needed to go by in determining her state of mortality, and likelihood of death. How could he make a judgement call without the signs he was used to expecting? He could tell when someone was close to death, based on indicators of their shock levels.. all a complete circular link between the psychology and physiology of pain.

He was completely seasoned in his job to the fullest degree. But this wasn't a normal situation, not one he'd ever dealt with. She couldn't necessarily tell him or maybe even understand herself if she was dying.

Shit... her body wouldn't freak out or sense danger. It would just remain in a perfectly neutral state. One second she would be breathing and the next her heart might just fail on her. Normally Feitan didn't have any qualms about killing but when it came to interrogations, death meant that the victim's intel died with them. Taken to the grave. To him, that was equivalent to failure.

And so.. the delimma was quickly dawning on him. He could continue, and risk killing her by accident, therefore ensuring the intel he sought was forever out of reach - or, he could stop and suffer the shame of admitting defeat.

Unacceptable... both were unacceptable. He could only stand momentarily and glare at her maliciously for the predicament she was causing him, a sudden stirring feeling of true hatred arising in his chest. Why was it, then, that there was perhaps more of that same respect from earlier appearing simultaneously? Well.. he must be unable to ignore her strength here, and found himself inwardly acknowledging her impossible feat of enduring his trials. No other human being had ever done the same.

"You will tell me. Tell me what Danchou asked for." He was making an attempt to assert his normally compelling willpower, his intimidating aura leaking into his nen which flared along with his irritability. Right now, he was fairly pissed off, the signs beginning to appear around his frame through a visual residue of nen.

"Maybe I will," she purred again towards him. He paused, surprised yet again by her, unsure if she was being serious. He would've easily taken that in as more mockery but just now - she sounded quite sincere. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't going to ask HER what he had to do for it. His pride wouldn't permit that. She needed to play by his rules in his domain.

But as a result of his confusion he was only left with a loss for words, eyes narrowing into slits as he attempted to piece her apart with his mind. Figure out what she was going on about. Nonetheless, she took the silence as opportunity.

"Take me back to your leader and I'll strike a deal with him. He makes deals, doesn't he? I'll tell you everything if he can give me what I want."

Feitan ridiculed her with that same silent stare, making it clear he was displeased with her request. She shouldn't even get the option when nobody else in her shoes ever could. She was just lucky.. just special because of some random offhand ability she either developed over time, or was born with. So why did she deserve special treatment? What, was she going to ask for a red carpet down here next as she was escorted out? He wasn't going to ask about her weird pain tolerance nor did he care. It was just an annoying hurdle he was finding himself truly aggravated with.

"Fine. But Danchou not an idiot. Most likely end up back with me.. will get you to talk. Eventually."

The only reason he agreed to this was because he was legitimately concerned about accidentally killing her. He was known for his brutality, and early on in his little career he had actually sent people into a premature grave through panic induced heart attacks. His torture techniques had to be modified and drawn out, to prolong their time in the chair and eliminate the chance of losing potential classified information. He knew what to look for, to determine when to back off temporarily. He just hadn't seen it from this woman.

Not to mention, he had carved her up pretty good already. Deep, clean slices decorated her skin in vertical designs where he had experimented for quite a while, attempting in his endeavors to find just one place where her pain was significant. Nothing had been found, and as a result, her blood loss was considerable.

Wordlessly, he made his final decision, cutting her loose from her bonds and noticing her give a shudder at the cold blade. Leaning forward towards him, a tension became present now that she was being freed, an absolutely electric presence in the surrounding air. Goosebumps raised beneath where his fingertips smoothed over her wrists, and he raised a brow, assuming it was the discomfort of cold. "Pretty," she hummed in a strangely sweet tone, and he straightened up, staring at her again in a mixture of confusion and exasperation.

"Your hands," she clarified. He just deadpanned at her. A moment passed, and she would only earn a snippy little "tch" from him in response. His eyes flickered back to her face upon hearing her chuff in amusement at his dismissal, and again he realized just how god damn nuts she was. Clearly, not even slightly afraid of him. He frowned, spiteful at the fact.

As if to make a point, his so called "pretty" hands were what he used to harshly yank her out of the chair by the scalp, dragging her across the floor to go speak with Chrollo. How could she even possibly think that about such hands, which were designed to only ever harm and kill? The amount of blood these hands carried upon them.. it could drown a person. Or several. Such a comment like that made him almost concerned for her. Or rather, it would if she was someone he cared for. He did not. Feitan was definitely judging though.

If anything, her delirious behavior was perhaps the only present sign of her being unwell... Maybe this was how the strain on her body was presenting itself even if she couldn't feel pain. That had to be it. Her compliments couldn't be genuine. This was psychosis of some sort.

He was grumbling and growling under his breath as he kept tugging on her to keep up with him. She wasn't heavy by any means but he was annoyed to even be lugging her weight around. She was a tricky bitch in his opinion and he didn't trust her one bit - not even enough to stay put in the damn chair while he went to ask for Chrollo's input. "Stop" he snarled, the second he watched her open her mouth to start speaking. So instead, she just giggled softly, blood smearing all over her legs from being dragged across the stone cold floor.

Despite his warning, she spoke anyway, and he groaned.

"What do you think I'll ask him for? If I won't cave under the torture.. surely you must be wondering what's worth all my fun secrets."

"Don't care," he stated back flatly. He gave a particularly mean tug on her hair this time, knowing the tension against her scalp really wouldn't cause her much distress anyway. He could do what he wanted.

"Oh c'mon, surely you're curious ~" she hummed. He just sighed, refusing to play her game anymore.

It didn't take long to get her back into the entryway of the hideout where the entire Troupe was sitting around idly.. likely waiting for him to finish up. After all, whatever he found out was going to determine what the group did next. It was part of the pressure he was feeling at this time. He felt himself mentally melt away a little bit, consumed by shame as all other pairs of eyes turned to witness him. Him, in his state of failure.

He noticed all at once the individual reactions - Machi's frown of impatience and the confused yet interested tilt of Shalnark's blond head. Chrollo stood up, and approached. His eyes were always empty yet watchful. He could make sense of the situation amidst the silence within mere moments. "Everyone, please give us some privacy for a moment," he called to the others in his usual collected, calm tone. His diction was consistently elegant and composed. Feitan had always admired it.

He was having a hard time coping with embarrassment however, preoccupied with the difficulty of tolerating an emotion that he hated. Being ashamed or feeling bad about anything at all could make him terribly irritable. The others figured it out eventually, but it made him difficult to communicate with at times, on top of the language barrier. They'd just get snippy retorts and the usual scornful glare out of him if they tried to dig at it. Chrollo was the best person to handle this anyway, seeing as he was entirely unphased by Feitan's personality quirks.

Once the others had cleared out with a few grumbles and sighs, deciding not to comment on the abnormal event of Feitan bringing a victim back up with him, he growled and tossed the girl forward at his boss' feet.

"Won't talk. Some kind of weird pain immunity. Can't continue.. could kill her. She want bargain for secret."

His explanation was short, eyes lowering down to glower at her beneath his boot, giving her a solid kick in the back for the hell of it just because he was mad about what he had to do. He was suffering such humiliation because SHE was too stubborn. Anger helped him feel better about admitting defeat to someone he looked up to.

The woman just squirmed under his heated eyes, legs writhing together like they had before in the chair. He still really didn't like those eyes she gave him from beneath half lidded lashes, as it made him nervous. He didn't get why she always looked like she knew something he didn't. Chrollo watched this scene unfold as well, any changes in his expression so subtle that they were hardly noticable, and past any level of observance. Even the slightest glimmer of amusement in his eye was quick to vanish as he easily pieced apart the situation with a few context clues. He spoke quietly and nonchalantly to the girl, calm gaze lowering back down to her level.

"It sounds like we have no choice but to cooperate with her, Feitan. After the extensive damage done to her body, one might even say we're lucky she's willing to compromise."

Don't praise her for such a stupid thing, Feitan nearly hissed out loud, but kept the thought reverberating in his head instead.

The raven watched his leader lower to one knee, observing her, and he then gave her one of his lifeless smiles before asking:

"What do you suggest we should trade, for your precious intel? What do you value?"

He waited, glancing up at Feitan to note how utterly furious his second in command was, the man was practically exuding steam out the ears. Chrollo wasn't upset by any means in this situation, but he could also understand why his counterpart was struggling with it.

The woman straightened herself up, having patted down her hair once Feitan let go, and she gave the Phantom Troupe's leader a coy smirk. She didn't hesitate to respond with a bold demand.

"Let me fuck him,"

"I want him. Your interrogator. Let me do as I please with him for a while, and he'll be my pretty new toy. I promise not to harm him, and he'll be returned to you in the same condition as he is now. If not perhaps a little bit more relaxed."

She lifted her eyes to hungrily drink in the sight of her captor. Chrollo couldn't help but chuckle softly, purposefully taking a moment to witness Feitan's reaction in real time.

He had to admit, this whole ordeal had his full interest now. The leader had already known where this was going the second the girl was dragged in, utterly unapologetic with the squirming and flushing red body every damn time her captor touched her. The look she gave him was one of desire, whenever she basked in his visage. All behavior that Chrollo understood from women, and he knew Feitan did not. In fact he was sure this was a complete blindsighted smack to the face for him.

She gave a little rocking motion of delight at the mere thought, and Chrollo raised a brow, seriously considering her offer. It was a simple one. So, she just wanted sex. But he understood right away that this was out of his hands. He already made a pact with himself long ago that he would never sacrifice the human dignity of his members for personal gain.

Maybe, though.. he could help his friend out with this one and take the bullet. The truth was that Chrollo wouldn't mind at all, he'd utilized his good looks in the past to get what he wanted for his personal goals, and it was really no hindrance to him to do it one more time.

"So you want pleasure? Rather than just him, I can assure you that I'm another willing candidate for you, and with significantly more intimate experience at that. Would you take me instead?"

"No-"

She began. Except, it was two people who spoke at once. The woman was about to completely reject the idea, but Feitan was already shaking his head.

"No, Danchou. You should not take consequence for my failure. My responsibility to fix."

Chrollo sighed, realizing this could now officially go one way and only one way, due to Feitan's stubborn rigidity. Even if he'd be pissed about it for easily a full week. Feitan would rather suffer any other punishment than let down his Troupe. It was connected to his personal pride and priorities. Chrollo knew this, of course.

"Well, Feitan? Do you agree? You won't be allowed to resist or argue, if you do. You would have to allow her to have her way, if we want to complete an exchange."

Poor Feitan however, was not on the same page. In fact, they'd left him behind by a significant few paces, his brain still working in overdrive to process what the fuck she just said a minute ago. What she just asked his boss for. He quite literally couldn't fathom what was happening or why. Who would want him? And no less, why the hell was Chrollo so quick to immediately consider such a bizarre request? There HAD to be more to it. Maybe she was trying to get him into a vulnerable position, to kill him. This couldn't be right.

"Feitan?" Chrollo asked again. The skull crested cowl around his face covered the view of his jaw hanging slightly open in disbelief.. but it certainly couldn't conceal his mortified eyes, round as stoplights.

"......I, I..."

He almost reverted back to his first language in this instance as he failed to find the words. How could he, when presented with such an unbelievable situation? What could he even do.. or say? How did he even feel about it? He wasn't sure. Too much at once.

At least, the woman was actually quiet as he sat there, dumbfounded and flabbergasted. He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling his face quickly heating up into what was probably a jarring bright red flush. His ears felt hot.. his cheeks were burning and his hands went all clammy. He wouldn't say it but he was scared.

Nonetheless, what came out of his mouth after a few agonizing long minutes passed, said differently.

"Fine. Whatever it takes."

"Feitan.. if you don't want to.."

"Stop it. This my job in Troupe. Let me do job."

His fists clenched, and he stuffed them into his pockets as he noticed the girl's clear satisfaction with his answer. He sneered right back at her, after seeing her snicker. He sent Chrollo a glare, truly feeling like his boss was pimping him out in some strange way. Was this even reality?? In what world would this even happen?

"I'll be so good to you~" the girl hummed sweetly, tantalizingly snaking an arm around his leg. Feitan shoved her off, but not before stiffening at her touch in surprise. He didn't know how to accept touch of any kind and he was more afraid of this right now than even something brutal, like her hurting him back. He'd have agreed much easier if she just suggested that instead. At least that was familiar.. whilst this was foreign.

"Alright. The deal is made. But you won't be leaving this place until you fulfill your end of the bargain, Miss, so long as Feitan also follows through. Now, I don't think you intend to cheat... Your interest in my interrogator seems genuine. But if you try to find any loopholes we'll likely kill you for it. Oh. And Feitan reserves the right to step away if you harm him. Understood?"

The girl nodded eagerly, standing up finally on weak knees. "So.. is that your name then beautiful boy? Feitan? What a lovely sounding name." She wobbled, eventually swerving on her right hip to reach for Feitan, arm wrapping around his slender waist to steady herself. Again, he stiffened at her closeness, expression tightening into discomfort. So then, why.. why did he simultaneously experience a sudden stirring in his lower stomach? Hearing her coo his name in such a sugary sweet way was also a completely new sensation. He didn't think anyone had ever spoken it like that before.

His eyes widened slightly in horror at the realization of feeling butterflies and jittery warmth in his stomach. Of course. He couldn't just ignore what was inevitably coming - what terrifying task he had committed himself to all for the sake of preserving his pride. Like one may try and avoid an intrusive thought, he was trying to cast out the idea that he'd.. well.. he'd be feeling inside of her quite soon. He'd never felt a girl like that before.. wrapped around him, and..

He released a breath he didn't know he was holding before and blinked to clear his head.

"What are you looking at" he hissed menacingly at the woman after catching her oggling him again, yanking her up by the forearm to drag her back to the damn basement designated for interrogation. Not to torture her now.. but.. to do whatever unsightly things she demanded. He chose the same room purely because it was designed specifically to block out noise. He didn't know what might happen, but... He didn't want anyone existing in this proximity to have even a slight audible hint of what was happening. This was a secret he was taking to his fucking grave.

Well, he could at least continue to brag about his perfect track record of successful interrogations, even if he was technically doing it the reverse way this time. He would simply have to bare with the constant embarrassment of knowing Chrollo witnessed this happen. Chrollo would know he stooped this low. But at least, he wouldn't have to suffer the constant belittlement and teasing from his allies. They could be brutal about that.. like siblings. Chrollo would likely have the decency to keep this under cover. Between the two of them.

"And don't hurt her either, okay Feitan?" Chrollo called back out to his interrogator as the small but strong raven hauled her away. He didn't respond, he just growled in frustration under his breath, already having assumed that was part of the exchange. No more torture.

He didn't know what he should be prepared for, and to be quite honest he felt almost faint as they entered the cold basement of the abandoned building in tense silence. The woman tried standing again, gripping for his hand as she pulled herself up.

"Unless you want blood all over you, I need to be patched up. And then I want you on the bed. Understood?" She asked.

Feitan gave an exhale, heavier than usual. Now that they were alone again he could ask her about her nonsensical request.

"you.. why would you..."

"Did I say you could ask questions?" She leered. And his gaze immediately hardened into a glare. He said nothing, knowing if he entertained his rage with a response, he'd probably only escalate from there. He was quickly learning he despised being told what to do from someone other than Chrollo.

"Good boy. I hope you know... I'm not intending to make you do everything for me.. I just want to please you, and watch you squirm a bit. That's all."

He was having a difficult time understanding her motives still but it might've been the haze of fog that clouded his mind after her next statement.

"That doesn't sound so bad, right? Sitting back and relaxing while a nice girl rides on you.."

His breath hitched as he felt her arms suddenly wrap around him, pressing herself into him by the hips to overwhelm him with her scent, and her voice.

"I'll make you feel so good that everyone in this building will know what's being done to you~"

And Feitan shuddered. Her whisper made his knees a little bit weak.. but he was also fucking petrified. Women never got this close to him on purpose. He may not be willing to admit it to himself, but for a brief moment at that time, he faltered... Truly terrified indeed that she was right. He just might break.

[themonotonysyndrome]

You just got Rick Rolled!

I have no excuse.

Watch Max0r videos on Youtube :)

-

Summary: Bright Eyes is ready to pull a deadbeat dad.

The duffel bag underneath the bed is ready to go. Pockets are stuffed with wads of stolen cash. 

All they need to do is swipe an armful of blood bags from the Clan’s cold storage for the long road ahead. 

William Solaire standing between them and the milk aisle was not part of the plan. Nor his sad, puppy eyes.

Fucking damn it. 

-

In the grand scheme of things called life, Bright Eyes is not a main character. 

Main characters are people like Frederick, who’s worthy of second chances because he vomits out his heart to those who demand it. Vincent, with his flashy smile and equally flashy cars that caters to single simps who dream of being swept away by a set of 2000-era vampiric TV tropes. Sam, who you can’t hate because he’s not just a bitch, no, no - he’s a bitch with a backstory who just so happens to love to pretend that Bright doesn’t exist on a good day and won’t stop bitching why they’re the modern incarnation of Satan on the worst. Oh! We can’t forget the poster child of Byronic Hero which is Tank. They’re a fan fav for a reason.   

In a world of main characters, Bright Eyes could hardly hold a candle to the people around them. If anything, they’re an NPC. The glitchiest NPC to ever exist in this Skyrim of a world. 

The kind that was brought into the story to be shitted on by the audience because they either don’t meet up to lofty expectations or weren’t the perfect victim.

Is it getting too close to home now? 

Bright has no problem being an NPC - hell, they don’t even mind that there was no space for them on the picture wall that consists of Sam, Frederick, and Tank - they still have their pride, as shitty as it is. Why the fuck would they want to stay at a place where no one wants an NPC that fucks up the whole gameplay? Nah, fam - Bright has been preparing for their getaway on the same night they woke up with an angry Sam sitting beside the bed. 

The Summit expedited the plan. 

While they and Frederick were expected to show up at the undead shindig, being Clan members and all, Sam worried it might overwhelm his Progeny. Apparently, older Vamps enjoy stabbing each other with words and dinner knives after the third course. Sounds like Bright’s kind of people. But because Frederick was benched, so were they. It’s cool, it’s fine. Silver linings and all that. It gave Bright lots of opportunities to pack their meagre shits into a worn-out duffel bag from the store room and steal whatever cash they could find around the house while Frederick was asleep. Vampiric hearing rocks! Sure, they were curious as to why Sam and Tank came back looking like they just witnessed a train wreck, and Vincent seldom came over with his trademark smirks anymore, but since no one tells them anything, Bright chalked it up as another Tuesday. Not their circus, not their monkeys. 

Whatever happened at the Summit isn’t their problem. Missing the last bus to Ferris is.  

Earlier that evening, they made a show of getting ready for bed after Sam left to meet Tank for something, and they can’t bear to look Frederick in the eyes, knowing that this will be the last time they will ever see each other. Not that he knows, but hey, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? So they collapse onto the mattress, willing themselves to be calm because anything less will have Frederick peeking his head through the door. So they close their eyes until the bond between Progeny and Maker whispers to Bright that Frederick is unconscious. The rose detergent on the pillows and duvet itches their nose. They hate the smell but they can’t forget how wide Frederick smiles just because they accepted a bouquet of roses from him once. It’s not rocket science that all of the previous lavender scents on linens were replaced with rose soon after that. 

Bright Eyes is so exhausted of sustaining themselves on the pitiful sweetness of their once friend turned Maker. Not when the bitterness that comes from Sam is gradually killing them. 

They get up and take a good, long bath. It's probably the only one they’ll be getting for a while, so they’re making the most of the soap and shampoo. They continue to ignore the sweet, floral scent clinging to their body. Then they dig through the closet for a jacket covered in patches and a ripped pair of jeans - the clothes their parents bought for their birthday, now worn with time. The clothes that they wore on the night they were murdered. Then they spend half an hour checking everything for one last time. Anyone can tell by a single glance that Bright Eyes is a walking charity case. It’s cool, it’s fine. No one cares about runaway people all the time. They’re statistics. 

Their stomach flips when Bright stalks across the hall like a ghost. A part of them wanted Frederick to catch them in mid-act, to convince them to stay so they could work things out for good. The part that loathed Bright, however, hisses to remove the glitch in this game. 

Once the front door is locked behind them, Bright wipes their eyes and hoists the duffel bag strap firmly on their shoulder. The abandoned theme park will be their last stop in Dahlia. 

-

Wonder World will forever be a sight for sore eyes. 

Like the Clan, the place is a living corpse. It should have been destroyed, put all the bad memories to rest, but instead, it transformed into a hideout for the walking dead. Hah. 

Bright keeps a good healthy distance from the Vampires that are on shift, listens well to the chatters in dark corners, and avoids slipping underneath awnings that will collapse on top of them if they so much as breathe. They memorised the schedule for this specific night, and it paid off. No one notices them skulking towards the cold storage. See, new batches of blood will be delivered tomorrow, so no one will find out that a couple of leftovers will be missing. Fingers might be pointed at Bright, but by then, they’ll be long gone. A footnote in their lives. 

The fridge greets Bright when they sneak in through the open window, no different than a racoon. Their entry wasn’t as smooth as James Bond’s because their kneecap bumped against the nearby table. Luckily, no one heard it. 

“A+, A+, more A+… you’re fucking kidding me? B-? Beggars can’t be choosers, Bright. Food’s food.” They grumble to themselves as the fridge is raided. They stuffed as many blood bags into the bag as they could. 

Suddenly, the door gently opens. Bright Eyes turn around. Their eyes widen in horror because - 

“Little Bright? Is that you?” William Solaire, the fucking king of every magical equivalent of Schrödinger Cat in Dahlia, tilts his head in question as if to better see them. Standing between them and their freedom. What the fuck, how the fuck, why in the actual fuck!? “I didn’t mean to interrupt your break time. Ah… how are you? Lately, I haven’t had the pleasure of…” Here’s where Bright could only watch in frozen shock when William’s eyes met with the duffel bag and stuffed pockets.  

Hubris is the downfall of many great men. In Bright’s case, it’s stupidity. They really should’ve come up with a backup plan for something like this. That’s on them. They’ll take that L like the underdog they are. 

The two of them shatter the awkward silence by speaking at once. 

“This isn’t what it looks like!” 

“Did you just went through the window?” 

Cue the stares. Wait. There’s something they need to try. 

“Dinosaur in the museum say what?” 

“What?” 

Bright promptly snaps their mouth shut. Don’t laugh. For the love of Reddit Mods, don’t laugh at the most dangerous grandpa in the world. While Bright manages to avoid death via lectures, their shaking shoulders give William the wrong impression. Thinking that the youngest Vampire in his care is shaking with fear at the sight of him pulled on William’s heartstrings. He had always harboured a sadness for not being able to connect with Bright Eyes the way he does with Frederick. The boy is often quiet but perks like a sunflower when you give him the right attention. Bright, on the other hand, scampers away the moment you turn your back. No gentle words or amount of glitter bombs as presents could entice them to drop the walls fiercely guarding their heart. 

William’s heart twists and turns into a knot - more so lately - seeing how Bright Eyes tremble. 

“It’s alright, Little One. You’re alright. The blood bags are for anyone who is in need.” William kindly assures them. “It’s unlike Sam to forget and restock for his household. I supposed our recent conversation has put him out of sorts.” 

“Wait. You think I’m hungry?” 

“Is that not why you brought that bag over - ”

“Yeah, yeah! Pssh, totally! Sam was getting testerical about the lack of bloodshed in the house. Not the fun kind, though.” Bright Eyes fib as they ramble on, their little tell-tale sign of attempting to smother the panic. They refuse to fidget or look away from William’s eyes. Is it a trick of the light? Is Bright high? Why are they wet near the corners? “Uh… c-can I go now? I need to dip to the grocery store for some milk… you know how it is…” 

For some reason, that made the Vampire King flinch. What the hell!? Anyone walking by would think that Bright is bullying him! 

But William lets out a gust of air, heavy and somehow reluctant. He steps aside to present the open door where the world that allowed Tom Howard to live is waiting for Bright. “Of course, Little One. I shouldn’t keep you from your errands.” 

“Lit! So this is me, walking away now…” Bright Eyes warily sidesteps William, who is still giving a strong kicked puppy vibe. Which is insane to comprehend. 

Something about it, however, made them turn around to look at him one final time. Due to the hilariously huge gap between a king and his peasant, Bright has only seen William thrice from afar, and that’s during really important events where they can’t fake a seizure and escape - 

“Bright, Vampires don’t get seizures.” 

“Until now. Quick, pretend you actually care and drag me out.” 

“…Low blow, Bright, and you know it. Why do you never listen when I’m - aaand you’re already on the floor. Great.” 

- so they’re left with them being sandwiched between a highly amused Lovely and a distracted Vincent because their beau is flashing their ankles or something. Bright doesn’t want to know or care. What they do care about is that thanks to Frederick sulking off somewhere, they are now in the spotlight because the prince of the entire damn clan is holding onto their elbow. Random Vampires snicker when they pass by their group, and whenever Bright flips them off, some of them actually laugh! Bright will never understand these deadbeats. But anyway, because of Frederick, Bright has the front row of William in all his fancy ass clothes, in a shiny crown that blinded Bright and a million-dollar smile that rubs them off the wrong way. Fuckers with a max level on charms give them the hives. 

So this melancholic shroud that drapes over his shoulders so heavily that Bright might as well ask if it’s made of lead with how it makes William look so small in the shadows? Yeah, it’s giving red flags. 

And since Bright is colourblind with no filter whatsoever - 

“OK, why do you look like someone woke you up from a depression nap?” Bright demanded, marching back to William. It’s stupid. It’s borderline suicidal, but hey, Bright was never known to make decisions that align with their self-preservation. That’s something their murderer and both Makers will agree on. Tonight, curiosity wins. “Usually you’re very…” They scrunch up their face, trying to think of the perfect words. 

William raises an eyebrow. “Very?” 

“Very shiny.” Bright nods, pleased with themselves. “The kind of shiny that’s like fire in Chinese factories after every election.” 

“I… see. I’m starting to understand why Samuel complain of migraines every now and then.” 

Even as he said that, William began to smile fondly. That threw Bright off a little. He said that without derision and they have no idea how to react. 

“Uh, right. So what’s up?” 

“Can’t a man be caught in his own sorrow every now and then?” 

“But you’re not supposed to be angsty. You’re the King. Your world is supposed to be perfect and all that shit.” Unlike mine, is what Bright didn’t say. 

William’s smile turns rueful. He surprises them by admitting, “Would you like to know a secret, Little Bright? My world hasn’t been perfect lately. How can it be when my loved ones are leaving one by one.” 

Oh, fuck them, is William trauma dumping right now? Deadass? Is this trauma dumping!? Bright didn’t consent to this!

Wait - leaving? Who’s leaving too? 

…Is it any of Bright’s business, though? When they’re doing the same thing tonight? 

This scene feels familiar. It’s like the time they steal a sip from a man in his late fifties while he’s in the middle of a divorce and struggling with alimony. Bright was looking for food, not someone’s entire life story that, in the end, they paid for an Uber and sent him on his way. The point is, there’s no fun in kicking someone who’s already eating dirt. That’s not enough room in Wonder World for two miserable fuckers, so Bright might as well do something about it. 

“C’mon, let’s go. We’re going on a side quest right now.” Bright demands, and fuck it, they grab one of William’s hands and drag him to the exit. Does it say something that the Vampire King lets himself be led away like a cow? Probably, but Bright couldn’t care less.

The patrolling Vampires stare at them incredulously. None attempted even to approach the duo. 

“Is this a kidnapping?” William politely inquires. While Bright might’ve initiated the contact, he finds himself reluctant to let go of their smaller hand. It’s an anchor that he silently needed over these past few days. 

“That and robbery too. I’m gonna be needing your wallet since mine are non-existent. Which one is your car? Wait! Let me guess, the one on the right that looks like it just left the showroom a day ago.” 

“It’s actually this morning. I enjoy collecting Rolls Royce as much as I enjoy watching those exciting Bond movies.” 

“Sheesh, I guess it’s hereditary then. Ok, Goldfinger - take the wheel. We’re going to karaoke. Screaming into a mic is a legit form of therapy. Take it from me.” After dropping that nugget of wisdom, Bright and William enter the car. 

Before William speeds off from the driveway, he frowns and asks, “Why can’t I be James Bond?” 

Bright Eyes groans into their hands. 

-

It takes William Motherfucking Solaire crying into a microphone, singing Hurt by Christina Aguilera to convince Bright Eyes that something is wrong with the trajectory of their life. 

Seriously, what the fuck? 

Despite being one of the prettiest men who should be kept in a museum (isn’t he 5,000 years old or something?) William is an ugly crier. It doesn’t make any damn sense, but he sure ain’t got that damsel-in-distress tears like Cinderella. Bright could only grimace as they extended a box of tissues once William finished belting out the final verse. Their duffel bag mocks them from the door, the only exit from this room. The lamentation of Bright Eyes would be a sick-ass song. 

“The closest thing I have to a son, child-in-law, great grandson and friend are leaving me.” William confesses after blowing his nose. 

“Did I ask?” 

Much to Bright’s horror, William continues.  

“I wanted to be a leader and a father that I never had. A Maker that mine never was. All I wanted… was to protect my family. How did it all went wrong?” 

Oh, geez. William does not give a shit that Bright Eyes hasn’t unlocked his social link. All they wanted was to evict whatever funk was messing with his system like a landlord so they could run away in peace. Not play therapist! Now, the employees are nervously looking through that window on the door because a grown man is depleting their stock of tissue boxes by the minute while Bright is struggling to figure out how to comfort said grown man that doesn’t involve homicide. 

By the way, it took precisely ten minutes for William’s words to register in Bright’s crack-concentrated, addled spider monkey brain. 

Their eyes widen like the backside of a yogi mid-downward dog. “Time out. Back it up, dump truck. Vincent’s leaving? As in, leaving the Clan? Him and the rest of the main characters?” If Bright was still alive, their heart would beat frantically as their head spins in disbelief and betrayal. 

Frederick is leaving them? After everything? To follow what, Sam? And Vincent and Lovely? 

…Without even telling them? 

Numbness and Bright Eyes always have a strange relationship. Quinn draining their blood down to the last drop didn’t give Bright that all-encompassing numbness. It was only when they woke up again that did it. It feels like their bones just took a dip in a pond in the middle of Antarctica. They didn’t even realise they were crying until William gently wiped the tears with a tissue. It’s a testament to how the shocking numbness rooted Bright to the core because they would flinch away from any physical contact that they didn’t initiate after death. 

“You didn’t know.” William summarised with that same melancholy from Wonder World and that same sad smile. They hate it. They don’t deserve it Well! So much for karaoke therapy. Now Bright’s feeling like shit too. 

William leans back when Bright Eyes huffs and slumps against the cheap red sofa. They pretend that their nose isn’t itching when they sniffle as they angrily rub their red eyes. “Of course I didn’t know! I get that Sam wouldn’t tell me shit but I didn’t expect this knife in the back from Freddy!” They spit, and then words start to embarrassingly spill from their mouth before Bright could stop themselves. “I fucking hate this! Why can’t I do anything right!? Why can’t I stop making mistakes? Why do I always try for people who never even like me? Fuck, fuck, fuck this! I hate feeling like this! God, I’m so tired of-of everything!” Fun fact: Bright is also an ugly crier. Even more so than William at this point. Not that it matters because they’re too busy wailing and making a mess out of his shirt when he pulls them into a tight hug. 

A shirt that has more of a network compared to theirs, and Bright Eyes appropriate it by blowing their nose. 

When their crying tapers into hiccups, it’s William’s soothing hand behind their back that grounds Bright Eyes. Exhaustion finally sinks in, and they’re long for the rest in the forever box (coffin) already. 

“I’m… sorry, Little One.” 

“The hell for?” Bright Eyes scrunches their nose. Although William had released them from his embrace, Bright didn’t actually scoot away. Instead, they play the part of a finicky cat - pressing close to the older Vampire without acknowledging it. “You’re not Sam. I hardly even know you.” 

“And I regret it dearly. And I deeply apologised for the suffering that you had to endured under Samuel’s blatant negligence. If I had known earlier that the wounds caused by Alexis run deeper than he would like to admit, I would have intervened. I would have you in my care instead of his in a heartbeat.” 

“Alexis?” 

Here, William sighs. “My eldest Progeny and Samuel’s Maker.” 

“Why does he hate her so much that he took it out on me?” Bright hates how small their voice sounded to their own ears. They needed to know, though. They needed closure, and then maybe, finally, they’ll be able to move on somehow. 

William looks torn, clearly debating with himself. He sighed once more, but this time, it was with resignation. “It’s not my story to tell. However,” Seeing the crushed expression on poor Bright’s face, he decides to be honest towards someone who desperately needs it. Especially since they suffered not only at the hands of someone who was supposed to be their caretaker and teacher but also William’s own negligence. After the Adam incident, he should’ve kept a closer eye on his Clan instead of diverting this attention to other Houses. He owed this much to Bright Eyes and more. “You deserve the truth. Do you have some time to listen to an old man’s regrets?”

“I was supposed to clap my asscheeks to Ferris. So much for that. Actually, I guess it’s pretty hypocritical of me to get pissed off at Frederick for booking it since I was gonna do the same.” Bright’s grumbled, causing William to rear back in a start. But they press on. “So why the fuck not? Whose origin are you spilling? Wham Slam Bam Sam?” 

“…Yes. Two sins never cancel each other.” Something dark flashes over William’s beautiful face. The hair behind Bright’s neck freezes. “Yet I can’t help but find myself disappointed in Samuel’s behaviours more so than mine after tonight.” 

“Spill the tea, spill the tea! My life is already a German bedtime stories and besides, isn’t it so much fun when you focuses on someone’s L instead of yours!?” 

William simply rolled his eyes at their cheek, and so Bright Eyes made themselves comfortable as the Vampire King narrated a story of a daughter he dearly loved but could never understand, and in return, she was unable to understand those she loved. It was all very sad, and the tropes that William describes are all too familiar to Bright. Man, no wonder Alexis turned out to be a villainess like those in their favourite Korean romance manhwa. They wonder if reincarnation is a thing in this world. Would they reincarnate as one of Trisha Paytas’s babies, or is that exclusive to royalties? They made a mental note to ask William once story time was over. Anyway, Alexis and Sam’s history could be a Hozier’s album all on its own and Bright supposed they could muster up some form of sympathy for him if they have similar-sized bazoombas/chesticles as the Princess’, but alas, they don’t. For that, Bright can never forgive Sam for his projection. 

Frederick and their situation hit too close to home apparently, but just because he can’t dish it out on Alexis, does that justify him punishing Bright in her stead? Fuck that. 

Anger buzzes around Bright’s ears like angry hornets. They can’t be around Sam for at least 100 years now that they know the truth. Frederick and Tank can have him for all they care. 

They snatch the microphone again, prompting William’s curiosity. “Are we in for the next session of karaoke therapy?” 

Bright just searched for Grow A Pear by Kesha and belted out for the next three minutes. Making sure to scream out the verse, ‘but you cry about this, and whine about that. When you grow a pair you can call me back,’ making William wonder if he should’ve used more tact. Once they got it out of their system, Bright exhaled deeply and turned their attention back to William with their hands on their hips. 

“If thought crimes were a thing, they would need a new set of the Geneva Convention. So Sam’s a major Soy Wojack.  Good for him. Why is he and every one else are packing their shit up now and not ten thousand years ago?” 

“That’s my fault. My decisions regarding the Summit were inexcusable, and I fear they will be unforgivable to those I love.” William replies as morosely as a tortured poet in the 1500s. Very apt. 

Storytime, part 2! So, while the Summit didn’t go to hell in a handbasket, a lot of the parties that were nearly caught in the crossfire were butthurt, apparently. Trusts were betrayed, and William no longer rests on that pedestal in the eyes of Sam, Vincent, Tank and the furries. Bright doesn’t understand what the big deal is; William is literally an artefact. You can’t live that long with a shiny moral compass. Even now, as William easily takes in Bright’s shenanigans in stride, they could never ignore his capacity for cruelty and ruthlessness. No matter how soft he speaks or how kind he is to Bright. However, stressing out over the assumption that William always has an ulterior motive whenever he opens his mouth would be the equivalent of same-day shipping to God for Bright. Again. Besides, assumptions are nails that could seal a coffin, and Bright would rather use them to build a shelf for Bad Dragons and Lovehoney instead. 

So they snap their fingers, switching to Business Mode. “You know what your problem is? Your problem is that you don’t have a Shae to your Sansa. The Garrus to your Shepard. The Soundwave to your Megatron. Get it?” 

William just looks like a lost child in Whole Foods. Bright tries another angle. 

“Confidants, dude. You don’t have any of those. You’re a King, right? I thought every King has a council of advisers? Ain’t that supposed to be Vincent and Alexis’ job?” 

“No. I can’t possibly bear to burden my children with the unsavoury aspects of our world.” William counters with a grimace. Perhaps William and Bright share a lot more in common than they thought. Not the martyrdom vibes coming off William like radiation but the fact that both of them are essentially the universe's way of trying to figure out how much PTSD one man can possibly get. If Bright is an economist, they would vehemently write themselves and William down as bad use of human capital. Oh! Wait, William is still talking. “It was not out of malice that I placed my family in the dark regarding the Summit. It was out of love. I don’t understand why they couldn’t understand that. Porter even served as their shield.” 

“It could’ve gone better. It really did.” Bright insists, but judging from William’s stubborn expression, this is an issue that is not going to be resolved overnight. 

They thought long and hard about this. Running away is so damn easy it might as well be a cheat code, and isn’t that what Bright and the others are doing? Vincent and the others are probably doing so under the guise of ‘needing some space’ from William, but Bright was planning to run away from their feelings and issues with Frederick and Sam, with no intention of ever talking to them again. 

HOWEVER!

Being abandoned fucking sucks. Bright of all people knows how that tastes! The thought that William would be left all alone with a daughter that comes and goes worse than that street cat Priscilla leaves a sour taste in their mouth. William isn’t an evil dude. He’s just dumb.

Slowly, their duffel bag loses its appeal. Bright is going to take a leap of faith here, and only time will tell if this will be the stupidest decision they have ever made, triumph over their jaunt in Wonder World with Frederick. And so they sit beside William and say, “Look. I actually don’t wanna be alone, and I bet you don’t want that too.” “No, Little One. I had enough of it back in the day.” William quietly admits. A Vampire King shouldn’t be able to look like a poor puppy being left out in the rain! Seriously! 

“Right. Here’s the plan, Batman. You wanna spare Vincent and the rest about the nitty gritty aspects of what it means to be a deadbeat? Fine. We do it baby steps, then. You tell me before you pull off any shits, and I’ll talk your ear off how stupid it is until we figure something better. Sounds good?” 

“No. Absolutely not. You’re family as well, Bright Eyes. I won’t have you suffer the burden of my crown.” 

“I am the Alpha and the Omega. I am one of the mods in 4chan. I can handle shits, alright? It’s in my DNA! Look William, you need someone in your corner that you can trust. If you can’t start with your Progenies, start with me. Prove to them that you value their opinions. We’ve got all the time in the world for it, right?” 

Finally, after trying to get through William the entire night, he starts to look hopeful and, most importantly, determined. He clutches Bright’s hand tenderly. 

“In that case, I have a proposal of my own. If you promise to be my guide, I promise to be your teacher. Allow me to be what Sam was meant to be for you. Perhaps by helping one another, happiness can make its way to us.” As he says this, William feels a lot more better than ever before. It feels like things are starting to look up for him. A rebirth could be just what he and Bright sorely needed. 

What a blessing. What a boon to have a great-great-grandchild to be the modern incarnation of Athena. 

“Yeah, yeah. So! Never gonna give you up?” 

“Never gonna let you down.” 

[captainmera]

I'm reading your Caleb fic and actually losing my mind over how good and fitting his characterization feels, how well you put the seeds of becoming a bad person in Philip without making him Evil Child and instead make it feel like a natural progression, how everyone's so NUANCED, the historical accuracy, EVELYNS CHARACTERIZATION!!! God!!! I love all of this!!!! (Also the closeted bi Caleb.)

Thank you! :D

Yes, I'm having fun crafting Caleb specifically with Philip turning into the guy Luz meets in canon, and eventually Belos, in mind.

I asked myself: Who the hell raised this dude!? :l And out came my version of Caleb, lol.

And yes, I don't think Philip was a bad kid. I think he became a bad person. Like most people who grow up, things happen and.. You know.

When you look at an adult who is angry, cruel and hateful, you seldom see their whole story. You see them for who they are right now and their unjustifiable actions and behaviours.

Caleb isn't a great parent. He's a good brother, not a half-bad provider, but parent? Not really. He was a kid when he raised his brother, and nobody taught him how to do it right. His outlet for frustrations and feeling helpless allowed him to cognitively dissonance himself from his cruel actions as a witch hunter.

We have no control. There is both freedom and imprisonment in knowing we are powerless to the chaos of hindsight. The endless human toiling of reminiscing in the "what ifs" of life will curse us all to an early doom.

The acceptance of no control, strangely, gives you more control and peace of mind. Sometimes, you can do everything right and it still goes wrong. Sometimes you do everything wrong and things turn out fine!

Doesn't mean people are blameless. Knowing the cause of something doesn't excuse the action or the choices you made.

But recognising that you made choices at the time based on what you knew and believed to be right - does give insight to things. What to do with that insight is up to each and every person.

Evelyn I'm enjoying quite a lot. Because she's not mentally ill like Caleb, who's depressed and suicidal. A character doesn't have to be unwell to be interesting. People have emotions and struggles anyhow. She's a nice person, she means well; she's a perfect example of someone who is just benefit-of-doubt enough to walk into dangerous spaces in good faith. Which puts her in situations Caleb must interfere with, lest she gets found out as a witch.

They save each other, in a way. :)

Caleb closeted bisexuality is a source of great delight to write a sub-plot for. Caleb, v.s. his ideas of what makes a man, is a fun field to dance on. He has been fed a lot of self-destructive ideas that he tries to live up to.

And Evelyn's nonchalant self-expression is also a great delight to write. She's carefree to the point people mistake her for an airhead and kind of stupid. Which isn't true, she just trust in that there is good in people until proven otherwise, and she tries her best to not let those experiences discourage her from new relationships. I like exploring that strange box that often occurs with her personality type - as though being kind and gentle is somehow dumb or naive.

BUT YEAH, Theyre very fun to write! :)

[thevelaryons]

Do you think Corlys married Rhaenys for ambition? Since she was in line to be heir to the Iron Throne?

I don’t think ambition was the only reason but I’m sure it played a part.

Rhaenys being in the line of succession would actually be an appealing factor for Corlys, not just for his own ambition but because it makes Rhaenys different. It’s typically not expected that a woman can rule in her own right. Other potential female Targaryen claimants have had their claims dismissed one way or another. Then there’s Rhaenys, who from the moment of her birth was called the “queen to be” by Good Queen Alysanne. It was generally accepted that one day she would sit the Iron Throne, after her father, Prince Aemon. Even King Jaehaerys wasn’t questioning this fact at the time like he did for other female claimants. So Rhaenys was considered a woman apart from the rest just as Corlys was a man apart from other men. He accomplished in his life what no others had done so of course he would prefer a partner that would become just as exemplary as him:

Lord Corlys was an ambitious man. During his nine voyages on the Sea Snake, he was forever wanting to press onward, to go where none had gone before and see what lay beyond the maps. Though he had accomplished much and more in life, he was seldom satisfied, the men who knew him best would say. In Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of the Old King’s eldest son and heir, he had found his perfect match, a woman as spirited and beautiful and proud as any in the realm, and a dragonrider as well. His sons and daughters would soar through the skies, Lord Corlys expected, and one day one of them would sit the Iron Throne.

— Fire & Blood, Heirs of the Dragon

Rhaenys was expected to one day rule Westeros in her own right, something only the Conqueror sisters managed (and that’s through their marriage to Aegon the Conqueror). As the above quote suggests, Corlys was even willing to accept a female heir as his successor since the claim would come from the child’s mother. By marrying Rhaenys, who gets described as his “perfect match”, he would have a wife who would be as much as a trailblazer as him. It’s not so much about Corlys suddenly valuing women’s rights. Instead it’s about him prioritizing those that can be the exception to the rule (just like what he tells Rhaenyra later on).

Rhaenys also has the type of dynamic personality that would attract someone like Corlys. Their back and forth banter at the time of their wedding does suggest a personal closeness between them. I would say they’re a love match for the most part. This is despite the underlying politics concerning Rhaenys’ position in the line of succession (just by virtue of being heir, any man that Rhaenys married would be said to be motivated by ambition).

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

Find the word

Thanks to @sleepywriter00 for the tag here! Sorry this is a little late I got behind on these!

My words: spoon, energy, study, listen

Your words: future, slice, deserve, access

Tagging @jezifster @little-peril-stories @mysticstarlightduck @blind-the-winds @herrmannhalsteadproduction @cowboybrunch @i-can-even-burn-salad @aziz-reads @memoriethereaderandwriter-blog @mk-writes-stuff @buffythevampirelover @mantabanter @chauceryfairytales @eccaiia @pb-dot @frostedlemonwriter or anyone who wants to hop on!

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @fairy-tales-of-yesterday - y'all can also hop on if you want

Keep reading for:

Talk about planners and Gabriel's nickname

Short passage of pseudoscience babble

Telepathy world building! Will this change? Who knows!?

Maddie helps Kelsey calm down <3

Spoon (twice!) - from The Secret Portal Part Two (Lexi POV)

“Oh, shoot, I forgot my planner.” I turned to see it still lying on the floor. I flicked my wrist slightly to teleport it in my hand. “You brought a planner to breakfast?” Tyler asked as he drank his orange juice. “It’s just how I manage my life,” I said. I opened it up on the table to show them the January schedule. “Wow, that’s really pretty,” said Carla. “I don’t need a planner, given my powers.” “Aw, yeah, I wish I could just stop time at my leisure,” I said as I closed the planner again. “I have a planner,” said Tyler. “It’s called here.” He pointed to his head. “Medina has one like yours, but it’s a little boring.” “One, you need to write things down in case you forget,” said Gabriel, pointing at Tyler with his spoon. “Two, I don’t see why a planner needs color.” “To organize different activities,” I answered. “Hm. Well, I guess mine is just schoolwork and my job.” “You have a job?” I asked, leaning forward. Gabriel nodded. “Construction job—perfect for terrakinetics. After school on the weekdays, I walk about fifteen minutes to a site—” “Wait, you live here full time?” I asked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “You’re fine, I don’t care. Yes, I live here full time.” I chose not to inquire any further, even though Gabriel didn’t seem that bothered by it. “After school, I do the homework that I need to get done, then I help the docs out.” “What do they need help with?” “Various things. Um, right now we’re sorting through the multiverse database to see if we can find Rosalinda.” “Oh, yes, that’s right.” “G,” Carla whispered. “I’m fine, Carla,” I said. “But thanks. It’s actually really cool that Gills is helping.” “Gills?” Gabriel sighed then continued eating. “You really have been spending way too much time with Stafford.” “When are you gonna accept it’s an actual genius nickname?” Tyler asked. “Then why don’t you use it?” “It’s too silly for you.” “Do you not like the nickname?” I asked. “We can stop using it.” “Unfortunately, Nakashima is right,” Gabriel muttered, spinning his cereal around with his spoon. “It’s a pretty clever nickname. It’s so stupid, it almost works.”

It's Gills because his initials are GLZ (surname not included)

Energy - from The Secret Portal Part One

William put down his tablet and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. He’d been working so late that it was now early. It was so quiet he could hear the snakefly behind him violently flapping its wings. He sighed, then reread the last paragraph he’d written: Replicating the negative energy density found in a chronokinetic’s rifts is no easy task. The level needed to connect one time to another is far greater than a Level-7 teleporter, but nowhere near the level in the portal that connects our reality to Ceteri, nor even a dimensiokinetic. If chronokinetics were less seldom born, perhaps this task would be accessible. William glanced at the chemicals bubbling in the flask on the table before him. As there hadn’t been a documented chronokinetic in a century, it was nearly impossible to replicate their powers considering the amount of negative pressure needed. He would have to work with what he had: a Level-7 teleporter’s DNA—not common, but much more so than a chronokinetic. Jumping through space required significantly less negative energy density than time jumping, so trying to get it up to what he desired was no easy feat.

Study - from The Secret Portal Part One (Ash POV)

I'm probably gonna change the "in a century" thing. Not sure what I'm gonna do but it feels wrong.

“Telepathy is an exception to the classification of powers. It and shapeshifting are the only two recorded to not have their sub-powers build off each other, but rather have them separate.” “Why are there so few sub-powers?” I prodded. “The mind doesn’t have a limit, therefore telepathy shouldn’t, either, right?” Carla waved her hand side-to-side as if to say eh, kinda. Aloud, she answered, “It’s been said that there have been cases of telepaths with more advanced powers, but there has only been one recorded case. Though some conspiracy theorists say there were more, but weren’t recorded, and that they went into hiding, locked themselves away, or maybe went insane.” “Insane?” I repeated. Carla fiddled with the ring hanging from the chain around her neck. “The mind can only stretch so far. If advanced telepaths did—or even do—exist, there would be no way they could function. Their minds aren’t able to communicate the information that they can comprehend. They end up lost in their own thoughts, unable to reach out to another being.” I fell silent. “Carla’s in an online holographic course in Telepathic Theory,” George said, breaking the silence. “All of that is just theory. Scientists who study the telepathic mind made a list of potential powers.” “Can powers develop?” I asked. “Of course,” said Carla. “Most Alii, in general, start at a lower Level, usually a Level-1, and most become more powerful. It depends on the person.” “So, you’re saying I have the potential to be a powerful telepath?” Carla laughed. “No, the odds are you’ll be able to read minds and that’s it. Maybe one sub-power.” “Oh.” My shoulders dropped. “Okay.”

Listen - from The Secret Portal Part One (Kelsey POV)

“Kelsey!” I heard a faint voice say. “Kelsey!” I opened my eyes, lifting my head against the strong wind. A small figure walked toward me, kneeling down beside me. “Kelsey, look at me,” Maddie said, grabbing my hands. Her long hair whipped around her body, out to me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I clasped her hand. My neck was ticking uncontrollably, preventing me from meeting her eyes. “It’s gonna be okay,” she said, pulling me forward into a hug. I embraced her, shaking, twitching, sobbing. “Kelsey, listen. Remember yesterday when this happened? You made the mansion toxic. Remember?” I nodded. “I don’t want that in my house. But you need to get rid of this… weird darkness stuff instead of just making it explode. Can you do that?” I shook my head. “Just focus on me, ‘kay? Now, can you breathe? Slowly?” I did, inhaling and exhaling. “I think you can make this black smoke go away if you imagine sucking it all up. Or maybe it just needs to disappear. Can you do that? Imagine it. Maybe it’ll work.” I closed my eyes, imagining the darkness fading away until it disappeared. I imagined the air in the room was still at breathable levels. That the smoke nor wind didn’t affect anything around it. The wind stopped. The darkness went away. Still in Maddie’s arms, I opened my eyes. The room looked untouched.

Pretty sure I've shared that last excerpt before but I like it

[bethanydelleman]

From one of your old asks: "I think when she's not in a horrible situation, Jane likes his personality."

I'd love for you to elaborate more on this (if you have the time and energy ofc)

I have heard many people say jane only married Frank for his money - that he was her ticket out of having to be a governess and she wouldn't have accepted him if she was rich herself. I instinctively feel that to be untrue but can't find enough textual evidence against it unfortunately - would love to hear your thoughts about it :)

Of course I can elaborate! I've vacilated myself on if Jane loves Frank or not, but I've come to the conclusion that she does, because you are right that she's in a very unfortunate situation and Frank is her only way out, but she is willing to release him from the obligation.

Here is my evidence, Jane is angry that Frank sent the piano without warning, but she is also happy about it and about him confessing his love:

“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”

Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.

We are also told over and over again that Jane is extremely moral, so for her to accept a marriage proposal, especially a secret one, it would be logical to assume she was in love. Austen is not kind to people who marry without love.

We see Jane feeling guilty for her deceit here:

...Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend—”

“Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even—”

“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!

Nextly, Jane breaks off the engagement when she believes that Frank no longer loves her. This is from Box Hill:

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now.

“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.

“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.

“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.”

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,

“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me.

We know they fought the day before when Jane was walking back from Donwell, she takes this speech from Frank as a sign he is no longer in love with her and is weary of the engagement. Breaking it off is exactly the opposite of what a gold digger would do.

For a cross-novel comparison, look at Lucy Steele. She is also in a secret engagement, when she suspects Elinor she reveals the truth. Jane never tries to similarly mark her territory. And Jane breaks off the engagement knowing that it is her only chance at wealth. Jane also feels so guilty about lying that she's physically ill.

In conclusion, I think there is a fair bit of evidence that Jane actually loves Frank and that was the only reason she broke her moral code to be with him. Though it is certainly an added bonus that he's going to be rich.

(Note: I would use chapter numbers for my citations but the Project Gutenberg version of Emma is in volumes and it's hard to figure out the right chapter. So you can check my citations here.)

[sweetsimp]

Obey Me || Its Always Raining Now || Mammon x Reader

Mammon x Reader [Obey Me]

Summary: After your death, the members of the House of Lamentation are all falling apart-- especially Mammon.

!! Warning: mentions of death, eating, a lot of angst throughout the chapter, possible swearing idk, mentions of cancer, poor mental health, grieving, mentions of sex, mentions of events from ch. 16, etc. !!

Author's Note:

i didnt proofread this FORGET YOU oKAY

i had to write this so you have to read it and don't say i didn't warn you when i say that this is pretty fucking awful

also sidenote i feel like ive seen the first line somewhere so im sorry LOL i cant remember it was just echoing in my head when i started this

-----------------------------------

The brothers never knew how much and how loud a demon could cry until after you died.

Before you, all Mammon was seen as was a man of greed and grimm. Although that continued even after the two of you got together, he felt like for once in his life, he didn't have to deal with things alone anymore. He felt so warm and cozy whenever he was with you. He felt so safe and secure.

But then, you died.

Death is inevitable. Memento Mori, as they say.

The thought scared you, sure, but at one time you just grew to accept it. As time went on, you found it less and less scary. You never wanted to leave Mammon, but sooner or later you were going to have to deal with it whether you wanted to or not.

And for a time, that seemed fine. It was a topic left unmentioned, and the two of you never seemed to talk about it ever since you had that breakdown about your mortality and how it would affect your relationship with Mammon. He held it together for that night, but it destroyed him inside ever since. It was like a virus that had been born ever since the realization of your humanity and the average human lifespan hit him.

That virus was destroying him now.

Unlike the scientists in the human world, who were looking for cures for cancer and researching effective vaccines against the latest global pandemic, Mammon had to deal with this entirely on his own and had spent no time preparing for it.

This felt like the millionth night in a row that he spent sobbing and hugging a pillow that had one of your jackets on it. It smelled both like you and Mammon's agony. His crying echoed throughout the House of Lamentation, which haunted all of the other inhabitants at night. His brothers knew he needed comfort, but he also needed time alone to grieve.

They also needed healing, themselves.

Leviathan unsurprisingly became even more of a shut-in than before, if that was even possible. He became more antisocial, more unwilling to let anyone else in. He became more cold and self-critical. No one was here to tell him to stop, anymore. Even if there was, it wasn't the same. No one could ever match up to how close you and him were, and he never wanted that to change. He never wanted to risk it, even though there was no risk. No one could come into his room anymore-- not even Diavolo, or Simeon, or any of his brothers. He buried himself in his video games and sometimes trapped himself in them on purpose.

Satan trapped himself in his books. He seldom left the library or his room, which got even more cluttered with books. His room, at this point, looked like a forest. He goes out to pet cats when his eyes can't focus on the words on the pages anymore. Sometimes he just sits there, staring numbingly at the cat. His emotions are so overwhelming, so frustrating, so heartbreaking, so suffocating. It feels like he's always drowning.

Asmodeus kept focusing on his looks, but he never brought anyone home to the House of Lamentation. Not when it was like this. Not when people could destroy the only memories he had of you. Getting ready for bed or school seemed so much lonelier. His Devilgram posts could never be as perfect as the ones with you in them. No matter how hot his baths were, they were always too cold without you. His world was dull now, and not even sex made it as lively as his memories of you.

Beelzebub's appetite would never change, of course. At the end of the day, the brothers would always succumb to their sins-- but Beelzebub ate alone most of the time after your death. When Mammon was hit with overwhelming grief and stopped eating as much, Beelzebub knew he could never fight his hunger or the impulses he got to steal off his brother's plates. They needed to eat and care for themselves, but Beelzebub felt like he was in the way of that. Every game he won was for you. His team never faced another loss after you left.

Belphegor just slept more. It was the only thing he had to cling onto when you left, because at least then you'd be in his dreams. You could never do that in real life anymore. You could never nap with him the way you used to, but at least if he uses enough pillows, he could try to trick himself into believing you were there like Mammon did with your jacket. He'd stick himself in the attic other times and let his guilt eat away at him for not spending more time with you. For not being more selfish with you. For trying to kill you, and now you couldn't be there to comfort him anymore. His memories felt like they were almost slipping away, and it became easier to blame himself.

Lucifer rarely had time to grieve when all of his brothers were falling apart. He was falling apart inside too, but he knew he had to be there to help pick up the pieces, no matter how shattered he was. He tried so hard to prepare himself for your death, but most times he was barely able to keep himself from crying. His pride couldn't protect him from the aftermath of your death, and neither could his work for Diavolo. It all could only distract him for so long.

Lucifer knocked on his door gently before walking and making his way to the bed. Sitting on the edge, alongside Mammon, he put his hand gently on his brother's shoulder and began rubbing his arm and back while the man sobbed again.

It felt like such a simple concept when you said it out loud, but experiencing it was so much more different than anyone could've anticipated. It broke people in ways that could no longer be patched together.

"I-It..." Mammon said between sobs, "It hurts... I don't w-want to hurt a-anymore, Lucifer... Please- Please make it- please make it stop."

"I know," He hummed. "I'm here."

When was the last time Mammon said he loved you? When was the last time he told you he loved you more than anything else in the world? When was the last time he told you how beautiful he thought you were?

He could barely remember. All he remembered was how fucking stupid he acted. How he pushed you away so much. How he hurt you. How he got too embarrassed to do the things he always wanted to do and the things you always wanted to hear.

More brothers crept in, one by one. They couldn't take the crying anymore. They couldn't stand by and not do anything while they were all hurting alone. They joined the brothers on the bed and sobbed with Mammon next to Lucifer, who cried silently. They looked like a pile of broken mirrors with all the pieces mixing together in the middle.

It was always raining in the House of Lamentation, now.

[shysublimecoffee]

Gabriel Agreste comes off as a self-centered individual. His preoccupation with his own image takes precedence, evident in his desire for Ladybug to remember his portrayal rather than focusing on the present creating positive memories for his child. In a situation like Gabriel's, any reasonable parent would take a moment to acknowledge their mistakes and, at the very least, offer an apology. Unfortunately, he seems oblivious to the impact his actions have on his orphaned child, showing a lack of concern for the well-being of Adrien. Even his relationship with Nathalie, his secretary, initially lacked empathy.

While it's clear that Gabriel has love for his wife and child, it appears to be within certain limits. His inability to accept the imperfections in their family and his reluctance to acknowledge the reality of their situation suggest a greater love for himself. The depth of his consideration for Emilie, Adrien's deceased mother, comes into question. Gabriel's failure to reflect on his wife's feelings or consider the implications of his actions raises doubts about the authenticity of their love.

The character of Emilie remains elusive in the narrative, appearing as a ghost, making it challenging to gauge her feelings. Despite this, one would expect a caring father like Gabriel to pause and contemplate Emilie's love for their child. The fact that he refrains from looking at his son and revealing the truth before his impending demise raises concerns about the extent of his narcissism.

I believe love story unfolded because they embodied what each other desired and represented a stark contrast to their own lives. Emilie, groomed as the perfect daughter for her royal family, was expected to inherit and take over everything. Gabriel describing her as flawless, but the episode reveals Emilie's carefree and adventurous side, opposing the life her parents envisioned for her. In contrast, Gabriel, portrayed as a rebellious and carefree teenager, attracted Emilie with his non-conformist lifestyle, a stark deviation from her high-expectation upbringing.

Personally to me their initial connection allowed Emilie to break free from societal expectations when introducing Gabriel to her parents, although she later found herself somewhat returning to that life as Gabriel achieved fame and riches in the fashion industry, becoming obsessed with the miraculous. I felt like her only joy she may have found was in Adrien. The illusion of the the life she sought might have vanished with Gabriel's drastic transformation, leaving me to believe she became disappointed that the man she loved was now living the life she wanted to escape from.

As I watch their love story ( Gabriel & Emilie) unfold in the play , I find it hard to believe in the authenticity of their love. It seems more like a facade built on the images and ideals each brought into their lives, an illusion that eventually shattered. In the past videos of Emilie, she appears consistently gloomy and sad, contradicting Gabriel's constant portrayal of her and his son as perfect. Adrien consistently appears despondent, and Gabriel seldom engages in meaningful conversations with him, maybe mirroring a potential similarity with his approach to his wife. I'm just guessing here.

Interestingly, Adrien's love interest, Marinette, also bears a striking resemblance to his father, particularly in the way they offer comfort and support during difficult times they don't know how to and have trouble in the empathy department. Adrien not only shares physical features with his mother, Emilie, but also the pervasive perception of his perfection, echoing the praise he receives from his father.

Analyzing their love story, it strikes me as an Adrienette parallel destined for failure unless they can steer clear of Gabriel ad Emilie specific mistakes. Unfortunately, I don't see any indication that they will do so, making the prospect of genuine and lasting love between them seem doubtful.

[trickster-archangel]

I have been thinking a lot about this, and I've come to the conclusion that it's surreal that the H50 fandom, and the McDanno community specifically, have so seldom used a very specific trope, compared to others.

I remember a discussion, on a Good Omens server whether The Best Trope™ to portray A/C was the "fucking just once at the very beginning, then stopping and silently pining one for another until the very end" option, the "mutually pining for the other from the very beginning but never acting on it because of course it cannot be mutual, and then having the mutual OH moment and finally fucking" option, or even the (probably most favorite) one which was either called "fucking while pining" or "pining while fucking", a sort of intensified Friends with Benefits trope.

So, about Danny and Steve, I've seen the almost totality being the second one, with some egregious FWB (alas too rare, because someone kept throwing in girlfriends at any corner, and both of them are too good to be cheaters), but I noticed an alarmingly scarcity of the first kind of trope. It might be my fault, but I only found, what? Two or three.

Which, to me, is….baffling? I mean, let's just do this mental exercise for a moment.

I know we all love to point out that for Steve, meeting Danny was love at first sight, later consolidated by love at first punch, because he saw in Danny something fascinating and alluring, someone who didn't bow and salute and yell "Sir, yes Sir" and obey to Steve's role with no questions asked. That had been Steve normalcy until the moment he stumbled upon Danny, either obeying or being obeyed, but never giving or being given a choice. He was so fascinated by Danny's attitude and his stubbornness to keep his case, that the only way he had to keep this new, shining toy, was to ditch the Navy, go into the Reserves, put aside all his plans to leave, and accept the Governor's offer.

Because he had found something that had made him change his mind.

And then we have years and years of longing gazes, yearning stares, constant touching and hugging and caressing and being in each other's personal space, showing an intimacy and a tenderness and a trust, and simply put, a perfect synchrony and a perfect telepathy since the first moment, like they were always meant to walk together. And that stubborn refusal to build a life with someone else, postponing the choice and diluting the feelings, until the relationship, every relationship, fizzles out and vanishes. Danny keeping this sort of stubborn shadow that he could go back to what he and Rachel had, rebuild a time when everything was new and good, revive the corpse of some long dead love instead of committing to someone new. Steve hanging on the threads left by an on/off friends with benefits thing that they both left to die, and being the only one who sees a future of, because mourning something you once had is easier than blaming yourself for not taking what you want. Always going back to the other, finding that comfort they seem unable to find in anyone else. That comfort they look unwilling to look for in anyone else.

Yet, we could imagine something different here. Because let's be honest: for how impulsive Steve can be, that choice in his father's garage was a huge change into his plans, and plans are his field of expertise. He gathers intel, he plans, he acts. Straight to the point. Isn't it a bit odd that this steel-minded man, suddenly, impulsively, sees this man he knows NOTHING about, decides "Yes, this is the one. I want this one. I'll do everything I can to keep him", and ditches all his carefully plotted plans, and his career too? For how interesting and endearing it can sound, it's still an odd behavior.

But what if that moment in the garage hadn't been the first time he had met him? What if their mutual rage and aggressiveness had another explanation, aside from stubbornness, impulsiveness and alpha-maleness? What if their anger was simply a cover for another feeling, one like….Shock? Fear? Guilt? Shame? Better to yell, scream, point a gun, and take some pissing contest, see who's boss. 

Let's imagine. And see if it doesn't all make much more sense, this way.

It's the evening before their fatal meeting. Steve, after donning his dress blues to attend the service for burying his father, all authorities present, after paying his respects and taking care of what was left, before leaving to hunt Hesse, goes back to his temporary dwellings, dismisses his formal uniform, and sporting just his cargo pants and tee, goes to find some old joint to get thoroughly plastered, drinking at his father's memory. He gets inside, and proceeds with his plan, determined not to feel or remember a single thing about this day when he'll wake up the day after with the mother of all hangovers.

He purposely chooses some dubious, smoky, unnamed, not touristy alley, where it's obvious he can find only people with his same goal in mind, and no need to do small talk or mind someone else's business. He's halfway through his plan, remembering all things that could've gone better and all those that went spectacularly wrong, when he notices someone in a shadowy corner, not far from where he sits, sporting some of the sourest faces he's ever seen, one which makes him think this man, this haole who sticks like a sore thumb in a crowd of dark hairs and tan complexions, is having an even harder time than he is. Blondest hair Steve has ever seen, blond eyelashes fanning the bluest eyes, so blue they are shining even in the dark corner he sits in, blond stubble over his cheeks and around those rosy lips. Muscular shoulders and a chest to die for. Awakening something Steve thought long dead and buried. Wearing a goddamn tie over a tight shirt over dress pants. In Hawai'i. 

Of course, since Steve is already half-shitfaced, he doesn't notice he's been staring. For a while. And of course the haole has noticed. He gets up, bringing his scotch and glass with him, and lands on the seat opposite to Steve. Staring back. Silently. Until he barks out, voice raspy maybe for too much scotch or maybe too much crying (his eyes, so blue, are red rimmed, Steve can clearly see it from this near), if he's something to tell him or if he intends to keep on staring like a creep. If he's seen something he likes. And smiles.

Steve's heart does a complicated and not entirely funny thing, one it hadn't done in a long time, a very, very long time, since when he joined the Navy and the SEALs. Probably even before, surely before, when he started attending Annapolis and those muddled, hazy, flustering thoughts could've compromised his entire future and left him adrift, even more than he already was, without a purpose and a goal. So it was easy to decide to cut that side of him, keep only the allowed one, and never act on it again. Think, maybe. Dream, sure. Wish, sometimes. But never act because he had too much to lose, and anyway, it wasn't like anyone had ever made a mystery of finding it extremely easy to ditch and abandon him. The Navy, though, it was a sure thing, definitely an exigent owner, but a sure thing that would've never abandoned him as long as he obeyed, behaved, and kept sacrificing himself.

Now he's not on duty, though. He's no one, at least for these few days. He's just John's son, mourning his father and reading himself for a revenge mission that could take his life in the process. He's drinking alone in a shady bar where no one can recognize him after so many years, and surely not when his first impression on these people had been one of a fully decked out Officer in high uniform. And with a beautiful, lonely, sad man who's maybe interested in the same thing he is: forgetting everything that's going on in his life right now, forgetting everything just for this night, feeling good, feeling empty. But feeling good is surely a nicer option than feeling empty. And the haole is definitely interested in feeling good and empty at least for today. No explanations needed, no niceties, no buying drinks, no asking about what brings him here. So they carefully test the water before diving in headfirst, and just a look is enough to understand they are on the same page.

Steve is more careful than ever that no one would recognize him when he leaves the bar, the blond man following him at a distance as they walk the few alleys and streets to Steve's place while he's in Hawai'i, heading in just a few minutes after Steve and going straight to the point, in the half-light coming from the open curtains. It's not sentimental. It's not sweet. It's not meant to be, and yet….Yet there's some kind of instantaneous and instinctive connection between them, to the point that while they agreed this was just a one night thing, and they didn't need to know the other's bruises and griefs, or the reasons for taking this leap, for needing this kind of anonymous comfort, they can't help but exchanging their names. Just that. And if you know someone's name, you hold them in your power, or whatever that shit was. 

It's not romantic, but it almost is. And Steve is almost crying because of Danny's (the beautiful, golden stranger's name) protectiveness and gentleness with him, like he's sensing or understanding by experience alone that Steve might scowl and purse his lips all he wants, but he's way more inexperienced at this than he liked to think he was. Danny has strong hands, but they are so soft and careful, like he's accustomed to handling frail, little, tiny things, like people's hearts or children's hands. Steve, for the first time since when he was a little kid on his mother's knees, feels cared for. Loved, almost. And it makes him sick, because being loved and cared for is not something he's allowed to.

But this isn't love. This is a one night stand, and he's a Navy SEAL, and DADT is still in full force, and tomorrow he'll leave for his quest, and he'll never see this kind, caring, attentive man who's offered him at least one night of comfort like he's never felt even with Catherine (it had never been about the comfort with her, it was about taking a breath before diving again, and it was his role to be up to the task, always), giving without asking, offering without expecting. He had said he was looking for relief, but in reality he had offered it. This man who now is gathering his clothes, dressing back and heading for the door, a brittle smile on those gorgeous lips while he turns and looks at Steve for the last time before disappearing. This man whom Steve will never meet again, taking with him this memory of how people, even complete strangers, could be a beacon of life in the darkness that had swallowed him too long ago to remember a time where light existed. This man who clearly carried a heavy burden of his own, an unspoken pain, and whose eyes were so bright and yet so sad. 

Steve drifts to sleep too, wondering how much time will pass until he'll forget the beautiful stranger's face, and how much until the stranger does the same.

Funny how the answer to that question, just the following morning, would suddenly come to him while raising his gun and yelling at an uncomfortably familiar face, a face equally frozen when taking in his own face.

Of course, being partners, and being Steve technically Danny's boss (even if Danny has opinions, very loud opinions, on this matter), and being Steve still in the Navy, means that they look at each other over a beer that same evening, and with just one look agree that it must stay exactly as they had agreed: a one night stand among two strangers trying to run away from their nightmares for just some hours. And that's it. Or so they believe.

Turns out that when you know exactly how your partner and best friend looks like in the dim light of a bedroom, what he sounds like, what he tastes like, and how he is when he's at his most vulnerable….it's very difficult not to remember it constantly, and to fight back the yearning and the longing. Especially if you've been such an idiot to fall in love with a stranger you met in a bar. But they had agreed and shaken hands, and that had to be it. Living the rest of their lives, both of them, wanting to have just that one thing they thought the other considered the worst mistake of his life, not imagining he wanted it back so badly, so desperately, that everyone else coming in their lives could never stay enough before the ghost of that night hunted them out of Steve's or Danny's bed, and heart.

Funny how the answer to that question turned out to be Eternity.

[margaux-thompson]

QUICK STATS ;

Name: Margaux Rose Thompson

Nicknames: Meg, Marg, Go

Age: 34

Birthday: September 1, 1989

Gender & pronouns: Cis woman & she/her

Sexuality: Bisexual

Time in Wilmington: Born and raised. (Up until a year ago lived an hour away in Raleigh and visited often)

Occupation: unemployed (former lawyer)

Neighbourhood: Midtown

Relationship status: Divorced

Face claim: Alicia Vikander

Biography

TW: drug use, cheating, parental death

The mayor's daughter is a phrase sweet on the ears. It's a bit of privilege wrapped up in promise and it's what Margot's, known as Meg to her mother, life was meant for. It was country clubs, ribbon cuttings, and Christmas photos in the local paper. It was standing up straight in public and sweet flower dresses on Easter. It was all those things that she never got to live. Because she was Robert Thompson's daughter, his baby girl, and when she was four he changed the landscape of Wilmington.

And yet, even before that there were complications. Seldom had she joined the family then there was a new face around the dinner table. The half-brother. The disgrace. The bastard. Those are all the names her mother poured into her ear before she'd grown big enough to pull the training wheels off. To think of him simply as Rhys. Any affection that might have naturally grown was carefully pruned away. It was directed toward the siblings her mother had provided. And if there was a certain crook of the jawline that matched them, it was never commented upon outright. After her father's death, Bea was little more than a means of comfort for their mother. What memories she had of the man were watercolors, dripping in the corners of her mind. He was the center of gravity for all that came after; a centrifugal force she'd learn to resent.

As a little girl, she was shuttled between ballet and violin practices. For the former she had some affection, but for the latter only resentment. And yet, she went without complaint. She ate her vegetables without complaint. She went to bed without complaint. This one, her mother was like to say, this one is a balm for the soul. And in her mother's presence she was that. The mannequin upon which to pin her hopes and desires, to dress in her griefs and resentments. Margaux was polished, until she wasn't. She was perfect, until you weren't looking. At eleven, after a ballet recital an older ballerina offered a kiss of alcohol from a water bottle. At twelve, after playing in the school band for Christmas she hit the fire alarm and later pointed a finger at the tubist. Her rebellions were like match sticks, there and then gone, noticeable only from the corner of your eye.

In high school, she was everything, always, all at once. She played soccer, carved out a spot for herself on the debate team, and secured herself the accessory of football player. In between AP classes and practices, her rebellious seeds began to germinate. She existed on a cocktail of adderall and gin. (The latter secured from her mother's liquor cabinet.) She knew these were forgiveable sins. If caught, she could find her excuses and her smiles and play at her mother's fondness. What she knew wouldn't be so easily brushed away was the cheating. The girls she kissed at half-time when she could (should?) have been seeking out her boyfriend. She was no bible thumper, but she did rather enjoy the favor of those at the country club. So she kept that part of herself in a box and tucked it beneath her bed. Good only for sporadic browsing. Equally unforgiveable was her attraction to art. Robert Thompson's daughter was never going to be a starving artist. And, if she wasn't going to be brilliant well she might as well lock that away too.

Duke University was her grandparent's recommendation, one she was more than happy to oblige. It was there she meant to establish her name, to become more than just the mayor's daughter. She majored in pre-law with a minor in business and, in turn, secured an acceptance to law school. There she found riper fruit than her high school sweetheart, there she found nothing in the world tasted as sweet as authority. The politeness she'd donned like a perfume melted away and beneath all that she found someone assertive and decisive. Graduating with honors was a given, as was securing a position at a law firm in Raleigh.

At twenty-nine she married. At thirty-one she was a mother. Both, in turn, would turn out to be disappointments. Marital bliss came and went like a summer storm, and the title of mother left her fumbling in the dark. Her son was barely a year old when things came crashing down around her. It started with an affair - with a client - and the dominoes fell from there. She was suspended from practicing law and, a week later, served with divorce papers. It was a messy year, that ended with her moving back home to Wilmington and buying a fancy apartment in Midtown. Her son, stayed with his father, and that almost felt right. Better he belong to that name and that city than to the slowly rotting legacy that was Robert Thompson.

Home now for a year, and with her license newly reinstated, she's contemplating whether it might just be better to raze the whole thing to the ground and start over.

WC:

Stay tuned

[lightdancer1]

This also applies to one of the most basic tropes separating military fiction from military reality:

Now granted, at the start, there is always the reality that a story is a story and reality is reality. Real life differs from fiction in all kinds of ways and just as it's perfectly acceptable to portray a medieval past without reliance on a historically accurate dung-filled literal shithole unless you're doing a Monty Python movie, there are good and cogent reasons why these factors of real wars tend to be left out.

Yet, and I admit to a bias here because it's how I write my own stories, I believe that aspects of this can enhance a war story told in another fashion while not bogging down the narrative.

The most obvious factor is that war stories, most often because writers do not bother to really read into how real wars are fought, neglect logistics entirely. In reality real wars are almost entirely matters of logistics, which shape what actually happens in a battle or a campaign. It is this side of real wars that is almost invisible in war stories because unless you've got a Good Soldier Svjek style approach it's rather boring to write some REMF making sure the armies are fed, equipped, clothed, or to get into the kind of detailed aspects that account for what gives higher officers their actual ranks.

In reality generalship really is an artform requiring a person to blend multiple skills at once, only some of which are military. Bullshitting and political aspects are very important aspects to a point that generals that pretend they can ignore them are forgotten and the ones that are remembered excel at them. But fiction will show you a general pulling an Albert Sidney Johnston and acting like an overranked sergeant and seldom shows you the general getting killed like the actual people who did that tended to do.

The second is the factor of friction/fog/confusion, aka Murphy's Law in military uniform. Anything that can and will go wrong always does in the most grimly hilarious ways possible, people do not have perfect information about what's happening and the misunderstandings can have a gallows humor all their very own. This factor is left out of fictional wars not because it's not dramatic, but because people like their wars with superheroic wunderkinder who always know what's on the other side of the hill, where in reality the wunderkinder was a lucky son of a bitch and the other side was taking a shit break and he timed the attack right when they were crapping.

And the third and especially blunt factor is that no matter the era war is long elements of boredom (with all the havoc that can happen with armed people trained to kill) interspersed with deadly peril. Whether or not it's face to face with the more visceral aspects or the indirect and impersonal horror of a modern battlefield, actual peril is a relatively small, if extremely memorable, part of military life. Fiction, of course, really leaves this bit out unless it's the rare (these days) military comedy where this is the primary setting.

This is by no means stating that stories should mirror reality. There are entirely cogent reasons why they don't, but this is also why it's very hard to do a truly antiwar film because films almost always leave the boring and ugly parts out, and the result makes war look ten times more glamorous than it is.

The extra factor is that almost any kind of story you can think of will have these points where they fiddle with reality for the sake of the story. The task of a good writer is to deal with this very truthful problem for all writers and make the story so good the readers never really notice all the bits fudged for the sake of the craft.

[novabl]

Thank you for your previous reply. Use machine translation. I also think Doumeki has a lot of respect and appreciation for what Sakura has given him.But it is worth mentioning,Yakuza is not a way of life that gives Doumeki Real Peace of mind. Yashiro's abandonment of Doumeki was cruel,But in a way he does know how much Doumeki has to endure to stay in Yakuza.

In fact, Doumeki can be very decisive in combat,also can be cold to the enemy.But every time this happened four years ago, Yashiro seemed worried, not happy.

Others may think Doumeki is perfect for the yakuza.All the yakuza will find Doumeki useful, but Yashiro can't just keep Doumeki around because he's“Useful.” Doumeki can actually protect some people in Yakuza, get some recognition,But that is not enough to make him truly“Loyal” to an organisation. And by that I mean inner loyalty.Doumeki, of course, is devoted to Sakura at work and takes care of Sakura's interests and feelings. This is his gratitude.

His reason for staying in the sinful world was his connection to Yashiro, even though he could no longer develop a romantic relationship with him.The reason for this loyalty is not just love. In fact, Doumeki of Ch. 51 accepts Yashiro's anger, even though he doesn't think Yashiro loves him.I think Doumeki felt that Yashiro was angry because he was disappointed.Doumeki knows Yashiro doesn't have a tattoo,He also knew that Yashiro wanted him to leave yakuza. Yashiro did not say love directly, because Y himself did not understand love well enough.But he has said many times that Doumeki should leave the yakuza. Yashiro took it upon himself to decide that Doumeki should leave yakuza,But that's one of the reasons Doumeki fell in love with him.That is why Doumeki is spiritually loyal to Yashiro. I agree with you that Doumeki didn't know that Yashiro loved him,He suffered because he saw Yashiro's self-destruction, but I don't think he ever doubted Yashiro's inner beauty.Doumeki also suffered because Yashiro made that beauty full of pain. So Doumeki kissed him, even though he thought Yashiro was disappointed in him. In volume 8 of Saezuru,an extra story,About Doumeki dreaming that he's getting very small.What he thinks is, big or small, I can't live without you. Doumeki's loyalty is very implicit and absolute. Just like Yashiro kept his love. They value each other so much, they both think they shouldn't touch each other.Even if they want to touch each other -- Doumeki can't stop kissing Yashiro, who can't stop going crazy for Doumeki. I agree with you that they need to confess their feelings, but in the author's past style, I think it would be a more Japanese, more implicit confession. In fact, the author seldom uses explicit“love” to express love directly.Even the original Japanese text of Doumeki's confession is not “love”.You know he's already the most honest one. Of course I want them to say love, but maybe one morning after they get together.

Thank you for reaching back out to me! While I do mention Doumeki’s loyalty to the sakura group, I want to make it clear that I do think Doumeki’s devotion is to Yashiro. Where I think Doumeki’s conflict will come in is potentially leaving a place where he feels comfortable in and made a life for himself without Yashiro to being vulnerable and at risk of devastating heartbreak with Yashiro. It would be similar to the decisions that Yashiro faced in the first arc. I also agree that it is unlikely we will see them explicitly say the words “I love you” but I do hope to see them both express some vulnerability. I am not 100% what that would look like though.