#can be irrevocably changed and removed

[bardandbear]

So. Transient media. I'm not looking to start any beef, however the latest change to BG3 has me feeling uneasy, less for the specifics involved and more for what it represents.

For those unaware, some very eagle-eyed players spotted that Larian had rewritten some of Gortash's Act 3 letters. I don't know what prompted them to do this, they're extremely minor codex entries addressed to a NPC. I find it hard to believe that anyone provided feedback about these, and the opinion I've seen from most Gortfans is that they liked them before. They were a little character reward for people who were obsessively scouring the game for information.

What I find troubling is that the change definitely alters characterisation in a way that isn't building on something that already exists, it isn't reworking something in a remaster a decade later, it's literally been months. Lore and character are being retconned months after release in what was supposed to be a (finished) standalone singleplayer game.

When is it done? Bug fixes obviously can and should be applied when something is actively broken, but this isn't a bug fix, nor have the previous 'minor' tweaks to character approvals and voicelines etc. It's also not adding content to the game, it's changing it. It's like seeing a movie re-cut for the streaming release, or a book getting minor deviations introduced every time it gets a print run. By all means, fix errors left in by mistake, fix your typos, make a sequel, but why are we okay with increasingly crowdsourced transient media? What is the point in engaging with something, with forming connection with something, if there's always the chance that what you liked about it in the first place is going to get changed?

[jamiethebee]

Fully caught up on the manga (minus spoilers for the last chapter) and..... Ya know what maybe I am a villain stan because I just.... Don't trust that anything really changes in society. Everyone outside of heroes, when given speaking parts, seems to indicate that they'll step in or do something in order to protect themselves - not out of any sense of responsibility or community, but to safeguard their lives in case the other person ends up a villain. Or maybe I'm just pessimistic? But we've seen irl time and again that this ending attitude doesn't work. Doesn't have change. Certainly not long lasting change. I really really wanted to finish the series still liking Deku but throughout the fight, every cut back to someone other than Deku, talking about his heart and how good he was and how much he was doing to fight for the person - and the cut back is just "punch". He never responded to Shigaraki's words. He never engaged with the man himself. And at the end of the day, I feel more trust in Uraraka. More trust that she'll actually work on saving people's hearts. And she's back in construction work like her parents. And of course the camera dies and no one sees Toga's heart. Because how dare anyone think a villain could be a person (paraphrased that one interview guy).

I really really wanted to end this manga happy with it. I'm not stupid enough to conflate the reality of the story with fandom. I'm not. I really wanted to enjoy it for what it is. But when they directly ask "how do we fix villains being made" the answer is "you don't. We can't" and ???? That's supposed to be what the manga was working towards this whole time? I - .....

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

2 & 3 from section 1 for peri and 7 from whichever section has a more interesting #7 for diodore -moss

oooh these are fun ones!

2. Describe their tent set-up (outside and inside) (Peri)

I think Peri's tent is constructed similarly to Gale and Astarion's (boxy, fabric walls, little covered area outside). Deep blue fabric w/ golden astronomical embroidery, mostly the sort of thing you see on star maps. Little golden tassles around the edges of the tarp (?) and the doorframe. He'd have a small, circular, dark wood side table short enough that you can use it sitting on the ground, and a dark blue pillow next to it; there would be some parchment and a bronze miniature astrolabe on the table. The inside would be just. full to the brim with the gaudiest night-sky-themed pillows you've ever seen. No bedroll, no palette, just a nest that would put those cube pits in trampoline parks to shame. There would be two bird perches for his familiar Medani: one taller one next to his tent and one shorter one under the overhang. The shorter one would have a crow-sized bow-tie hanging from it. Rugs on rugs on the outside area ofc. 3. What would their character quest be titled? Why? (Peri)

This is a hard one! His tav ending involves taking over the Waterdeep arm of the Harpers, so I think his arc would have something to do with that. He'd be pretty bitter about being dropped into another near-apocalyptic mess when dealing with the last one a few years prior was supposed to be a one-time thing. Something-something ptsd in a world that doesn't have the words for that yet, something-something 'once a hero always a hero', something-something the weight of responsibility...he's a planeswalker so I think part of it would be whether he decides to stay on Toril long-term and directly help rebuild the Waterdeep Harpers or if he continues to run travel around afterwards, so maybe The Far Traveller/The Far Walker?

Harpson/Fae-son are also potential options. "Fae-son" nods to him being a changeling without it being super obvious (like Astarion's "The Pale Elf"). It would also mimic his backstory reveals from RoT ("oh he's not 'from here' so, like, the Feywild" -> "OH he's not from here"). 7. Describe their arc. How would a player help resolve it? What choices can be made? Can your Tav be turned down a dark path, or pulled to a lighter one? (Diodore)

Buckle up because we're in for a long one here. I've thought about Dora's story arc a lot because she's the first of my tavs that I truly made for the game while having full control over her backstory, etc. (versus Corentin, who had their arc baked into the story as a durge). Dora's a paladin of Corellon (oath of ancients) and her story arc as a companion would have to do with whether or not she should accept capital-r-Redemption, the process by which a drow can be truly "freed" from Lolth and rejoin the ranks of the rest of elven society. It involves all of the Redeemed drow's memories being erased and them being reincarnated as a surface elf. The implication seems to be that without that, regardless of a drow's actions, they'd be thrown back to Lolth when they die? Or at least that their eternal fate is unknown (which is the way I prefer to think of it for. personal reasons). Under normal circumstances, Dora would be a long way from Redemption being presented to her at all (she's not even 200 yet and has only been on the surface for a couple decades), but like with the other gods' Chosen among the companions, near-apocalyptic circumstances tend to speed up those sorts of things.

Of course, you'd have the themes of faith & relationship with deity when they're all unequivocally real and are also mostly all assholes; maintaining or breaking generational cycles; facing the unknown; morality when none of your choices are "good" (and how that interacts with morality vs self preservation); power vs freedom; identity outside of the people who made you; etc. The choice would first be presented to her sometime in late Act I/early Act II, likely the first long rest after the group resurfaces from the Underdark and you've probably gotten some of her backstory already. I have no idea how Larian would have characterized Corellon, but he's considered one of the more benevolent/open-minded deities iirc, which could be interesting to see contrasted with Mystra, Vlaa'kith, and Shar. How much that open-mindedness would extend to a drow, even one who has been a faithful follower even before she escaped to the Surface (and who inherited that faith from her father), is unclear. At the beginning of the game she would be leaning towards accepting Redemption, despite her own misgivings about whether or not she would still be her in that case.

Her final decision (at the ending pier scene) would depend on the relationship she has with the PC and the other companions. Her best ending, imo, would be her not accepting Redemption but continuing to be a force for good. If she has a good relationship with the PC, she would have something to lose. I think seeing the House of Mourning would affect her too. After all, the thing Corellon is offering to her as a way to find peace is the same thing the Sharrans are using as a way to manipulate and control others.

She's viscerally aware of how she was socialized and very actively chooses "good", so pushing her towards a darker path would be incredibly difficult but not impossible. If you side with the goblins she'll leave immediately, and turn on you if she's in your party when you attack the grove. But if you decide to try and control the cult in Act II, depending on your over-all actions before then and how you've interacted with her, you could disillusion her to the point of convincing her to break her oath. That path would entail convincing her that controlling the cult is actually the best idea. I'm sure there would be other times that her oath could break that wouldn't necessarily lock her into an "evil" path, especially with how Oathbreakers are handled in the game. Knocking out Minthara instead of killing her outright and letting Auntie Ethel go in Act I instead of killing her are two things that come to mind.

If she doesn't choose Redemption she would be at the epilogue party, of course. I'm a bit undecided on what would happen if she does choose Redemption. She may not be there at all, w/ Jaheira, Halsin, Minthara, and/or Astarion mentioning running into her in her new, reincarnated state. Or she would be there, confused, and mention how the PC seems familiar in a way she can't quite place. In that case, she would ask them how they know each other and mention something about feeling a twinge of grief looking at everyone, but that she doesn't know why she feels that way. It would be up to the PC how much they tell her (if they tell her anything at all).

[rabbitinashell]

Capitano in the Sheets – A Study in Control, Silence, and Brutal Devotion

this one is on a laptop, so there are some changes

Capitano is not a man of many words. But he doesn’t need them—his presence alone speaks volumes. The weight of his silence is suffocating in the best way, thick with authority, tension, and a promise you can feel in your bones: You’re his. Entirely. Irrevocably.

1. Quiet Dominance That Consumes the Room

He doesn’t demand submission with loud commands or flashy gestures—he expects it. And somehow, you give it willingly. A single look from behind that mask is enough to still your breath, your body, your thoughts. The kind of control that doesn’t shout—it presses down, slowly, inexorably, until you don’t even realize you’ve surrendered.

He doesn’t have to say “on your knees.” You’re already there.

2. Touch Measured Like a Weapon

Capitano doesn’t touch you until he knows you’re ready to fall apart. And when he does? Every movement is deliberate, like he’s mapping your breaking points with the same precision he uses on the battlefield. His gloves might stay on—or maybe he removes them in slow silence, letting you feel the full weight of what’s about to happen.

“Brace yourself,” is the only warning you get—and it’s not nearly enough.

3. Patience That Feels Like Torment

He can be relentless. He can be brutal. But the cruelest part? His patience. He waits—for you to beg, for your voice to crack, for your defiance to crumble. Capitano watches you squirm, unravel, and come undone beneath him with cold fascination and unwavering control.

You break yourself just trying to earn his approval. And when you finally do? The reward is overwhelming.

4. Masked, Still, and Watching Every Second

There’s something devastating about the fact that you never see his face. Not when he touches you. Not when he pushes you further than you thought possible. Not even when your voice is shaking and your body’s limp with exhaustion. He remains composed—unmoving, collected, and impossibly focused on you.

You can’t see his expression—but you know he’s watching every single reaction, cataloging them, owning them.

5. Possessiveness That Burns Slow and Deep

Capitano may not say much, but when he finally speaks? His words cut straight to the bone.

“You are mine.” That’s all it takes. One sentence, low and final, delivered when you’re too weak to argue. And the terrifying part? You want to be.

Aftercare: Silent, Devoted, Absolute

He doesn't coddle. He doesn't soften. But his actions are unmistakable: pulling you close, holding you steady, adjusting your position so you're comfortable. When he wraps his arms around you, it's not affection—it's claiming.

You sleep wrapped in warmth and silence, his hand resting firmly on your waist like a brand.

Final Verdict: Capitano is the quiet storm—calculated, consuming, and impossible to escape.

You don’t just give yourself to him. He takes you. And you’re grateful he did.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it is my fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[roguedemonwatcher]

I think my biggest takeaway with this outcome is that I now question why Predathos’ release was centered so heavily on the fate of the gods when you can (and ultimately did) just make the argument that keeping Predathos sealed in Ruidius is untenable. Because the players clearly couldn’t give the dilemma of the gods weight with the characters they were playing, try as they might - their indecision on the matter speaks to this. The decision to face Predathos ultimately ends up being a tepid "well, we can't just leave it here for someone else to get to." It begs the question of why every conversation up until this point centered on the gods when that really didn't even end up factoring into the decision to confront it?

To be clear, regardless, going in does effect the gods. If they can't control it or kill it now this will irrevocably change the pantheon of Exandria. But there's a decent argument that the detrimental effects of Predathos on Exandria, even sealed, especially exacerbated by Ludinus' actions now, warranted the risk of trying to get rid of it (though ideally with more, ya know, forethought and conviction).

Because yeah, the constant cycle of Ruidiusborn being made and drawn to it, Molyssmyr getting fucked through mere contact with it, the tyranny of the Weavemind on Ruidians, resentful anti god mortals trying to replicate what Ludinus did (to say nothing of Ludinus own lingering contingencies), even the decision to remove a chunk of Exandria with civilization on it to seal it up are all like reason enough to be like - ok, but what if we didn’t have this fucked up hungry void chilling next to Exandria?

Keeping it sealed might be the solution the Accord and most of the gods want (and they should've lingered on that thought more in game, even if it's clearly cooler to go in), but I would buy that Bell's Hells, party with two Ruidiusborn, who have been to the moon and met Ruidians trapped by it's influence, who suffered greatly during Ludinus attempt to unseal it, would want to stop this from ever happening again, even if it risks the gods should they fail.

[tallyowlpress]

ABOLISH THE MONARCHY (in this brand new TTRPG)

Guillotine: Crown of Blood

Harness heretical magic, discover cutting-edge technology, and overthrow the crown in this Gothic fantasy TTRPG.

KICKSTARTER LINK

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

GUILLOTINE: CROWN OF BLOOD is a TTRPG where you can -- and should -- destroy the Crown. Use magic. Use wit. Use weird new technology, forged by your own hand. Use prayer, even if it's unorthodox. Use rhetoric to win hearts and minds. Or just beat the shit out of them. It's up to you.

Fact Sheet:

FUNDED IN JUST SIX HOURS!! Plus, we've unlocked our first stretch goal (character generation tables!)

Runs on the Powered by the Apocalypse system.

Based on games like Armour Astir, Heart: The City Beneath, Monsterhearts, and Monster of the Week.

Play as members of a Cause, against an oppressive Crown of your own making -- then play as the antagonists during a Villain Turn where you can torment each other's characters, or otherwise advance the plot.

Ten unique playbooks.

Includes weird magic, talking your way out of trouble, strange gods, and a worrying amount of blood.

Mechanics that let you become unhealthily obsessed with your friends, lovers, rivals, and political scapegoats. The more you interact, the more you understand them: for better or worse.

BONUS: Use Martyr moves to permanently remove your character from the narrative, irrevocably changing the fabric of the city, the revolution, or even the laws of physics!

All you need are some friends (or at least fellow travelers) and you're good to go! Do you have what it takes to destroy the Crown? Will you destroy yourself in the process? There's only one way to find out.

KICKSTARTER LINK

PLAYBOOK PREVIEW

ART PREVIEW

[cowboytism]

god, i will never get over episode 5.

louis and armand are two forces of nature colliding and collapsing into something explosive. they are two performers acting out a scene for three over and over, the void growing larger and threatening to swallow them. they are vying for control and companionship, both real and imagined, circling each other in the prison of their desire for him.

they settled for each other, and that’s fine, this is fine, they’re all FINE, but really, the thing both of them want more than anything in the world is his love, and louis is the one who has it, even though armand was there first. and louis may be cruel and self-destructive at times, but at least he’s locked in there with him, at least there’s someone to serve, at least he’s not alone, that’s something armand can work with.

but when louis rejects him too, when he attempts a prison break twice in the same night, when he makes it clear that armand ranks below death, the decades of grief and rage and resentment smelt up everything around them, including a young daniel molloy. daniel, who is irrevocably changed by an event he cannot remember, who has been attributing the scar on his neck to the wrong man for almost half a century. armand removes daniel’s memories of him but leaves behind the imprint of his teeth in daniel’s neck like a brand. it says, you will not remember this, but this is the night i make both of you mine.

armand becomes a myth-maker. i can make this simple, he says, there is no way out of this and you do not want to leave. there is no other man waiting for you, because he only loves himself, because he didn’t love me so he cannot love you. you want me because i will shape myself into anything you desire, and even when you don’t want me, your memories will tell you that you do. i am protecting you from yourself, because before me it was all pain, remember? i left just enough for you to reach the correct conclusion. i am protecting you even when it looks like i’m protecting myself. i saved the boy, remember? you wanted to kill him but i stopped you. you are dangerous when you want something. i will always stop you. you are here, and i am at your service, and we can do this forever. i am of great use to you. you want me. you want me even though he didn’t, and that’s enough. you are safe because i don’t have to be alone.

[boosnotes]

Hi :) I've never requested before, but I realllyyyy like your work. I was wondering if I could get head cannons for if you tell them (Sonic, Shadow, maybe knuckles and also Eggman if it isn't too much. Platonic or romantic, either is fine) that one of your best friends is slut shaming you behind your back just for the way you dress? (Had it happen to me today 🤭) if not, that's totally fine!! I understand if it's not something you want to cover!! Have a nice day and thank you if you do write it!!

She betrayed me

Shadow x reader, Sonic x reader, Knuckles x reader

Warnings; slutshaming, can be read as platonic or not except for knuckles Genre: comfort A/n: holy shit this was requested on march 13, sorry i took so long. i went back to school, writers block, a couple of depressive episodes, got into arthuriana and lost a bit of interest with sonic. hope this is good if you are still caring for it. i havent checked the tags in a month, i dont even know if its still alive tbh

You were never scared of your body, actually, you were quite comfortable; it was a mere vessel that you could decorate however you liked it, so you did. From a young age, you were very aware that your thought process was unique; most people preferred blending in rather than being true to themselves, and as truthful to mankind; they shamed the ones that went outside of norms. Maybe you never intended to dress like that, or maybe it was what made you happy; nonetheless, your body was noticed by other people, you never gave it much thought; only doing the minimum necessary if you were scolded by a superior and blocked you from continuing with your life.

You thought your friends supported you, even if they agreed or not, why be with someone you hate? Such a waste of beautiful time. Yet you suddenly found yourself with one of your closest friends criticizing you behind your back. On one hand, you felt hurt by being insulted by someone you loved, and on the other, disappointed that she didn't have the guts to tell you anything to your face, even as a joke. You stared and stared, and stared at the screenshot you received; it was irrevocable proof, not even a rumor or that someone told them that they told a friend that. It hurt you, it truly did; at least destiny took their opportunity to show you the reality before it was too late; better this than having a lover stolen or your plans ruined.

Weed is better-taken care of before they ruin the flowers after all. You didn't know how to approach it though; she has been so ingrained in your life that it would take a while to remove her from it. She hasn't revealed her true colors to you yet, so cutting her off would just make you look like a bitch; if she was capable of trash-talking you, then it wouldn't be a problem to spread lies. You must be careful, even if your heart is still grieving for the heartbreak of such a friend. You were lucky it all went down on a Friday night, it left you all weekend to think about it, and it helped you to not throw a punch at that bitch.

SHADOW:

Without thinking, you threw your phone with brute force, something you'd regret if it wasn't for a familiar hand catching it mid-air. He had noticed your change of mood, as he did with most little things about you, ones that you don't even realize. He still wondered what exactly was bugging you, he may comprehend your current attitude, but the reason for it was out of his reach. So, he settled by just raising an eyebrow and giving you a look; you had rolled yourself inside the bedsheets while hugging one of your big comfort pillows.

"What exactly have you like this?" His tone was unimpressed as if he was only asking out of courtesy. He wasn't one to put up with childish anger; breaking things, especially expensive ones was a waste of time and resources. You groaned from under your covers, not really wanting to chat about it, though, despite that, you ended up opening your mouth, knowing evading the subject would only earn you a scowl from him.

"A scumbag…" You muffled against the pillow, the comfort of the spot was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your feelings were so contradicting, making you feel nothing at the same time as everything, it was bubbling and about to pour, though when you checked it was empty.

"Did they break your heart?" He commented sarcastically as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He still thought you were having a dramatic breakout, acting out about some meaningless situation like ordering the wrong coffee bag and thinking he'll hate you, or messing up some bank things.

"More like my trust…" You averted your sigh, even if you couldn't see him through the material, you still felt very vulnerable about this. Shadows' eyes softened and sighed when he took a sit next to you on your bed. It was a rare sight for both of you; the roles have been reversed; the natural progression would be him breaking down from something of his past and you comforting him, not you crying and him awkwardly patting your head.

He kept silent, waiting for you to continue, he knew how to treat someone who was just as close off as him with his emotions. You don't have a problem with showing basic ones, even so, when it comes to opening your heart, you faked every problem you had. He couldn't care less about your lies though; if you didn't want to open up, then he wouldn't make you.

"Do I look like a slut?" You questioned after a couple of beats of silence, your voice was weak and trembling, and you were so out of your comfort zone. You felt so lost, and deep down you knew Shadow was the worst person to tell this; he doesn't understand most social problems cause he doesn't even try to care, he was on his own, and most of the time he was saved so much trouble, while you weren't like him.

"You look like yourself." He responded as a matter of fact, not understanding how this connected to your mood, he knew it wasn't a thing people liked to be called, whereas you never cared for that until now. "Where is this coming from?"

"Do you remember my best friend?" He nodded, you talked about her a lot, it was evident that you were close. Most of the times he asked you about your day, you'd mentioned her in some way, she was always there, or so you believed. "She has been calling me that behind my back…"

"She doesn't deserve you." He quickly stated, as if it was an objective truth. To be fair, he never liked her, he always felt there was something off when she appeared; you'd always brush him off saying that the two of them never even talked.

"I know…"

"You should dump her."

"I know…"

"Then why are you like this?"

"I know, but I don't know, you know?" He stared at you blankly, unimpressed and not grasping how you felt. "Like, I know it theoretically, but I don't feel like it's making me feel less bad."

"That's the most nonsensical thing you ever said." He responded severely, if it was another person saying this, you'd feel worse, though it was Shadow talking, tough love was his love language, and he hasn't yet softened up with you to console you properly. You were glad he was at least trying.

"I feel betrayed… she has everything to use against me now," you attempted to explain more clearly, you knew it all could be solved easily, but you nonetheless felt like shit, you felt like you were celebrating the ideas of march. "she doesn't have to hide she hates me."

"Indulging in absurd drama is a waste of time. The worthy ones aren't going to be a part of it." He paused for a few seconds, unsure to say what's next but deciding to, all for your sake. "You have me." He murmured the last part, it made you come out of your sheet cocoon impressed with his attitude.

"That's oddly sweet from you." You were touched, it was a moment rarely seen in him, despite being created for curing and comforting the terminally ill. You gave him a small smile, flattered regarding his words.

"Don't push it." He closed off again, though it was unlike before, it was exclusively embarrassment rather than a facade of coldness like usual. All you did was giggle, not wanting to push too much on this newfound openness he's giving you. Except, without realizing you laid your head on one of his thighs, you felt it tighten but quickly relax, and he just let you be there, carefully brushing your hair back from time to time.

KNUCKLES:

You had planned to accompany him in guarding the Master Emerald, the situation had soured your mood though, and now you sulked on one of the stairs with your head between your legs. You always took the time to be with your love, it was his life mission and the most important part of him, a piece of now lost culture he could hold onto to feel not so alone, a faint connection to his family; you cherished the fact he trusted you enough to let you in this delicate part of him. Despite that, you wished you were at home right now, under the covers of your bed, putting your focus on other things than the situation at hand; no amount of love could surpass distraction from your problems.

He had noticed that you didn't exactly try to hide your sourness, the dark aura emanating from you reminded him of those times he had to awkwardly comfort Amy because of her failing crush, whereas this was more serious than that, not to the point of Shadows usual brooding, but it could gave it a run for its money. He waited for you to entrust him with your little crisis, while the longer he waited, the more worried he got at the lack of change.

He coughed awkwardly, a way to gain your attention; when you finally looked at him, he tipped around the subject, not wanting to force you. "So, how was your day?" That was an alright thing to ask, right? It wasn't a shitty backhanded comment… Right?

He was proven wrong when he heard you quietly sobbing not long after that; you hid as good as you could in your chest, curling yourself into a ball; it made him instantly panic, he was trying really hard not to mess this up, even if he already kinda did. He walked down the stairs until he reached the ones you were sitting on, kneeling to your level yet not touching you; he didn't like people doing it to him when he got upset, so he concluded you may also not. He didn't how to start, he already knew you were feeling bad, and that was obvious; he decided to let you cry your heart out, sitting next to you and making his presence known if you wanted to start physical contact.

Time passed and your tears almost emptied you out entirely, all the water in your system had left from it. Nonetheless, your breathing was still ragged, a sign of you struggling to breathe; he gently shushed you and guided you in deep breathing; inhaling, maintaining, and exhaling, repeating those three steps until you felt more at ease. The fresh breeze of Angel Island helped you a lot, some water droplets hit your face as you heard the birds chirping from the distance.

"Better now?" he softly asked, not wanting to cause you any more stress. You nodded as you slowly sat up, cleaning the salty tears from your eyes; you weren't expecting to break down like this, but damn it felt good, you really needed it. Unconsciously, you grabbed Knuckle's hand and toyed with it as you looked up to the sky, cloud gazing for a bit; it made him smile at you, still analyzing your composure, happy that you were relaxing slowly. "Do you wish to tell me what happened?"

"Just stupid drama." you waved off his inquiry, it wasn't that deep, and you had already let out all you held inside you. Your mind was begging you to keep talking though, it would make things so much easier, you didn't pay any attention to it, preferring to enjoy the sky otherwise.

"It has to be important to push you that much." he pushed a bit, his gaze changing between your hands and your expression, you seemed solemn and he truly wanted to help you, what kind of lover he be if he didn't? that would be a disgrace to the echidna race.

"My friend… called me a slut behind my back." his expression turned serious as if he was getting ready to chase her and put her in her place. Quickly, you intervened, not wanting any of that to happen. "It's not a big deal, do not do anything." he was about to protest, but you cut him off, already knowing what he was going to say. "I know I just cried, but it's not because of her. I just… felt really stupid for trusting her so easily…."

"Your heart's too big to waste it on people like that," he stated, it made you grimace cause on the one hand you were touched by it, but on the other hand you were capable of being the same as her, if not worse, you just choose not to. Your biggest worry is that you fell for her, not that she did it at all, you felt that your protection was best.

"I'm not that saint you think I am…" you had let go of his hand, rather settling to play with yours, breaking the nail you had; it made him sad to lose your touch, yet he let you be, deciding to put it on your knee instead, knowing he had to punch your head until those ideas went away.

"A bad person cannot become one cause they have to be good first, and you cannot be a good person until the end, but it's possible for a person to be good and bad in the same life." his eyes stared at you deeply, wanting for you to understand every word that was coming out of his mouth. "I love you because it is good and it shows. I can't choose another to spend my life with that's not you."

Your face flushed bright red, making you look away in embarrassment; your heart was overworking from all the love he had to give you and only you. You still felt stupid for letting your best friend in, but at least now you were his stupid. he pulled your face to look him in the eyes, only for him to give you a soft kiss. You quickly hid yourself in his arms, not being able to look him in the eyes; he gladly cradled you in them, feeling the heat of your bodies against each other.

"I'm still going to do something about her."

"Then at least let me help."

SONIC:

You were sulking in the kitchen, waiting for your comfort food to be done heated. Thankfully, you made enough for it to last a couple of servings, so all you had to do was wait for the microwave to finish heating it back up. Sonic saw your brooding form from the table, he was tapping his feet with a lot of speed as he waited for you, he already got his usual meal, a chilli dog, how was he able to sustain himself with only that as a full course meal, it was beyond you, but if it made him happy, then let him be.

"What's with that long face?" He questioned you; even if you turned away from him, you could notice the smirk he had on. You weren't in the mood to handle some of his teasing, so you didn't respond at all as you continued prepping your food. He pointed at the lack of response, "Come on, don't ignore me."

"Sonic, I'm not in the mood." You said plainly, whereas the hedgehog didn't care, thinking you were exaggerating as you usually do. He stood up and went next to you with a smirk, just staring at you with that funny look until you reacted. Sadly for him, you didn't. Sonic wasn't a guy of feelings; he was empathetic and loved feeling things, but he was also too oblivious to know when to back out.

As time went on, he poked your cheek, progressively getting more frequent. It didn't take long for you to smack his hand away; you had a lot on your plate to deal with his antics. He felt deeply offended, never have you reacted that way towards him, you'd follow his jokes and play fight or gently let him down; his back straightened up as a frown grew.

"Ok, what is going on?" He called your name, more concerned at your state, seeing how serious it was. You grumbled under your breath, asking him to not bother you and leave you alone, but he didn't relented, he wanted to be there for you in whatever is what you're going through, he'd be an asshole friend if he just walked off. He called your name once again, putting a hand on your shoulder as he leaned in.

"I don't want to talk about it, I don't even want to think about it." You hid your face in your arms, your posture a mess, but the need to hide away was stronger than any pain on your back. Sonic's hand just stayed there, making sure you knew he'd always be there for you. He wasn't the most empathetic guy, but he was going to try it for you.

Ding

The microwave finish heating your food, either way, his stance didn't change much, just passing the arm over your shoulder as you took your food out. You turned around and ate it while he hugged you, finding comfort in the familiar flavors hitting your mouth. While you did that, he tried to sneak his hand and steal some of your food, earning a quick slap on his hand. He tried giving you puppy eyes, yet they disappeared as soon as he saw your annoyed expression.

"Sorry, sorry…" He said as he raised his hands, not really honest about the apology. He stared at you eat after that, his mind going through all the possibilities of why you are like this. "But really, what's with that long face?"

"A bitch friend was calling me a slut behind my back this entire time." That made him raise his eyebrows and let out a whistle. You didn't waste any time hitting his chest at these reactions. In his defense, he wasn't expecting that answer; he thought you got along with most people despite your directness. "Now I have no idea what to do about it."

"Stop talking to her, duh?" He answered obviously, making a mocking face to cheer you up. You rolled your eyes, maybe it would've been better if you continued acting as if he wasn't there; it was too late for that, you'll have to deal with him until he leaves.

"No shit, but how? She thinks I don't know, but I don't want her near me." You pushed him away and started cleaning the dishes, talking things out was making you feel less down. Sonic, on the other hand, was having the time of his life, listening to your drama; he was expecting a tragedy, no petty social drama, and he was savoring every moment of it.

"Ignore her, confront her, or… I don't know, people who don't like me usually go for trying to murder me until I gain their hearts." You scoffed; it wasn't inaccurate, but deep down you prefer if she had done something like that rather than slut shaming you, at least you'd had things clear from the start. He rolled his eyes, "Forget about her, now let's go out to eat some chilli dogs and watch a movie or something. How does that sound?"

You slowly nodded, liking the idea of him taking your mind off things. With a big smile, he grabbed your hand and dragged you out of the house, preparing you for a pleasant evening.

[st4rbe0m]

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ DANGEROUSLY YOURS - SJY

✺ now playing - cigarettes out the window by tv girl

✺ pairing - spy!jake x president's daughter!reader

✺ contents - angst, themes of betrayal, political talk, guns, use of feminine terms

✺ wc - 0.8K

✺ a/n - i'm ngl i was really really disappointed with how much my yeonjun fic flopped considering it was 12k words T-T

masterlist

"If I betray you, I betray myself. If I betray him, I betray my country."

The barrel of the gun is staring straight down Jake’s head. There’s sweat beading on his forehead as he looks where you’re standing, and the slight tremor in your careful hand doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He’s gulping in fear - not for his life, but your own. There was no telling who could’ve called the cops by now, with all the shouting and yelling that had ensued upon your revelation. 

You look absolutely wonderful tonight. Of course you did, is there any event where the President’s daughter didn’t look gorgeous. Floor length black gown with gold detailing on the trimming, and a pearlescent silver chain delicately balanced across your collarbones, with the view Jake was facing currently, he was going to die a happy man it seemed. The only thing he wanted to change, if he could, was the heavy tears pooling in your eyes, and the absolute look of betrayal on your face. If his superiors were to see him right now, they'd reprimand him straight. The best spy of his country, the best of his team and the best agent the law enforcement could procure. The best of his best was on his knees in front of you currently, with no weapons to defend him. Only the raw, unforgiving truth. 

“Explain yourself then.” Your voice is shaky, and what was supposed to sound more ironclad sounded like a broken, hopeful curiosity.  Your hands are still shaking and the finger delicately perched atop the trigger is lingering like a broken echo stuck in a limbo. 

“Y/N, I offer you three things right now. My heart, my country, and my life.”

“Stop! Stop with your lies! God, even now you’re cruel? You know how I fell for you, yet you couldn’t find the honor in you to remove yourself from charting these dangerous waters with me, for this mission? Where’s your compassion, Jake? Your dignity?”

“I love you, Y/N. I do. Deeper than the betrayal that I was raised on, and stronger than my traitorous blood.” He’s holding a steely determination in his eyes, more focused than he’s ever been on any other mission before. This wasn’t simply just a classified case on a document anymore. This was about the thin line between life and death. 

“You don’t get it, do you Jake? From the first hour that I’ve met you, I’ve been irrevocably yours. And how am I to ever return to a point before that? How can I trust you?”

“Because I love you!”, he finally explodes in a single, shallow breath of exclamation. The last wish of a dying man.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t take your life right now!”, you explode in anger. Screaming like a madwoman, your heart hurts as you absorb in the vision of the man you love on his knees before you, pleading guilty for his betrayal.

“You may as well take my heart, Y/N. It’s already full of you.” He’s breathing heavily as you clutch your gun tighter. Your guards were to appear at any moment. It’s a starry night outside, twinkling lights littered across an inky black sky. The marble is cold beneath his knees. You’re sobbing even harder now. The lights from the chandelier behind his head reflect the glistening moisture on your cheeks. 

“I love you, Y/N. And I know you love me. I could disappear right now, but I’ll always find moonlit nights strangely empty, because when I’ll call your name, Y/N, I’ll receive no answer.” 

The breaking of the mahogany doors, loudly clattering open, made you both shake violently in surprise. There stood your guards, armed and ready to save you. Badges of honor laid across their lapels, the honor of the country that represented everything Jake stood against. “Don’t be afraid madam! We’re here now!”, one of them calls out to you as they swiftly make their way across the lavish ballroom to where the pair of you stood. You were still shaking, but this time Jake noticed a maniacal look in your eyes, searching and scattering around.

It was almost like the scene was slowed down. The tremble in your hands stilled as you raised your arms up, pointing with excellent marksmanship to the where the glass connected the chandelier behind his head to the ceiling. The chandelier, which with the loud bang of the bullet, made a cacophonous, crystal crashing noise against the marble floor, just a few paces ahead of your guards. Jake’s understanding of the situation makes him bolt up to his feet, and with almost automatic movement, he’s grabbing your wrist and running away towards the exit with you. 

“My country is very dear to me.”

“Dearer than I?”

“No, not dearer than you.”

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

It’s been discussed before yes yes yes but the fact that in Trespasser Solas declines your Lavellan from joining him because he doesn’t her want to see what he will become.

a) All Lavellan knows is the moral, ethical, and principled Solas, the Solas who acts defensively and practically. Solas has and will act/order others to act in such a way that would break many Geneva conventions if it means succeeding, and he doesn��t want to test Lavellan’s love for him by making her bear witness to that, to choose him when she has no idea the true cost of what she is demanding, not only of herself, but of the world that will be ravaged by all of the terrorism and political maneuverings meant to destabilize and destroy the only world she has ever known. There is nothing more heart-breaking than someone you love forsaking you, to reach that limit one has for another. But equally so, Solas does not want to be in the position where he may be left with the choice between choosing Lavellan or his mission. What he will become may just be a man that would sacrifice her for his plans. He will not let her potentially put her heart on the line like that.

b) He doesn’t want to make her a monster that participates or allows such things, because part of the reason he fell in love with her was because of her goodness. It wouldn’t be difficult to groom her into evil if love was added to the mix. Love can compel you to do terrible things for the sake of a loved one, and Solas does not want to take advantage of her in that way, does not even want to have that temptation or that possibility involved. He is distancing himself to avoid accidentally corrupting the nature of what he believes to be a good, pure spirit. Evil inevitably poisons goodness. The Evil he wields is utilitarian and remorseful and necessary but evil all the same because it will do harm to thousands via the removal of the Veil. The man is planning what is potential omnicide. You cannot participate in that and not have something about you change irrevocably to allow it to happen. Solas, again, thinks of Lavellan as a good spirit. He wants to keep as many “good-spirited people” (kind, good people) intact as possible before he executes his plan. Why, I do not know, but I suppose because he believes that possessing a good spirit means your life will be happier. To be good is to exist well, and as Solas explains, to be good of heart means you will attract good spirits in the Fade and thus your experience in the Fade will be more pleasant, so by this logic he believes that, ideally (strictly ideally, he knows how much reality does not reflect ideals), goodness begets goodness begets peace.

Solas needs to be a monster because truly effective warfare is conducted when principles and ethics are thrown out the window. He does not want Lavellan to witness that and be confirmed in how much of a monster he was, is, and is willing to be. He wants her to remember him as a civilian, as Solas the humble apostate, not Fen’Harel the shadowed and conniving guerrilla war general. Selfishly, he wants her to only love a part of him, the best parts of him, because he is afraid of the whole of him being rejected, because who he is in totality is so storied and convoluted and repugnant that it would require the most extreme cognitive dissonance to be able to love him, and if there is anything Solas hates, it’s people who ignore reality in favor of their own self-serving fantasies. Lavellan would be right to disavow him, and by the same token it would be so terribly selfish of them both if she forgave him of his crimes and he accepted that forgiveness, because his sins cannot be absolved with a single individual’s love. That is the tragedy of their love, because love cannot overcome all that has happened. It cannot redeem or wipe away what he has done, not unless he kills a significant part of who he is, the Ancient Elf, the Rebel, the Failure, the Veil Maker, the Doomer of the World.

[dancewriteandbehappy]

I wish I could say I was surprised by the results of this election, but I’m not. Over and over again, groups of people in America have turned over and shown their nastiest sides — hateful, evil, selfish, and more.

I guess the solution is to turn to grassroots organizations and efforts. Organize, make local voices heard, and enact small positive change where we can. I guess we can only do what we can do — $5 to another Gaza fundraiser while Trump encourages Netanyahu to do his worst. Signing yet another petition on change.org. Calling my local representatives and making my voice heard. Participating in protests.

But how can I plant a garden or focus on sustainable choices when I know the president doesn’t believe in climate change? I feel like these next six years before 2030 are absolutely crucial, and we have a governing body that will continue to do absolutely nothing. I can’t get over the feeling that we’ve completely doomed the human race in an irrevocable way. We’re never going to make it to fulfilling the Paris Agreement, or turning back from the 2% increase in global temperatures that essentially dooms our society.

The NYT says that areas in North Carolina that faced the worst of Hurricane Helene shifted right. So what do they think a Republican government is going to do? Give aid? I went to a workshop all about mitigation and adaptation — that’s what we have to focus on now, not reversal. Trump has no interest in small solutions. Trump has no interest in mitigating or adapting to anything.

There are so many horrible things that seem to be hovering right above us, waiting to drop. I hope I’m not belittling the other issues — attacks on the lgbtq+ community, removal of women’s rights, the dehumanization of immigrants — but I can’t help but feel climate change is the one that dooms everyone in an irreversible way, and will do so quite quickly and quietly. In the next few months, perhaps.

I’m not sure how to go into my classroom and teach the values of kindness, generosity, and respect that I hold so dearly when one of the most powerful people in the world doesn’t care about any of those, and will never display them. On Monday I’ll pull it together and walk in with a fierce positivity and hopefullness because I know my attitude matters. But I’m not really ready to do that yet.

[wearethekat]

February Book Reviews: Where the Axe Is Buried by Ray Nayler

I received a free copy of the book from Farrar, Straus, and Giroux in exchange for a fair review. Publish date April 1st.

I requested this book since I enjoyed Nayler's previous novel, The Mountain in the Sea. In Where the Axe Is Buried, the world is split between a Federation ruled by an immortal series of cloned presidents, and nations governed by AI. Programmer Lilia's new invention sets in motion a series of events, from an assassination attempt on the President to the recruitment of an elderly revolutionary living in the taiga, which will change the world irrevocably.

Where the Axe Is Buried is a much more explicitly political book than The Mountsin in the Sea. It's structured in much the same way, with multiple interlinked but separate POV characters interspersed by excerpts from a fictional book, revolutionary Zoya's banned text. Here, the central metaphor is the creosote bush rather than the octopus. The creosote bush forms a system of genetically identical cloned plants, following the root systems of long dead Ice Age trees. Like a flawed governing system, removing the piece of the creosote will not change the shape of the overall plant, dictated by patterns laid down centuries ago. We get the anecdote as a piece of Zoya's book on the very first page, and it recurs as different metaphors--a fungal system, a steppe tsar--throughout the book.

It's always a bit tricky to write a book about revolution. Nayler's a very good writer, and he easily dodges the trap that so many books about war and revolution fall into (ie, mouthing empty platitudes about change as the authors demonstrate that they haven't thought deeply about a complex and loaded subject). Nayler's elegantly constructed near future dystopia is split between an authoritarian future Russian regime and countries ruled by supposedly infallible AIs in a very post LLM way. On the one hand, the Federation has developed refinements that the Soviets or even Orwell never dreamed of, in a panopticon where a tiny mistake could collapse your social score and send you plummeting into a shrinking circle of restricted parole, and then to a forced labor camp and death. Or, alternatively, in the rationalized states ruled by AI, you can work in an horrifically optimized Amazon-style warehouse while your every movement is scrutinized by companies trying to sell you things, to the degree that looking at a soda half a world away for a moment with your face covered can identify you.

Whether Nayler threads the other needle and manage to not say something about revolution which the reader has a strong personal disagreement with is, inevitably, more individual. It held together well enough to be a five star read for me, even if I'd quibble with a few points. Although I do think the open ended conclusion carries a lot of the rhetorical weight here. Nayler gracefully presents you with a possibility for change, rather than attempting to answer the unanswerable question.

An ambitious and sophisticated dystopia about revolution with a compulsively readable pacing. Highly recommended, especially if you liked Nayler's The Mountain in the Sea.

[dangermousie]

oooooh nooo. did they actually fuck up Jing or is he just one of the characters you're annoyed they removed important scenes with?

If they knew they couldn't have CX actually kill Jing because of censorship, they should have worked on restructuring his arc up to this point so that made sense. They can't just give him the same arc and then change the logical conclusion.

I wasn't annoyed with Jing per se but I was annoyed at the removal of a lot of his arc - like when he literally gate crashes her ceremony of becoming a nun (!!!!) and I just think that the second half of s2 put him into background to such a degree he ceased to be interesting to me - he was barely there and not given much to do when he was - that reunion scene was just so abrupt and filmed so randomly, I didn't even have a chance to care. A lot of second half of s2 felt like Cliffs Notes version in general but it got really bad by the end and I think Jing was hit by that along with most of the rest.

He's lucky he wasn't Cang Xuan - what they did to that character and that arc are utterly criminal! I agree if they knew they couldn't have him be a killer, then rewrite it way earlier - as is, it is like building building building and then NOTHING.

But also, in wrecking his arc, it wrecks Xiao Yao as a character. In the novel, it made sense she peaced out never to be seen by CX again - the person closest to her killed her love AND also confessed he was in love with her and etc etc - in fact before Jing comes back, she was planning to become Holy Mother ie be in one place where CX could never gain admittance. She felt blindsided and betrayed by the person she loved most (even if as a family only.) By the time Jing came back and she got married, the relationship between the cousins was irrevocably broken.

But here? She NEVER finds out CX loves her romantically. He is not in any way responsible for Jing's death. Sure, he can't execute Xinyue for the murder because she's the queen and it will start a war, but especially after Jing comes back alive, it makes NO sense for XY to just peace out in such a fashion that CX can never see her again - like why how - he's her beloved brother who approved of her marriage and where there are good reasons why he didn't punish his queen who ultimately did not murder anyone (and owed her nothing) - none of it makes any sense! It makes her awful tbh. (They try to do the thing where he says if he could choose the crown or her, he'd choose the crown but she is not shocked and it's not treated as a reveal because it obviously isn't.)

The whole structure falls apart.

(It also makes Jing weaker because it's one thing to not be able to guard against the freaking emperor of the world and another a fellow clan and plots by idiot Xinyue.)

Honestly, demon boy is the sole character who emerged from this with any semblance of a coherent character.

The title doesn't even make sense any more - it always came across to me as largely about CX losing XY forever (and vice versa.) But why does he lose her forever here? It makes zero sense.

It's like if they made Goodbye My Princess and at the end "psych!!! it turned out FL's fam were all alive and protected by ML and she got her throat stitched up and they lived happily ever after." It's not that it's a bad twist in a vacuum but it makes no sense with these characters and this story.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Lauren Aratani at The Guardian:

Rupert Murdoch’s three adult children will retain control over their father’s media empire upon his death, a Nevada court has ruled after Murdoch launched a campaign to wrest away their power and give it all to his oldest son. The New York Times reported on Murdoch’s loss, citing a sealed court decision that was filed on Saturday. The family battle took place outside of the public’s eye, despite attempts from the media to gain access to the trial. Murdoch took three of his adult children, James, Elisabeth and Prudence, to court as he tried to completely remove their voting power over the trust Murdoch set up. The current trust structure gives all four adult children equal voting power over Murdoch’s empire, which includes Fox News and News Corp, but Murdoch wanted to give Lachlan, his oldest son and most likeminded child, complete control over the media companies. The change would have only impacted the voting power of the siblings, not their financial inheritance.

After reviewing the case, the Nevada commissioner Edmund Gorman concluded that Rupert and Lachlan Murdoch had acted in “bad faith” in their attempts to change the terms of an irrevocable trust that divides control of the company between Murdoch’s four oldest children. In a statement, James, Elisabeth and Prudence told the Times: “We welcome Commissioner Gorman’s decision and hope that we can move beyond this litigation to focus on strengthening and rebuilding relationships among all family members.”

The 96-page opinion lambasts the media mogul, according to the Times, accusing him of organizing a “carefully crafted charade” to “permanently cement Lachlan Murdoch’s executive roles” inside the empire “regardless of the impacts such control would have over the companies or the beneficiaries” of the family trust.

[...] Murdoch, 93, is more politically aligned with Lachlan, his heir apparent. James, Elisabeth and Prudence are regarded as less conservative and James, in particular, has publicly criticized climate denialism in the media and accused US media of “propagating lies” that unleashed “insidious and uncontrollable forces” after the January 6 insurrection. James resigned from his role as a senior executive at News Corp in 2020. That same year, he and his wife donated $600,000 to Joe Biden’s presidential campaign. Meanwhile, Lachlan, who took over as chair of News Corp in 2023, has privately voiced political opinions similar to his father and has attached himself to the growth in ratings and sales the media empire has seen since Trump’s rise in 2015, according to multiple reports.

Right-wing media titan Rupert Murdoch lost his bid to control the line of succession to his media empire when he passes away, as his three adult children-- James, Elisabeth, and Prudence-- all of whom are far less simpatico with the right-wing politics of Rupert and Lachlan, will retain voting control of it.

Rupert wanted to completely hand voting rights control to his oldest and most like-minded child Lachlan.

[nobleriver]

Is Rick the jealous type? If so what would he do if a guy was flirty with Michonne?

[Disclaimer: Tumblr never saved my edits 2x in a row, so if this doesn’t make sense, it’s because my brain is tired of trying to regurgitate the coherent answer I first came up with]

First of all, I want to sincerely apologize for being so, so, so late responding to this. To be honest I think either youledmehere or whateverisbeautiful would give a better, more definitive answer.

I don’t know if I can speak on him because I don’t know the ins and outs of his character. I haven’t watched enough of the show. I’ve only seen TOWL and maybe 33% of the main show. Basically, I’ve skimmed the book, read the epilogue, but never digested it whole (a crime, I know, I plan to go back). I don’t want to pretend I know what I’m talking about. Anything below is just my rambling opinion so far.

It depends. Early Rick? Yes. Current Rick? I don’t think so.

To me a jealous type is a negative thing: a person who feels so insecure in their role and in their relationship, they habitually perceive others as a threat that may take their position. To be the jealous type is to see your value as outside of yourself as external removable component, as something somebody else can mimic, reproduce, or steal.

Early Rick was the jealous type. From my cursory look at the early seasons, Rick – as a husband and partner – comes across as incomplete, his character development half-baked. Possessive, aggressive (when not indifferent), jealous to the point of violence (literally kept killing his rivals). A simmering bomb waiting to go off. His insecurities were still a gaping, festering wound: his lack of confidence as a husband, a father, a leader, a man – which were then exacerbated by Shane’s betrayal, Lori’s death, the fall of the prison, and more. Maybe I’m being hyperbolic, who knows? Yet, the difference between Rick then and Rick now is night and day, and it boils down to, in my opinion, security.

The current Rick, the Rick I am most familiar with, Michonne’s Rick, does not exhibit the aggressive, insecure jealousy of his younger self. He has no reason to be jealous, no reason to doubt or try to assert his importance to her. He knows where he stands. They are the love of each other’s lives, and they aren’t afraid to say it aloud. They exhibit such healthy communication. Michonne constantly speaks life into him, encouraging him, strengthening him, reminding him of his necessity to her and to their family. He is the love of her life and the father of their children. He cannot be mimicked. He cannot be replaced. They have never experienced that level of intimacy with anyone else in their lives, an unbreakable, logic-defying soul connection. They are secure in each other. Almost nine years passed, and he knew her love hadn’t changed. Soulmate connection so deep they act as mirror images of each other: “I know you never moved on from me because I never moved on from you.” What a brilliant foil to his first reunion. Connections like that can make jealousy dissipate. There’s no impetus driving it, no anxious root for it to stem from. Why be jealous when you know she will never desire anyone but you, and you never desire anyone but her?

Michonne represents this concept so well in her interaction with Jadis in 7x10 (?). When Jadis makes a move on Rick, Michonne doesn’t become aggressive or defensive, telling Jadis to stay away from her man. No, she just looks perplexed at Jadis, then looks at Rick, then back at Jadis, and just calmly says (paraphrasing): I think we should go. Then, she walks away, knowing Rick will follow. It’s laughable for Jadis to approach Rick in that scene because he’s so obviously, irrevocably Michonne’s, and Jadis knows that. Michonne is 100% secure in Rick's love for her. When Michonne shows up in the CRM, she never perceived Thorne or Jadis as a romantic threat. No jealousy, even when Thorne tried to say Rick was her family. She had zero doubt her man waited for her, the same way Rick had zero doubt she waited for him. Again. Mirror images.

In short, I don't know for sure. Yet, I imagine current Rick is too entangled and secure in his wife’s love to notice the flies buzzing around them, too busy staring at her lips to register anyone else as a threat (also because he knows they never will be and vice versa).