#how much is preordained?

[rendnotmyheart]

Soulmate aus are so interesting in an iwtv context. Like for humans it's easy, right? They get their soulmate mark, they find their soulmate, or maybe they don't, and they live their life. For vampires though? Do vampiric soulmates even exist? How could they when the soulmate marks are relics of their human life? When the other person who has the mark will be dead before their life as a vampire has even begun? Or were they always fated to become a vampire? Did the universe take that into account? Will they have to wait some hundreds of years for their soulmate to be born? Their soulmate could be anywhere, any time. Hell, their soulmate could be the person they just drained. Who knows. Even if they were somehow able to find them, what are the chances they'd stay together for eternity? It is eternity after all. Not even the universe or fate can guarantee that.

[moe-broey]

Amateur Hour but I gotta outsource this. Aromantics. Heed my call. What is "romantic" love to a non-believer?

Bonus Round if you're not entirely ace -- does experiencing any amount of sexual attraction influence your answer? Also acknowledging that both aro/ace identities exist on a spectrum. Believe me. I am deeply familiar... with so many kinds of spectrums........... 🧍

Also if this breaches containment It's Not That Serious........... just a personal question. For a friend. Me 🙂‍↕️

[gh-0-stcup]

Gonna be honest, I don't think any Sam ship will ever hit as hard as Sam/Ruby.

[pyreshe]

someone said that there's a good chance that the daughter miguel had in the universe he squeezed into after the version of him there died was the person who got bit in that universe and that him dying was her canon event and idk how probable that is but the thought of that got me like

[here-there-were-dragons]

wreck it ralph is a cosmic horror

[applebunch]

nichole fonzerelli fake nica is a pretty interesting character because like, her character is mostly defined by nica and dimitri at first, right? there are a lot of interesting connections to make there.

fake nica is the exactly the kind of person nica wanted to be. an actor. famous. effectively, she works (worked) as a reflection of nica’s desires. but she’s also something of a deconstruction of them, as fake nica is unhappy with her lot in life.

the writers have established that if nica were to play anyone as an actor, she’d want to play herself. fake nica plays nica in inexplicable riddles.

fake nica is also very representative of dimitri’s misconceptions about nica herself. for example, she’s actually an actor with a decent career. wanted to be one her whole life. and while nica USED to want fame, she doesn’t anymore. she’s the FAKE version of nica that dimitri has in his head. the image of her that stood still as the real nica went on without him.

when emily hired real nica, emily decided that nica’s name was going to be “nichole.” so disrespectful and refusing to acknowledge the truth of nicoletta’s existence- her ACTUAL NAME- that she just picked a new one for her. since nica was actually deceiving emily, so this fake name matched this fake version of herself that she was presenting to her. fake nica’s real name also just so happens to be “nichole,” and for a time, she had to play as “nicoletta.”

but outside of that, she’s just a side character, right? some random actor from who-knows-where who does who-knows-what, and all mostly outside of the podcast. a girl who has her whole own life and no relevance to the story, yeah? after she’s done dropping dimitri off at boston and playing her part as a foil to dimitri and nica’s characters and dynamic, she’s just supposed to return to obscurity. realistically, why SHOULD she stick around, anyway? she has no reason to stay here.

...except she does, actually. because she wants to.

it would have been simple enough for nichole to go “hm. well, i guess since inexplicable riddles is over, i should probably just go home.” and then that’s the last we see of her. but no she just. stays there. kind of absolutely hits the ground running as a character, actually. makes immediate connections with chuck octagon and starts working with him as a news reporter. joins the fight in taking emily down.

it’s funny, really. with this, and the fact that she resented being constantly referred to as “fake nica” in mind, it’s almost as though she recognized that this was her role in the story, and decided that she absolutely hated it and put forth considerable effort to change it. like “no, my name isn’t “fake nica” it’s nichole. i’m my whole own character with my whole own name, and you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

it’s a very fun writing trend in greater boston, where characters who are written as foils to main characters kinda just... stop being just foils. of course michael isn’t JUST “leon’s best friend.” of COURSE ethan isn’t just “the mayor’s husband.” and OF COURSE nichole fonzerelli isn’t JUST “fake nica.”

[damian-lil-babybat]

DAMIAN WAYNE IS A GREEK TRAGEDY

When I say Damian al Ghul Wayne has almost all the ingredients of a classical Greek Tragedy, it is not an empty claim.

1. Tragic Hero: The hero facing his destiny with dignity. His virtuous character forms a bond with the audience, while his tragic flaw results in the audience’s fear for him, and his terrible punishment reveals a sense of pity.

Damian is the hero of his own story. In his mind, he was given a destiny, a standard to live up to. It came from his grandfather, as Hafid al Ghul, son of the Demon. It came from his mother, as her Alexander, with Talia deluding herself as Olympias. It came from his father, as the son of Batman.

He thought himself perfect on all those role, mighty ones they might be, heavy and overwhelming even, but he persevered in ways that should be impossible and ultimately achieved the pinnacle of a perfect heir for all of them.

2. Tragic Flaw: The human limitations of the hero or an error in judgement leading to the downfall. He attempts to escape from his destiny; however, he unknowingly runs toward it. His attempt leads him to his “damnation”.

But what he thought was perfection, was his downfall. For even if he was designed and raised to be perfect, those roles are fashioned by imperfect mortals. As the son of the Batman, he was all too much of a monster to even be treated as child, let alone a son. As the son of the Demon, he was too soft, kind, and all too human, to sit upon the al Ghul's immortal throne. As the great Alexander, he was deemed as a mere pawn, a victim of circumstance, and not a victor of his own fate.

He was set up for failure before his story even began.

3. Catastrophe: The horrible ending of the play: death, suicide, ruin etc. Upon the truth being revealed about Oedipus’ origin, Queen Jocasta commits suicide by hanging herself, Oedipus stabs his eyes with the pin on Jocasta’s dress and pleads to be exiled from the city.

And just like all tragedies, it ends up in death...so many deaths and sacrifices. Repeat and rinse, the cycle continues with each redeeming arc punctuated by his death or ruin.

And just like Sisyphus, one must imagine him to be happy. For how else could he endure these unending trials?

4. Central Belief of Destiny: The belief of the fact that the actions were preordained by the gods and the flaw was inevitable. Even though Oedipus attempts to flee from his preordained destiny, the belief in inevitable destiny becomes the reason for his destruction.

How else could he keep harking on to his destiny? Desperately clinging to it like a promise gold once he touched it like Midas' cursed hands? But no, everything he touches turns to dust, every height he scale would be pushed down reverting him back to his old bare bones of an unwanted worthless child from both side of his parents, even how much he tries to make things right. Every person or thing he treasured is another ammunition for plot purposes to make him more tragic than he already was.

Damian had tried to flee before, but fate always brings him back. Because Batman needs a Robin. But Bruce already has a Robin, doesn't he? Because Damian needs to be Robin? Just cause, who would he be then? When all those titles he earned has been discarded and thrashed in the light of Batman's justice?

And the only one title he could be proud of is always threatened to be taken away if he just as much cross an invisible line that keep on changing depending on whims of the doomed narrative.

5. The Chorus: Approximately twelve masked men, forming a specific group, make comments on the ongoing play by singing and dancing.

Due to its form of media, Damian has no twelve singing and dancing masked men. XD

BUT If I have a say on this, I'll give Damian his own set of bardic troupe narrating his life story, and maybe somehow DC writers would finally admit he was loved and wanted, and was never alone and actually have family, companions and friends along the way!

https://www.byarcadia.org/post/ancient-greek-tragedy-101-the-introduction

AND THAT IS WHY it makes more sense for writers to like and, or dare I say, even love Damian's character.

A lot of great fanfictioners in AO3 actually root for this little guy. So it's nice ✌️

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

What's your opinion on the idea of the "chosen one" trope, and how it relates to Luffy in particular? Most of the controversy I've seen over Gear 5 seems to be about that specifically.

this is a really interesting question, and one i had to mull over for a bit! i think the idea of a 'chosen one' or 'destiny' more broadly can reasonably rub a lot of people the wrong way, especially in a story where freedom is such a strong thematic focus- the idea that luffy's actions might be preordained and not driven by his own will feels inherently wrong. (fortunately, i don't think they are.)

the short answer is that i think the use of prophecy in one piece works (at least for me) because it never feels like anyone else is making luffy's decisions for him. this is why it feels somewhat incorrect to me to call him a 'chosen one'- he very much makes all his choices himself.

there are prophecies surrounding him- about joy boy, about the dawn of the world, about nika- but luffy doesn't know about them, and if he did he wouldn't care. they don't define anything about him, how he acts, how he views himself. the world and narrative shapes itself around luffy, and not the other way around. you get the sense that even in the total absence of any prophecy surrounding luffy, he would still be doing the exact same thing he is doing because he only ever does exactly what he wants to do. he's as inevitable as the rising sun! the future changes to fit him!

one piece generally rejects the concept of unchangeable fate out of hand- if you tell luffy something can't be done he'll take it as a personal challenge- but it does have a lot to say about inherited will. i think it would be more accurate to say that all the strawhats and their allies, luffy especially, have in some way come to embody the inherited will and dreams of the people who came before them, whether they know it or not, both through their own experiences and because of who they already were as people.

like, the prophecies about luffy don't say he's destined to become the pirate king, or anything so specific as that. he decided on his own that he was going to do that, and that has always been his goal- to be completely free and have those he cares about be completely free. that's what he values. and it just so happens that that trait makes him fit the image of the liberator.

[lacollectionneuse1967]

remembering you - part 2

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the truth of your and theseus's shared past comes to light at a very public venue.

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: romance.

warnings: brief but GRAPHIC descriptions of gore (war flashback).

part one / part two

“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that wasn’t expected of me.” The curse of the good son. The thought comes to Theseus unbidden. 

Even joining the magical resistance at the beginning of the war felt like some preordained line of reasoning that he only had to follow.

He’d vowed to his parents that he’d always do what’s right for his community. He’d been asked to help, so he did. In all realms of life, he tried to be helpful and do what was asked of him.

He didn’t have to think about it. 

But then: You.

Y/N swept into his life and spun his head around, turned his whole belief system upside down. He can only think of one other girl who struck him so profoundly, reached inside his chest and tugged him back into his body and the present moment, but that was years ago, and their encounter had been so brief… 

The principles by which Theseus lived his life were simple ones.

Restraint. Generosity. Order.

All dashed to pieces with the touch of your lips. When you'd asked him to kiss you his only thought had been "Mercy." He’d started undressing you by instinct. He’d taken you on his desk, it seems more like an unwieldy fantasy than a memory. 

He’s at home now. Dumbstruck at his kitchen table, glass of whiskey untouched.

He has the strangest desire to call his brother.

Newt, of all people! But he was probably galavanting around the world looking for Wrackspurts or trying to teach a Doxy to play fetch. They hadn’t spoken in so long, and Theseus had been negligent when it came to showing interest in his brother’s work besides that. He couldn't call on him now.

Theseus just needs someone to tell him what to do. 

He doesn’t know what happened in his office. He just wanted to put his hands on you and then, once he did, he started burning up inside and couldn’t stop. 

Y/N, Y/N, Y/N….

Your name was like a drumbeat driving him to insanity. A trance-inducing chant. 

“What’s become of me?” he thinks, helplessly, head in his hands. “I’ve gone mad.” 

He was supposed to marry well, unfussily and unremarkably. Find a respectable woman from a good wizarding family after building up his reputation as an Auror. He’d never touched a woman the way he'd touched you, so brazenly, so honestly, so entirely overcome with desire.

He’d never thought much of love. 

Even before today, he’d been distracted at work. Powerless, really. Writing to you occupied his every thought. Even when you took a little longer to respond, what he felt wasn’t impatience but agony. He hung onto your every word. His default daydream had become storming down to the Department of Magical Games and Sports and standing before you, making you see him, he loved you and he wanted you to deal with it too.

“Tomorrow,” he thinks and it eases some of the tension. He blows out the candle floating above his kitchen table and gives up on the whiskey, snatching the glass and pouring it down the drain.

Tomorrow he’s decided to tell you that he needs you, that he loves you, although he’s not sure what it means yet. Maybe that will help him clear his head, silence that roaring need. Confessing to you will be like letting blood. 

Yesterday your beauty had taken him by surprise, discomposed him, yes. But he reminds himself that he knows you. From your letters. 

He loved you then too.

And, aside from his feelings, he doubts there are any real secrets now between you.

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

You want to ask Theseus if he dreams about the war too.

You wonder how many people in Britain return there, to that same reeking, muddied place lit-up with gunfire, in their dreams every night. You wonder if you could meet him there.

But no, Theseus wasn't in the trenches. He wouldn't know about how the mud is different there. Evil. Cursed. You'd long given up on trying to describe it to your sister, make her understand.

No wizards, not even those a part of the underground resistance, were in the trenches.

Your powers were wasted down there, how silly and indulgent magic seemed with people dying everywhere, dying badly, with less dignity and honor than stray dogs.

You remember trying to use magic wherever you could anyways. You remember your hands and your medical knowledge being, shockingly, more useful. When a man's limbs are shattered in opposite directions, when a man's face has been shot off, when a man is bleeding out, when a man....

You remember that first night, after Theseus and your family had left you, the numb-shock of seeing a man's brains for the first time. The sensation that came over you was less startling and more like paralysis or ice water. They were grey and had splattered onto your face and the ground before you. The men shoved his body over the top of the trench, throwing him at you to save him, not realizing he had a hole in his head. You stared at the soft, grey chunks on the floor and your mind unfeelingly conjured up images from the kitchen: chicken hearts, boiled ground meats, uncooked egg whites. It was so random you'd almost laughed.

War made the grotesque banal.

And all for what? That pointless tract of wasteland. Bodies at various states of decay, laid out like a rotting carpet.

You wonder what Theseus did to get called a war hero, you didn't think there were any heroes in the Great War. To you it was a tragedy of gross political malpractice.

They made a grave of your home in France. You couldn't have returned there, not ever.

You only ever went back there in dreams, where you couldn't seem to remember that the war was over.

It made you feel guilty in a distant, half-realized way, how you never wanted to talk about it or think about it in your waking life. When your siblings wrote down your name in a tribute to the combat nurses at last year's Armistice Day, you'd been blind with rage. Inconsolable with a nameless, blooming betrayal. "Nameless" because you couldn't say what they had betrayed.

Which is why this year's Armistice Day, today, you'd resolved to avoid all grief celebrations and talk of glory and war and to think only of the future. Of happy things. Of Theseus.

Theseus.

Yesterday you'd slept with him.

You'd actually taken him into your arms and body and then just let him take and take and take. You'd only asked for a kiss, but you'd found yourself unable to say anything but yes and please to him.

This fact made you blush the whole way home. Made you unfold his "goodnight" message from days before and read it again and again just to see the ink of his writing on paper, just to prove that what existed between the two of you was real.

At work yesterday he'd kept writing to you, just like he promised. Afterward, at the end of the day, he came to your desk and walked you to the Atrium, kept his hands in his pockets and looked at you fondly when you spoke, with an attention like sweetness. He was a gentleman--what happened in his office aside--indisputably so. You'd felt good and safe by his side. Like you belonged there.

Until you got home.

It was your mistake to open up to your sister. It didn't help that she kept saying that she couldn't believe you, that she'd kill him, that "it's all so unromantic."

You spared her the details, but you wanted to just blurt out and admit that it was the both of you begging for the other at intervals.

He'd gotten down on his knees, for crying out loud! He didn't coerce you into anything. All he coerced were inappropriate noises from your mouth, but, no, you couldn't tell your sister that...

Your argument continues in the morning, picks up where it left off right after breakfast.

"I just feel like you gave up more than you bargained for, Y/N. Because you like him so much you're more at risk of-"

"I didn't 'give up' anything! God, I can't believe you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"No, it's fine, really!" You're grabbing your keys and shoving them into your purse with force, pointedly not fine. "For the record, he was the one who said he liked me. And I was the one who asked him to kiss me, again! I'm not a child. The only thing I'm at risk of is finally getting what I want."

Your sister cries easily, famously. You can see it mounting now in the tremble of her lip. It almost topples over into a sob when she whines, "I love you Y/N! I don't want you to get hurt."

"He likes me! He's my friend. We've been talking for weeks."

"What if he..." your sister hesitates and for some reason it humiliates you, her censoring herself for the sake of your feelings.

Your shoulders go rigid.

"What?" you snap. "What if he what?"

She shakes her head but when you don't relent she speaks grudgingly.

"What if he does this a lot? Casual sex. Spontaneously sleeping with women. Maybe even coworkers. I just want to be sure you're on the same page, Y/N. He means so much to you, I know that, and he always has. But he doesn't even remember you...."

Sick. You feel a swaying illness in your chest and gut. For a moment you taste bile.

Her words hurt so bad that you don't even feel pain, the fight in you just dies instantaneously.

He doesn't even remember you...

"Okay," you say, staring blankly at her. "Okay..."

"Y/N-" your sister stands from her chair suddenly, but you jerk away from her.

"It's fine. Theseus can do what he pleases. Thank you for your concern, but I don't want to talk about it anymore."

You leave for work.

------

The chaos at the Ministry mirrors the chaos in your head, which isn't any real consolation.

Whizzing baubles and streaming banners are still being put up in the Atrium, the center of which lies a hulking, rectangular platform, scattered hauntingly with red poppies. It sort of reminds you of gallows, though you doubt anyone else would appreciate the humor in your observation.

The Ministry always did some sort of luncheon or memorial for Armistice Day.

Speeches, honors, sometimes a little parade, sometimes, conversely, observing four minutes of silence. The thought of being asked to go on stage horrified you more than the Western Front had.

As you walk to your desk, you think about Theseus again. You think about the war. Both inevitable, given the circumstances.

You think about the service he rendered your father and your siblings that night. You think about the chivalry he demonstrated in letting you hold onto your girlhood for a bit longer, his hand framing your face as he left it untouched and denied you a kiss.

You think about him letting you stay for the Battle of Verdun, and how it never made sense to you and it still doesn't now...

You have to know.

"I'll tell him," you think. "I'll tell him today."

------

There's a memo waiting for you at your desk. It makes your heart patter in gross relief.

"He likes me. He likes me," you remind yourself.

Your sister's words this morning must've really gotten to you.

"Urgent matter for the Interdepartmental Liaison of the Department of Mysteries!!!"

You roll your eyes. You're smiling stupidly at the paper as you write your response.

"Theseus, you can't keep writing 'URGENT' at the beginning of all of your memos. It's cryptic and dishonest and it loses its intended effect."

"Okay, fine. I was just going to ask if it would be terribly uncouth if I asked you to meet me in my office before the memorial so I could kiss you a bit?"

The thought of him putting his hands on you affects you more than you'd ever admit. You look around the office, blushing, as if anyone could read the paper from so far away. This man was driving you insane.

"Well, that's one way to honor the troops. You are a veteran so I suppose there's no turning you down."

You want to see him, you do. But you have a mission today from your Department. It couldn't wait and he couldn't know.

You're hoping to use the Armistice Day events to talk to Mr. Bragg, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or maybe sneak into his office. Too much time has elapsed already, you need to find out whether or not he is really betraying the Ministry for Grindelwald.

Theseus's reply is surprisingly earnest.

"Huh, I always thought today was more about honoring the fallen than honoring the veterans."

"True. Maybe no kissing until it's over?"

"Deal. I'll see if I can write you into my schedule."

"Not funny."

"If you want to see me so bad you could always commit a crime and I'll come arrest you?"

"Hey, you're the one who asked to see me!! And threatening me with a good time is beneath you."

You see a lone blot of ink fade-in from where his quill is pressed down onto the paper on his end. He's trying to decide what to write.

When the words come at last they are so simple and candid and enticing. Theseus has never been afraid of honesty or affection.

"I like you so much."

You laugh aloud. If he was here you'd kiss him breathless.

"Yes, you said that already."

"Forget the kiss, I'd kill even to hear your laugh in person. To see your face."

"I like you so much too."

-----

You're the last person from your level to make your way down to the Atrium for the Armistice ceremony. The noise from below sounds more like a motorcade than a memorial. Honking trumpets, trilling drumroll, applause. Funnily enough, you think your coworker Ana is the one speaking now, snatched the microphone from the Minister of Magic himself.

In fact, by the looks of it, you might've missed some of the ceremony already.

The Atrium is packed with people. Ministry workers brought their spouses, some their entire families. Well-dressed witches and wizards not affiliated with the Ministry have also come in droves.

You scoot along the edge of the room, moving sideways towards the stage, craning your neck to find Mr. Bragg.

The periodic sound of applause crashes down like heavy rainfall, the way it drowns everything out. It's a bit stuffy from all the body heat, and your clothes cling to your body uncomfortably.

As you approach the stage, you stop pushing forward and look up in shock to see Theseus's face. He doesn't see you, and you're glad for the chance to just look at him outright. God knows you could look at him forever.

He's waltzing down the steps of the platform smiling broadly. His gait is relaxed, he's comfortable in his skin despite the attention of being on stage, which is something you envy. There's a ribbon on his lapel and a red flower stuck in his suit pocket, a few men and women are trailing behind him.

They must have just honored the wizards who fought.

Next would presumably be some ceremony for the Ministry workers to honor their dead. Last year they'd done a magical memorial with floating lanterns. This year you'd been told it would involve stones, or maybe it was flowers? You didn't want to stick around.

It was painful enough carrying your losses inside of you, seeing loss and grief paraded and exploded all around you didn't feel therapeutic or healing for you the way it seemed to feel for the rest of the nation.

"Y/N!"

You turn without grace, neck jerking painfully. The sight of Mr. Bragg's face startles you, makes you feel found out. It's difficult for you to rein in your surprise. You have to shout over the sound of Ana talking onstage.

"M-Mr. Bragg!"

The older man smiles. He's with his department friends and his cheeks are rosy. Drunk, maybe. They're holding the flask between them like schoolboys, drawing more attention to it really.

It seems disrespectful to you. Most Ministry workers waited until after the memorial ceremony to start celebrating the end of the war and drinking to "peace."

But Mr. Bragg and his colleagues look positively jubilant.

"My girl! I was just telling these gentlemen how we have a real Unspeakable in our midsts now! Tell them how good the Department of Magical Games and Sports has been treating you, why don't you? Better than the Department of Mysteries, eh?"

The men he's with laugh and jostle him, they're about to turn back to the stage.

You're still reeling, sputtering from surprise, but you have to spit it out now, take your chance.

"Mr. Bragg! Wait!"

His colleagues' eyes go wide in delight, one of them looks as if he's about to bark an inappropriate comment. Mr. Bragg looks taken aback at your newfound attention.

It was nearly 1930 and some of the men in the Ministry still had such backward ideas about women, even coworkers, it took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

"Yes, darling?" Mr. Bragg's answering smile is eager and smug. Self-satisfied.

Gag.

"Um, I was hoping to talk to you in your office after the ceremony? About my position as liaison." He looks suddenly bored, turned off, so you give him your most flattering smile and add, coyly, "Alone. If you're not too busy, that is?"

That seems to gratify him. He adjusts his jacket impressively in front of his colleagues. One of them wriggles his brow indiscreetly and nudges him.

"Of course, Miss Y/L/N! It's about time you and I had a good talk, one on one."

Again, gag.

You smile, and it's a strain to, before bowing your head in thanks and moving on.

Well, at least that was settled. You could drill him with questions after the ceremony and, during the ceremony, you could poke around in his office for evidence of betrayal. It was perfect.

Too perfect.

It was your mistake for lingering near the stage. For coming at all, really.

It sends a jolt of liquid panic down your spine when you hear your name, magically amplified for the whole crowd to hear. It booms throughout the entire Atrium. It's bizarre to the point of feeling dreamlike.

"Oh, and is that Y/N? Miss Y/L/N! Please join us on stage! Everyone, how can we forget to honor our wartime nurses?"

This isn't real. If the crowd hadn't parted to stare at you after all of Ana's pointing, you would've continued walking away.

A man jumps off-stage to escort you to the staircase.

You're past the point of being able to speak or object.

Once onstage you stare out at the crowd unseeingly. The tops of so many heads. You'd rather be at the summit of some great height, looking out at some cloudscape. Your fear of heights seemed healthy, whereas your stage fright was a simultaneously useless and formidable thing.

You regret befriending Ana. You regret telling her about the war, telling her anything about yourself at all.

You are sweating.

And, impossibly, Ana is still talking.

"-and at only sixteen years old! As a volunteer wartime nurse, Y/N Y/L/N stayed for the entire ten months of brutal fighting at the Battle of Verdun in Northern France. 300,000 dead and 400,000 wounded. She saved countless lives, muggle and wizardkind alike, indiscriminately. These combat nurses were the foundation of-"

Her last commendation draws some uncomfortable shifting and impressed gasps from the crowd. It's a mixed reaction, as views of blood purity were equally mixed.

Ana, in an asinine but expected turn of events, is still talking.

But you're no longer listening. You can't.

There are so many people in the crowd, but your gaze locks on Theseus almost immediately. You see his expression change in realization, his eyes widen and his jaw flexes, almost undetectably.

When he tears his gaze from Ana to you, you turn away.

He knows. Even if he doesn't remember, he knows.

You only know Ana's finished talking because of the crashing noise of applause, like the shore breaking on a cliffside. Your ears burn. You keep your head low as you exit the stage.

This isn't how you wanted it to happen.

You're torn between wanting to explain yourself and wanting to escape. Heart hammering, cutting through the crowd, you choose the latter.

You make for a secluded alcove of the Atrium, far from the crowd at its center, and sit on a marble bench.

You never lied to Theseus. If anything he was the one who lied. He said he'd remember you. He'd promised.

"It's okay," you repeatedly run your hands over the material of your skirt, over your thighs. It's meant to be reassuring, grounding. You don't feel like it's working. "It's okay, Y/N."

You'd like to say it was the stage fright at work, but no. It was the way he looked at you that was so upsetting. He looked at you like the earth was shattering.

"Y/N!"

Your head lurches upwards from where it's bent over.

It's shocking to you, the sight of him. As shocking as it was to see him in his soldier's uniform, standing in your doorframe on that night all those years ago.

"Y/N," Theseus walks over with heavy footsteps. He looks winded and undone, like he'd run to find you. His voice is weak. "It's.... How can it be you?"

There's a desolate longing to your returning stare. Your chest hurts. You're shaking your head, trying to dispel some of that tightness in your heart.

"You said you didn't need a name to remember me...."

"Did you remember me?"

"Of course," you're speaking so fiercely, he doesn't deserve it but you can't help it. "Right away."

Why is it more embarrassing to be the one who remembers? It's even more embarrassing than being forgotten.

"That's why I stopped writing to you that day," you add pathetically. "After I saw your face at the Ministry, I'd put the pieces together. All it took was once glance."

Theseus sits down beside you on the bench, still looking adrift. At a loss of what to do with this information.

"You must be disappointed," he says at last. "And you must think me a fool."

"Well... I don't think you're a fool," you hope that doesn't reveal your disappointment, but his pained wince suggests the opposite.

"I should have known," he says with newfound vigor. "You really haven't changed, have you? Even after your coming-of-age, you're still as stubborn as ever."

That makes you laugh, dreary as the sound is.

"I didn't come of age I just sort of... came through."

He laughs at that. "You know, I've seen far more of your siblings."

"Really?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"No, not really..." None of you liked to talk about your father's death or the period surrounding it. Too painful.

"Well, I spent a good week with them. With your father too, obviously. I had to make sure he was receiving proper care."

"Did you speak to them?"

"Your sister didn't understand much of what I was saying, the same for your father. But I spoke with your brother often, his English wasn't half bad."

You groan. "What did you talk about?"

Theseus seems pleased. Eager to demonstrate to you how much he remembers.

"Of course I asked him if you really were a combat nurse, had to make sure I didn't just send a teenager to her death," Theseus explains. "So he told me about the first time you came to help out in the trenches. Some story about the men catcalling you, telling you ways to make yourself prettier, and you shouting 'It's not my job to be beautiful!' at them and tightening the tourniquet of the man you were working on. Your brother told me he yelped so loud that none of the other men dared to bother you again."

You laugh breathlessly. It's so strange to hear the memory come out of Theseus's mouth. Everything about this feels impossible. Ridiculous.

"Did my brother share any other anecdotes about me?" You turn to Theseus with a wry look on your face.

This is oddly pleasant. Doesn't feel so awful anymore, unearthing the past together.

"I wish," Theseus's smile is toothy and endearing. Sly look in his eyes. "Naturally I asked almost exclusively about you. When he talked about you he called you by some pet name? I tried to use it to find you after the war before I realized it was only a nickname."

That makes your heart stir.

It was stupid. Impossible.

An unhappy coincidence. Those were all that seemed to keep you apart.

Theseus had tried to find you.

But [your brother's name] was so young at the time, he'd only ever thought of you as [your nickname] and never "Y/N." It wasn't his fault.

"I was so curious about you," Theseus continues. "Although I was proud of myself for not kissing you... You were too young. And I was relieved it was me who left last and not one of the other poor sods who came along, who knows what they would've done if a girl like you asked for a kiss."

"I wouldn't have asked them!" you protest, and his smile as he shirks off your playful hit splits your heart, you love him so.

Theseus raises an eyebrow, still smiling. "No? I thought you just wanted your first kiss before the battle. Didn't matter from who."

You shake your head.

"No.... I didn't even think to want to be kissed until I saw you. And until I realized my life was going to change forever. I'm an opportunist, I guess..."

The last part is meant to be a joke but he's not reacting accordingly anymore, he's hanging onto your every word.

And he's definitely looking at you too seriously for you to admit that you found him severely attractive. And kind. Observant and receptive, like he saw through you. Mostly handsome.

"I just," you cringe at yourself. Cower away from his searching eye-contact.

"What?" he prods. His smile is teasing this time, like he's hoping to charm the truth out of you.

"I just wish..." you wince at the words as you say them. "That you would've remembered me. It sounds silly, but I used to think about that night a lot as a girl. I handed over my siblings and my father to you, and I would've given you my first kiss, and more than that maybe... I still don't understand why you let me stay and fight in Verdun. I suppose it makes me feel even more silly, knowing it didn't mean as much to you."

The more you speak the more you watch his expression dampen. Theseus purses his lips unhappily.

"I'm new at this, Y/N."

"New at what?" You don't know what he means.

"And I'm already messing it up, aren't I?"

"Theseus," you say. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

"I just," he dips his head back in frustration. "I have thought of you and that night, often. I just never imagined you as a grown woman, Y/N. During the war, you'd become something like a guardian angel in my mind. Forever sixteen. But when I met you two days ago, I knew..."

It's so difficult for him to find the words it seems. He keeps grimacing and shaking his head to himself.

"I knew when my body reacted that way to seeing you. Every part of me rejoiced when I saw you sitting at your desk. It wasn't like meeting you for the first time, it was uncanny. Like... immediate recognition. It felt like I was remembering you, Y/N."

You place a hand over his sympathetically. It's warm under yours. It still makes your head spin, touching him at all.

"You made such an impression on me, Y/N," he reassures.

"I was just a girl," you say, dismissively. "I was naive."

"You were courageous, more than me or any of my men. Braver than all the British Ministry. It shook me, meeting you. Reminded me why I decided to fight, I'd become so jaded."

You have nothing to say to that. He fills in the silence.

"So you didn't want to become a nurse after all then? After the war, I mean."

"I never wanted to be a nurse, I just..." Death all around you. You just wanted to stop feeling helpless. "I wanted to help."

"I never wanted to be a soldier," Theseus offers congenially. "I just wanted to do what's right. That night you reminded me why I was there in the first place. You reminded me to be brave. I was ashamed of how little I thought of the muggles. And there you were, going off on your own, risking your life for them. Before you, I just wanted to minimize losses. But you made me want to save people."

Your lip wavers. You're staring into his eyes, into that pure blue, that dark sea. It's entirely inappropriate, but you'd like very much to kiss him now. You won't ask this time. You'd like to press yourself against his suit, no words can articulate what you feel for him, but maybe you could show him.

But then he speaks again.

"Y/N," there's a guarded, defensive edge to his tone that makes you hesitant. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer this at all, but I have to ask. Was that your first kiss yesterday? In my office."

You can't help but bristle. You're embarrassed. The look on your face reveals everything, so there's no use in hiding it. Damn him.

"Yes," you admit, hotly. "Was it obvious or something?!"

He groans, looks pale. His reaction horrifies you further.

"I shouldn't have done that," he's saying, he looks like he's going to be sick. "Falling all over you like a dog---I should've made it gentle. Sweet. Demonstrated an iota of self-control-"

"It's fine," you raise a hand, made shy by his self-deprecation. "We didn't do anything wrong."

That does give him pause. Theseus stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. He has to recompose himself.

"You're right," he relents with a gentle shake of his head. "We didn't. I just mean... I would've made it good for you, Y/N."

"It was good," you insist. You're not sure if he's talking about kissing anymore.

"Let me try again, I'll get it right this time."

Your heart races.

You wonder when you'll get used to this, the knowledge that he wants to touch you, that he's going to give you what you want. Wonder when your body will stop reacting like a prey animal's every time you're near him, so strong is his effect on you. You want to run. No, you want to bare your neck, submit. Let love kill you.

Your sister's words from this morning are the only thing stopping you.

You have to close your eyelids before speaking.

"Theseus, do you...."

"Yes?" his smile is almost too dazzling for you to formulate a response.

"With other women... Do you do that sort of thing often? Not that it matters..."

For a stunned moment he doesn't react.

Then he is laughing at you. It startles you and hurts your feelings.

"Y/N, I don't--Oh, Y/N!" He hurriedly moves to reassure you when he notices the look on your face, reaching out and grabbing your arm. "Oh, no! I wasn't laughing at you, I swear."

"Theseus," you groan, hiding your face, humiliated.

"No, no," he says again, trying to gently pull your hands away so he can look you in the eyes. His hands are firm and persistent. He's still half-laughing as he speaks. "It's just that I've never done something like that before. Y/N, I don't know how to say it better, but I am dreadfully in love with you."

You look up sharply, instantaneously, to read his expression. It is serene and sincere.

No sign of a prank, no sign of a psychotic break.

Oh god. Your stomach plummets. He loves you.

He loves you.

"Theseus, I-"

"Y/N!"

Once again, Mr. Bragg has taken it upon himself to surprise you. You jerk away from Theseus on the bench.

Theseus closes his eyes and doesn't turn to greet him, his wrath is only barely veiled.

"Mr. Bragg!" You stand abruptly. "What-What are you..."

"The ceremony is over!" He seems annoyed that you don't remember, his pride bruised. "If I'm not mistaken you and I have a date in my office?"

Theseus makes a comically disgusted face, looking between you and Mr. Bragg in rude astonishment. If you weren't afraid of offending you might've been amused.

"He means an appointment, Theseus," you hiss in clarification. That seems to sedate Theseus if only slightly.

"And yes of course," you say to Mr. Bragg with a placating smile. "I'm all yours."

---

next part here

-----

author's note: part 3 (LAST PART) incoming! i had to break this part into two because it was getting too long :(

hope you enjoyed! more drama and smut in part 3

(spoiler: mr. bragg sucks + drunk!Reader and caring!Theseus)

[probablyasocialecologist]

We are living in a moment of serious gender revanchism in the United States. Feminists who self-define as “gender critical” and are otherwise openly transphobic will object to the comparison, but it is striking how much the movement to criminalize gender-affirming care for young people shares with the movement to criminalize abortion. Both find their fiercest champions in white, religious, conservative men who dismiss the evidence put forward by medical professionals that the treatment in question saves lives. Both claim to speak on behalf of silenced “children,” be they conveniently unborn or too young to be taken at their word. Both struggled to find widespread support until a father took his crusade on the road: abortion was not “an Evangelical issue” before Dr. Francis Schaeffer, a charismatic pastor, promoted his son Frank’s 1979 anti-abortion film Whatever Happened to the Human Race?; and anti-trans legislation was initially “hard to sell,” according to the Texas Tribune, until a North Texas dad named Jeff Younger built a sympathetic following online by accusing his ex-wife, a pediatrician, of wanting to “chemically castrate” their trans daughter. Texas Governor Greg Abbott’s order that citizens report parents of transgender kids to the authorities so that they can be investigated for child abuse echoes the section in SB 8 that rewards vigilante citizens for reporting abortion providers to authorities. Both movements have become central to the Republican Party’s strategy to raise funds and win elections. Not least, both movements have forced pregnant and trans people to prove, in preordained terms, their absolute certainty that they need the treatment they say they do. As the opposition puts up resistance in the form of misinformation, mandatory waiting periods, sonograms, and extensive psychological testing, patients lose precious time as hormonal processes they hope to forestall come closer and closer to transforming their bodies.

The experience of gender dysphoria is not identical to the experience of forced pregnancy, but it should not have to be for us to defend one another’s right to bodily autonomy as if it were our own. To respond to the heartbreak of losing Roe by further scapegoating trans people, as some cisgender feminists have done, is not only an unnecessary cruelty but a logical and political error that none of us can afford to make. There is no evidence to support the claim that inclusive language in reproductive health spaces “erases” or “harms” cis women, as Pamela Paul recently argued in the New York Times. (If anything, terms like pregnant people are more precise, as not all women are capable of pregnancy and not all pregnant people — e.g., cisgender girls under 18 — are women.) To say so anyway, with no basis in fact, is to do the far right’s work for them.

Dayna Tortorici, Your Body, My Choice The movement to criminalize abortion

[greenqueenhightower]

Alicent's Catharsis, Rebirth, and Baptism in 2x07–Religious Parallels: (Long Post Warning)

"You will be hated by all people on account of my name." (Matthew 10:22) "All my life I've endeavored to serve both my house and the realm, and somehow none of it matters. We are cast aside. Or hated."

In this scene, the sight of her own blood, as Orwyle tends to her wound, brings forth Alicent's realization: all she's ever done was in service to others at the cost of herself, the size of which doesn't seem to matter. Alicent's words contain the belief that her fate was preordained. With the vision of her childhood and married life fresh in her mind, Alicent has many reasons to believe her children and herself were destined to face the hatred of the world. Christ warned his followers of the same fate. Interestingly, Alicent doesn't simply say "my family," but "my house and the realm." Her psyche is torn apart by two opposing forces, her fealty to her Hightower heritage and her role as a wife and mother to Targaryen kings. No matter how much she tried, she hasn't been able to reconcile the two, and her devotion to both has meant disloyalty to herself.

"So I call you to witness this very day that I am clean from the blood of all men." (Acts 20:26) "Nothing is clean here."

Otherwise venerated in the body of Christ, Alicent's sacrifice of the red, hot blood she spilled and the scar that would be "easily hidden" have lost all their purity. That filthy room, that gown, that place, suck all life out of her dry. Alicent sought a witness to her life, one who would acknowledge her sacrifices. A voice to say they were proud of her and all she'd done. The fact that she must once again live in the shadows and hide herself and her wounds, makes the spilled blood feel cheap and Alicent herself feel dirty, body and soul.

"So they came to a spot named Gethsemane." (Mark 14:32) "To the Kingswood, I think."

Alicent asks Ser Rickard to be her sole witness as she seeks to reclaim herself. Her desire to flee to the Kingswood, a place with religious and prophetic significance where some have sought the white stag for guidance and self-confirmation, mirrors Christ's flight to Gethsemane, a place he felt closer to his Father in prayer, in the final moments before his execution. Just like Christ did with his disciples, Alicent takes Ser Rickard along to keep watch while she finds solitude in the Kingswood.

"I saw heaven opened, and look! a white horse. And the one seated on it is called Faithful and True." (Revelation 19:11) "I have to believe, that in the end, honor and decency will prevail."

Alicent challenges the Arthurian stereotypes of chivalry by becoming her own knight on a white horse. Paralleling Christ again, Alicent yearns to become Faithful and True to herself. She has spent her life devotedly faithful to her father's commandments, the principles of the Seven, and the expectations of a Queen. For years she has held fast to the belief that this devotion to honor and decency would be her saving grace. Now, all she had faith in crumbles. Seated on a white horse, grabbing her life by the reins, Alicent must become her own Savior.

"I still have many more things to say to you, but you are not able to bear them now." (John 16:12) "I'm not yet certain I do."

Alicent's mission forms as her first day of withdrawal into the serene landscape around her comes to an end. Her composure and calm demeanor denote that she has found some peace and tranquility in the time she spent with herself and her thoughts. Her mind is made up for something momentous, which she does not yet reveal to Ser Rickard. She knows that he wouldn't understand if she were to tell him. Christ knew he would be equally berated and misunderstood. And neither would her children now be able to bear all her words and actions, so she decides to stay away.

"In grassy pastures he makes me lie down; he leads me to well-watered resting places." (Psalm 23:2) "In all of King's Landing is there no one to take my side?"

On her second day of rediscovery, completely stripped away from delusions, Alicent appreciates the openness of the field before her. Having escaped the prisons of King's Landing and the Red Keep, Alicent embraces her loneliness. As a mysterious, almost divine force pulls her closer to the water, Alicent roams the woods alone again. But for perhaps the first time, Alicent is surrounded solely by trees and flowers. There are no walls, no corsets, no retinue, no handmaidens, no definitions, no boundaries, and no expectations because she wished it. There's just herself, stripped of anything confining, the vast expanse of water before her, and the limitless sky above. She looks so much like the sigil of her mother's house: House Florent. With her red hair and blue dress against the green forest, Alicent is a little Florent fox in the woods. Is she calling her mother's spirit to take her side?

"Purify me from my sin with hyssop, so that I will be clean; wash me so that I will be whiter than snow." (Psalm 51:7) "The gods punish us. They punish me."

Alicent's journey to the water indicates her reclaiming of freedom and agency. Her catharsis is to come, neither by receiving absolution from another person, nor by having faith in the Seven, but by her own hands. She alone can cleanse and baptize herself, and thus bound to a new duty to herself, offer herself a new start.

"They were baptized by [John] in the Jordan River, openly confessing their sins." (Mark 1:5) "I have sinned."

Alicent removes the last articles of definition before she immerses herself in the water. She now stands moments away from her new disillusioned self, rethinking her purpose in life and her own self worth. Like Christ, Alicent wears white. She is leaving everything and everyone behind to be reborn as her own Savior and to wash away memories and mistakes of her past. She is ready to start building a new tower of faith in herself, to replace the one she violently lost.

"The holy spirit in bodily form like a dove came down upon him, and a voice came out of heaven: 'You are my Son, the beloved; I have approved you." (Luke 3:22) "You must do this."

As Alicent surrenders to a new birth, her desire for freedom and escape becomes clearer with the bird's appearance. Finally free, Alicent enjoys simple moments such as this immersion in the lake she gets to experience alone, for the first time. Once again embodying Christ, Alicent stares at the bird flying overhead in awe, as if it were the holy spirit coming down from the heavens to declare its approval. The bird becomes the witness to her new birth and a sign of confirmation and blessing on the course she has chosen to tread. Alicent has made up her mind about the next necessary step. Even if Viserys' words have proved to be fickle, it is indeed she who "must do this" and try to save her family and the realm any way she knows. Will she sacrifice herself (or save herself) for the sake of both?

"Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, a sacred service with your power of reason." (Romans 12:1) "A true queen counts the cost to her people."

Alicent's power of reason compels her to not give up on her life but to readjust it to a much more secure course. As she yearns for freedom, Alicent mimics the bird's movements. How much she would like to fly away from everything, far from all this mess! And yet, her new resolve grounds her in a powerful way. By the end of her baptism ritual, Alicent has moved from the green backdrop to the lake's blue. Just as Christ regained memories of his pre-human existence, Alicent has claimed some lost fragments of her childhood and herself. This experience of retrospection, reclaiming of purpose, and newfound self-worth become a signpost for a new Alicent: the one who values herself more and adds the cost to herself in the tally.

[domesantis]

Lotor and Keith: The Duo We Deserved

Disclaimer: it's been around 8 months since I've last watched voltron. details may be inaccurate

Sometimes I think we were robbed of what could've been an amazing friendship.

Keith's discovery of his Galran lineage and Lotor's of his Altean heritage, and their indirect parallel of upbringing, I hoped these two would form an amazing bond as they're the only people that could relate to each other in terms of ostracization due to their race. But that hope eventually dwindled down when I realized that the showrunners were definitely not planning that, and in fact, even makes Lotor a bad guy again.

At the very least, I had hoped for a heart-to-heart conversation about them being mixed race and flesh out that aspect of them more. Yet again, I was let down.

During Keith's entire life, he has been ostracized by his peers and constantly bullied for being different. It has been the fundamental characteristic of him— his preordained Galran traits— embedded into every crevice of his disposition and being unable to do anything about it. When he finds out about his Galran heritage, we finally conclude the reason, in profound realization, why he's never fit in much back in Earth. Ultimately, this would give clarity and closure to Keith about why he's the way he is, but what the showrunners overlooked is the inevitable, imminent consequence of an identity crisis.

He's too galra to be human (antisocial, rebellious, fierce and stubborn), but too human to be galra. (compassionate, warm, weaker and smaller in stature, humanly physical features)

This is his reality everyday.

I distinctly remember Sendak belittling Krolia because of her half-breed son, Keith. It went something along the lines of: "Is the Blade of Marmora so low on soldiers that they recruit a half-breed and his mommy in?" Which, most likely, amplified his identity crisis. Poor guy.

I feel as though the same case could be applied to Lotor.

Raised by only Galrans and raised to be one, his father, Zarkon, would also say that something was quite fundamentally different about him. Compared to a stereotypical, standard Galra, he seemed to be quite more compassionate and carefree as a child, showing great intellect and promise in other aspects yet lacking in the personality traits as a Galra and embracing more of his Altean characteristics.

Growing up, Lotor always believed in goodwill, altruism, and attempted to prove to Zarkon that he could successfully subjugate planets by sheer goodwill without repercussions. However, his father's constant abuse for millennia, and cruelly destroying said planet, would of course, send him to spirals and awaken his long repressed Galran characteristics: Tyrannous, vindictive, cruel and spiteful.

Both Keith and Lotor had been abandoned by their biological parents, one in a literal way, and the other, emotionally. Both of them had something just fundamentally, unutterably different about them that they couldn't quite explain, thus thwarting the standards of "what they should be".

If Keith and Lotor had formed a genuine, wholesome familial friendship to replace their absent/abusive parents, they could've established an actual safe space where they felt belonged and heard. The rest of the team may also provide an emotional connection towards them, however, nobody knows their pain more than each other. After all, they both went through similar experiences. Mixed race solidarity!

Also. I think it could've been a great way to represent mixed race people (I'm sorry. Is that how you call them? Is this offensive?). I'm not one myself, so I'm not sure, but this would've been so great to promote inclusivity and accurately represent their struggles in the actual world. This also could've been an amazing plot point for Lotor's character development and fleshing out his character more onto a much more profound and raw level. Instead, they threw it all down the drain by betraying VOLTRON then dying. Disappointed.

Also, I'll be diving deeper into Keith's identity crisis more in one of my next posts, and Lotor's tragic fate.

Get me out of this VOLTRON hellhole. The hyperfixation is too much.

[cattimeswithjellie]

I do like the fact that in a session where there were three permadeaths, they were all so very different.

There was the useless, senseless accident that was Jimmy's death. Jimmy's death was unique because it was both preordained and fiercely denied. After three series with Jimmy the first permadeath, it's almost a game in itself to make it not happen again. People were willing to die to keep Jimmy from going out first. Bdubs, who was barely Jimmy's ally, literally begged Jimmy to kill him when Jimmy's timer ran into the single minutes. Scott jumped off a bridge to give Jimmy just a bit more time to live. Grian and Joel were on deck, ready to spoonfeed more life into Jimmy with their own deaths if they needed to, just to keep that canary chirping a little longer. But none of it mattered in the end, because Jimmy's foot slipped in a moment of excitement and he was too startled to pearl or bucket clutch or do anything to save himself. Gone in an instant for no reason and no chance to say goodbye.

There was Joel's death, a helpless, hopeless race against time and an implacable enemy. Joel made some serious tactical mistakes in his final episode. His gleeful killing alienated him from his allies, antagonizing the Clockers by killing Cleo, annoying the Nosy Neighbors by killing BigB. He griefed Scott's base with TNT twice, once tactically and once just because he wanted to blow stuff up. By the time he was down to the wire, there were lots of people who wanted him dead and barely anybody who wanted him alive. Even Grian, his Day One ally, eventually realized that trying to keep Joel alive was a losing proposition when Scott and Scar and Martyn and Cleo could siphon away Joel's time much faster than Grian could ever donate it. But even knowing that it was hopeless, even knowing that a _best case scenario_ would barely carry him into the next session, Joel fought desperately til his last second ticked away.

And then there was Skizz's death, premeditated and proud, carried out at the hands of a friend. Skizz had been dying from the very first day of the server. His Session One was absolutely atrocious, losing four hours right off the bat to back-to-back Bogey kills. No matter how well he played after that, no matter how many kills he got or plans he came up with, Skizz was never seriously in contention to win the game. And he knew that. He came up with alternate win conditions for himself. He set a goal to affirm every person on the server and he did. He set a goal to make the team he led a force to be reckoned with, and he did. And most importantly, he set a goal that somebody from TIES make it to the end of the game. By Session Seven, it was clear that Skizz wasn't going to be around to bring that goal to fruition himself. Time was not on his side, and his skill was just not there. Skizz is a clever redstoner and a good entertainer, but he's no PVPer and his bow skills are mediocre. Every time he tried to get a kill, he wound up losing more time. So when it came down to the wire, he didn't beg for his life or fight for more time, despite knowing his friends would give it to him. He called his team together and he gave them his new strategy. Someone from TIES needed to make it to the end, and it couldn't be him. But they could take his resources and his time forward with them, so long as he gave them up willingly. By sacrificing himself for his team, Skizz lost his last 20 minutes of life, but he put his team one step closer to that final goal.

There's probably only one session left, which means it's going to be choked with permadeaths that don't get focused or remarked on very much. Each one will be different though, each one will have its own flavor. In a series like Limited Life, the end is never in question, but the ending is unique to each player.

[pep-the-artemis]

I have sat in some really nice cars and some really dingy trains but I've never once sat in a train and thought 'I wish I was in a car right now'

I'm serious, if trains were invented today by Elon Musk they would be described as the greatest invention of all time.

Trains are amazing on so many accounts,

Safer - its amazing how vehicles traveling along pre-ordained paths controlled by experienced workers is safe.

quieter - Outside of trains they're so infrequent that most of the time it's quiet. Inside of trains its jus quieter physically and also is a more consistent, its like white noise so I find it almost pleasant.

faster - trains go vroom vroom

efficient - both in fuel consumption and movement of people/goods.

smaller footprint - a train track is about 1.5m wide while. a single lane road is about 3.5m (ignoring pavements) and due to their higher efficiency you don't need as many multiple lanes. Also for every car sold its estimated 3 car parking spots are built which take up so much space.

luxurious - this is an opinion but i think its a strong one; in trains you're able to stand up do to it being safer and no need of seatbelts; you don't have to do anything except get on and off (in cars you have to do a thing called drive); trains travel at constant speeds so the journey is less jerky; access to small or sometimes large tables; more legroom; etc...

night trains - some trains which run overnight have beds which aren't the best but lying flat is luxuries when trying to sleep.

cheaper - cost of fuel, workers, maintenance is spread across all users and so is cheaper than cars which you have to pay for all of the above.

You may be thinking, trains are pretty cool but you can't just build train tracks through the middle of cities like roads; well let me introduce you to a marvellous invention, baby trains (trams). they are the inner city version of trains and full of there own advantages.

disability friendly - due to the tracks being imbedded into the ground they pose little tripping risk especially for elderly and disabled. Also less cars is just safer overall.

human friendly - due to there slow speeds and preordained paths, they're very easy for people to avoid and so can coexist in areas with people. This is a stark contrast to cars which dominate and own any surface they touch.

retake the streets - without cars streets return to the people meaning; children can play outside again, existing outside is better, more space for stuff like public markets.

[astralnymphh]

unrelated but please write more fluff 😭😭 i loooove your way of writing sm 🩷

okay, let me just think of something random I can make into a poem to lighten my blog a little. think i'll do artist!ellie. first drabble thats mostly just poetry woop woop? (you'll see this kind of stuff in any fluff/angst/fantasy au i write) cw: internal organs mentioned, kinda angsty? idk sorry i get DEEP. thats it.

There's an artist in the bungalow.

She's got a mane of fire and a heart of clay. She is everything but skin and bone— for she has borne houses of stars and planets alike. The cosmos is her, and she is the cosmos. In her kindled hand is a means to create, whether she a weeping willow or gone livid in the pursuit for her head. Anguish be her tale of past days over this bungalow, because when all hope was sunken without acquainting grace, you rose upon it on two feet in ache.

You've a body similar— wrists that rebuke gold and sprout isles of lichens interchanging of your fine sylphine hairs. Borne was you, arteries dropped like glue and fled this earth like wax into hot gas, rising and rising somewhere new— instead, branches lie dying with you, inside you, a part of you, giving life to the marrow that is pulsing you. Wood is rot, bark is flaying, you are falling, that is okay. For the cosmos are desolate and resplendent with corpses by the shedload too. She is you, and you are her.

That's why she reached out for you, gave a hand made for crafting— and crafted you her partner.

One day, she took you through her quaint, oaken bungalow. A finger she lifted, pointing out everything mundane and.. commonplace. She pointed at her casement brown—trim windows, calling them the 'eyes of our house', watching the eons age this house away. She then pointed to her hallways, and likened them the 'throats of our house', swallowing every being and spitting them out a whole new person. She would give a last point, towards her bedroom and deem it the, 'heart of our house', for it pumps with life and watches bodies lie there— aging, waning, ever becoming moribund with their lovers held dear, pulse to pulse.

And you question sweetly, "Why are you telling me this, Ellie?"

Why?

Why elucidate the likeness of a visual so natural and so unquestioned in the form of organs? You question, but you do not look. Ellie replies, smooth of her tongue, "Wouldn't be fun if I just said it was my house." completely skipping the main trigger for question— 'our, our.. ours' and no longer just, 'her, her.. hers'.

It is your house. It is her house. It is a bungalow.

No odds about it, be it a jerry—built swamp house, a boxy mansion cruelly boasting over a crag, or a cottage swarmed in pixies preordained to rot in the woods it relies life on; it is a being. It eats personage, lets them linger, and absorbs them at the end of their existence— just like the earth will when it dies. Houses are like us.

Roofs see the same night airglow we gaze at, splayed amongst the grass, you lay with her.

"There's the little dipper, and.. that's the big dipper." croaked Ellie, aiming that same pointer towards the realm above, the dotted fabric we call 'the sky'.

"How can you even tell so easily— is there something wrong with my eyes?" quipped you, pressing the flank of your fist into your cinched eyes, clearing them.

"D'ya need me to point them out again?" She rolls upon her side, rending grass stuck onto her back, "Cause I can point you all the constellations visible right—"

Silenced. You push up on elbows and toss a hand to cradle, bringing her face into yours for a word—gobbling kiss, letting the dying hum vibrate down your chest. Ellie talks too much.

"Nhhmm.."

Satisfied. Spit smacking apart, it draws a line from pink plump to your plump of lip, and severs when you depart enough.

Her lower lip rolls inward, sucking sweetly of the spit you laid upon her mouth, coughing, "Ahem— that.. so you don't want me to show?" Dumbass. "No."

"Ooh—kay," drawled Els', the shuffling of leather and lawn surfing through your senses just a moment as she adjusts, planting that charmed chin on your shoulder— smushed like a rotten apple, "No show." and smiled, bless her smile.

So you lay, let the lay of petrichor waft into your head, and sleep away. Sleep away the life, sleeping away with yours— and hers.

just a teensy bit rushed but hope this is suitable

[yandere--stuck]



Can you do Yandere! Cahara, please? <3 I think he would be an interesting one

💙 Cahara hadn't exactly been the best person before delving into the dungeons. He'd been a thief, a burglar, an assassin for hire, the works. The stories he could tell… The point being: Cahara's record wasn't exactly squeaky clean. He could've spent the rest of his life like that, living adrift and moving from one job to the next, going where the work took him. But, then he met Celeste. It was meant to be a one-time encounter, but they hit it off. They kept meeting just to talk and get to know one another. And, gods Alll-mighty, he fell for her. She was with child, probably not even his own but, hell, he loved her and the child already. He wanted to take care of her. Start a family. Settle down with someone after years of being adrift. And the perfect job came at just the right time - for enough riches to take care of his family for generations, all he had to do was go into some dungeons to retrieve some guy. How hard could it be?

🔪 Incredibly. Incredibly hard. Cahara had never seen anything like this. Guards turned into horrible monsters and all kinds of other horrible beasts stalking the halls. And of course, he just had to go and get himself captured and thrown in a cell. Just his luck, huh? But just when he thought he'd spend the rest of his days in a dank, bloodstained cell… Lo and behold, his savior had arrived! You had managed to snatch a key from the hulking guards and were kind enough to allow him to join your party, the only other member being a girl you'd found locked up in this place.

💙 Now, truth be told, Cahara's initial plan was to take some silver and vials off your hands and hit the bricks while you were none the wiser, but something about you made him stick around. And not just because there was strength in numbers. Maybe it was a result of the sanity-sucking darkness of the dungeons, but something made him gravitate toward you. You were like a light in the darkness and he soon worried about trailing too far behind you or too far ahead. As you traversed through the dungeons and courtyards and prison, you slowly began speaking more and more. When you had the chance to, at least. Little things. Jokes or observations, which lead into a rapport between the two of you that seemed as easy as breathing. Just like with Celeste…

🔪 Not only that, but you made an amazing team. Usually, Cahara thought he worked best alone, but working with you in sync, like a well-made machine… It was like nothing else. When you both, not even needing to call out instructions mid-battle, struck at just the right time to send an enemy toppling and their head exposed… It was thrilling. Electric. Despite the terror found within the depths of the dungeon, Cahara couldn't recall a time where he'd felt more alive. And considering the dungeons themselves absolutely reeked with death, Cahara knew it had to be you that made him feel like this. He wasn't sure how long he'd been down in the depths with you and the girl, but already, you felt almost like another limb. He hoped you thought the same.

💙 Apparently, you were getting concerned about his state of mind. So sweet of you, always so sweet. But, the Mercenary had a feeling he was thinking so much clearer than he ever had before. He didn't need any ale or something to smoke. He just needed you. To be around you. You were his light in the dark. Someone he could tell everything to. It became so much easier to talk to you and the girl - well, chat to her, rather. You spoke of tales of old, of funny memories, of how you got certain scars… Of why you came here. His Celeste… And you did the same, spilling every detail for Cahara to soak in like a sponge. Maybe, partly, because you were scared of dying here and no one ever knowing the real you. It felt… Almost too perfect. Something preordained. Destiny. Like you and he were meant to meet. Because he was the one who was supposed to know you and love you. Cahara had never been a praying man, but the next ritual circle he saw, he prayed endlessly to Sylvian for bringing you to him.

🔪 If Le'garde was found alive, he'd quickly book up the levels of the dungeon with you and the girl in tow, all but shoving Le'garde through the halls in a frantic attempt at escape. If you try to part ways, Cahara would insist on thanking you for your help with money, or favors, or staying at his and Celeste's new manor indefinitely? He took in the girl as a daughter, too, which meant leverage over you if you were still particularly attached to the child. Cahara hoped just showing that he and Celeste wanted to provide and take care of you would be enough… But he isn't above drugging the meal Celeste's made for you (either with her knowledge and support or otherwise) and using chains or other restraints when you wake. 

💙 If Le'garde is dead, Cahara would still be annoyed at the whole thing, but grateful that he was led there to meet you. So, it all works out! Cahara would try the straight forward approach to asking if you wanted to join his and Celeste's relationship not long after emerging from the dungeons. He just… He just felt like he loved you. How could he not? After all you've been through together, you couldn't just leave. You confided in him, and he in you! You snuggled together for warmth and became companions… Friends… Something more? And he told Celeste all about you, and she loved you already! Please? Please, he needed you. The children, their- your growing family needed you and… Don't fight what's meant to be. He still had that bonesaw he found down there. That place changed him. You could see it. And you had, too. Don't think he wouldn't use it to keep you with him. Safe. Together. The lights of his life. Please. You have to understand. Bearing the soul of the endless meant that his love for you, his addiction of you, was just as endless and all-consuming.