#omg it feels so good that it's finished

[unclefungusthegoat]

Now complete! Thank you for all your support, it’s been wonderful! You can read the finished fic at the link above, or the final chapter under the link below!

Please see AO3 for tags/trigger warnings.

ILLUMINE

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sickbed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

My take on the Chevalier’s opium withdrawal, and the birth of his friendship with Liselotte. Post S2/Pre S3.

Part One:  L’obscurité

Part Two: Le Rêve

Part Three: L’aurore (below)

Part Three: L’aurore

When he finally awoke, a gentle mist diluted the morning sun. It was an empathetic light, stirring him gradually with a wispy caress. The sheets beneath him felt clean and laundered, and the sweet scent of petals perfumed the air, carried to him on a soft breeze that peeked past the curtains. No doubt hiding the residual stench of death that he knew came from him.

But still, air filled his lungs. He could hear the birdsong.

And the pain had gone.

The Chevalier pulled himself up onto his elbows, feeling the muscles tremble weakly. The room was empty. No sign of the wiry haired surgeon, or ghosts foul and fair, or even a maid, arms laden with linen. Had it all been a nightmare? A terrible, agonising dream that had at last reached its end? Would Philippe come thundering through the door, like Zeus with epicene splendour, to linger at his Ganymede’s side? Would they once again be young and brazen, as they had been before the wars? Before the laudanum, the spy, the arrests? Before they had seen each other at their very worst?

He feared not.

He feared they would never quite be the same again.

But someone had placed a vase of fresh flowers within the room. The source of that perfume, that ambrosia of the air. Next to the window, upon a vanity, all green stems and thin leaves, with dainty clusters of pale yellow petals. At their heart, a flush of orange, vibrant and defiant. And the very sight of such beauty brought his spirit soaring, for those delicate, fragile flowers were imbued with a meaning, with a love far deeper than any he had ever known.

"Good morning."

The sound of her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Liselotte had appeared at the door, once again dressed in the silks and jewels of her standing. Like the Chevalier, she often chose blue, though she had more of a taste for periwinkle than the Prussian blues he usually opted for. Her hair was curled into her signature tight ringlets, and her cheeks were rouged a little… but the Chevalier could see the dark circles of sleeplessness beneath her eyes… and the looser fit of the bodice over her belly.

“Good morning.” He summoned in reply.

Over she marched, to lay a hand upon his brow, and he noted she seemed pleased with the result. Taking her seat beside the bed again, she watched him bring himself up to an almost seated position against the pillows. The effort of it made him gasp for breath.

“How are you feeling?”

“... less than rambunctious.” He groaned.

She nodded.

"Well, that’s an improvement on ‘one foot in the grave’, at least.”

He was intrigued by the way her knee was bouncing anxiously beneath her skirts. He didn’t believe her to be the shy type, but then he supposed they’d never actually spoken when he was sober (and his reputation preceded him, after all). Not once could he recall sweeping into her bedroom, or watching her dance the courante upon an evening, without a dash of… it… to help him endure. A strain within his temples flared if he thought upon it too greatly, for some of the memories were lost altogether.

Be thankful that is all that is lost.

In that warm, maternal tone, she was continuing, and he reminded himself to listen: “Your fever broke last night, so I've sent for some breakfast. You ought to try and eat something. You've lost more than a little weight."

His eyes made their way back to the mignonette laden vase.

Wondering .

“It’s good to see you properly awake. I’m sure you’re desperate to get out of this room, but Monsieur Fortin insists you stay in bed for one more day. Instead, I thought a walk tomorrow would do you good, and today, you could teach me to cheat at Meslé, and then we could both learn to play Cribbage . It’s English, so it’s bound to be dreadful. If you’d care to join me?”

“The flowers…”

A wry smile.

“Yes. I thought they'd cheer you up.”

He didn’t know what to say. What could you say to such a gesture? Mercifully, it was not long before footman descended to break the silence, with a silver serving dish of broth, fresh brioche (somehow still warm, despite the arduous route from the kitchens to Philippe’s rooms), orange slices, grapes, pastries decorated with strawberries and creme, and a decanter of drinking chocolate.

He watched as she carefully curated a small plate for him. His stomach complained loudly and he cringed at the sound of it, as if that were the greatest humiliation he'd endured over the long days he'd spent here. The dish was laid upon his lap, before she approached the feast herself. And it was then the Chevalier noticed his nightshirt was clean. Someone had changed him into a fresh one since he was last almost-conscious.

I owe her my life, he realised.

She was already tucking heartily into a pastry, licking creme from her fingers and humming in satisfaction. Quite unlike them all, he thought, and it made him smile. How tiring Versailles could be. How lonely, and how perilous. And here she was, with her woollen gowns and quaint matching hats, and the eating habits of a provincial innkeeper… and he could finally see why Philippe was so taken with her.

She was a maverick.

Just like us.

"You… you look nice today." The Chevalier murmured into his food. “That colour… it suits you.”

“I should hope so. You chose it.” She reminded him.

“Did I?�� He feigned ignorance, “Well, I suppose someone had to rescue you from looking as if you herd goats.”

She laughed.

“Between you and Philippe, it could be argued that’s all I do.” She popped a grape in her mouth, and chewed through her words. Eating for two already, the Chevalier surmised , as her plate boasted a sumptuous spread thus far, and became more spectacular by the word.  “You should know I wrote to him this morning, to tell him you’re through the worst of it. Hopefully it should reach him before he crosses the Dutch border. Ease his mind before battle.”

Battle. So Philippe truly was gone… and here he was, left at the mercy of the scandal-hungry predators that stalked the halls of Versailles, without his prince to shield him.

He’d often been told that pride was a sin, and it could not be denied he’d made a drunken fool of himself frequently since returning from Rome… but sometimes, such questions were a matter of self - preservation.

He cleared his throat.

“Does everyone know? Of my… immoderation?”

“Why? Are you hoping for a scandalous account in the gazette?” She grimaced at the look of bleary horror that crossed his face, as the sarcasm passed him by. “Sorry, that was in poor humour. No, I thought it best to keep it quiet. The King knows, of course. He and the Queen made rather a point of how they disapproved of my attending you.”

The Chevalier scoffed.

“I am sure Louis would prefer it if I didn’t recover. He considers me a nuisance, no matter how noble my intentions.”

“Perhaps. But I think he was pleasantly surprised you were keeping your promise to him.”

That Louis harboured anything resembling respect towards him was beyond belief. Laughable, really, and not even a generous stipend, or rooms in the east wing, would change that.

“Well…” He sighed, “Sobriety and truth are some of my more recent acquisitions. That and a new hatred for poetry.”

At last satisfied with her quarry, Liselotte returned to her bedside perch, laden plate in hand. He noticed her footsteps were soft and silent upon the parquet, where she wasn’t wearing shoes, and couldn’t help but feel foolish. Here he sat, so abashed, like a servant waiting to be scolded. Feeling like a stranger in the rooms he had long called home, while she… she, who he had once considered an interloper, had made herself so at home.

Here they sat, like soldiers at a fireside on the eve of war, ignoring the truth of why they both came to be there.

“Eat,” She urged when she saw he’d made no move on his breakfast, “Even just a little bit.”

Tentatively, he selected an orange segment, and nibbled at the corner. The sweet juice burst upon his tongue, sensationally tangy, offering to bring life back into his ailing body. And yet… What good did it do? That glorious, vibrant citrus, dragging him back to his life of gluttony and wantonness. What good would it do, without… without the final wrong being righted? Without a fresh start? Without this chapter, blotted with tears and bitter disdain, being torn from the manuscript and replaced with something new?

He swallowed the segment, and watched her a moment longer. Chewing on choux pastry. Pale, from many nights playing sentry at his sickbed. Slowly swelling with Philippe’s child.

Best to pull the splinter out before it festers any further.

“May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

Liselotte snorted.

“Since when did you feel the need to ask permission -?”

“Please…” His eyes grasped at her, begging her to listen, “... allow me the courtesy.”

She frowned. Casting a look over her shoulder, searching for intruders or interrupters, (perhaps a persistent Monsieur Fortin, or an ever inconvenient Bontemps), she set aside her plate in trepidation. Then nodded, unsure.

“Alright.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

Say it, Philippe.

Be brave. For once.

“I feel I must… explain myself. Apologise. Although,” He grimaced a shy smile, “now that I have begun, I’m not sure I know how to…”

She sat patiently, allowing him to gather his thoughts. The fog of sickness was still lingering, but as Philippe’s battalion would wade through the grime and detritus of war, so too would he find the words to justify his misdeeds. He hoped he would not mumble, would lend precision to his words, though so far his voice remained weak from days of disuse, and his hands, twisting at the bedsheets, threatened to expose his rising sense of discomfort.

The silence dragged, excruciatingly inarticulate, until…

“Him.” Liselotte offered, “Tell me about him.”

Yes.

Yes, he could talk about Philippe for hours.

Forever, if he could.

“Yes, I… I suppose he was the start… Is. Is the start. Philippe is… he is the light by which I walk." The Chevalier said, and the words, like the sunrise over the horizon’s brow, soon kept emerging, "He is my… dearest friend, my love, my keeper… my king. And we are entwined. Not only by choice, but by the world. They can’t ever pass judgement on Philippe for his deviancy,” He laughed ruefully, “... but I am quite the suitable whipping boy. A man of my unique position, must be on my guard in everything I do… because if I am guilty, he is suspected, and if he is suspected, I must be guilty. If I am disgraced, he is undermined. If I am ashamed that the world thinks me a heretic and a whore, I am ashamed of him too. Since I was fifteen, I have played my part openly, without restraint and without shame. We have both lived in spite of those who would destroy us.”

The shadow of the moment, of the past week, of the months, the years, of intrigue and treason and poison and death, drifted over him again, and his nerves wavered.

“But I am hardly perfect. Far from it. And in my imperfection… I have come to devoutly understand the fatal difference between us.”

“... Which is?”

“Is it not obvious?”

She gave no sign of predetermining his thoughts, simply waited for the answer. And as he did, he could not hold back the resentment . The festering bitterness.

“I am not a fils de France, Your Highness. My brother is not the king. We may pretend we are equals but we are not. I am…" He swallowed heavily, "I am beneath Philippe, and reminded of it constantly. If we overstep the mark, as we are wont to do, it is I alone who is punished. If Louis and Philippe are at odds, I am the conduit for retaliation. If I fall, from favour or from grace, I fall alone. And he…"

His voice betrayed far more emotion than he had intended, a dangerous crack threatening to surface.

"And he… will replace me. As easily as replacing an old handkerchief.”

He had never said it aloud before, not even to Philippe. And oh, how it hurt more than any laudanum ever could. That most crushing fear, that lingered like a tumour at the very heart of them. He tried to carry on, breath heaving in his bosom, “This past year, I have fallen further than I dared imagine. I made a mistake that should have cost me my head. I betrayed him, I admit it. But I was forgiven. Allowed home, for a second chance. And instead of our happily ever after, there was…”

The words failed him.

“Me.” Liselotte answered.

“Yes. You.”

He couldn’t read her, her face carefully arranged to give nothing away, like every noble lady who learned to keep secrets and opinions buried deep. Had he upset her? Given away too much? Was his every word poisoning her against him, as he had so feared?

“You must understand,” Desperation crept onto his lips, “Your predecessor and I were not friends… to put it mildly. We were like magpies, fighting over the same shiny coin. Neither inclined to share. I wanted Philippe. Henriette wanted them both. She’d been unable to marry Louis, and becoming the duchesse d’Orleans was the consolation prize. But still she took to Louis’s bed, and to Armand de Gramont's, who had Philippe’s affection before I… and then wondered why her husband couldn’t stand to touch her. All the while knowing who he is. Knowing his heart. She couldn’t bear to see him happy, when she wasn’t. We tormented one another over it, she and I. We forced each other to live in fear. And in the end, she was dead…”

A fleeting thought of the bloodstain, still ingrained into the wooden floor, inches from them. No amount of scuffed servants’ knees or soap could remove that lasting trace of the dying princess, who in her hour of need, had fled from her husband’s side and sought comfort in the chambers of the king.

“... and I should have been so lucky.”

“Philippe told me you’d been imprisoned.” Liselotte replied, reverent as a church mouse, and the fading dreams of the Chateau came flickering back.

“Yes. It seems sweet little Minette had begged the king more than once to lock me away, and he felt compelled to honour her final wish.” His face flushed, and he hoped the shine of the strawberries upon his lap would prove a convincing excuse. “I spent a month as her guest in a fortress off the coast of Marseille. Far worse than the sound of being quartered, it seems, is that of typhoid taking hold of men packed twenty to a cell. Far worse still… of giving up hope. Of finding comfort in… in….”

He gestured lamely at himself, at the result of it all.

Liselotte stared at him.

“Philippe… I would never do that to you.”

He wanted to laugh at her, in spite and petty disdain. He wanted to tear at her naivety with his nails, as if he were a ravenous wolf upon a hen. The old Philippe de Lorraine, the evil spirit of the Palais-Royal, surely would have.

But in those simple words, in honesty and promise, came a baptism. An absolution. A freedom unlike any he had known. And his whispered admission, shaking as those petals on those gifted flowers, was as true of heart as the princess who sat before him.

“I know.”

Outside the window, and in the passages beyond, Versailles was stirring. They were both long accustomed to the soft patter of servants’ slippers within the walls. But now a growing sense of haste impressed upon the air in the room, as if at any moment, the splendour that concealed them would fold open like origami and their confidence would be exposed before the entire court. He turned his body to face her.

“It has taken me to the very brink of death to admit it... but I confess I allowed envy to get the better of me. I allowed my fear to blind me.”

“You were protecting yourself-”

“I was making everything worse. I assumed you would be her. That we would be at each other’s throats for the rest of time. But I see now, I have been unfair to you. I owe you my life. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

There.

Fumbled. Inelegant.

But true.

She sat forward in her seat, the silk of her dress rustling in the silence. And, as she had done through so many restless nights, she took his still trembling hand. Warming it with patience and understanding. And it was not… offensive. Rather… grounding. As if she were a rope, tethering him to the mast in the midst of a careening shipwreck.

"Apology accepted."

Relief cast off from every inch of him, shucked off like a brocade cloak sodden with rain. He raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. Returning a gentle squeeze to her hand in a silent declaration of gratitude.

"You must think me pathetic. Wretched, and troublesome, and a fool.”

"I thought no such thing.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. You’ve been far too kind to me, Your Highness, when I have not deserved it.”

“Liselotte.” She corrected firmly, “My friends call me Liselotte.”

He wiped at his sodden cheeks, and a laugh awash with scepticism escaped him.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

"I told you. I'm not here to be your enemy. I’m not here to drive you apart."

The kindly embrace of the mignonette flowers, the flowers she had gifted, came over on the breeze once more, and he imagined his face, buried in that ebony hair. Kissing those porcelain lips, tasting the wax that tinted them rouge. He prayed for a miracle, that he would know such a paradise again. It seemed Liselotte felt it too. Saw his thoughts. For a whisper of a smile appeared as she watched him bear his heart.

“I saw straight through you, you know.” His eyes were closed, but he felt her wedding ring, cold against his skin, as she ruminated. “The ambitious maitre-en-titre�� attached by every part but the heart. I saw they’d all fallen for an elaborate charade. That beneath it all, you love him. More than anything.”

“That does not excuse my behaviour.”

“Maybe not, but it certainly explains it. Besides,” She chuckled, “Your heart wasn’t really in it, was it? I heard far worse back in Heidelberg.”

“Clearly I am losing my touch.”

“No, I don’t think so. I was very much warned of the Chevalier de Lorraine upon my betrothal. Even Louis thought to give some friendly advice on the subject, once I arrived.”

He couldn't help the triumphant grin that crept onto his lips.

“Did he use scoundrel, hellion, or reprobate?”

“All three. And you’ve certainly lived up to it…” Her eyes widened in recollection, “If one has a… a, what was it? Oh yes, a predilection for making assumptions.”

A faint memory, hazy words in a feverish dream.

“Assumptions”?

“Yes. On how welcoming your husband’s sweetheart should be to his new wife, so soon after being finally rid of the last.”

The sorrow and the fear had all but passed now, and they revelled in mirth like old friends.

“Ah, the years may pass, but we are yet to outgrow our youth.” The Chevalier sang, and finally felt that all was well. It was odd to have spoken so openly to her. Yet somehow he felt a trust he couldn't recall feeling since… well, since Philippe. She was now resettling his breakfast into his grip, and he was quite sure he wouldn’t be permitted to speak anymore without making an effort at it. Brioche seemed the safest option. It smelled heavenly - buttery, with a hint of brandy - and felt like clouds under his fingertips.

They ate in comfortable companionship, as conversation turned to lighter matters.

“I loved him the moment I saw him, you know.” He mused, breaking the brioche in two, “France’s neglected little princess, with flowers in his hair. I had to be patient, of course, but I knew I would do anything to have him. To keep him. After all, I have very little of my own. I’m the third of six children, a second born son, just like Philippe. Every year that passes, my homeland is amalgamated further into France. My brother inherited most of what my father left behind, and what little I was bequeathed, I squandered on gambling and clothes and wine.”

“Isn’t that what all middle children do?” She teased in return.

“Alas, no. I was destined for the army… or the cloth, if you can imagine that.” He felt stronger now, and took another healthy bite of brioche as he spoke, “My mother didn’t know what to do with me. Reluctant to take my place in the world, with a loose tongue, no fear of God, and a taste for fucking other boys. It is easy to forget here, Your High… Liselotte, but were Philippe and I not born as we were, the church would have put us to death by now.”

She winced at the thought, but he shrugged it away.

"There’s no point in dwelling on it. The only thing you have to worry about, my dear, is how they will judge you. For this.” He gestured to the air between them.

“‘The church?”

“ Always. But no, the vultures in the salon."

“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s my ‘funny German ways ’ talking, but I couldn’t care less about what the salon thinks of me.” She licked chocolate from her lips, “And neither should you. Although I’m sure it would interest you to know that most assumed your absence at court is respite after your heroics.”

His body ached at the memory of the act - the recoil of the pistol, shuddering through his muscles. The adrenaline, pounding through his veins, at the sight of Philippe’s glassy eyes and bloodied face. Young Sophie, weeping over the dead man, as if he were more than a fetid, plague ridden rodent, to be stamped out at the earliest opportunity. And what a fine shot it had been. A moving target, from thirty feet, fueled by enough laudanum to render most men unconscious. People should write songs and sonnets of it.

“Suppose it makes a pleasant change.” He cast his hair back, cavalier in his pride, “To be the hero of the hour…” He paused, “What did they say?”

“Hmmm, courageous, dashing, who’d have thought it-”

“No, no, not them. Those ploucs at Heidelberg. About you.”

“Oh, endless comments about my plainness. How marriageable I was, that I was a wild child and should have been a boy. I heard pretty much everything imaginable, sometimes even to my face. But to them, I would now say ‘Ende gut, alles gut’.”

He hummed in agreement, and with a knowing smile, she continued, “Ah. Du sprichst Deutsch?"

A commonality he had hoped to conceal. “Ja,” He admitted, with a reluctant sigh, “Ein bisschen.”

“Yes, I thought you might. From adjacent kingdoms to adjacent bedrooms. Philippe tells me you speak Italian too.”

"Less than impressively. Still, needs must, when you are cast adrift so far from home.” Never had he been so achingly lonely. Not being permitted home on pain of death, felt quite different to separation by women or war. But yet now, sitting here in the company, and care, of her, it was Philippe he pitied. He wondered not who was sharing his bed… but who was holding him through the nightmares. Through the terrors of war. Who rubbed his feet, and washed the dirt and sweat from his brow? Who, if not his Chevalier, or this woman, full of grace and kindness beyond measure?

The sunlight illuminated the room, their bedroom, and the two unlikely friends, daubed and dappled in golden hues, as if it were the Sistine Chapel.

“We promised we’d take care of each other, didn’t we?” He asked.

Her hand instinctively moved to her belly.

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“If you hadn’t been here, I fear I would have been quite alone.”

He saw her freeze. For an agonising moment, he thought he had misjudged. That she might finally abandon her cruel game, and make for the door. Let in the world, with their hawkish habits, to peer at and laugh at how foolish he was, that he believed Madame would show decency to him. And the vicious cycle would again be in motion, and would not rest until they both lay in the cold earth, devoured by the worms and creatures of the dark.

Instead, she moved, and laid a soft kiss upon his forehead.

A surge of exhaustion overwhelmed him, as he felt her lips upon his skin, his eyes closing as he drank in the sensation of her tender touch. It was more than a kiss. It was a seal, stronger than any wax or steel lock. An acknowledgement of a singular shared purpose - a devotion, to one man, whom they could love and serve and protect in equal measure… in kindness and trust absolute.

"Right," She said after a moment , pulling away, "Come on… Meslé."

She produced a set of playing cards seemingly from nowhere, intricately hand-painted with wild flora and foliage, all vermilion and emerald and verdigris. The Chevalier yawned, as he watched her shuffle.

"Very well, mein Engel, but I warn you, I am quite the dab hand.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it. I know you have some tricks up your sleeve. Teach me your ways.”

She dealt him two cards upon the bedsheet, and opened the purse of counters to sit beside it. He examined his odds. Considered his strategy. Perhaps I should play the gentleman and let the lady win?

“You take the first turn, Philippe.”

Ah. A necessary correction to be made… before I show her how a master plays.

“Please call me Lorraine, my dear, else you will find yourself in knots…” He cooed, “And not the silk kind our mutual friend can be persuaded into on occasion.”

She smirked at him, then at her own hand, and he had the happiest feeling she wasn’t such a novice after all.

"Lorraine it is, then."

[nailsinmywall]

3 generations of curufinwës (fëanor, curufin, celebrimbor)

[non-un-topo]

My Neekeys over the last two-odd years. I was curious to see the changes 🤔

[kaiayame]

There was a time, not very long ago, when we lived in an enchanted world of elegant palaces and grand parties...

My youngest grandson had begged me not to return to Paris. So, I had a very special gift made for him, to make the separation easier, for both of us.

But... we would never be together in Paris.

A dark shadow had descended down upon us. So many lives were destroyed that night. What had always been was now gone forever.

And my Lancelot.... my beloved grandchild..... I never saw him again. _______________________________________

✨ my instagram // twitter

[tennessoui]

Can I just say how much I love when Jedi Master Anakin sees someone touch Obi-Wan and immediately has to touch him in the same spot to erase the other person and replace with only-ever-Anakin! Not sure what would have made Anakin more feral, the bruises on Obi-Wan’s hips or the outfit. <3 I'm imagining him waiting impatiently for Obi-Wan to show up at the ball he didn't want to go to and then just KILL BILL sirens as "Quinlan's Padawan" enters.

can confirm there's a scene where obi-wan is talking with another senator about his outfit and which senator paid for it and who helped him but anakin's on the other side of the conversation having missed the context and is now thinking that obi-wan's casually talking about participation in a gangbang and that's literally the straw that breaks his back it's kill bill sirens for the rest of the chapter

[cupcakes-are-ours]

❝a pai zhuq master doesn't ask. he knows.❞

—power rangers jungle fury, feb 18, 2008

anniversary gif roulette:

episodes 3, 11, 14, 21, 27, 32

[luciolefire]

hazbin hotel, huh...

[spacecrows]

(Okay, so I'm almost halfway through Translation State and I just... why do these three make me feel so much?! I need someone to talk to about this but no one in my life is reading it (yet), so, welp, here we go)

There is just something about the way Reet just lives his life feeling like there is something so deeply wrong with him & like he never fits in with anyone & how he admires Enae for hir social skills (we love a neurodivergent king)

While Enae (my child adult) - for whom it was a necessity to grow these antennae to feel out everyone's moods before they even enter the room and to act accordingly - is maybe just a little too good at keeping hir cards close to hir chest and fitting in and acting in precisely the way others expect of hir... (although sie's learning and growing and all that, but that's a whole different post)

But Enae doesn't seem to mind Reet's mannerisms and actually appreciates him being unable to do anything but speak his mind

and we don't get much of Reet's reaction here but just- my heart 😭😵‍💫😖💞 (screaming, crying, throwing up, etc)

[*insert "I've only had Enae, Reet and Qven for 1 week, but if anything happened to them I would kill everyone in this room and then myself" meme here* *side eyes AL who surely wouldn't dream of harming any of my children*]

[irritablepoe]

ok i wrote a little over 1k words today, somebody tell me they're proud of me :')

[microwave-core]

Yo, that Leon post was LEGENDARY, dude!!! If I kindly asked you to make the NSFW version of that, would you? 🥺🥺🥺

I can try, however I SUCK at writing smut. Dog-shit at it. We're talking my immortal levels of writing. I'm also very boring and don't have single dominant bone in my body. That being said, editing and refining goes a long way, so I'll try my best.

Starting off, he's a bit inexperienced, which I mentioned previously. He hasn't been in many relationships, much less been intimate, and he doesn't fuck without feelings. Prefers to take things slow and can get overwhelmed easily at first. That being said, he's a quick learner.

In general, I'd say Leon is a soft dom. He's caring and doting, if not a little shaky at first, but he learns quickly. He's kind of an unstoppable force in his regular everyday life, so being dominant comes naturally to him. Could totally be on the submissive side, though, especially if he's tired.

He's normally gentle, but he can also be rough. His touches aren't always feather light and experimental. If asked, or if he's just stressed out and/or pent up, he can be more aggressive. Normally, he lets off steam during a workout, but, hey, if it works it works.

Very attentive lover. He likes to take his time learning the ins and outs of what his partner does and doesn't like. From their big kinks down to which spots make them sigh in content when kissed. Willing to experiment, but has certain lines that he won't cross.

Big on praise. He wants to know he's doing a good job, that he's a good boy, and loves to return the favor. On the other hand, he hates being degraded. He's a bit insecure, honestly, so being insulted just kind of hurts. Kills his mood. If asked, he can try to degrade his partner, but he's not very good at it. He doesn't want to be mean to someone he loves so much, even if they're literally asking for it.

Speaking of things he isn't a fan of: pain. Leon has no real interest in being hurt, nor does he want to hurt anyone else. Boy is strong, so he's sure to be careful, even when he's being rough. At most, he could potentially be convinced to do some light choking, but even that might be a bit too much for him. He can leave marks, sure, but that doesn't mean he needs to inflict actual pain, right? Also, hates having his hair pulled, his scalp is very sensitive.

Okay, last "things I think Leon wouldn't be into", bare with me. He's not into anything remotely public. The rush he feels in public is not that of excitement, but that of pure dread and panic. He has a reputation, if anyone found out, he would die from sheer embarrassment, mainly because his family would find out. He'd never be able to look his mum in the eyes again out of pure shame.

He's much more lenient with nudes, even if leaks can happen. It would still give him a heart attack if anyone found out, but it's far more socially acceptable to be found exchanging steamy pics with your lover than fucking in public. Tends to lean more on the side of thirst trap then full on nudity. Wouldn't make a sex tape.

Doesn't usually jack off. Doesn't usually feel the need to. He has other outlets for stress relief that get the job done better. That being said, he is considerably needier when he's in a proper relationship, but, even then, it's still not often. He'd rather wait to get off with his partner then do it alone, at that point.

We're far enough in the post where I can just be honest. The first thing that I thought of when I read your ask, anon, is that Leon eats an insane amount of pussy. And he'd also suck an insane amount of dick. He's Mr. Bi King, after all. He just really likes giving head and is incredible at it to boot. Receiving isn't his favorite thing, though. It's not that he doesn't like it, of course he likes it, it just makes him feel a bit awkward.

Slight oral fixation.

The other thing that came to mind is that he has a breeding kink. I completely forgot to put it on the main post, but Leon really wants a big family one day. He loves kids, he's great with them, and is all around family oriented. And so, the thought of starting a family gets him off. Like, a lot. It's a little embarrassing for him to admit that, though. It doesn't even matter if he can get his partner pregnant or not, honestly. At the end of the day, it's about the sentiment.

Also, slight pregnancy kink. It just goes hand in hand with the above.

Aftercare king. At the end of the day, Leon is a very sweet and caring person, so it only makes sense to clean his lover up in the afterglow. He's all about gentle touches and massages for bruised marks and tender skin. Whether he runs a bath or settles for a wash cloth is entirely dependent on how tired he is. Cuddling and pillow talk is an absolute must.

In terms of stamina, he's pretty decent, and can usually push two or three rounds if he paces himself properly. He likes to edge himself, though, so he tends to last for awhile.

His dick is thick and so are his fingers. Do with this information as you will.

[hauntingblue]

Yabushige count your fucking days. I am so mad

[beeduoo]

would u try

[icezansky]

chronic fic starter

[yuan4i]

y’all im gonna clear my inbox tomorrow and hopefully try to update cod and angel eyes this week :3

[leafy-m]

alizayd for character opinion bingo 🧍🏽‍♀️

Thank you! 💖

Alizayd al Qahtani is the fucking best. There is no contest. He's empathetic, he's a sass machine, he's got a backbone made of righteous steel, he's a nerd raised to be a jock and was the best zulfiqari of his generation through sheer determination. He's the smartest (and tallest) man in the room that loves to help people and is also an oblivious social loser. He's a math genius and an economic wizard that outsmarted the Royal Treasury's best accountants as a teenager to secretly fund and make the Tanzeem's illegal transactions untraceable, and *During a Recession* got a millennia-old decrepit hospital to be completely rebuilt and functional in like 6 months. He also actually listens to people, and did possibly the most romantic thing in the series by building Nahri her private Cairo-themed office. He's self-sacrificing and self-denying to a fault and all he wants to do is fix things (and swim, and read), and he perfectly fits into soldier life and civilian life.

My man has the best character arc of the trilogy as he learns and grows past his early prejudice and indecision while sharpening his best traits. He is constantly reevaluating himself and his actions while still holding on to what matters to him, like his faith and his idealism that Daevabad can be improved. Even in the depths of his bitterness or grief, he always returns to trying to do the right thing, and not holding unrelated people responsible for the actions of others. He has the best motivational speeches in the series. His great grandpa is a crocodile and their scenes together are hilarious.

My man Alizayd has some Lord of the Rings: Return of the King-level epicness, in how he is descended from both Zaydi al Qahtani and the marid-blessed Armah. Zaydi, who rallied the djinn world against the genocidal Nahids and overthrew them to take Daevabad 1400 years earlier; and his ally Armah who commanded the marid to help take the city and Suleiman's Ring, and made the ultimate sacrifice by staying allied with the djinn. Ali is constantly compared to Zaydi in City of Brass and Kingdom of Copper, but there's this steady transfer of similarities to Armah in Kingdom of Copper and Empire of Gold, until Ali is truly representing both sides combined as he aids Nahri and a global army that he put together in three days to once again take back Daevabad from a genocidal Nahid. The man is a fucking legend, and with any other author or director it would unquestionably be at the forefront of the story. Instead it hides in background details foe readers to piece together, like it's barely worth mentioning.

This is because my man Ali also has the self-confidence/self-esteem of a shy beetle hiding six feet under the earth, and the author's subtle/vague writing style and inability to stand up for what she's trying to say when people misunderstand has created... how do I word this... A lot of wiggle room for bullshit?

Ali gets dragged a lot for being self-righteous and a fanatic, because characters that are threatened by him in the book call him that, and readers parrot it without any consideration or critical thought. Is it self-righteous to be against slavery? Or to create personal boundaries regarding drinking and premarital sex? Is it fanaticism when he argues against corruption, or practices his religion *in a completely normal way?* I dare say no! But Ali is both black and muslim, so he gets a shit load of shit from every corner, and with the author unable to really clear things up and too cowardly to even admit that Ali is her favorite character without immediately asking everyone to forget she said that (Oops. Also: no), it makes me very, very concerned for whoever ends up playing Ali in the Netflix show. Because if past is any pretext, he's definitely not gonna get paid enough for all the harassment he'll face. And if the author can't stand up for her characters and book themes now, how will she do it when the audience is much, much bigger and louder? :/

As much as I love Ali and his countless parallels with Nahri, and have a thousand headcanons for him (and a thousand fic & art ideas/wips), the series itself (or rather how it undid all its narrative themes in the end to appease loud fans who never understood what the series was trying to say in the first place, along with the author's blindspots regarding the Nahids/Daevas), has made me incredibly bitter. 🙃 I am someone who worships canon encyclopedically and remembers everything, and have come to the unfortunate realization that I cannot in good health ever read this series again.

So my beloved blorbo Ali exists for me in a weird dimension that I cannot really interact with anymore. Made worse because I still desperately want to see fandom stuff, but then also viciously tear apart everything I find. 💀

Idk how to end this. Thanks for the ask! ☺️

[meat-loving-meat]

I MIGHT HIT 10K ON MY NUCLEAR WEAPONS AU TONIGHT