#this got...longer than intended

[the-elusive-soleil]

Thinking again about a Silmarillion TV series, and how I would set it up if I were High King of Hollywood and also copyright law (long post):

Let's say we have a three-season setup. Three Silmarils, three acts, and everyone making and watching it knows there's a predetermined endpoint. No spiraling out into infinity, no matter how popular it gets. And I'll roughly hazard ~8 episodes per season; that seems to be the average amount these days.

Will there be whooping great battle sequences? Probably. But as is my wont, I'm focusing more on the ~interpersonal drama~

Season 1 would start off like I've posted about before, with Finwe telling the Ainulindale as a story to kid!Feanor, as a segue to bringing up the remarriage, and then a post-opening-credits cut to Feanor as an adult. We're in the very early YT 1400s. In the first episode, we're laying a lot of groundwork for a Normal Day in Tirion. Various members of the House of Finwe are introduced, and we get a sense for the familial and political landscape. Everybody seems to believe that life is completely perfect--and then there's Feanor, who knows it's not.

And then the news comes that Melkor is being released on parole.

In the next couple of episodes, we see reactions to this, through dinner-table conversations and such in each of the three households. People are tense, but...for the most part, life goes on.

Except for Feanor, who gets an Idea and eventually unveils the Silmarils.

Through part of the third episode and escalating through the fourth, we start to see Melkor stirring the Noldor up. They're making weapons, and the political tensions are starting to get higher. The different sets of Finwean cousins are training with swords and such, and coming up with increasingly thin excuses to each other as to how they picked up those minor injuries.

Episode four ends with a bang, as Feanor's sword incident and banishment occur.

Episode five jumps five years ahead to the festival in Tirion that Feanor's supposed to go to. We get the "jail-crow of Mandos" scene in flashback as he leaves the Silmarils behind. Everything seems fine on the surface, but the background music keeps slowly increasing in tension, and everyone's happiness is just a little too frenetic--and then the Trees go out.

Next episode, we get the Oath, the Flight of the Noldor, the Kinslaying, Losgar. (We're keeping the version where Amrod lives btw.)

(Side note: I think it would be very cool if we got little flashes of foreshadowing that gradually escalate as time goes on. Give me shots of Maitimo's right hand that linger just a little too long. Give me Maglor or Curufin in an early episode, talking about upcoming wedding vows that bear a suspicious resemblance to what the Oath will be. Give me Finrod wrestling with a family dog; give me Turgon and Aredhel teasing each other about his love of cities and how she'd rather die than be kept from running wild. Give me Feanor by firelight, Feanor being gently reminded by Nerdanel that he doesn't have to rush ahead and tackle a dozen projects all at once, Feanor insisting over and over again that things need to be written down and portrayed and preserved because nothing is really, actually permanent...)

Episode seven cuts back and forth between the people struggling across the Helcaraxe and the Feanorians in Middle-earth. The Feanorians fight orcs and lose Feanor, and the Helcaraxe group has their own battles with ice monsters and also the sheer. horrible. cold. Maybe we can have Fingon and Turgon and Aredhel arguing about the Feanorions along the way. Maybe we can have the argument cut short by Elenwe falling through the ice. Maybe we can have that lead Turgon to reiterate that the Feanorions are Doomed and have doomed everyone else with them - and then cut to Maedhros about to ride out to parley with Morgoth.

The episode ends with the Nolofinweans mourning Elenwe, and Maedhros being dragged out to hang from a cliff.

Season finale starts with the Nolofinweans arriving. There is most definitely an emotional, sweepingly epic sequence of the Thangorodrim rescue, the stuff edits and gifsets are made of. And we end with Maedhros ceding the crown, and with Fingolfin's coronation.

Season 2 starts with the Mereth Aderthad, which gives us a chance to catch up, via dialogue, with how everybody's been settling in and what they're planning to do next. We also get the skinny on Thingol and Melian and Doriath. (Luthien should definitely be mentioned at least once.) (Celegorm should definitely be in the shot when she's mentioned, although 50/50 whether he visibly pays attention or reacts.)

We get Finrod and Turgon's dream sequences and them discovering the places where they're going to put their respective cities. Also Artanis meets this Guy...

Dagor Aglareb is probably an episode 2 thing. After it, and after any significant conflict this season (attack on Hithlum, Glaurung, etc.), there should be someone assuming out loud that they are now past the worst of things. Bonus points if there is fire in the background of the shot when the person says this.

We meet Dwarves. I think the optimal way to handle the Dwarves-and-Caranthir thing is to have them be very blunt and no-frills with each other, and leave it up to interpretation whether this is actually them getting along.

Finrod, of course, is so very (gestures demonstratively) Finrod at his Dwarves, and also at the Men when they show up.

(checks timeline) Maeglin is born in YS 320, and he and Aredhel flee to Gondolin in YS 400, and Andreth is born in YS 361. I think it could be interesting to start out an episode with Aredhel being snared and having Maeglin, and interspersing creepy Nan Elmoth stuff with Aegnor/Andreth and Athrabeth stuff. Towards the end, Finrod has a conversation to the effect that it's not just that Aegnor and Andreth's romance was doomed, it's that they're all doomed here (possibly referencing the Amarie situation) and there is no way to have a good love story under such circumstances. And then, of course, we have Aredhel and Maeglin running to Gondolin (and Maeglin meeting Idril) and the deaths of Aredhel and Eol.

I have less of a specific outline for this season, because I want a lot of it to be filled up with...just Long Peace stuff. I want to see the Noldor having their Beleriand Renaissance. I want to see hunting trips that give us beautiful sweeping shots of the landscape, and glittering social events laced with politics, and little moments of relationships between different characters.

Basically, I want this season to make it very clear just how much stands to be lost here.

And then, of course, the season finale is the Dagor Bragollach, culminating in Fingolfin's last stand against Morgoth.

Season 3 opens with the utter chaos that is the aftermath of the Bragollach. We also get to meet Hurin and Huor and see their visit to Gondolin, which contrasts so sharply with the state of things literally everywhere else.

The first episode also introduces us to this random human guy named Beren, out there in the wilderness. And it ends with him stumbling on something in Doriath...

Second episode is just ~*Beren and Luthien*~. It has a very cultivated fairytale feel, right down to the lighting and the music. The world we just saw last episode is so very harsh, but not here, not now. There is never any doubt that there will be a happy ending. And there is! The episode ends with their wedding.

(...and distant wolf howling but don't pay attention to that)

Third episode has the wolf hunt. Beren dies. Luthien goes after him. They both come back. They don't really explain themselves to anyone, and I'm leaving the details mysterious. Luthien singing to Mandos should probably be treated like the Ainulindale in that we don't attempt to make humans portray it. What we do see are the beginnings of fallout: as Luthien and Beren come back to life, Maedhros is wrangling with his brothers. As Tol Galen is settled, as Dior is born, Fingon and Maedhros start to plan the Union, and it's hovering in the background that they need to do this because with the Oath, the only other option is going after the Doriath silmaril, and they're not doing that.

Episode four is the Nirnaeth, and it. is. devastating. If you read the book (and maybe even if you didn't), you know this isn't going to work. But the characters really believe it will! And the music and cinematography are fully conspiring to make you believe it too! There might even be some leitmotifs from the Thangorodrim rescue during the battle to suggest maybe it will turn out this time... And then it doesn't. It was never going to. It was always going to end with trampled blue and silver banners and broken bodies and the sons of Feanor scattered in the wilderness and Hurin chained in a chair to watch his family suffer.

Episode five should be 50% Children of Hurin, and 50% Tuor's story, cutting back and forth for maximum contrast. We go directly from Turin and Nienor's deaths to Tuor and Idril's wedding.

Episode six is all Fall of Doriath, starting off with Hurin showing up with the Silmaril, escalating through Thingol's paranoia and death, and ending with the Second Kinslaying. Bonus points if there is a very subtle Girdle of Melian leitmotif that has been in the background for all Doriath scenes so far, and abruptly cuts off when Thingol dies and Melian leaves. And we end with baby!Elwing being taken through the woods with the survivors, clutching the Silmaril.

Next episode is the fall of Gondolin. I would really like for there to be a specific leitmotif throughout the show for people (Maedhros, Fingolfin, Hurin, etc.) defying Morgoth, and for it to initially emerge for Maeglin...only to break down. And throughout the episode, Eol's theme keeps getting stronger and stronger, until it fully emerges when Maeglin falls.

We end with tiny!Earendil arriving in Sirion and seeing Elwing, and the Silmaril, for the first time.

This season is going to have to be nine episodes long, because what's left might take up one Silm chapter, but I have too many things I want to do with it. Specifically:

Episode eight opens in the middle of the Third Kinslaying. I don't want it to be dramatic like the other two. I want it to be frightening in its banality. I want it to be very, very disturbing how habituated the Feanorians are to this now.

When Elrond and Elros first appear...something shifts. It's not really like the world-apart, fairytale vibes of the Beren and Luthien episode, but there is something Different about these kids. They're who this whole violent, convoluted story was meant to produce. They're going to build a better world someday.

We spend most of the episode going back and forth between Maglor and Maedhros doing their best to raise these children in a world that is falling apart at the seams, and Earendil and Elwing in a Valinor that is almost unsettlingly pristine after the past couple of seasons that we've spent in an increasingly entropic Beleriand. I want M&M and the twins to camp out in ruins of a place that was built "only" a century ago, and Elwing to wander through a building that she assumes is brand new and expensive, but is actually very average and older than the Silmarils.

At the end, the Valar authorize an army, and we see Gil-Estel rise, and the War of Wrath begins.

Most of the final episode is epic War of Wrath stuff, definitely including the slaying of Ancalagon, definitely also undercut by comedy relief bits of people trying to guess who Gil-galad's parents could be. (It's never revealed.)

In the last third or so, Maedhros and Maglor steal the Silmarils.

When Maedhros takes his out and looks at it, he sees himself as he was back in Valinor, perfect and whole and unbearably innocent. We have this whole golden-lit mini-flashback sequence of him and Maglor just messing around at home, teasing each other. Their brothers are in the background. They are almost unrecognizable.

Maglor glances in a mirror and it shifts back to him in present-day, face twisted in pain and screaming at the Silmaril's burn. Maedhros startles, notices that he's burning, too. He doesn't scream, although he's clearly in pain. He just reaches over, gently brushes the Silmaril out of Maglor's hand and onto the ground, kisses his brother's forehead, and then stands and with a great deal of outward calm, walks over the edge of the nearby lava chasm.

Maglor weeps and can't stop, but he has to when footsteps start approaching. He flees to the shore, and flings the Silmaril in, and stares for a very long moment at the water like he might dive in, too. But then he just turns away with an unreadable expression and vanishes into the fog.

The last moments of the show are spent with Gil-galad and Celebrimbor and Elrond and Elros and Galadriel, talking out what they're going to do now. The world didn't end, but their world sort of did. What do you do with that? What can they possibly build from the ruins around them?

They have to try, is the one thing they all agree on. If they give up, what was even the point of everything in the last 600-odd years? And in any case, they can't possibly do any worse than the mess they and their predecessors just lived through.

Right?

[starrystevie]

it was all supposed to be a dumb joke.

the boys had been sitting around after rehearsal one night passing a bowl and more than a few beers, laughing about how unsuccessful the newest music based social media app would be. mere seconds of songs looping over and over with other songs mixed in would never work, especially for corroded coffin where the story, the buildup of their songs was part of the reason to listen.

it all started with jeff, grinning slowly ear to ear. "what if were to get in there and take some celebrity's name for a user name? like paris hilton or something."

then it moved to gareth, who paused with a scrunched up face. "dude, paris hilton? what the fuck kind of reference is that..."

then it was over to greg, choking on a smoke-laced laugh. "yeah, it'd be funnier if it was eddie's pop prince loverboy instead."

that got everyone's attention. eddie had protested to ears that didn't want to hear it as they cackled in their studio that they rented by the hour, bent over in their rolling chairs, leaning against the side of the mixing board for support.

"loverboy?! you know i can't stand steve harrington and his bullshit lyrics, what the fuck kind of suggestion is that..."

but come the next day, when the weed had left his system and his veins were alcohol-free, eddie stared at the mixr app home screen and the blinking red circle over his inbox with disdain after successfully acquiring a user name he never would have picked for himself.

'steveharrington', eddie's account says, along with an icon of himself and his tongue out.

if it hadn't been for being less than sober when the app dropped. if it hadn't been for his best friends egging him on with taunts and jeers and kissy noises and less than sincere dreamy calls of 'oh steve' in the background. if it hadn't been for the way that eddie secretly did think about a certain head of floppy hair and soft brown eyes and shoulders littered with constellations.

if it hadn't been for all of that he wouldn't have had the chance to have his celebrity crush, the steve harrington, in his inbox at 8am on a random tuesday morning.

"good morning!" the message says simply enough. eddie stares at the words, trying to process what they mean, looking at the verified username of 'steveharrington1' next to an icon of his most recent album along with it. his inbox is flooded with people all asking him random things, thinking he's the real steve harrington, but this one verified account has him shaking.

for all that eddie is, all big hair and black jeans and skull rings and leather, he's still a man. a man who can look at a pop star, annoying as their music may be, and see charm. he can see attractiveness. he can see that smile that steve harrington has perfected behind his eyelids and he can see them strolling off into the sunset together hand in hand and he can see steve all flushed and breathing heavily underneath him on a mountain of plush pillows and he can see-

the message pings again with a new addition. "i know this seems weird and my team advised against it but i'd really like your user name of... well, my name."

eddie blinks slowly. he pictures steve maybe laying in bed, maybe sitting at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee, with his phone in his hand as he types out a message to him. to think that steve has any idea about him existing on any sort of level is doing his head in. his heartbeat races a little faster as he types back with shaky hands and a pit in his stomach.

"is this real?" is all he can type out, leaning against the kitchen counter as he waits for his coffee to brew.

three dots pull up on the app screen before disappearing and eddie pulls his lip in between his teeth to focus his energy elsewhere. he tears his eyes away from his phone and looks out the window to watch the people out for their morning walks. he's just about to the point where he thinks about maybe taking up walking if nothing else to get all the pent up energy out of him when the app dings again. as he looks back, his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach.

it's a photo of steve that can't have been released before. he's sitting outside in bright sunshine with sunglasses on, tousled hair and grin on his face. he's holding his hand up in a thumbs up and eddie can see the remnants of cream cheese on the side of his index finger.

he sucks in a stuttering breath through his teeth, trying to force his lungs to breath again. the dots pop up on screen once more and the message that comes through is instantaneous.

"real enough for you?" it reads. and then an additional message is tacked on. "need me to hold up a newspaper with the date on it?"

there's a winky face that follows and it feels fake even though it's very real. this whole morning feels wrong, unreal. he's just eddie munson, some singer in some halfway popular band in some kind of shitty neighborhood in los angeles that just happens to have not just some pop star in his dms. this doesn't happen to him.

"why did your team tell you not to message me? does my reputation precede me?"

eddie pulls his hand up to his mouth to bite at the side of his fingernail, watching the screen with rapt attention and waiting for the typing dots to disappear.

"according to this account your name is steve harrington and yes, i'd say his reputation does precede him."

eddie barks out a laugh, not exactly expecting that.

he didn't know what he was expecting out of any of this. he thought that it might help get the corroded coffin name out more if he got tangled up somehow with the steve harrington name. spark a little bit of drama to boost their visibility. but now here he is, talking to the man himself, cracking jokes and trying not to hyperventilate.

"how were you able to get this name so fast anyway? my team was on it right when the app dropped last night."

"i had the power of bandmates and weed on my side," he types back, side of his mouth quirking up into a smile.

"oh so you're a musician? maybe i should be looking into your reputation then, mystery person."

eddie pauses and thinks about every option. he is semi-known in the metal scene, his outlandish stunts on stage and political speeches at shows that garner them becoming an almost brand for him. if he tells steve who he is, would he know? care? run away from the scary guy who may or may not use stage blood in every music video?

but the thing is, he's not a scary guy and he never has been. he might be a little intimidating and he guesses that's the armor he puts on everyday after being bullied in school but it's not an accurate showing of who he is. eddie is sweet, funny, kind of smart in that has random fun facts about dungeons and dragons kind of way.

and he wants the steve harrington to know that guy.

eddie flips over at his middle so his head is nearly touching the floor and ruffles his hair, giving it volume and calming down the frizz that comes from sleep. he shakes it out of his face once he's upright and grabs his garfield coffee mug if only to have something to do with his hands. grabbing his phone off the counter, he opens the camera option in their message thread and snaps a quick picture of himself grinning, mug next to his face with a matching cat-like smirk. he nervously presses send before he can even think about all the flaws with it.

"eddie munson at your service," is what he types out with a saluting emoji and a muttered prayer to whoever would listen to him that things don't end horribly.

it's not like he's expecting to sweep steve off his feet. he knows that steve has picture perfect partners, he sees enough internet news to know that gruff and dark isn't the kind of guy he normally goes for. but he looks back at the photo he sent and hopes that steve sees the kindness in his eyes, the scruff on his jawline that makes it look just the smallest bit chiseled, the whimsy and life that he embodies that comes from a tacky coffee cup.

there isn't an automatic answer and it makes whatever hope eddie has floating around his system falter. ''at this point you've probably searched me and i can reassure you, i'm not actually a vampire like google seems to think i am."

"holy shit."

it's short, two words followed by typing dots that disappear, reappear, disappear once more before reappearing for the last time.

"would you believe me if i told you that i am huge fan??"

choking on coffee hurts, eddie finds out. he coughs as the hot liquid goes down the wrong pipe and concentrates on the messages once he gets his bearings back. steve, the steve harrington, a fan of his? it's a prank, it has to be, there is no way that steve harrington-

"one of my exes took me to your show at the bowl and it quite possibly changed my life. you gave that speech about the pipeline before the encore and i went home and bought every single one of your albums that same night."

he's dead. the papers will read 'eddie munson found dead in his home in a ratty metallica shirt holding onto a garfield coffee mug and cellphone open to a chat where steve harrington tells him he's a fan of his work'. it's the only way that this is possibly happening. he's died and gone to whatever fucked up version of heaven has him still living in his shitty la apartment.

"are you fucking kidding me?" is what he types back, slamming his coffee mug onto the counter to have access to both hands. "you've heard my stuff?"

and then it happens, like out of a shitty teenage rom-com, his phone is lighting up with an in-app call from steve harrington. the steve harrington. careful not to drop his phone in his hurried movements, he presses accept faster than he thinks his fingers have every worked.

"hello?" he questions into the phone and there's no hello back, just steve apparently freaking out as much as he is.

"i hope this is okay," he says and god, does his voice sound wonderful over the phone like this. "but it's faster and i have too many things to say that typing it all out would be stupid."

eddie grins and his feet tap against the ground like an excited kid. "it's fine, i uhm... i get it. god, this is weird."

steve hums in agreement before laughing. and oh, that laugh. it has eddie floating up to cloud nine, heart thumping painfully in his chest, butterflies beating their wings wildly in his stomach.

"yeah, it's definitely not how i expected this morning to go. talking to eddie munson, wow."

"sure," eddie snorts, "you talk to celebrities all the time, i'm sure this is small fish for you."

he hears steve laugh again, soft and gentle, like it's meant just for eddie. "i might talk to celebrities all the times but not ones that i have posters on my wall of like a pre-teen. i'm properly geeking out right now."

eddie short circuits. that's the only way to explain the way his body shuts down as he slumps into an armchair in the living room.

"you, steve harrington, have posters of me on your bedroom wall?" eddie's mouth feels dry as he talks and regrets making coffee at all because he's wide awake now and feels jittery.

"well okay, to be fair, it's of the whole band and it's in my studio but you are shirtless so i contemplated putting it in my bedroom." something shifts on the other end of the line and it sounds like steve sitting down. there's birds chirping in the background and eddie closes his eyes to picture himself sitting with steve on a patio instead of in his dingy apartment.

"you're gonna give me big head, pretty boy." the pet name slips out before he can stop it and the pitch of his voice lowering is out of his control. eddie can't be held responsible for his actions at 8am especially when he's flirting over the phone with his celebrity crush.

"pretty boy, hmm?" steve murmurs back. "so does that mean you have posters of me too?"

the timbre of his voice shoots from eddie's ears all the way down to his toes, lighting his veins on fire as it travels down his body. the hopeful part of his brain supplies an image of steve smirking, relaxing in a pool chair outside of what must be a mansion, phone in one hand and cup of coffee in the other. it could be domestic, if eddie thinks about it hard enough. if he wants it enough.

and god, does he want that. domestic bliss with steve harrington.

"well i wouldn't exactly call picturing you in my dreams every night posters, but it's close enough i guess."

it's gutsy, it's brash, it's too forward for a tuesday morning but steve started it. he hears a shaky exhale on the other end of the line and lets out a chuckle. it feels like they're playing chess and there's no clear cut winner quite yet but if the match ends in a tie, eddie can't exactly say he'd be upset about it.

"i tell you what," steve says in an almost airy voice. "in exchange for giving me my user name, i'll give you my number and you can use it to see me in something other than your dreams tonight."

"...are you bribing me, harrington?"

"is it working?"

eddie takes in a deep breath and thinks about what possible plans he could have with the username 'steveharrington' that would amount to something better than taking the man himself out on a date with his phone number saved as a contact in his phone. he'd put a heart next to it and everything.

"of course it is."

the call drops away and it's quick enough for eddie to think everything that happened in the last 30 minutes could have been a fever dream but then there's three dots on the message thread and his hopeful heart starts to kick back into gear.

"213-555-5469. let me know when you've given up that username and i'll let you know when to pick me up. it's a win-win all around. turns out we each get to go a date with our celebrity crushes, how lucky is that?"

it's signed with a kissing face emoji and eddie's glad that he's sitting down when the last picture steve sends comes through. he's grinning in a way eddie's never seen before, blush high on his cheeks, sweaty shoulders and collarbones and pecs glinting in the early morning sun, and eddie thinks it's probably too early to be in love with someone but he's well on his way.

he texts the number he's sent without hesitation and without shaking hands this time. he signs the message with a black heart like it's a signature of it's own.

"lucky indeed."

[mahoutoons]

i'm feeling controversial today so here's another hot take. and before you type away at your keyboards, know that this is all coming from a south asian.

white leftists have got to stop acting like christianity is the only religion that deserves to be criticized and you cannot touch any other religion because that'd be racist and bigoted. because as an indian who's watching my country progress towards hindu nationalism, this attitude doesn't help at all.

white people see hinduism as this exotic brown religion that's so much more progressive but don't know the violence of the caste system, how it others a large portion of the population on the basis of caste, literally branding them as "untouchables". they teach us in school that this problem is a thing of the past but the caste system is still alive and shows itself in violent ways. and that's not even covering how non hindus are treated in the country. muslims especially are being killed, have their houses bulldozed, businesses destroyed, and are being denied housing, our fucking prime minister called them infiltrators and there's this fear among hindu extremists that they'll outnumber the hindus in the country. portraying hinduism as this exotic religion does a disservice to all those oppressed by the hindutva ideology

similarly, white people see buddhism as this hippie religion that's all about peace but have no idea how extremist buddhists in myanmar have been persecuting the rohingya muslims for years and drive them out of the country.

if anything portraying these religions as exotic hippie brown religions is a type of orientalism itself.

and also y'all have got to realize that just because christianity has institutional power in america doesn't mean there aren't parts of the world where they are persecuted on the basis of religion. yes karen from florida who cries christophobia because she sees rainbow sprinkles on a cake is stupid but christian oppression DOES exist in non western countries where they're a minority. pakistani christians get lynched almost on a daily basis over blasphemy accusations. just look up the case of asia bibi, a pakistani christian woman who was sentenced to death on blasphemy charges because of something she said when she was being denied water because it was "forbidden" for a christian and a muslim to drink from the same utensil and she'd made it unclean just by touching it (which is ALSO rooted in casteism and part of pakistani christians' oppression also comes from the fact that a lot of them are dalit but that's a whole other discussion). and that's just one christian group, this isn't even going into what copts, assyrians, armenians etc have faced and continue to face. saying that christians everywhere are privileged because of american christianity actually harms christian minorites in non western countries.

and one last thing because this post is getting too long: someone being anti america doesn't automatically mean they're the good guys. too many times i've been seeing westerners on twitter dot com praise the fucking taliban just because they hate america. yes, the same taliban who banned education for women, thinks women should be imprisomed at home, and consistently oppresses religious and ethnic minorities in afghanistan. yes, america's war on afghanistan was bad and they SHOULD be called out for their war crimes there. no, the taliban are still not the good guys. BOTH of them are bad. you cannot pretend to care about muslims and brown people if you praise the taliban. because guess what? most of their victims are BROWN MUSLIM WOMEN. but of course white libs who praise them don't rub their two braincells together to make that conclusion.

this post has gotten too long and i've just been rambling so the point of this post is: white "leftists" whose politics are primarily america centric should stop acting like criticism of ideologies like hindutva, buddhist extremism, and islamic extremism BY people affected by these ideologies is the same as racism or religious intolerance because that helps literally no one except the extremist bigots. also america is not the centre of the world, just because something isn't happening in america doesn't mean it isn't happening elsewhere

[hardly-an-escape]

for @bucktommypositivityweek Saturday 8/17: nicknames and terms of endearment | naming conventions | 1300 words | rated T

Tommy wasn’t much of a nickname guy. He shortened names, of course – he wasn’t the kind of asshole who insisted on calling Hen Henrietta or Eddie Edmundo – but Howie was almost always Howie, not Chimney, even after they reconnected, and the handful of other firefighters they knew with goofy monikers were still almost always referred to by their given names.

Buck had asked him about it, once; he’d assumed that an Army pilot would have been all in on nicknames and callsigns. But Tommy had simply shaken his head and said something about how, in his experience, they always came from negative moments.

Haven’t you ever noticed that? He’d said. They’re almost always based on something bad. A mistake or a close call. I don’t know, I just don’t think people should be known for something they fuck up when they’re a probie, or a raw recruit. When they’re still learning.

And Tommy wasn’t wrong; most nicknames did stem from some kind of fuck up. Usually something funny or ironic, but not always. To Buck it seemed almost like a kind of hazing ritual – maybe rite of passage would be a kinder term – like, can you really join the club if you can’t handle a little joke? But Buck also saw Tommy’s point. Saw how the loss of a name could mean the loss of agency, loss of identity, loss of control over one’s own person in a context when so much control had already been willingly given up. To service, whether that meant the military or the LAFD or just being the guy always willing to step in and do something.

Buck saw that, even if he didn’t feel it himself. For him, getting a nickname had been freeing – had been an opening up, a door to an identity he’d wanted for a long time without being able to name.

Becoming Buck instead of Evan had been – it was hard to describe. He’d always secretly wanted a nickname, wanted something cool and casual and jocular, something to show that he belonged somewhere. But Evan didn’t exactly lend itself to shortening or rhyming, and nothing he’d done in his youth had ever set him apart. Not in a way that mattered; not in a way that stuck.

He’d lived more than twenty five years of his life being Evan and feeling vaguely uncomfortable about it – until the fire academy, when someone had called him Buck and he’d just run with it, made it happen, finally carved out his own little niche in this world that suddenly meant so much to him.

And that’s how it had been – he’d just been Buck – until Tommy came along.

He hadn’t meant to introduce himself as Evan, when they met in the hangar. In fact, he hadn’t introduced himself at all; Chimney had been the one to make introductions. “Tommy, allow me to introduce you to your flight attendants for this evening’s little jaunt: Evan Buckley and Eddie Diaz. Boys, this is Tommy Kinard, formerly of the 118 and currently probably regretting picking up my calls.”

They’d all shaken hands, faces serious. The weight of the moment and what they were about to do was heavy on their shoulders, despite Howie’s wisecracking, and it hadn’t even occurred to Buck to throw out his usual line about his nickname. And later, during his tour of Tommy’s station, it hadn’t really registered for Buck until they were halfway through that the other man had exclusively referred to him as Evan. It felt too late to correct him by the time he’d noticed.

And besides, he’d realized – much later – how much he liked the sound of Evan coming out of Tommy’s mouth.

Neither of them were big on pet names. Tommy would throw out the occasional sweetheart, which always made Buck melt a little inside, but it wasn’t a regular thing. Buck sometimes went for baby in intimate moments – babe, with what Tommy called “a tone,” if he was being a bit of a brat – but it was often as much for comedic effect as anything else.

They mostly just stuck to names. For Evan, the novelty of murmuring Tommy as he kissed his boyfriend’s Adam’s apple or his stubbly cheek or down the line of his happy trail never seemed to wear off. The masculine body under his hands and lips. The masculine name on his tongue.

He asked Tommy, once, after explaining his own weirdly complicated history with his name – and his parents, and his dead brother, and his long unwitting search for an identity – why he went by Tommy, not Tom or Thomas.

“I guess it sounds a little juvenile, doesn’t it?” Tommy said. “For a guy in his forties.”

“I mean, I don’t think so,” Buck said. “I think – I don’t know, I think it fits you. Like, I’ve heard other people call you Tom, but if I called you Tom, I feel like that’s a different person, almost. Someone I don’t even know.”

“I feel the same way about Buck,” Tommy admitted. “Hen says it, I don’t even blink. I know it’s you. But if I say it? It’s like, who is that.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy shifted a little on the couch. Plucked at his jeans, wrapped an arm around Buck’s shoulders and then immediately shifted again so he could run his fingers through Buck’s hair.

“I’ve told you a little about my dad,” he said eventually. “About how we don’t… get along. Never did, really, even when I was just a kid.” He paused, for long enough that Buck looked up enquiringly, only to see Tommy staring off into the middle distance.

“But I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I was named after him,” Tommy continued eventually.

“Wait, really?”

“Really. I am technically a junior. Thomas Edward Kinard, Jr. He actually wanted my birth certificate to say “the second,” but my mom put her foot down.”

“Wow. I had… no idea.”

“I stopped using the junior a year or two into my stint in the service. Dropped it completely when I came out to Los Angeles. Changed my driver’s license and just… didn’t put it on the paperwork. I’m sure that won’t come back to bite me in the ass someday.”

Tommy laughed, short and sarcastic, and Buck frowned. He’d only heard that laugh a couple of times, but he didn’t like it. He wormed his way out from beneath Tommy’s arm so he could take one of his broad hands between his own, petting over hairy knuckles and a calloused palm.

“Have you ever thought about changing it? Choosing something new?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. Never. He took enough from me, over the years,” Tommy said harshly. “He doesn’t get to take my name, too, even if it did come from him. Besides, it pisses him off enough that I went by Tommy past the age of sixteen. Changing my name would feel like… would feel like giving in.”

“I get that,” Buck said thoughtfully.

He squeezed Tommy’s hand one more time, then put it aside and climbed carefully into his boyfriend’s lap. Tommy let out a soft grunt of surprise as Buck wound his arms around his neck and tipped his face up for a kiss.

Buck obliged him. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he said softly, lips brushing against Tommy’s, “I love your name. I love how it sounds when I say it. Tommy,” he murmured, and Tommy swallowed hard. “It fits you. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s you. And I – I love you. So I love your name.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words, but it was still new enough that they tasted fresh and exciting.

“I love you, too,” Tommy said quietly. “Evan,” he said, and kissed him again.

this was supposed to be something fun and silly based on this post but then it developed emotions and that's why it's a day late.

[nickfowlerrr]

all i want

pairing: andy barber x curvy!reader

words: 1.7k

warnings: 18+ only. cockwarming. little tiny bit of teasing. liiiittle bit of a daddy kink.

notes: shockingly enough, this was meant to be a drabble. it very much is not. enjoy!

inspired by this txt post, this is one of seven characters i’m writing this prompt of sorts for. thank you in advance for reading and as always, reblogs and comments and welcome and so appreciated.

It’s all perfectly innocent to start the night, really it is. Your yearly tradition of watching Miracle on 34th Street after trimming the tree is one that neither of you would want to skip out on. And so far this season, between the trial that has had Andy so stressed and your long shifts at the hospital, there has been quite a bit you’ve ended up skipping.

You paid to have the Christmas lights strung up instead of decorating yourselves, the Christmas tree this year came from the grocery store parking lot Andy passed on his way home yesterday instead of the tree farm you always went to to chop down your own, and your annual Christmas Eve party is a no go this year, too. You’re both too busy, too stressed, too tired.

Andy sits on the couch, getting the movie ready to play, while you’re in the kitchen. You slide the bowl of cookie dough you whipped up into the fridge to chill for an hour or two before baking right as the kettle begins to whistle.

You walk back over to the stove, moving it off the burner before carefully pouring the boiling water into the waiting mugs of coco powder.

“Andy, do you want marshmallows?” you call, knowing your voice will carry into the next room. You stir the powder as you wait for his response, plopping a few mini marshmallows into your mug before your face scrunches up a bit. You turn, ready to peek into the living room to repeat yourself, and jump a bit as you’re met with Andy leaning in the doorway.

His arms are crossed over his chest and you are momentarily distracted by how big his arms look in his sweater. You know it’s soft and you can’t wait to cuddle into him and finally have a chance to relax while you watch the movie.

Your eyes flit to his and then you finally see the look of incredulity on his handsome, bearded face. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong, but he speaks before you can.

“Did you just call me Andy?” he asked, sounding disgusted and a little distraught.

You gape a moment, thinking back to what it was you said, and almost immediately realize that you indeed did. You flounder for only a second before shaking your head, “No,” you lie, “I dont think so.”

“Yes,” he states, pushing off the doorframe and starting toward you, “you did.”

You back up, bumping into the counter behind you as he stalks closer. You fight your smile as a thrill runs through you when he cages you in, his arms either side of you as he stands right before you. He leaves almost no space between you and you can see in his eyes what you’re sure he can see in yours.

Longing, desire, and maybe just a hint of desperation…

It’s been two weeks since you have had anything close to alone time together. Your shifts have been all over the place and you’re either heading to work as Andy is coming home, or leaving just as he gets up to start getting ready for his day. Even your weekends have been taken over. Andy has been working nonstop, but you both promised each other that this weekend would be just for you two. No work, no parties, no distractions. The closest thing to intimate you’ve gotten in two weeks has been your parting kisses. You’ve only shared the bed a few days this past week and you’ve both been so exhausted that the furthest you’ve gotten has been cuddling.

So right here and now, that look in his eyes, you know you’re both thinking about the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” you offer in your attempt to appease him.

“You’re sorry …,” he prompts, waiting for you to address him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you press against him, a smile playing on your lips. “Babe…honey…love,” you continue with the pet names, your fingers dancing across his sweater clad chest before you lean in real close, your lips against his ear before you whisper breathily, “Daddy.”

The sharp breath he takes at the title has you biting your lip to stop the smirk threatening to break out.

You let a hand come up, squeezing the back of his neck gently before your fingers find his hair, almost playing with it as you massage his neck a bit. Andy drops his head as his eyes close under your touch, pressing you back against the counter as he leans into you. He lets out a heavy sigh as your other hand comes up to cup his cheek.

“You’re so tense,” you say, leaning in to kiss him softly. He returns the kiss, his arms coming closer and wrapping around you, pulling you flush to him.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs against your lips, your noses brushing.

“I’ve missed you, too,” you kiss him gently once more before letting him go, turning back around to the mugs of coco waiting for you.

Andy doesn’t let you go, just watches as you finish making the cups.

You lean your head back, “marshmallows?” you ask again, earning a smile and a nod from him.

-

The still warm mugs of hot chocolate are on the coffee table before you as you snuggle into Andy.

That tingle you got earlier in the kitchen still hasn’t gone away as you hug Andy, his arm holding you to him in turn.

You don’t want to force anything. You’re both tired, that’s obvious, but god, you miss him. All of him.

You don’t even really want to have sex right now, you just want to be closer. You need him closer.

His eyes are open but you can see the exhaustion in the slightest squint of his eyes as he watches the screen. You lean up, pressing your lips delicately against his exposed throat, once, twice, three times as you work your way up.

“Mmm,” he breathes deeply, holding back a moan under your attention. “Baby,” he warns.

“I know,” you say, a hand rising to stroke his hair as you sit up and move into his lap. “I know, I’m tired, too. We don’t have to do anything,” you let your head rest against his, your noses brushing once more, “I just… I just want to feel you,” you speak so quietly but he can hear the plea in your voice and it squeezes his chest. And he can’t lie and say that the desperation he hears isn’t turning him on a bit, either.

If you want to feel him, he’ll make sure you feel him.

Your hands are lightly in his hair, holding his head as you lean in to kiss him. One kiss, you breathe into him as you pause against each others lips, then another, and another, before your tongue licks into his mouth. He sucks on you lightly before his tongue takes over, his effortless dominance always winning out.

You can feel him growing beneath you and you feel yourself growing slicker in turn.

You pull away from his kiss reluctantly to stand and rid yourself of your pajama pants, while he drags his sweats down. His cock is hard and you inhale sharply at the sight. It’s only been two weeks but you’d almost forgotten just how big he really is.

You hold his shoulder, his hands coming to your chubby waist as you come back to your spot on his lap. You’re on your knees, straddling him as you position yourself above him. One of his hands comes to his cock, the other sliding down your curves as he grips your hip.

He moves his dick up and down your pussy, playing with your wetness as your eyes shut in delight at the feeling, your hands squeezing his shoulders.

He gets himself wet with your slick before he lines the head of his cock up to your entrance. His hand on your hip urges you down, and you slowly sink onto his thick length. You moan in unison as you take him in, a “fuck” leaving Andy’s lips when the first inch of him was finally inside of you.

His hand is holding you, his thumb rubbing the soft, blemished skin of your hip as he urges you to take more of him with his sweet praises.

“You take me so well, baby. Just a little bit more, I know you can do it. Doing so good, sweetheart. Always so fucking good,” he full on moans the last few words as you sit fully on his strong lap with a whimper. He’s seated completely inside of you as you bury your head in his neck.

You feel his lips as he kisses your head, his hand rubbing your back soothingly while the other lightly kneads your thick thigh.

You sigh heavily, relaxing into him as you rest your head against his chest, your velvety walls squeezing his cock of their own volition every so often, earning moans from both of you as he keeps you full of him, the movie still playing as you try to focus on that instead.

But you’re so tired, and so content in Andy’s hold, the pleasure and closeness enough to lull you asleep, you do just that. The cookies can wait until tomorrow.

Andy is smiling to himself as he holds you, he hasn’t been this relaxed since before the start of his current trial. Because with you this close, he’s calm and more than content. This is what he’s been needing. You.

He tenses just a little when your walls squeeze him again, a soft moan slipping past your lips. He moans quietly in turn, still holding you tight.

A moment passes and he has to laugh at the soft snore that leaves you next. He doesn’t want to leave your warmth just yet, he wants to feel you - it’s been too long. So he’ll finish the movie and then he’ll bring you to bed. You’ll cuddle and sleep in each other’s embrace, and all the while he’ll be sure to keep you full of him.

And when you wake up in the middle of the night with his cock still inside of you, your wetness leaking out from around his thick length, he won’t mind one bit about getting woken up by you fucking yourself stupid on his cock. He’s all yours, whenever you want him. And he still owes you for your teasing in the kitchen. He’ll make sure to show you exactly just how much Daddy has missed you.

[murdockcastleslut]

Can I request a Benedict fic based on enchanted by Taylor swift?!

omg this is so fun! this is kinda be what should be around season 4! i know they have a masquerade party i don't anything about the plot of the plot so this is just my imagination! hope you like it! | info about request here!

violet bridgerton has out down herself with her enchanted forest masquerade ball, a theme requested by her youngest hyacinth.

florals, woodwork, and vines covered the bridgerton home. guests entered in florals and pastels their faces covered with masks.

this ball was so full you couldn't turn around without the possibility of bumping into another person.

you were having fun dancing and conversing with guests whom also decided to join in on the festivities.

though dude to the number of people attending and the fact that although lovely your gown was very tight. you move through the home hoping to find a place to catch you breath.

you stumbled up on the empty drawing room and a man admiring the paintings among them.

"oh im sorry to interrupt." you say noticing him.

he turns to face you. his light blue eyes shine bright contrasted against his dark blue mask.

"no, no, not all. just admiring my families paintings. i never quite noticed how detailed they were." he smiles towards you.

your eyes widen as you realized who you were talking to, benedict brigderton.

"are you alright?" he asks concern.

you snap put of it and shyly nod.

"oh yes, i am sorry. i just needed a second from the party, although lovely it is quiet hot with the amount of people attending tonight. your mama must be quiet proud." you smiled.

"oh yes she is," he nodded. "please have a seat if you need."

"oh thank you."

"do you like art?"

"i do. i paint. my papa was kind enough to allow to have lessons and teach me about different artist. do you paint?"

"i dabble, though i think i might be better at sketching."

"do you have favorite thing to sketch?"

"people, whist their unaware preferably, there is something about people when then don't think anyone is paying attention them."

you smiled at his answer. he was quiet interesting, there was something about him you couldn't explain that pulled you in.

the two of you chatted about whatever came your minds and it felt like no time had passed at all.

the sound of clock stricking the next hour is what drew you out of you trance. you realized you had been talking for almost fort-five minutes. you quickly stood.

"i am so sorry, i hadn't relized so much time had passed. my mama must be looking for me. i do hope to see you again." you nervously rushed.

he stood up and smiled. he took your hand and laid a kiss on your covered knuckles.

"i was enchanted to meet you. i hope to see you again as well." he smiles looking at you with those blue eyes.

that night, the two of you laid in you respective bedrooms counting down the moments til you could see one another again.

[someiicecube]

I had this post sitting in my drafts for a while and I was suddenly reminded of it haha. 

Anyway, we all know this line from the main character synopsis, right? 

Only humans?

Is this purposeful on the writer's part to specifically mention the curse can only affect humans? Or are humans the only creatures mentioned because that's all the main character has had the chance to... curse with their touch?

Can the curse affect monsters?

Currently, we can't know one way or the other. 

Even if we did touch Leander, bare hand and all, it's Leander. The main character is under the impression that, because he's such a strong and powerful mage recommended to us by the mysterious doctor Kuras himself, it's just something he can do apparently—  although, we as the players know that's not all there is to it... just what is it? Is it part of his supposed monsterous-ness? Does he really know a spell that can protect against our curse? What's Leander's Jungle Juice really made out of? We can't tell yet...

Chosing Leander in this context is such a strategical plot point because he cannot answer our initial question. Is Leander not affected because he cast his little protection spell? Or is Leander not affected because he is/has become a monster?

However, we still can assume that the main character doesn't have full knowledge on what they are capable of with their curse— ya' know, probably being mostly surrounded by humans and such. So, the idea of touching even a monster is probably not a theory anyone wants to test (unless you're a mage, then please do it on some random monster and not the LIs for funzies... unless you want to).

Could this be a seed the writers are planting? Maybe, maybe not. But leaving the question unaswered (by Leander), again, makes the player and main character cautious by nature.

But what if they did slip up?

What if they slipped up and it happened on accident? 

Your bare fist colliding into Ais' chest, skin-on-skin but still a solid blow. Your hand desperately reaching out for Kuras' own, just wanting to feel his warmth once more only for a moment. Your palm sweeping against Vere's shoulder, pushing him away, your skin brushing along the thin translucent fabric. Or your fingers digging into Mhin's wrist as their dagger hovers right above you, their pulse hard against your uncovered touch.

It's startling. It's something you didn't mean to do. Fear grips you immediately; dread rises as your stomach falls. You are as quick to let go of them as your eyes are to look them in the eye and...

Nothing.

While, it wouldn't come as a shock to either Vere or Ais. Kuras, who the main character wouldn't know is an angel at this point, and Mhin are another eyebrow raiser for sure. It didn't affect them, when you know it should. If it doesn't affect them... that would only make the MC raise many more questions about Leander in turn. Ah, what a dramatic way to reveal the fact that the person you fancy is a monster.

Other notes and thoughts:

While, yes, an interesting idea to think about. I'm torn between wanting the monsters to be immune and 'fuck it, this curse affects everyone, even your pet rock ain't safe'. I can't help but feel this idea also lowers the stakes of the MC's curse... if done wrong.

Let's say this, the curse doesn't have an effect on monsters, right? But for each monsterous LI there will be a catch. Say, Vere, for example; a monster who lusts for power beyond him... having a human like yourself with such a deadly curse, well, who's to say it wouldn't give him a few ideas on how to use you it. What? You're still planning on finding a cure? Oh no, but you have him now, don't you? Why need a cure when you have him, your curse, and your soon-to-be mindless worshippers at your feet?

(Won't lie writing some of Vere's points made me think of Leander, but that's manipulation for you)

Or think Kuras, a doctor, an angel who passed through the shroud to watch over humanity. How would Kuras feel if the person he's grown so close to decides their curse isn't worth getting rid of now that you have him— can't you see the danger in yourself anymore?

Or try with, like some previous theories once said for us touching Leander: it doesn't affect him now... but eventually he will devolve into madness like the rest of everyone. But don't just apply that to Leander, now think of everyone else. Imagine finally finding someone you can touch without consequences. It's something that gets your blood rushing and heart pounting with a feeling your haven't felt in a while! However... the more and more you do so, you've noticed they've changed. They're more irritated, they've been having more headaches than normal, and their once beautiful smile twists into something dreadfully familiar. Congratulations, you've made your beloved mad with love! Here's the bad ending! Yipee!

Really, in the end it's all a balancing act, the stake were there and you don't want to take them away before the climax. If you do, place something else in its steed— something to raise them even further than what was initially thought possible.

[amoscontorta]

Datura Tea, or how all you want is to get some sleep

You're suffering from insomnia due to untreated PTSD (probably, I don't know, I'm not a doctor or a therapist) from your family getting, well, exploded, and the longer this goes on, the sloppier you become in combat and just existing, and a bad idea is born (let's go to the club alone, drink enough to finally get drowsy and then go home and finaaaaally sleep it off). Zayne treats some of your injuries, Mephisto does Sylus's stalker bidding, and guess who appears at the club right before you're about to probably violate the Hunter's Association code of conduct on an idiot who has a hard time taking no for an answer? Spoiler alert: he can't sing but he can dance, even if he chooses to dance to the music he'd rather be hearing than the music actually being played.

Second person POV, gender neutral MC/reader second person POV, a teeny tiny bit of Sylus POV at the end CWs: insomnia, trauma, grievous bodily injury, hospital environment, shots/needles/stitches, self-destructive behavior, MC may have issues regarding self-worth, MC refuses to get proper treatment, poor life choices, stalking (by Sylus), unwelcome boundary pushing by a non-main character, dubiously welcome boundary pushing (by Sylus), (irresponsible) alcohol use, everyone's thirsty for MC and MC is oblivious because this is a self-insert gacha game and no I will not be taking any criticism on this point at this time.

ao3 link here

Just as you had hoped before agreeing to Sylus’s deal that allows him to make use of your flat as a safe house if necessary, things have returned to normal. Well, as normal as they can be ever since your world was blown apart. It has been weeks, and you haven’t heard from him at all. At first, in the days following Sylus's little... visit, you sometimes find yourself thinking that you see a larger than normal crow amidst the swaying trees on your way home at twilight. Or you'll catch the reflection of two uncannily similar looking men in the shop window you just passed, but when you turn around, all you see is the blur of a faceless crowd.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things.

But then you stumble into your flat one night, wounded, again, but not so badly that you need to go to Akso Hospital, and stop short. You stand very still, clutching the hilt of one of the blades strapped to your back, and listen. Something feels off. Did you line your various pairs of footwear in a neat little row along the wall of your foyer recently? You can't remember doing so, but you've been doing a lot of things on autopilot recently. You wait, but nothing stirs in the gloom of your place as the automatic light shuts off due to how still you're standing.

Nothing. Just silence, and an aching feeling of absence that you refuse to think about too hard.

Just as you had hoped before agreeing to Sylus’s deal that allows him to make use of your flat as a safe house if necessary, things have returned to normal. Well, as normal as they can be ever since your world was blown apart. It has been weeks, and you haven’t heard from him at all. At first, in the days following Sylus's little... visit, you sometimes find yourself thinking that you see a larger than normal crow amidst the swaying trees on your way home at twilight. Or you'll catch the reflection of two uncannily similar looking men in the shop window you just passed, but when you turn around, all you see is the blur of a faceless crowd.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things.

But then you stumble into your flat one night, wounded, again, but not so badly that you need to go to Akso Hospital, and stop short. You stand very still, clutching the hilt of one of the blades strapped to your back, and listen. Something feels off. Did you line your various pairs of footwear in a neat little row along the wall of your foyer recently? You can't remember doing so, but you've been doing a lot of things on autopilot recently. You wait, but nothing stirs in the gloom of your place as the automatic light shuts off due to how still you're standing.

Nothing. Just silence, and an aching feeling of absence that you refuse to think about too hard.

Just as you had hoped. Of course. Although you don’t know him well, you learned enough during the few days by his side to know that Sylus’s moods and interest were mercurial at best. You knew from the moment that Kieran and Luke offered you advice from a psychology book about how people who have everything often need constant challenges and the unobtainable dangled in front of them to keep their interest: Sylus would soon become bored with whatever game he thought he was playing with you, and your life would return to its peaceful… new-normal. And that’s good. That’s what you want. You are not equipped to handle a presence like him in your life. You’re a law-abiding, predictable, simple hunter, just trying not to leave the world worse than you found it, one day at a time. You shake your head, and hang your weapons on the wall rack, next to the coat hooks, and unlace your boots, relieve yourself of your blood-soaked pants and ripped shirt, and step into your flat wearing nothing but your underwear. Free, at last. You turn to head to your fridge for a pack of something frozen to place on the bruises that are only just beginning to bloom along the side of your face, only to freeze yourself, again. Your heart kicks wildly in your chest as you take in the looming mass in the middle of your kitchen, before you realize--

On your kitchen island stands a huge black and red pot, filled with a riot of white flowers, their edges ringed with a faint lavender color. You hesitantly reach out and run your finger along the deadly looking little points dotted along the petals' edges. You don't know shit about flowers, but these look threatening, somehow, in their savage beauty.

Maybe this is a prank. As your partner and closest neighbor, Xavier has access to your place. And Tara has your spare key, since Xavier is out of town so often on his little secretive, certainly not having anything to do with Lumiere escapades. Maybe this is their idea of cheering you up?

But you're not convinced. These flowers look like a warning. You quickly try to summon a list of people who might want to make you uncomfortable, or even frighten you, enemies you've made or hell, beaten at the claw machine? But no one comes to mind. Sylus had said that Sherman wasn't acting alone when... well. He wasn't acting alone, so maybe these flowers come from them, trying to tell you that they'll eventually finish the job. But if they knew where you were, and still wanted to take you out, they could have left a ... bomb instead of a pot of frighteningly gorgeous plants to accomplish their goal. You shudder.

There's no card. No message. Just the cryptic message of the flowers themselves. For fuck's sake, you're tired. Something about the flowers makes you paranoid, so you carefully run your hands through the leaves and stems to see if there is some sort of hidden surveillance equipment, but you fail to find anything. Giving up, you lift the heavy pot with a grunt and place it on your indoor balcony, shutting the door. Now if there is some sort of camera or audio recording device, all they'll see is your hazy outline through your glass balcony door. You can't help yourself: you make a rude gesture at the door, just in case there really is a hidden camera in there. You finish your trek to the freezer, slap a bag of something frozen past its due date onto your face, and spend the rest of the night tossing and turning in your bed before another dawn rises.

As the days turn into weeks, and another day has passed where you're wincing as you open your front door, worried that he'll be on the other side, only to find it empty, with none of your clutter undisturbed, you finally decide to put Sylus out of your mind for good. He helped you when you needed it the most, and you repaid his dubious generosity when you patched him up at your place. So you push the thought of him down deep, down with all of the other things you can’t bear to think about these days, and life goes on. You water the mystery flowers from time to time, at the same time you water the rest of your plants, and resign yourself to not figuring out who sent them anytime soon.

You can’t sleep, again.

You’ve been trying it all: running on the treadmill until you’re on the brink of vomiting, the harsh lights of the deserted Hunter’s Association fitness center making you squint. All you’ve gotten for your efforts is a headache threatening to add itself to your list of complaints at midnight, 2 AM, 3 AM, 4 AM, until you’re still awake and your morning alarm is sounding from your hunter’s watch.

Squeezing in extra full body supersets with the kettlebell, sweat pouring down your back, soaking through the hair at your temples and dripping onto the mats. Your muscles are not getting any stronger, and you’re sure as hell getting more fatigued,  but the sleep won’t come as you limp into your bedroom every night.

Camomile tea with honey, warm milk, cold milk, rooibos tea without honey, fennel tea (you gag a little, and decide that you’re absolutely done trusting Moments recommendations when it comes to tea that aids sleep) before slipping under your tangled duvet, only to have to get up to pee an hour later, with no drowsiness in sight.

Every time you try to meditate and take deep, calming breaths, the memories come. And you can’t. You can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Once, you even ask Zayne if he can prescribe you something to help.

"No."

"No? You haven't even asked what I'm asking for help with!"

"No."

You look down at your boots, wondering how far your pride will allow you to push him. You don't really want to tell him, exposing all of your messy insides and issues for him to clinically judge, to file away under this diagnosis or that and dismiss as he moves on to the next patient, for him to see you at your absolute lowest when you've never even seen him break a sweat. Something about that idea makes you want to cry.

"Ok." You smile brightly, or at least try. It probably comes across as more of a grimace, but you are trying. "I'll get going, sorry to bother you!" you chirp, and then cringe internally. Why did you apologize? He's your doctor, if you can't even handle asking him for help with this, even if he says no, you might as well switch physicians. It's fine. This is fine. You are fine.

You're about to turn the handle of his office door when his even voice stops you from behind. "What you need isn't pharmaceuticals. It's therapy. You need to talk to—"

But you can't. Talk. You can't imagine thinking the thoughts, let alone getting the words out. You can't, not yet.

"It's just sleep, Doctor Zayne. I'll just drink some fennel tea," you lie, give him a little salute, and escape.

So now you’re on the brink of doing something you’d previously rather have had your teeth pulled than experience: going to a crowded club, getting shit-faced, and hoping the dancing and alcohol will knock you out for a solid 24 hours. But Tara has already turned down your invitation, putting her hand on yours and saying with excruciating gentleness that she doesn’t think that’s what you need right now, which you can’t stand—the kindness, the knowing looks, the unspoken questions from everyone in your life who knows what happened, and are watching you like a ticking time—

Bomb.

You shake your head. You can’t.

And Xavier has been out of the office a lot lately, and from the mail piling up on his foyer floor whenever you nosily peek through his mail slot, probably out of town as well. So he’s not an option to invite after Tara turns you down.

You already know that Rafayel is out of the country on an exhibition tour, so you don’t even bother calling him. Talking to him usually does cheer you up, but you don’t need to be cheered up, dammit, you need to sleep.

You don’t even consider Zayne. First, he's your doctor and probably thinks spending time with you outside of the hospital would feel like a punishment for the sins of a past life. Also, imagining him, neon lights of a cheesy nightclub reflected off of his elegant glasses, indignantly pressed on all sides by unwashed, sweaty bodies, dancing—your brain short circuits even trying to imagine it.

There’s no one else you would trust being drunk around who you can ask to go with you. But the idea of getting drunk, alone, in your silent flat, makes you want to gag worse than the fennel tea.

As you slip on a comfortable pair of tights under a stretchy pair of shorts, and a soft, loose top—off the shoulder so that you look like you made some effort (you refuse to wear anything that can’t also double as athletic wear, because who the hell knows when you’ll get an alert on your watch), you tell yourself that you’ll be fine. You’ll drink enough to get tipsy, enough to make you drowsy, you’ll wear yourself out on the dance floor, and then you’ll go home again. And sleep. You don’t need anyone else for this. Of course it would be nice to be able to let off steam with a friend, but these same friends have been walking on eggshells around you for months, so it’s probably better this way. No awkwardness, no judgment, no gentle attempts to convince you that you need—

You’ve just slipped your boots on when you hunter’s watch goes off. A wanderer is within minutes of your flat’s location. You gaze at your weapon rack, which hangs next to your coat rack in your foyer, and hesitate. These days, you grit your teeth at the sound of gunshots at the practice range, loud in your ears even through your noise cancelling headset. Still too loud. Still too much like a bomb. You use your blades as much as you can, only unholstering your pistols when absolutely unavoidable. You grab two swords and your holsters, and sprint out the door.

You manage to avoid unholstering your pistols during the battle. However, blades require close quarter combat, which means you’re getting hurt more often. And the insomnia means that your reflexes are slower than they’ve ever been. So after you successfully defend a group of tourists from the wanderer, while unsuccessfully defending yourself against the death throes of a bladed tail that flays open your back, you find yourself back in Zayne’s office, again.

Lately, you feel like you see the inside of Akso Hospital more than the inside of your own flat.

You try desperately to avoid having to go, when at all possible. You take care of yourself, when the injuries are in places you can reach. Teeth sinking into your ever-dwindling supply of bandage rolls, the pain is sharp and demands your entire focus, so your thoughts are unable to drift elsewhere, to flit to the places you can’t go in your mind yet, not yet, you can’t—

But there are some wounds, like the one you just got, that you can’t reach, contorting yourself in front of the bathroom mirror, your heavy, tired arms unable to finagle some disinfectant and a bandage over the torn skin. So here you are, again. To put it mildly, Zayne is not happy. He delicately, efficiently, dabs disinfectant onto the latest laceration on your back in frigid silence. You can almost taste the disapproval wafting from him.

It stings, badly, but the pain is dull amongst the cacophony of other aches and healing wounds on your exhausted, battered body. You don’t even have the energy to wince with each point of contact between the cotton and your gaping flesh.

“You don’t have to fix me up yourself every time, you know,” you try to break the ice. “I’m sure you have other patients with urgent complaints more in line with your specialty. You only know about this time because Greyson ratted me out.”

“I am your primary care physician, as well a cardiac surgeon. I am responsible for signing your fitness for duty certificates. Greyson knows this, and acted accordingly,” Zayne clips out. His office falls silent again, and you focus on the flowers you gifted him sitting near one of his office windows, as he prepares to slip the needle containing the local anaesthetic under your skin in preparation of the stitches you need. You try, as you always do without success, to figure out why he keeps them in here. When you first saw them, they reminded you of the color of the little seals he had made you when you were children. That you had interpreted as a threat. So you gave them to him on a whim, and was shocked to find them in his office the next time you visited. You wonder if he waters them himself, or if he lets the hospital’s horticulturist do it. He’s probably too busy to keep track of such trivial things. You decide that you should thank the lady you’ve seen watering plants in Akso’s hallways with a fruit basket or something for her extra effort. Out of the corner of your eye, a couple black birds flap their wings as if startled, half hidden in the fluttering leaves of the trees in the courtyard that Zayne’s office overlooks. You’re about to look for what startled them when—

The shot is worse than the disinfectant, but the painful prick is quickly over. A welcome numbness spreads under your skin, and you desperately wish it came in pill form for—well, everything else that’s wrong with you.

All you feel is a distant tug and release, but your muscles are locked tight as you let the delicate petals fill your vision, as you try not to think about anything at all, as you’ve done for months now. You’re grateful for the silence, for Zayne’s steady hands and breath. You’re grateful for his care, even though you hate that you need it. You don’t want to be another burden to him, when he has so many heavy burdens already. In this too, you have failed, as you failed—

You can’t. You can’t—  

Almost as if he has just felt the way your body has stiffened even further under his competent hands, Zayne interrupts your spiral as he, light as a snowflake, finally lays the bandage over your neatly stitched wound and secures the adhesive sides. He sits back with a sigh and just gazes at your bare back in silence.

You can’t bring yourself to move yet. You’re just so tired. But you know you have to. You don’t want to worry him, you know he has other, more important matters to attend. You gingerly lean back and let your shirt, which had been scrunched up under your armpits and around your shoulders while Zayne worked, slide down your back as you heave yourself to your feet.

You don’t want to turn and see whatever non-expression Zayne has on his face—you want to get out of here, from under these too-bright lights and his tangible concern, but you owe him the courtesy of looking him in the eye as you express a gratitude that can never be fully conveyed in words. So you do turn, but find him leaning back on his desk, his hazel eyes fixed on the same flowers you had just been staring at.

You open your mouth to thank him, to say your goodbyes to get the hell out of here, when he cuts you off with a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him.

“You know that you cannot continue like this,” he murmurs, eyes still on the flowers.

You take in the sharp line of his nose, the severe set of his lips. The bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows draws your eyes down the contour of his throat, and it hurts you a little, what a beautiful man he has turned into. For a moment you are jerked back in time, the profile of a serious little boy with softer cheeks but the same hazel eyes overlaying itself atop the view in front of you. When he turns to look at you again the vision dissipates, and you suppress the pain—the only thing you’re good at these days. You steel yourself for whatever lecture he is about to lay into you, convinced that the gentleness in his voice is just his exhaustion at having to deal with you, again, when the shrill ring of his mobile rips apart the quiet in his office.

His frown deepens, but he doesn’t move to answer his phone. It continues to ring between the two of you.

“Better get that, Doctor Zayne,” you nod toward it, flooded with the relief that you might escape from his cold admonishment unscathed, this time.

His jaw clenches, and the knuckles of his hands are white where they clutch the desk, but after another ring he finally reaches into his white coat pocket and lifts the phone to his ear.

“This is Doctor Zayne,” he answers with his customary calm, despite the disappointment you’re pretty sure he’s feeling at the interruption of his flaying you open in ways that the wanderer failed.

You plaster the biggest smile on your face that you can muster, exploiting his inability to say anything as he listens to the other person on the line, and wiggle your fingers in a small wave. Before he can react, you’ve slipped through his office door, and you’re practically sprinting down the hallway to get the hell out of there before he can come after you.

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose, glaring at his office door as if it’s the door’s fault for depriving him of the chance to tell you that he will refuse to sign any future medical certificates until you listen to him and get the help you so clearly, desperately need, that he needs you to get so that he can sleep at night without being afraid that his worst nightmares will manifest every time you enter his hospital. As he sighs, and prepares himself to handle the next emergency, he does not notice the fluttering birds outside his window, nor the jewel-eyed crow that disturbed them, taking flight from the trees in which they were perched.

***

It’s not too late. You’re exhausted, and hurt, but you’ve been patched up, and the idea of your empty, ineffectual bed fills you with anxiety. Your mission is still a go. So you stop briefly at home to dump your weapons, only retaining a small knife strapped under a black armband along your forearm, throw on a different loose, soft shirt since your other one was shredded and not in a way that looks cute for the club, and head out again. You know a place you’ve been to before with Tara and some other colleagues on an 'optional' but heavily implied as mandatory ‘team-building’ night that ended with a lot of vomit, an inter-office breakup, and a lot of stern glares from your captain the following week. You are deeply hoping that this place can give you what you need tonight.

You look up and cringe at the glaring neon sign: THE BOOM BOOM ROOM. Ok, so this place isn’t exactly classy. But you’re not looking for classy. You’re looking for affordable booze, overwhelming beats, and a late enough closing time not to get kicked out before you exhaust yourself to the extent required by this mission of yours. You’re relieved that the line moves swiftly, and the bouncer waves you in without a second look. Apparently you don’t look as horrifying as you feel, and the knife is discretely hidden under the band on your arm. And suddenly you’re inside.

You’re met with a wall of sound and smells, the bass vibrating in your chest, the floor sticky with what you hope is only spilled beer, and the crowd is surging. You close your eyes once and just soak it in for a moment, letting the mindless life that the place is bursting with wash over you. Then you slip through writhing bodies to reach the bar and order your first drink. You don’t actually want to get shit-faced, since you’re alone. But you do want to have enough to feel the pleasant numbness of alcohol burning its way through your veins, to get drowsy. You order a shot to start and a high-percentage beer to clutch while you dance so you don’t have to wait at the bar again.

It works, for awhile. You let the music fill you, you let the warmth of the shot spread through you limbs. The presence of other, anonymous people, who know nothing about you nor what you’ve been through, relieves some of the loneliness that you refuse to admit has been plaguing you ever since your grandmother and Caleb … Ever since you lost them.

And then you feel someone sidle a little closer to you than comfortable, and you open your eyes to find some guy looking intently at you with a hopeful smile on his face. He leans even closer to you to be heard over the beat as he shouts “Hey! Wanna dance?” into your ear, making you wince.

You shake your head, closing your eyes again, dismissing him. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint, because you feel a hand at your elbow, and hear his voice again: “Why not? You’re not with anyone, right?”

You open your eyes again, and gently, but firmly remove his hand from your elbow with your other hand. “Nah man, I’m just here to relax. I bet someone else would be happy to dance with you though.” You shoot him a tired thumbs up and try to shift away, but he somehow manages to keep pace in front of you, and he’s opening his mouth to say something else, and you’re repeating to yourself I’m a Hunter’s Association role model even when I’m off the clock, I will NOT remove his jaw from his skull, I will NOT remove his jaw from his skull… When suddenly you feel heat envelop your back and someone’s huge hands are gripping your hips—instinct kicks in, you’re convinced that this asshole isn’t alone and his buddy has managed to flank you, and the knife is out of your armband and at a big, warm throat before you realize you’ve spun in his grip, and a pair of bright red, amused eyes are looking down into your face.

“Come now, is that any way to greet your boyfriend, kitten?” Sylus smiles indulgently down at you, hands still on your hips.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you breathe, unable to move, your brain scrambled from trying to reconcile the club’s beat, the aching absence that you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, and the man finally filling it again, right in front of you for the first time since he left your flat’s foyer in a mess of blood and feathers.

Sylus lifts a hand from your hip and runs one long finger over the blunt edge of the knife, gently lowering it from where you are still holding it in shock against his throat. One droplet of blood, flashing like a jewel under the club’s lights, beads from where you pressed a little too hard, and begins to slip down the path of his carotid artery. You barely restrain yourself from launching yourself at his neck and running your tongue along his skin to counter the droplet’s descent—aaand at this highly intrusive thought, you want to punch yourself in the face, and tell yourself firmly that it’s the alcohol. You haven’t had alcohol in months. Your tolerance is basically non-existent at this point, you cannot be blamed for whatever the hell that urge just was.

“I see your professional greeting has not improved any since our last encounter, sweetheart,” he laughs, sounding genuinely pleased despite his complaint, thankfully oblivious to the insane thoughts inflicting themselves on your brain. His gaze flicks from you to the aggressive guy still gaping at the two of you. “I suggest you listen to what my partner has clearly communicated to you, if you would like to leave this... establishment, with all of the limbs with which you entered it,” he sniffs, clearly unimpressed with both the venue and the limbs in question. The guy’s eyes widen a little more, which you didn’t think possible, before he just nods his head so fast it looks like it will detach itself from his spine and pushes away from you through the crowd.

“I think you frightened him,” Sylus tsks, shaking his head. “Another poor service review for the Association’s feedback form, kitten. I’m worried about your performance review this year.”

“Perhaps I should bring them your head to compensate for my poor customer service. That would guarantee a raise instead of an admonishment,” you snap, still feeling violent from your inexplicable impulse to slobber all over this smug asshole’s throat.

Sylus’s eyes, impossibly, light up even more in response to your threat. “Oh, I would love to see you try to take my head,” he almost growls, smiling so wide you can see his crooked canines.

It’s the alcohol. It’s the alcohol. There is absolutely no innuendo to be found in what he has just said. You lift your hand to slap that thought right out of your head, but Sylus catches it in one of his own and tightens his other grip on your hip.

“You’ve already done quite enough damage to one of my favorite acquisitions tonight,” he says, running his thumb gently from your wrist to your palm. For a brief moment, all you can do is stare up into his face, ensnared by the softness in his usually sharp eyes, the slight crease between his eyebrows, the hair that you had told yourself for weeks could not possibly be as soft, as pretty, with the sheen and color of a pearl, as you remember it being.

Ok, someone must have spiked your drink. This is not happening. You cannot handle whatever game he is trying to play right now. “What are you even doing here?” you ask, in a desperate attempt to divert this conversation’s track before a trainwreck happens that leaves you in more pieces than you’re currently in. "And boyfriend? You're my boyfriend now?"

"Well, this is sudden, but how could I say no to such an elegantly worded proposition?" he gasps, eyes widening in mock surprise.

"Sylus," you warn.

"Yes, my better half?"

"Stop messing with me. Why did you tell that idiot that you're my boyfriend?" You need to know. You don't know why, but you need his answer almost as much as you need sleep right now.

"Unfortunately we live in a patriarchy where having a big, bad boyfriend apparently garners more respect than a clear 'no'," he shrugs. "I considered removing his hand from the rest of him and choking him with it, but thought that might make you mad." You roll your eyes, and he narrows his own. "I was trying to help you, but it appears my aid was unnecessary. I'm almost positive I saw him soil himself when you stabbed me." He smiles in a way that almost looks proud.

"I did not stab you," you insist, even though you can still see the thin line of blood disappearing under the color of his black shirt. You decide not to point it out. He'll discover it when he looks in a mirror later. Considering how self-satisfied he is, probably an activity he spends a lot of time doing. "Why are you here, again?" you repeat, shaking your head.

“A little birdie told me that a certain feral kitten had gotten injured again, and I am finally in a position to do something about it after business kept me away far longer than I had planned,” he answers. Still holding your hip and hand, he gently pulls you a little closer and begins to slowly sway with you, completely ignoring the fast paced, thumping beat of the current track the DJ is spinning.

“Mephisto?” Once again, you’re on the back foot. You are a highly skilled hunter, trained to have sharp senses and to be able to notice when you’re being surveilled.

He leans down, rounding his broad shoulders so he’s close enough to your ear for you to hear him hum his affirmation, leisurely sliding his hand from your hip to span the width of the small of your back to better guide you out of the path of other dancers, his large palm making you feel … safe.

“I haven’t seen him. At all,” you admit, suddenly feeling so tired and out of your depth. So terribly lacking, even at this, a most basic skill of your job.

“No surprise, considering how little you’ve been sleeping,” he says, and then grunts softly as you’re pushed closer into him by someone behind you making their way through the crowd. He’s so warm, so solid, and from this distance, he’s all you can see. Again, just like during the auction’s dance.  How are you even here again? You resist the urge to rest your head against his chest like you did that night, as he forestalled the growing panic, as he showed you more kindness than you’ve been shown, or shown yourself, in months. In the months since… you can’t. You can’t, you can’t you can’t—

“You were a little distracted at your doctor’s office, too,” Sylus’s voice cuts through the thunder in your head, and it takes a beat for you to realize what he’s saying.

“You had Mephisto spy on my doctor’s visit?” you almost bellow, or rather, actually bellow, as the people around you shift and give you sideways glances. You try to jerk out of his hold, but only succeed in dragging the two of you a little to the side on the dance floor.

“I instructed him to confirm that you were actually getting proper treatment this time,” Sylus says, unruffled by your continued squirming to escape his arms. “Cease, you’re going to pull your stitches.”

“The stitches you only know about because you’re a creepy stalker!”

“Creepy?” he laughs. “What a strange way of saying handsome, protective, and resourceful.”

“Now I’m worried about your hearing,” you seethe. “That appointment was private!”

“Not private enough for our good doctor’s tastes, I’d wager."

“What does that mean?”

He levels you look with a look that you cannot begin to decipher. After a moment, he shakes his head, the earrings you just notice that he’s wearing flashing under the spinning lights. Is this asshole actually wearing ruby earrings to bring out his eyes? “You cannot possibly be this naïve,” he scoffs, but without conviction. Like he’s talking to himself.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re not allowed to spy on me during private moments like that,” you insist, giving up trying to get away from him since he has the reach and agility of an octopus, apparently.

“Excellent, then I’m allowed to spy on you during other moments. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” he declares solemnly. “Please pay Mephisto no mind if you happen to notice him in the future, and for heaven’s sake, do not feed him. He is not a pet—he is a subordinate and should be treated as such.”

You make the fastest decision of your life in compiling a list of possible crow snacks as Sylus resumes gently swaying your bodies, and it’s after pistachios as the 7th item on your Mephisto treat list that you realize he has danced the two of you to the edge of the dance floor, and that you have failed to object to him stalking you through his cantankerous mechanical crow.

“Silence is not consent, Sylus!” you try, only to be met with a pitying moue twisting his wide mouth.

“A deal’s a deal, sweetheart. Come, it’s getting late, and I know you are very tired. Let me take you home,” he commands. "You can show me how well you've been taking care of my little gift in my absence."

"Gift?" You're so lost. You stop, not taking another step until he starts making sense.

"The flowers I had Luke and Kieran deliver to your place."

"Flowers..." You wrack your foggy brain, startled at the scowl that is scrunching Sylus's beautiful face.

"Oh, you receive so many bouquets on a regular basis that they just blur together?" He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you again, but his hand slips away from yours until just your pinkies are linked. "I promise to redouble my efforts to make mine stand out from the crowd, then." Inexplicably, he lifts your linked pinkies to his lips for a kiss-the word tender drifts through your exhausted mind. His lips are unbearably soft.

You snort. "I never receive bouquets..." and then it hits you. The doom flowers.

"You sent me the pot of death threats?"

"Death threats?" he blinks, and it's the first time you think you've ever seen him at a loss for words. But he recovers quickly. "You mean the subtle and elegant form of self-defense to comfort and protect you in my absence?"

"Wut."

"I sent you a very generous supply of datura flowers. They're not only visually appealing, but also highly poisonous. You can use them to poison any unwanted guests you happen to find in your home if your more conventional weapons aren't practical for the occasion," he explains, eyes lighting up again.

"Sylus, you sent me a pot of deadly plants with no note or message. I thought someone was trying to convey a message, message. Like, a warning to watch my back."

His face does something complicated then: flickering from surprise to something like pride, but then he just stares at you, sanguine eyes drifting along your face and down to where his hand is linked with yours for a long moment. "It seems I underestimated your cynicism about other people," he says finally. "And while I always enjoy the proof of our kindred spirits, I would rather you didn't have to live a life where you have to be suspicious of something so banal as a gift of flowers." You are blindsided by the gentle sincerity in his words, and you're trying to hold back the tears that are burning your eyes out of nowhere, when he looks at your face again, brightening. "Now that I'm here, let me taking care of being the paranoid one." His gaze sharpens on your tear-filled eyes, and he cocks his head. Runs his middle finger from the corner of your mouth to just under your left eye, gathering the moisture there that is threatening to overflow. "Sweetheart, tears of gratitude are unnecessary. If you're really thankful, then let me take you home, and just try to refrain from offering me any datura tea when we get there, hmm?" He lifts his finger to his lips and flicks his tongue out to lick, and you are convinced you are hallucinating when his nostrils flair, as if he's savoring whatever he tastes in your tears.

As is becoming routine with Sylus, you feel like you're in a fever dream, watching him from a great distance: he's ahead of you somewhere, already at his next destination, pulling you along in his slipstream like a bird in flight, when you're not even sure you know how to fly. The only thing you are able to process at the moment is that if you don't say anything, you'll be right back where you started: staring at the streetlights spilling across your ceiling, exhausted in an empty bed, with no sleep in sight.

“No,” you blurt out. ��I don’t want to go home. Please. You’re welcome to go, but I came here on a mission, and I am going to fucking complete it even if it kills me.”

He considers you for a moment, before asking, “And what mission is that?”

You look away, unwilling to meet his eyes now. You don’t want to admit that you’re so fucking tired you can hardly see straight, shoot straight, think straight, but every time you close your eyes, the memories come and you can’t you can’t you can’t and you haven’t slept properly in months.

“I see,” is all he says, and he pulls you along, your hand firmly wrapped in his, and you’re too tired to ask what, exactly, he sees. You let him lead you into the cool night, the bright night lights of Linkon City drowning out the stars above. He tosses you a helmet, and unlike the first time he put you on his motorcycle, he lifts you in his arms to plop you on the seat behind his.

“I’ll have Luke and Kieran pick up your bike and have it back to you before you need it tomorrow,” he says before you can even think to ask about it. “Hold on tight, and don’t go falling asleep on me. I won’t scrape you off the pavement if you fall off my ride.”

And just as he knew you would, you do the exact opposite of what he ordered, because you’re his contrary, ever wilful, feral kitten who refuses to do as its told. You wrap your arms around his solid waist, rest your helmeted head against his broad back, and fall promptly asleep. He relishes the feel of your arms still wrapped tightly around him, but the scarlet-ink tendrils of his evol keep you secured against his back in case your hold loosens as you sink deeper into sleep.

He snorts when you begin to snore through the helmet's comms.

He sighs, feeling content for the first time in weeks. It has taken much longer than he anticipated to clean up all the of messes that Sherman and his backers made while he was gone. Mephisto has been reporting to him daily regarding how you were doing, and Kieran and Luke have been on standby in case you needed them. But even sleep-deprived and determined to take care of your own problems by yourself to the point of self-destruction, you have handled what has come your way with competence, so their help has never been absolutely necessary. But Sylus can see just how close to the breaking point you are. Now that things have finally settled in the N109 zone, he intends to begin a new game, and it starts with him flourishing the trump card of his current hand: your invitation to let him use your place as a safe house whenever the ‘need’ arises.

He revs the engine, just for fun, smiles to himself, and rides through the rest of the night, until the sun comes up.

Later, when you wake up alone in your own bed, stretching lazily in the soft sunlight filtering through your gauzy curtains, you realize it’s the best night’s sleep you can ever remember having. You turn your head and find a black feather on the pillow next to you. You flick it gently, and try not to think too deeply about anything at all.

[rainbow-femme]

Thinking too much about AFTG again and I know we rag on Neil for being oblivious but I don’t think Andrew understands for most of the story that Neil likes him back

(FYI I haven’t read all the extra content, Nora may have said something about Andrew’s mindset that contradicts this, I don’t care it’s my literary analysis and I control my interpretation and the only canon that exists is what’s in the books. Also I’m Jewish, and the number one rule is anything can be true so long as you can back it up textually)

You’ve got the whole “I’m not your answer and you sure as fuck aren’t mine” line. By this point two things have happened recently: Neil has become outwardly more emotionally and physically vulnerable, and Neil has shown more interest in spending time with Andrew as well as interest in Andrew in general. And Andrew’s response to this seems to be the assumption that Neil is having a crisis he isn’t sharing and seems to have decided that Andrew is the answer to fixing that crisis. To be fair he is having a crisis, Andrew is just an unrelated benefit.

Which makes sense, most of his relationships are based, at least in Andrew’s mind, on him providing a service in exchange for someone’s presence in his life due to his belief that people will not be around him otherwise. So if Neil is looking at him in an open, appreciative, and interested way he seems to assume it’s because Neil, the terrified guy on the run from something, has found himself enjoying the stability Andrew provides and is seeing being near Andrew as a solution to his problems. That maybe Neil has tricked himself into thinking he has feelings for Andrew because he likes having someone take care of him and that’s the reason, and we see from Andrew stopping the kiss when Neil is upset that he does not consider being interested in someone while emotionally vulnerable to be real consent, therefore if Neil is interested in him due to being upset and afraid that is not Neil actually being interested. He also is clearly very agitated by this first kiss, seeming to see himself as a predator who lost control and harmed Neil by taking advantage of him.

He also continues to do nice things for Neil after getting back, despite initially seeming to express frustration, disinterest, and distaste for Neil. Giving him keys to the car, buying him a new charger, giving Neil the shotgun seat. Andrew’s habit of feeling the need to incentivize the people he cares for to stay with him, as well as what appears to naturally be his love language of giving gifts and acts of service as a replacement for verbally sharing emotions. I’m not saying that when he’s doing nice things it’s for personal gain, but I think part of him feels good doing it and part of him believes this is all he has to offer this person. He got back and didn’t say nice things to Neil because he can’t, but he can quietly take care of Neil in a way that says “please stay with me, I want you to be ok” that he verbally can’t. He knows Neil values the ability to leave upsetting situations, that Neil reacted positively the last time Andrew gave him keys, gives Neil a way to charge his phone ie have a lifeline to safety and Andrew when needed, and he’s saying that he still implicitly trusts Neil with things that are important to him. And of course shotgun means “I want you to be the person who is nearest to me”. He similarly starts making a habit of sitting next to Neil when the team is together. Andrew very much is a cat, he’s going to swat at you but also glue himself to your side

There’s also the various moments where Andrew states out loud that he has an attraction and growing emotional attachment to Neil that he has already written off as impossible. He calls Neil a pipe dream, says he knows nothing will come of having an interest in Neil without having made any attempts to see if Neil is interested. If you follow up a confession of interest with a statement that nothing will happen, you can’t be hurt by rejection because you didn’t give the person a chance to reject you.

And it doesn’t seem like it’s because Andrew is purposely avoiding attachments to people. Most of the effort he puts into his life is in his relationships, specifically into giving people reasons to stay near him. He makes the deals with Kevin and Aaron, he could have gone to a school with a more competitive Exy program but went to one where Nicky and Aaron could come and be on the team and in fact made that a requirement, he proves to Kevin that he made the right choice in making Andrew his shield by attacking anyone who hurts Kevin and putting a target on his own back. Before the start of the books we know he went out of his way to connect with Renee and do things for her that meant a lot to her, things that again seem to represent “I am doing her a favor, therefore she will be more likely to stay.” And anything else could be written off as born again Christian charity rather than acknowledge she has love and care for him.

He doesn’t see an attempt at connecting with Neil to be useless because he has no interest in building relationships with people, if there’s anything Andrew is passionate about it’s building and maintaining relationships with people. He sees it as obviously useless because there’s no way Neil would legitimately want to be with Andrew in the same way that Andrew wants him, that it is impossible to consider Neil reciprocating the way he’s feeling because all he wants is Neil himself and he doesn’t think anyone could just want him and think it’s enough.

Neil says he allowed himself to be abused by the Raven’s for two weeks on the chance he could help Andrew, that he wants to care for Andrew even without any personal benefit, and that is when Andrew calls him a pipe dream. Neil has just said that he, the guy who previously was so terrified for his own safety that he put it above all else, would willingly sacrifice his safety for Andrew. When Neil says this Andrew covers his mouth to make him stop talking, which to me suggests that this revelation was an absolute gut punch to him, that what happened to Neil was not only for his sake but accomplished nothing. Andrew’s reaction to Neil saying this is to say that Neil was supposed to be a side effect of the drugs. Meaning what Neil just said made him feel so strongly for Neil that he previously assumed it could not possibly be something he naturally has the capacity to feel.

(And he stills says that he doesn’t think he could ever have from Neil what he wants. So yeah Neil isn’t the only one who can hear a heartfelt confession and come to the conclusion that the other person is completely uninterested)

Also the whole “there is no this” conversation they loop through a few times. Again, Andrew loves building relationships, but they all are ticking clocks in his head, most of them graduation unless he can come up with something to convince them to stay. And then Neil keeps trying to say that there exists a relationship between them that has not been carefully negotiated with a clear end date, which is probably terrifying to a guy who doesn’t think he can trust anyone unless he is providing them something that makes him more useful around than not.

What Neil is proposing is that Andrew has intrinsic value and his presence is all Neil wants, and that probably seems terrifying and untrue. If Neil isn’t getting a tangible benefit that outweighs any perceived inconveniences, and if there is no point where they “re-up” their contract, then at any moment Neil could change his mind and take this thing away from Andrew. He’s had people he loved decide he’s not worth it, he knows it can happen and how terrible it is to experience. He willingly dealt with Drake and harmed himself to keep Cass, and he still lost her because he in and of himself wasn’t enough to be kept and loved because he wasn’t easy enough to love, he was broken, he was damaged. There can’t be a non transactional relationship between them because Andrew can’t see himself being enough and thinks losing it would be too painful to willingly risk

(Nicky, Kevin, and Aaron also seem to have this same view as Neil in their own way of Andrew’s inherent worth to them. Nicky really deserves more recognition for clawing his way to happiness then willingly giving it all up and upending his life and doing things repeatedly that make him unhappy because he cares so much for Aaron and Andrew, aligning himself against possible friends who could make him happy because he will always choose supporting Andrew over himself. And you have Aaron showing that he will fight Andrew tooth and nail if it means they can have a good and lasting relationship, and we see Kevin form genuine love and affection for Andrew outside of their deal, but again Andrew seems to view the relationships at the time as transactional or obligatory on their ends)

Or my favorite, the scene where Andrew makes a comment about Neil’s “neck fetish.” Neil has kissed his neck only about two times by that point, and both times it has elicited what is clearly a pleasurable response from Andrew. But Andrew can’t accept the idea that Neil is doing something with no benefit to himself and only a benefit to Andrew, that he is choosing to take time away from his own immediate pleasure to do something solely for Andrew’s enjoyment of the moment

Neil responds to the comment by saying “You like it, I like that you like it.” Neil is saying that he cares enough about Andrew to have paid attention to what pleases him and wants to take the time when they’re together to make Andrew feel good in a way that Andrew makes him feel good, that he knows Andrew has trauma with physical touch on most of his body but this is a way he can reciprocate that has no negative connotations for Andrew and serves solely to make him feel good. And Andrew does not or cannot let himself see it that way because it’s too vulnerable.

The sex is supposed to be transactional, this is what Andrew has to offer to make Neil stay with him, uninterrupted time of Andrew making him feel good and asking for nothing in return. Neil is breaking the rules, he’s making it reciprocated, if he is making Andrew feel good then Andrew doesn’t have that safety net of being the one with something to offer. So it has to be something that secretly benefits Neil, it has to be that Neil is getting something out of it or Andrew is back to not having anything special that he offers to make Neil stay with him. If it’s just Neil sitting back while Andrew gets him off then Andrew is automatically the most convenient sexual partner for Neil and he won’t look for someone else. If it’s reciprocal, then it stops being a favor Andrew is doing and takes effort on Neil’s end, as well as means the sex includes Andrew knowing what it’s like to be loved and cared for, which means he will feel it’s absence when Neil inevitably leaves because Andrew isn’t convenient enough.

It honestly seems like the turning point is his conversation with Aaron about breaking their deal, Aaron making him choose their deal or Neil. Because it A. Forces Andrew to see that Aaron intends to stay in his life without the deal, meaning that yes one of the most important people in Andrew’s world loves him without a contract. And B. It forces Andrew into a position where he has to take a leap of faith that Neil isn’t going to just walk away, that Neil sees Andrew the way Andrew sees him. And I wonder if Aaron brought up the conversation he had with Neil, that Neil said he didn’t think Andrew would fight for him, and he realized that Neil not only has been thinking about him the way he was thinking about Neil, but that he had this person in his life that he cared about and he was acting in a way that made that person not feel valued and it could probably cause the very thing he wants to avoid by pushing him away.

So you finally get the very end of the last book where Andrew doesn’t deny it when Neil says Andrew likes him, which is for him incredibly vulnerable. He’s shown that he will always protect Neil without their deal of protection, and Neil has shown that he sees everything about Andrew that other people don’t like and he loves Andrew anyway.

Because the story is from Neil’s point of view we see his internal growth as he learns to recognize and accept love and care from others but Andrew has been doing the same, realizing and trusting that Kevin and his family will still be there even if he has nothing tangible to offer, and accepting that someone could genuinely know and understand him, all the things that make him inconvenient, and still want him with no extra incentive because even as broken as he sees himself to be he still has value to others and he can trust Neil in the way he wants Neil to trust him

[amphibianaday]

how long have you been aware of Atul from spirit farer?

day 1532 this is obviously just an excuse to draw him again (referenced straight from an ingame screenshot) i've been passivley aware of him for a while. i'm pretty sure someone requested him and i intended to draw him and just forgot actively aware - about a week, since i started playing the game myself :)

[slimeyslimeyballsack]

Theo believing he's only good for causing pain and that he's incapable of being gentle, of receiving gentleness.

Theo believing he breaks everything he touches and he shouldn't be allowed to touch precious items. Liam being a precious item. The pack being a precious item.

Theo believing he's an attack dog on a leash, only being kept around for his use in a fight. Only so long as he is useful, so long as he's not a burden, so long as he's perfect.

Theo doing anything Liam asks of him. His inability to say no, to lie to him. Despite his attempts to keep his guard up the way he does with everyone else.

Theo believing he's irredeemable, evil, a monster, barely even human. Believing everyone feels this way about him. Liam feels this way.

Theo doesn't know what love feels like. There's an instinct in him, though. To protect Liam. In any way he can. To let nothing bad ever happen to him again. Even Theo.

[dreamlandcreations]

Imagine sneaking around with your Captain...

Imagine sneaking around with your Captain, Shanks. You think the crew doesn't know and would like to keep it that way for a while, partly because you don't want to hear the guys teasing, partly due to your doubts about the nature of your relationship and the redhead's feelings for you.

Meanwhile, the crew keeps snickering as you and their captain can't keep your eyes off each other throughout the day. They keep their mostly silent amusement to themselves for a time. And it goes on for quite a while before an innocently joking comment has your captain replying something in an unusually irritated tone that ends with calling you his.

His surly mood is gone in an instant as the guys raise a cup to the two of you, some of them even commenting that it was about damn time. They are all laughter and cheers after that, especially when Shanks suddenly throws you over his shoulder and takes you to his cabin to show you that you are, in fact, his because after seeing your stunned reaction and disbelief of his claim, you need some... convincing.

[seiwas]

here for your game!! i am kindly asking for megumi and royal au!! 💗 hope you’re doing well sel!!

cici!! thanks for playing with me 🥺 this was so fun to think about! i hope you’re doing well too 🥺

megumi + royal au

megumi was born to be your knight, and yuuji your prince.

at least, that was what was intended.

your mothers had all grown together in a town south of where she eventually married into. your mother and yuuji’s had both married into royalty, while megumi’s remained in the noble high class.

every summer, your families would gather on an island east of the southern sea—a place your mothers had spent their blazing summers in as maidens. it was where they could be free, without the watching eyes of their tutors from the academy.

it was where megumi’s mother had met his father, and where they eventually fell in love, then married. megumi was born in the winter, but you are certain that if he were born in the summer, his first breath would have been the crisp air of the southern sea.

the island is your second home, a place where you, megumi, and yuuji grew up together. afternoon tag games in fields of cosmos, and stargazing at night, just at the hilltop overlooking the island’s coast. it holds every memory you keep close to your chest.

you lost your first tooth there when you slammed face-first into yuuji’s back after finally catching up to him in your game of chase. yuuji ran straight back to the summer house to call for your mother, but megumi remained right there beside you, crouched low with his arm stretched out to your lips. he’d pulled his sleeves all the way down for it, offering up the fabric for you to bite into to stop the bleeding in the meantime.

memories of summer remind you of yuuji’s bright eyes, like the sun, constantly beckoning you and megumi for a day of adventure. they remind you of megumi’s, a deep blue-green that takes on light like the stars. a depth hidden in constellations; to this day, they still make you curious, and you still find yourself lost in them more times than you would admit.

you were a formidable trio, your bond unbreakable the same way your mothers’ was. a relationship grown in fondness but predestined all the same. you had an inkling early on that you and yuuji were to be paired at some point of your lives.

and you love him, yes. it is impossible not to, in some way. but you do not love him like that—for you, it has always been megumi.

since training for knighthood in your kingdom, and being orphaned from a tragic accident that killed both his parents, megumi has been by your side, his life sworn to yours.

he watches you quietly and carefully, standing close to you when you go into town. his body is but your human shield, though you know it is out of more than just his obligation when he remains on edge, even for paper cuts and needle pricks from sewing his or yuuji’s latest handkerchiefs.

megumi has a steady resolve and an even steadier hand; he would occasionally teach you the essentials of holding a knife, though you know combat training is far from what any of your tutors would want you to be doing on a sunday night.

“for your letters, and other things,” he’d penned on the note attached to his gift for your 16th birthday.

a thin, dainty thing. sharp at the tip with elegant vines at its base. a letter opener.

you do not receive as many letters as you send off, he knows that much. the only letters you write are for him and yuuji, but even those are different in nature; yuuji’s often come in elegant envelopes, wax-sealed with his family crest. megumi’s, however, are on papers torn in haste, folded to be slipped discreetly into his pockets, or to be slid right underneath his door.

‘and other things’ he had said, and you are certain he means ‘for your protection, when i cannot be there’. it fits perfectly into the palm of your hand and is light enough for you to carry wherever you go. he has given you enough lessons for you to know how to use it when you need to.

marriage is a topic you have yet to fully speak to your parents about. they have never imposed it on you, knowing full well there is no rush, especially when your father is not so particular about political alliances. but ever since you were young, you have always known it was predestined to be yuuji.

but again, that was what was intended.

during the tail end of your 17th spring, the gojo family put out a hunt. the royal family only comprised the lone gojo king, his own parents now retired and out of the political scene—and he needed an heir.

to your surprise, the king himself appeared on your family’s doorstep, carefully assessing all the boys in your household.

then, his blue eyes landed right next to you, to the boy who has always been right by your side; the boy who has sworn his life to yours by knighthood.

“you,” the gojo king points.

your megumi.

you freeze, gripping the letter opener behind you. you don’t know how to feel; you can’t tell if this is a good thing or not.

would he have to leave?

the gojo kingdom is further up north, and surely megumi cannot reign as its prince if he is away from it.

megumi looks at the king, then at you.

what do you do?

[inhuman-obey-me]

Hello! Congratulations of 4000+ followers! Y'all do amazing writing, and its been really cool to see the blog grow overtime

For the event, may I request⚡️with Diavolo and yes on MC! Thank you so much, and I hope y'all have a good day

Thank you so much!! ;//u//; And also thank you for sticking around for so long -- it really does mean a lot! 💕

"What good is this "great power" of mine? Absolutely everything slips through my fingers." - Diavolo/MC

You hadn’t asked for this power. 

No, it was something that had been thrust into your hands, into your very being as the trajectory of your life changed the instant you opened your eyes and found your gaze held by pools of gold in an unknown and dangerous world. It was that one moment that began the unraveling, the revealing of all that you were and to be. 

It seems like such a distant memory now, that first day in the Devildom. 

No, you hadn’t asked for this power, but you didn’t refute it either. You had welcomed it, reveled in it. You had been plunged into a world of magic and monsters, angels and demons, witches and sorcerers – and you, a mere human who had been oblivious to the very real existence of this world in the shadows, were considered to be one of the most powerful mortals among it. 

And yet, as of late, you had been feeling absolutely powerless.

“Love, you’ve barely touched your food.” Diavolo’s gentle voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you look up now to meet those same golden eyes you first held all those years ago. His gaze flickers to your hand, where you’ve been fidgeting with the Ring of Light. The one thing stopping your very existence from ending the world as you knew it.

“Sorry,” You give him an apologetic smile as you lift your fork, letting it slowly sink into one of the vegetables on your plate. “I guess I just have a lot on my mind.” 

“Care to share?” He’s worried. “You know you can tell me anything.” 

“I know.” A sigh, and you set your fork down as you lean back in your chair. You try to find the words, your emotions half-formed on your tongue. “It’s just…with everything going on, I feel rather…useless.” 

“Useless? You?” Diavolo nearly scoffs, leaning forward in bewilderment. “What makes you think that? Surely, we’ve all told you how you’ve done so much for us, for the Three Realms.” 

“Have I, though?” You feel your throat begin to tighten, so you try to force your feelings down. “Everyone says that, and sure, to some extent I’ve played my part. But,” Your fingers tighten around the napkin in your lap. “You all have helped each other. I’ve just been a conduit, and sometimes I…I’ve been more of a problem to solve than a solution.” 

“That’s not true–”

“But it is!” 

Your voice cracks then, and you realize you can’t keep down the swirl of doubt and agony any longer. Before you even feel the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, you find Diavolo now right beside you, holding your hands in his. 

“My love, you hold more power than you can even begin to imagine.”

“And what of it!” You hastily remove your hands from his grasp, waving to the air around you. “What good is this ‘great power’ of mine?” The tears have escaped, and there’s a pang in your chest. “Absolutely everything slips through my fingers. I’ve barely begun to understand it and…and I don’t even know if I could save the very ones I care about from those that wish them harm.” Your eyes flicker to the ceiling, and you try to blink back the salt that hasn’t already slid down your cheeks. “I’ve come closer to destroying everything with it!” 

The silence that follows your outburst is heavy. Diavolo examines your visage with a somber expression, his lips that so often are curved into a grin now taut and straight. It feels like ages before he finally speaks. 

“It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it?” You don’t know if you’ve ever heard his voice so low before. He was a demon who could make a whole room shake with his jovial laugh. “There are days where I, too, feel utterly powerless.” 

“You?” Grasping at that napkin again, you bring it up to dry your face. “But–”

“I’m the ruler of the Devildom? One of the most powerful beings in the Three Realms? Yes, my dear. All great power comes with its golden chains, with its obstacles.” With a heavy sigh, Diavolo looks around the lavish dining hall you were both seated in. “A faction of the House of Lords continuously tries to undermine me, scheming behind my back to try and throw me out of my position.” His gaze now falls onto a painting on the distant wall, brushstrokes capturing war and fury. “The Celestial Realm tests my patience, mocking me at times as they play their own games, mainly of semantics.” 

He turns his attention back to you with a sad smile. “They’re all waiting to find a crack, see what will bring me down to my knees. They’ve nearly succeeded at times. Made me feel like I was just a child playing at king. Made me feel that no matter the power I possessed, they could still pull the rug from under me.” 

His hands find yours again, and this time you let them stay. 

“But what I found is that despite it all, despite all the power that I possess, what really puts my feet on solid ground is having those who still stand by my side through it all.” He looks deep into your eyes, and once more you’re captivated by that calming gold.

“And you, darling, have some of the best by yours.”

[stardustizuku]

Something I find extremely refreshing in AoB is how the narrative lets Rozemyne be a warrior, and the one with the most political influence on her own.

Ive read too many Isekai and almost all the time the power a Female Lead wields is entirely on who she marries or who is interested in her. She may be just the daughter of a marquis, but the crown prince is so infatuated with her, he’ll do anything! So that means he’ll solve all her problems for her!

Which is, fine in some cases. But I noticed this means that if she gets wronged, she’s the never the one to get revenge (even in so called “villainess” stories).

This ties into the idea of women having to remain “good”, so while they are allowed to want revenge, they can never enact it. Or at least not be the one to, through violence, deal the final blow. This would make them directly responsible for their actions. So while the villain/villainess can die, it can never be the FL who uses the sword to kill them. It always has to be through the Male Lead, another Villain, or even the Court System.

So by having the Male Lead be the one to physically enact the revenge or wielding the power - the Female Lead gets to come out as the “good” one in the READER’s eyes. Because her actions can never be morally grey (in fear of alienating readers)

HOWEVER by doing this you also make her power subservient to the man’s affection towards her. And makes her overall power to come off as…useless in some cases.

I just read one where the, supposedly, genius swordswoman is almost r*ped. She does try to attack the man, but gets overwhelmed. The prince is the one who jumps into the action to not only save her, but kill the man. Which was infuriating cause: Why did the author chose to rob her main character of being the one to hurt the men who hurt her? Minutes later she does kill a man, so it was entirely so she could be saved by a man from an even worse man.

But AoB doesn’t do that.

Rozemyne is powerful, because she wields insane amounts of power as Rozemyne. She’s the one who creates trends, she’s the one who knows the Bible, she’s the one who created paper books, she’s the one forming alliances and creating her own “faction” of sorts that is 120% loyal to her.

Never does her power become related to who she’s engaged with. Her power is inherent to her, and people try to tie her down or control her via marriage. She gets engaged to Wilfred because she’s becoming too influential and they hope that that can be transferred to Wilfred and cement HIS position as the next in line. She gets engaged to Sisgwald because she’s the one who is closest to getting the Book of Mestionora and they NEED her be part of the royal family.

The only instance in which she wields the power of who she’s engaged to get away with anything - is during the Ahrensbach attack and it’s simply a

Which facilitated everything but given the circumstances, she was gonna do it even if he didn’t give her his blessing.

Even with her endgame partner, Ferdinand, the dynamic is so different.

In most stories the FL attracts the attention of progressively more powerful and higher-ranking-than-her men, and most always ends up with the one with the highest political power.

In more than one occasion I’ve seen a FL ditch the knight who’s been with her since day 1, to be with the crown prince cause he’s the one who will make her the most powerful woman in the room. It’s always framed as “true love” but sometimes it’s done so poorly you can see that’s just the author wanting her to end up as a princess.

Ferdinand is never the most powerful man in the room. At least politically speaking. Yes, he’s the smartest, most capable and the one pulling the strings, but that doesn’t translate to political power. In part 2, in the temple, the one with the most power is Bezewanst. And part 3 an onwards, you could argue Rozemyne is always the one with the higher rank.

In the temple, she’s the High Bishop, and in the castle she’s an archduke candidate with Leisgang blood. Ferdinand is the High Priest and the half brother of the archduke with no real faction behind him. Rozemyne is aware that titles aren’t the only thing that matters and Ferdinand is obviously the best because he’s capable - but that’s not the norm in most Isekai stories.

It’s even used at times as a way to alíviate Ferdinand’s burden. She’s the High Bishop - she’s capable of denying extra work and even ordering him to take care of himself.

Even as Ferdinand is married off, the one creating connections to the royal family to alíviate his pain is Rozemyne, not the other way around. The one wielding her power to force others to protect her loved ones is HER. Ferdinand is, up to that point, only trying to save himself and Ehrenfest. Rozemyne fits the archetype of a Male Lead far better than Ferdinand in some cases.

And while she never gets to give out the order or kill someone whos wronged her directly, it doesn’t feel bad because one, Rozemyne rarely holds a grudge and sees them getting disposed outside of her eyes as the best way to handle it. Because two, she hates blood and unnecessary violence. And that, in the narrative, is genuinely presented as a flaw. It’s not a “she’s so pure she can’t be mean”, it’s a “she would do it but she genuinely can’t stomach it”. She could do it, she would rather not.

There’s also the fact that she’s genuinely good at combat - at least as a strategist, healer and commander. Her inability to wield a sword to directly attack others (but she did use the spear once) and frail nature, is not doesn’t feel like an excuse to not have her kill, but a limit. She can’t do everything. She’s filling a lot of positions, having her grab a sword is not only out of character but unnecessary.

The only people who she seems to hold a very real grudge against are Georgine and Detline, and that’s entirely for what they’ve done to others, not her. And while I’m still in part 8, her not being the one to directly kill then of get rid of them in the future, does not seem bad. Because Ferdinand and Sylvester have waaaay more reasons to hate them and get their revenge.

[sematarygirls]

okay but sonny showing you off infront of the squad and making Amanda jelly because he’s sooooo in love with you

need tbh, omg 🤭

                   ౨ৎ

he would be so excited to introduce you to the squad. you two had only been dating for a couple of weeks, but he talked nonstop about you. they thought he rambled enough before he met you, but after? my god, they wanted to throttle him.

he'd want to do it in a casual setting when the whole team was relaxed and not worrying about cases, so when amanda proposed that they all go out for drinks, he saw the perfect opportunity.

he asked, of course, if he could invite you. he didn't want you to just show up and have it be awkward. they all agreed, though, of course. they wanted to see who had been able to make him so happy recently (also, they weren't even entirely sure that you weren't just a figment of his imagination).

amanda had been oddly quiet when he brought up inviting you, plastering a tight smile on her face and nodding.

"of course," she said, something unreadable in her tone.

normally, sonny would have immediately picked up on her shift in demeanor. he was her, self-proclaimed, best friend after all, but he was just so excited to finally introduce you to these people that he had grown to consider his second family.

he shot you a quick text, asking if you were available to meet them at the bar, and thankfully, you were. although you would probably drop anything you were doing if he asked you to anyway.

his fingers drummed on the bar impatiently as he waited for you. he kept glancing over at the door, willing you to walk through it.

"look at him; he's like a lovesick puppy," fin teased him, noticing that he was more interested in the front door than the conversation going on.

"leave the poor boy alone, fin," olivia scolded him playfully. sonny rolled his eyes at their teasing, not paying it any mind.

"oh, here she is," he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. he practically jumped out of his seat to greet you at the door.

"hey," you laughed, giving him a quick kiss on the lips as he appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere.

"we're right over here," he said, a big, goofy grin on his face. he rested his hand on your lower back, leading you over to the squad. "everyone, this is my girlfriend," he introduced you.

you smiled, giving a little wave as you said hello and told them your name. "it's so nice to finally meet you all. sonny has told me all about you."

"he has, has he?" olivia grinned, raising an eyebrow. sonny smiled nervously, blushing as he rubbed the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't secured around your waist.

"likewise," fin nodded, giving you a warm smile. "i was beginning to think carisi here was making you up."

"nope, definitely real," you laughed nervously. everyone fell silent for a moment, an awkward tension settling. you tried not to take it too personally. you were a stranger, and they were like family. it was natural for there to be some awkwardness. sonny cleared his throat, deciding to break the awkward silence.

"here, take my seat," he insisted, ushering you to the barstool.

"thank you," you smiled brightly, your heart fluttering at your boyfriend's kindness. you didn't think there'd ever be a time when he didn't make your heart race.

"chivalry isn't dead after all," fin joked as you took a seat.

"yeah, yeah," sonny rolled his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. he was used to fin's little remarks by now. he stood behind you, one hand on your waist and the other holding his beer. he was so close that if you leaned back a little, you'd probably press against him. it made a blush rise to your cheeks.

"amanda, right?" you asked, turning your attention to the blonde sitting next to you. she'd been awfully quiet, eyeing you warily. you knew how close sonny was with her, so it was important to you that she liked you.

"yup, that's me," she says, her tone uninterested. she flashes a smile your way, one that doesn't quite meet her eyes.

your brows furrowed slightly. you got the impression that she didn't like you, and you couldn't possibly think of a reason why that may be. you'd only been here for five minutes tops. how had you already done something to put you out of her good graces?

you didn't have long to dwell on this fact, however, because fin's voice cut through your thoughts, making you turn to face him. he began telling some story about his ex-wife that had you smiling and laughing along with him.

fin was so enigmatic. it was almost impossible not to be sucked into whatever he was saying, just by the way that he was saying it.

the rest of the night was a blur of drinks and stories. in the couple hours you were with the squad, you'd learned all about their job and all the embarrassing things sonny had done at one point or another.

he kept on hand on or around you at all times, staying close. so close that you could almost feel the rumble of his laugh. he smiled and doted on you all night long, making you blush. he was so in love with you, and he didn't even try to hide it.

amanda stayed relatively quiet throughout the night, and you could practically feel her burning gaze as she stared at you. she didn't seem anything like what sonny had told you about her, but again, you tried not to take it personally. you were sure she was probably lovely once you got to know her.

really, though, amanda was jealous. she hated how nice you were because it made it hard to hate you (hard, not impossible). she tried to be cordial enough and not show her dislike for you, but to be honest, her poker face wasn't all that great.

she was happy at first when she'd heard him talking about you two, but seeing you two together stirred something inside her that she'd rather not admit.