#//writing this as I'm outside lol

[pepper-potts-in-charge]

Pepper’s controlled smile never faltered, but inside, everything was a mess of jagged edges and burning questions she wasn’t ready to face.

He was still there. Still waiting.

Her gaze flicked to him again—just for a split second—but even that tiny glance felt like she’d broken some unspoken rule. He wasn’t the same Tony Stark she used to know. No, this one was different. The cocky grin, the way he always managed to command attention... it all felt like a distant echo now.

The room swirled around her, laughter and conversation overlapping, the sharp clink of crystal flutes. But it was like the noise was muted—everything felt distant, like it was happening far away, and she was left alone in the suffocating quiet of her own thoughts.

She could still feel him.

Every inch of him.

The weight of his eyes on her, the pull she could never quite escape. No matter how much she wanted to, no matter how many times she tried to tell herself that this was over, that they were over, she couldn’t shake it. Not with him standing there. Not when everything she’d buried so carefully rose to the surface again.

She shouldn’t care. She really shouldn’t. He was Tony Stark—he always had the world at his feet, didn’t he? She’d seen it. She’d watched him win and lose, rebuild and break down, like it was all part of some grand performance.

But when he looked at her like that, it wasn’t just Tony Stark—the billionaire playboy who changed the world one invention at a time. It was him—the man she used to believe in. The man who had meant everything.

And now... now he was standing there, giving her nothing but the same unresolved ache she’d been trying to outrun. Maybe it wasn't just 'who had meant everything', no matter how much she was forcing herself to believe. It was 'who still did'.

She took another sip of her drink, hoping the cool liquid would steady her, calm the rush of feelings that suddenly felt too much. Too loud. Too real.

She wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. Not when she’d spent weeks convincing herself that this was the right choice. The right thing.

But every time she let herself breathe, every time she looked at him—his posture tense, his eyes burning with something unspoken—everything she’d built up in her mind crumbled. And for just a moment, she didn’t want to be the strong, composed Pepper Potts. She wanted to be the woman who had let herself fall in love with him. The one who didn’t overthink, didn’t second-guess, didn’t pretend.

She felt a wave of frustration rise in her chest, and before she knew it, she was turning her head just enough to catch his gaze again. And this time, it wasn’t a glance. It was a look that said everything, even without words.

For a moment, she almost wanted to say something—anything—that would break the tension. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not here. Not in front of all these people. Not when the truth would destroy them both.

And yet, the unspoken connection lingered. The pull. The ache.

It always had been there, hadn’t it? Even when they thought they had it under control. Even when they both tried to convince themselves they were done.

But no. Not yet. Not while Tony was still standing there, still waiting for something neither of them was ready to give.

So, she did what she always did. She buried it. And she turned away.

But the weight of his presence? That never left. It never would.

SATURDAY OPEN RP! GOLDEN GALA CHARITY EVENT HOSTED BY EMERSON ENTERPRISES CEO!

The atmosphere within the main ballroom is spectacular with all the golden accents on top of black table clothes. The room is decorated to the nines with everything that could ever be done. James has his staff to thank for that.

The guests start to trickle in slowly but surely. The splendor of it all actually makes some of them gape in awe.

James knows he's going to have to go around the room talking to each one throughout the night, and maybe they will talk to each other. Tonight is about making connections and possible friendships with the people of the city. They have to band together to fight what could possibly come. This is his strategy.

This is just one step of many to take down HYDRA.

But they aren't on his mind tonight.

He greets everyone with a smile when he walks up to them. And they greet him in return when they want to speak with him.

The auction will be towards the middle of the event followed by dancing. He's pretty sure the ones with children won't stay for that.

Mingle and have fun.

Even though there are Anti-Mutant protestors threatening to show up at any moment.

At least Rumlow isn't going to be here.

//OOC Instructions: Mingle, have fun, and make some chaos happen.//

@luna-draven-barnes @wilsonfisk-thekingpin @under0-0s @the1-and-only-peggycarter @thund3randrain @thebestmerc-1 @the-daily-bugle-official-blog @nearthewaters @theoldcapsicleicle

If I missed your tag, I'm sorry, I can't remember everyone that I talked too for some reason (probably fibro brain fog) and anyone is welcome to join!!!

[hyakunana]

Sponsor Switch!

[the-peak-tmnt]

Oh no, the jig is up! This person has discovered my dark secret! I'm totally paying people to read my silly ninja turtle fanfic because it's just too unbelievable that people would read a long fic or leave long comments because of...

[checks comment again] ...high gas prices???

[shannonsketches]

The way I will simply never recover from this page:

Vegeta's Panic and then IMMEDIATE affection for his new baby

Vegeta being excited to have a daughter

Goku assuming his wife Magic'd their children out of herself

Supreme Kai being embarrassed for Goku

Beerus getting wasted

Bulma saying she will raw dog her husband frequently and expeditiously with her whole chest, in front of god and everybody

Whis being like 'i gotchu babe 💅 but i gotta borrow ur man first or there'll be no more boning for anybody lol'

[burningcheese-merchant]

i cannot in good conscience ship hollyberry and eternal sugar because i'm too enamored with chaos berserker couple hollytaya. i can't wait to see them together again in beast yeast.

I'm happy you're so excited, anon friend. May that hope and joy fuel the smoldering embers burning within your heart in your darkest days

In the meantime, I shall continue bracing myself for my second impromptu descent into the fiery depths of Hell. Virgil bailed out at the last second so I have to go alone again. God have mercy on my soul

[evilfloralfoolery]

Nothing Like a Hot Shower

Just a short bunch of indulgent porn here. Grimm is soaking wet from the rain and suffering. Indigo has a few ideas for a cure.

Before Grimm was a mercenary of sorts, he was a cop. He retired early, but every now and then, he goes back to help out with things. I started writing an arc where that happens. Maybe I just like hot buttered cop porn.

Indulgent NSFW purple prose nonsense.

_____________________________________

“Indy.” 

An insistent knock upon the door and a tired declaration.

“I forgot my fucking keys.” 

Of course he had. Given the way Grimm had dashed out into the creeping grip of impending evening, it was a wonder he had remembered anything at all. 

“Coming!” Indigo calls from the living room. 

He hurriedly shuffles to the door, nearly losing a slipper in the process.

The audacity.

After unlatching the useless chain, he forces the deadbolt open with a grunt. Damnable wooden door. Grimm really should fix the thing.

“My apologies, I was reading in the. . .”  

His words trail into stunned silence. Grimm isn't just wet. He's positively soaked, his dark length of hair a pitiful reminiscence of a ponytail that clings to his back in listless disarray, uniform saturated to near black.

“My goodness, come inside this instant!” Indigo grabs him by the utility belt and all but jerks him across the threshold.

“Fucking useless tracking that guy in this shit.” Grimm gestures to the pelting rain, annoyance creasing his features. 

Indigo nudges the door shut with his foot and it creaks into compliance. “Indeed.” 

He stops fighting with re-engaging the wretched lock when Grimm's shaky but sharp catch of breath diverts his attention. 

“Huuuh. . .! UHCHISSH! UHSSCH! UHCHIISSCHHU!!” 

Grimm's broad shoulders shudder and flinch, one hand half-heartedly clamped over his mouth and nose.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Indigo lays a gentle hand upon his back, wincing at just how cold the fabric is to the touch. “Bless you, love.” 

“Thank you.” Grimm's gratitude is intertwined with a weary exhale, softening the words to a near whisper. 

“Off with those wet clothes immediately.” Indigo tugs at one dripping sleeve.

That delectable mouth curves into a smirk. “Can't wait to get me naked?” 

“Honestly, Grimm.” 

He unbuckles the heavy utility belt laden with multiple guns and other hardware and hands it over to Indigo, who does a double take. The thing must weigh fifteen pounds at the very least. Hard to imagine sprinting through the city streets with such a monstrosity.

The uniform follows, accompanied by the Kevlar concealed beneath it. Boots and belt. And the pants, after a brief struggle to practically peel the things away from Grimm's thickly muscled thighs. 

Great gods, the man is stunning, even when spent and freezing.

“Hhh-huuuh! UHSSCHU! –GKSSSHH!!” 

And even more so whilst doing that. 

“Bless you,” Indigo says with such nausea-inducing sweetness, he nearly rolls his eyes at himself. “Shower. Now, Grimm.” 

“Fucking bossy,” Grimm says, but the words are affectionate rather than chastising. 

He also does as Indigo requests (or orders) and saunters into the bathroom, dropping his boxer briefs somewhere along the way. 

A positively wrenching “HUH’AHSSSCHH-UU!” echoes in rough desperation from the rather impressive bathroom acoustics and Indigo steps up his pace. 

Grimm has already turned on the shower, the steam just beginning to rise as he fights with the hair tie.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters in a voice thick with growing congestion.

“Allow me.” Indigo crosses the distance that separates them to aid his amusingly cross partner.

Gentle fingers manipulate his damp hair into submission, freeing it to tumble past his shoulders in a tangled nest of darkness.

“I rather fancy your hair pulled away from your face,” Indigo says. “It has gotten quite long.” 

“Yeah?” Grimm sniffles and snatches a handful of tissues from the box near the counter. “Looks better when it's not wehhh-huuuh!” His features cinch into urgent helplessness and his expression crumbles. “UHH’CHISSSHU!  HH’GISSCH!  UHHGKSSSCHHiuu!’

“Into the shower with you.”  Indigo half-shoves the other man towards the sliding glass door and Grimm glances over his shoulder, hair sliding down his back.

“Wanna join me?”

That coy expression combined with his insistent sniffling and darker pitch to his voice is enough to drive Indigo mad.  

Before he can negotiate the pros and cons of disrobing himself yet again, his treacherous hands have already begun the process of unbuttoning his pajama top.  

Gods be damned.

At least Grimm has stepped beneath the hot spray, water streaming off of every plane of his body in a manner that is somehow most obscene.  Indigo follows suit and slides the glass door shut.

Grimm’s massive hands land on either side of his waist and pull him close with an indecent slap of naked skin-to-skin contact.

“You miss me?”

Indigo winds his fingers into Grimm’s saturated hair and grips a handful.  “Perhaps.” 

A low chuckle. Calloused fingers running over his bare skin.  

“Remind me, what rank have they assigned you?”  Indigo traces a lazy path down Grimm’s chest, stopping short at the space just below his belly button.

“Captain,” Grimm says.  “Pissed a lot of people off.”

“Captain first or surname?”

Hands squeeze his sides and Grimm rolls his hips in a suggestive manner just enough to elicit an involuntary shiver from Indigo. “Captain Amadis.” 

“How very official and imposing,” Indigo says.  

“Uh huh.”  Grimm leans down to nuzzle his chin, nips at the fragile pulsepoint near the base of his throat.  

“Well, Captain Amadis.” Indigo brushes a clinging strand of dark hair away from the edge of his lips.  “Are you, perhaps, going to conduct a search of my person?”

One eyebrow arches high.  “That depends.”  Grimm’s voice drops to the darkest gravel it can muster.  “Are you concealing any weapons?”

Indigo’s hand slips below the threshold of Grimm’s hips and wraps around him with a decisive squeeze.  “I see that you have chosen to open carry.” 

Grimm’s laugh is a resonant ringing within the confines of the shower.

“Hmmn, well.”  Grimm dips his head, lips pressed against the shell of Indigo’s ear.  “Guess I’ll just have to frisk you.” He walks Indigo backwards until his back connects with the warm marble framework. “Don’t resist.”

Capable fingers run the length of his sides, delving lower and lower still, probing his shower-warmed skin with tactile precision.  The simple act of Grimm’s skilled touch is enough to quicken his breath, to ignite a slow, roiling burn within him, to–

The hands cinch tight upon his hips and Grimm’s breath hitches into a sharp, unhinged gasp, leaving his touch intact, but turning his head at the very last second.  

Partially. 

“Huuuh . . .! UHCHISSHHu! UHHCHIISSHHUU! Huuhh!---AHSSCCHHIIUUH!” 

He holds nothing back, his thick frame shuddering, translating through Indigo’s entire body like a seismic shock.  

“Hnnh, bless you . . .” Indigo barely manages with such a markedly indecent groan that Grimm recovers himself with a smoldering smirk of a smile. 

“Thank you,” he says, sniffling in a most audaciously liquid manner that is counterpoint to Indigo’s vocal betrayal. “Now come here.” 

Grimm gathers him into his embrace and hoists him to a greater height, using the wall as a counterbalance to plunder Indigo’s entire being in every way he can muster.  

Mere moments pass before Grimm’s carnal attentions provoke an equally unadulterated response, and Indigo is more than a little grateful for both the stability of the wall behind him and his partner’s capable grip upon his body.  

He sinks his hands into Grimm’s damp hair, gives the dark locks an authoritative jerk, and Grimm is sent tumbling after him into the heated abyss.  His bonded mate may have a monopoly on Indigo’s libido with a liberal use of his odd predilection, but Grimm himself certainly has his own weaknesses. 

Gradually, the racing of his heart subsides and his breathing begins to normalize as Grimm sets him gently on his feet, arms settling around his shoulders.

“Good goddamn.” Grimm runs a hand through his hair, slicking it away from his face.

“Indeed.” Indigo leans into his embrace and happily indulges in the close, intimate contact of skin against skin.

Perhaps a second shower had not been such an arduous affair after all. 

[damthosefandoms]

“Issat it?" Soda stands on his tiptoes to look over Darry's shoulder at the card in his hand. "It's real? A real driver's license?"

"Why wouldn't it be real?" Darry says, although he knows Soda's probably thinking about Two-Bit's fake ID he's been showing off lately... as if anyone would fall for it. Keith's fourteen. Darry's fairly certain he isn't even shaving yet.

Soda's moved on, anyway.

"You can drive us down the Ribbon now! We can pick up girls!” Soda cries out excitedly.  He tries jumping on Darry’s back and Darry shrugs out of the way, shaking his brother off so Soda tumbles back to his feet.

“Girls, huh? What kinda girls you pickin’ up over at the middle school, Sodapop?” Darry jeers, but as usual the chatterbox has an answer for everything.

“Cute ones,” Soda drawls, grinning ear to ear. “Blondes, even.”

“Who’re you, Two-Bit? You ain’t picking up no blondes. ‘Sides, why should I cruise around with you, shortstack? I got friends my own age for that.”

“What, like Paul? You always hang with Paul. More’n any girls, even. How come’s that, Dare? You got the hots for him or somethin’?" The kid has the guts to smirk. "Paul's blond.”

Darry instinctively swings at Soda. He ducks and Darry pulls him into a loose headlock.

“I ain’t got the hots for no one, kid, you shut your damn mouth ‘fore I shut it for ya—”

Soda elbows him in the gut and uses the opportunity to run for his life, cackling like a maniac. Darry’s left standing there, heart racing, but for some reason he's pretty sure it’s not from the thrill of messing around with his little brother.

[witheredgardenparty]

No one asked, but my biggest inspiration for wanting to write folk horror specifically was how many other stories I read emphasized trying to escape from the danger. Which is fair. The two most common themes I noticed were: A. Character is from a city and gets overwhelmed once removed from civilization or alone and B. Character spends a lot of time running.

Except.

I grew up in the mountains. Not the cute "rich people vacation here" mountains either. I know how to survive in a certain type of wilderness. This is not scary to me.

What I cannot do is run. My legs do not do that. I walk with a cane most of the time. So running? Not even an option.

That is where the folk story inspiration comes in. Folk stories focus a lot on trickery and thinking to work your way out of a problem.

Horror-horror is misunderstanding the situation until the creep begins. You cannot know the story you have entered. There is false safety. There is powerlessness. You lock your own exits shut. The rabbit invites the fox in. Predator gets the prey.

But predators have to conserve their energy. Trophic level biology. Eating a rabbit is nowhere near as nutritious as the rabbit eating grass. A predator can only afford to strike when they know they have got an easy win. Killing is for eating.

But the prey? A prey has a magnitude more energy at their disposal. Should they manage to overcome the instinct of fear, the instinct to run, a greater, more profound instinct remains. Moose are armed with more than legs for a reason.

So maybe a city rabbit does not know to fear the fox. Foxes are cute and charismatic. Maybe once it is obviously too late, a city rabbit has no choice but to flee, no matter how fruitless an endeavor it surely is.

The mountain rabbit? The mountain rabbit knows better. Maybe the mountain rabbit cannot keep the fox out. Cannot stop the doors from locking. Maybe the legs cannot run, knows better than to try. Maybe the fox has teeth and claws and intent, but a rabbit is not defenseless either, and once the baser instincts are gone... well. For the predator, killing serves a purpose. For the prey? Killing is for fun.

[batbabydamian]

so, Batman #147… rambling about the difference in how Zdarsky portrays the two current Robins

this is a fantastic run for Tim, and very much written like a return to form of what plenty consider the best dynamic duo, but even more so "the best Robin". once Damian's introduced in this run, Zdarsky really makes sure you still know that lol

1. "We don't need anyone else" VS "I need my family"

#147 clearly exemplifies the contrast, so i'll go through it first. Damian, having fallen for Zurr's lie and accepted him as the real Bruce, goes so far as to say in the very first page "We don't need anyone else." it's cold colors, machinery, and hollow declarations of "father and son" for these two.

towards the ending, Tim has deduced where the real Bruce is hiding and brings him food expecting Bruce's knack for self-neglect. it's all warmth, sunshine, and mutual understanding - also a cute back and forth of "Batman and Robin" between them. on top of this, where Damian isolates Batman & Robin from family, Tim is the one to remind Bruce about "helping each other." Bruce heartily agrees with "I need my family" for a weighty end.

along with this parallel, from #138 Tim makes it clear that even in opposition, he's only ever trying to help Bruce. Damian was still on the wrong side with Zurr-induced-Bruce here at the time too 😭

2. Tim's independence as both a hero and partner

Tim is written as the ideal Robin to Bruce's Batman, and has made Robin its own independent hero on equal footing rather than a sidekick - it's made in statements by both Tim and Bruce, and through the entire narrative. he takes initiative and tries to foresee what would ultimately help Bruce. beyond being great partners, there's many bits showing their emotional connection ("i'm scared of being lost, but i'm more scared of losing you, Bruce" hit me like a bag of bricks). tbh this almost could be a Batman and Robin run lol

added the first panel from #126 of Tim declaring he's his own hero outside of Bruce, proven plenty especially in his backups in #131-134!! the other panels are a few highlights from #128, #130, and #135 of the partnership between Tim and Bruce

granted it's Zurr, but Damian is mostly seen following orders and given pensive looking panels when there's something concerning. While Tim continued to represent Batman's ideals during his own solo quest to find Bruce, Damian doesn't question or take action against "Bruce's" sudden shift in ethics

Batman #134 Backup - Tim showing support toward Toyman VS Batman #146 - Zurr and Damian confront Harley as she pleads about her change of heart

another kiinda parallel in #147 is Bruce acknowledging Tim's hard work to become Robin compared to Damian who's out here going Batman and Robin/Father and Son. i don't think it's an intended parallel but just the state of continuing to show Tim in a better light - Tim put in the effort "to become the second-best Robin" while Damian is Robin because..."son." supposedly less effort on his part too, because LOA.

second pic is from Batman/Catwoman The Gotham War: Scorched Earth, felt fitting to add since Tim mentions needing to "know everything" in both. and the humble brag. which ofc Tim believes Dick is the best!! but also. jic we didn't know Tim is the best current Robin sdfgh

3. Damian's blind loyalty as "Bruce's son"

there's a weight to the Robin title when regarding Tim, whereas Damian's "Robin" role is excess and counterintuitive. he's delegated to desperate sidekick to Bruce, as well as becoming an obstacle to the family. being Robin only seems significant to Damian in how it ties himself to his father, and his single Robin quality is a loyalty that's been written to an extreme fault. the only positive angle i could see this in is Zdarsky aiming to put Damian in a sympathetic light in how far Damian was willing to fall to stay by his father's side, hence, fooled by that nightmare story/confession. the problem with this is that we have not seen a single emotional connection between the two in this run, so why should we care about that relationship.

also, Damian constantly bringing up his position as Bruce's son just makes him look entitled? since Bruce rightfully expressed his claim of having the others as his sons too (with the unfortunate exclusion of his daughter)! so it's like a "lol you're not that special" vibe when looking at it from the outside?? ykw concerning #138, Damian saying "You're the one trying to destroy my father" also could have been in contrast to Tim saying "We'll help our dad" at the end.

Zdarsky seems to believe the only meaningful part of Damian being Robin is he's the son of Bruce, and not a single nod to any noble aspect Damian's achieved beyond that. we're constantly reminded of Tim's greatest hits as Robin, from taking on the mantle to pull Bruce out of darkness (#135, #138), mastermind a whole takedown (Gotham War: Scorched Earth), and always being on the same wavelength with Bruce etc. the entire run sings Tim's praise, and it's deserved!! my problem is how it's in stark contrast to Damian's portrayal of being the other Robin who's only special because he believes he's the greatest son and wants to be at Bruce's side.

so all this to say, if your fav is Tim YOU'RE EATING WELL!! personally as a chronic enjoyer of things, this has been an entertaining run! as a chronic enjoyer of Damian, it's definitely not for many of his fans at this point in time.

i did like this part!! his grin!!

[trevination]

tee hee marbit snip :3

[moonstonetide]

excerpt from my h2o inspired mermaid history book pt.1

We do know that merpeople are social, aquatic mammals. They exist in pods, similar to dolphins. These pods congregate near shore but often refuse to go on land. The vast majority of pods center around a “moon pool” (see Chapter Three: Moon Connection), a geographical land formation that merpeople tend to worship as temples. There are many of these across the globe, with varying features. Most pods, like the Hawaiian and Mako pods, revolve around a single moon pool. Other, bigger pods like the Guinea pod have more than one moon pool they seasonally migrate to and from.

As social creatures, democracy has been found prevalent in their communities. On a similar level, communication between pods, even those a great distance away, has been observed. Several pods have joined in a grander, united government. These are the Northern pod, Caribbean pod, South Pacific pod, Scotia pod, Southern pod, and the Mako pod. Each pod has its own council of appointed elders and influential figures. Among these councils, they will elect a single leader once a year. This leader travels to a congregation with elected leaders of the other pods. They will meet and discuss survival, politics, and amenities. Their meeting location rotates from each pod's main moon pool. Even pods that are not directly a part of this treaty, such as the Hawaiian pod, North Pacific,  and Mozambique pod, will work in alliance with these leaders and occasionally attend these meetings when matters are urgent, like the Great Merman Uprising (see Chapter Six: Global Political History) or the current climate crisis (see Chapter Ten: Modern Affairs and Survival)

[suchine-toki]

(The last one I swear) Top 10 Gintaka moments

Arranged chronologically because it was too difficult to choose. Spoilers ahead.

1. Boke and tsukkomi

We get another glimpse into their relationship during the Shouka Sonjuku days through a memory of Zura. Gintoki appears annoyed about only fighting against Takasugi, though the latter reveals he is ahead 57-56, which means that in a short period they had already fought more than 100 times. This implies that, as the years went by, their duels became a little less frequent. But what is really interesting and adorable here is the way Takasugi acts as Gintoki's tsukkomi and playfully scolds him (ch. 563).

2. Kick the can

At Kurokono Tasuke's suggestion, they decide to play basketball kick the can. Although it is later revealed that Gintoki and Takasugi intended to counterattack the enemy the whole time, they were clearly engrossed in the game, as evidenced by the fact that they put small bushes on their heads to camouflage. This seems to be a tactic they learned from their teacher, considering Zura did it as well. Despite everything, he notices that Gintoki and Takasugi seem more enthusiastic about competing against each other to see who is the first to launch a surprise attack on the can rather than the actual war (ch. 453).

3. Naivety and embarrassment

Around a campfire, Gintoki discusses the course of the war with Sakamoto and Zura and whether they would eventually become imperial forces if their side won. Aside from this being the only occasion where Gintoki thought about a future for himself beyond rescuing Shouyo, Takasugi mocks the idea as naive. This scene appears to be after the one where they made their promise, because Takasugi is aware that Gintoki doesn't fight for the country or for fame, but for their teacher. Thus, with great confidence, he asserts that they know what they are doing and that is enough. However, the way he says it irritates Gintoki, who then proceeds to tease him about the name of the Kiheitai, followed by some insinuations that Sakamoto quickly picks up on and joins in (ch. 633).

4. Him or me

After the events with the Ikeda family, it is revealed that Takasugi and Nobu Nobu are behind the scenes. The latter notices Takasugi's hostility towards him, so he reassures him that he never intended to go after what he calls his prey, Gintoki. Upon hearing this, Takasugi quickly changes his demeanor to a more relaxed and confident one, asserting that he would not be able to take any of their heads. Before leaving, he threatens him that if he changes his mind, either Gintoki or he himself will finish him off. This is not only another occasion where Takasugi becomes upset when others talk about Gintoki in front of him, but it also shows how, even at this point and before their confrontation, he still felt some camaraderie and understanding towards Gintoki (ch. 468).

5. Lingering feelings

Gintoki didn't only become emotional in his final fight against Takasugi when he had to attack his possessed body. In their first real confrontation, there is a direct parallel between Gintoki's face before being forced to kill Shouyo and his face before cutting Takasugi. They had already been fighting for a while, but this shows that at this moment Gintoki was already on the verge of tears. He didn't want to do it, but if someone was going to stop Takasugi, it had to be him. Arguably, this is the first time it is shown how much Gintoki still loves and cares for Takasugi even after all this time and everything that has happened (ch. 519).

6. Only me

Takasugi asks Shinpachi not to let anyone else take Gintoki's head because only he can do it, which adds to other occasions where one speaks possessively about the other. But this time it is because there are still unresolved matters between them, so Takasugi asks, in his own way, that he survives, just as Gintoki asked him 10 years ago when they made their promise during the war (ch. 575).

7. Believe in him

When Hijikata interrogates Gintoki, he fills in the gaps regarding what happened with the Tendoushuu and how all the information points to Takasugi conspiring with the enemy. Despite this, Gintoki tries to defend him, highlighting the fact that Takasugi helped them two years ago and has no reason to ally with the Tendoushuu, to which Hijikata insists that Takasugi is the type to prioritize goals over the means to achieve them. Still, Gintoki refuses to speak and betray Takasugi in any way, prompting Hijikata to question his loyalty and if the reason he insists on protecting Takasugi is because he still believes in him while being interrupted by Robozaki (ch. 674).

8. Underwater fight

When Gintoki is at his limit, surrounded by a group of assassins, a boat with explosives arrives to save him, which is revealed to have been sent by Takasugi. Gintoki doesn't miss the opportunity to tease him, calling him "mastermind" or "Hikusugi-kun," a wordplay referring to his height, and teases him about his lingering affection for the Kiheitai, the latter provoking an offensive response from him. They bicker some more before they are attacked and thrown into the water, where they fight against their enemies while also fighting each other (ch. 677).

9. Shitty brat & crazy hoodlum

This is one of the most peaceful scenes that occurs between them since they reunited. Here they are not fighting each other or anyone else, but simply talking while walking, another glimpse of how their relationship used to be. They clearly look comfortable next to each other, smiling and joking, showing how happy they are to be together, although neither of them would admit it (ch. 683).

10. Go back

On multiple occasions during the final arc, Takasugi tried to convince Gintoki, both gently and harshly, to return to the Yorozuya and his loved ones in Edo. This shows how selfless his love for Gintoki was, that even if his heart was divided because he wanted to be by his side, at the same time what Takasugi most desired was for Gintoki to be happy, with the tragedy that he wasn't really aware that he was part of Gintoki's happiness (chs. 673, 677, 683, 690, 699, 703).

Part (1) (2) (3) (4) (Bonus)

[hecatesbroom]

did I finally manage to write a brand new fic? I sure did!! with many, many thanks to the lovely @eeblouissant for inspiring me with these beautiful drawings of Blanche dipping Dorothy (and the incredibly sweet follow-up with Rose playing the piano, after our chat about this scene!!) I hope I managed to do it justice ;)

Summary

When Dorothy mentions she’s never been dipped before, Blanche and Rose decide to take matters in their own hands.

[damthosefandoms]

This old house

(ao3 link) (based on this post)

Summary:

The house will always be theirs, and nobody can take it away from them.

———

There was something so incredibly enticing about the attic pull cord. 

Maybe it was the proximity to Darry’s bedroom door; how every morning when he was younger, he’d get up and stand on the step-up to his room, and try to jump clear across the upstairs hallway, like the floor was made of lava, to the step-up to his parents’ room to wake them up. How he’d always manage to narrowly avoid that pull-cord smacking him in the face as he did so.

He still remembers his mother nagging him about it, about jumping around the tiny landing when it would be so easy to misstep and fall down the steep wooden staircase to his inevitable doom. He remembers his dad laughing and telling Mama to relax, because Dad did the same thing when he was a kid, growing up in Darry’s same bedroom, back when Grandpa Pat sacrificed a decade’s worth of paychecks to give each of his three boys their own bedroom, and built that addition onto the side of the house himself in between shifts at the factory and fighting in the first world war. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was home, and Grandpa made sure of that.

Grandpa used to tease Darry when he was real little, back before he passed; he’d hold him up and show him his best handiwork, which in hindsight was just an amateur addition to the side of an old two-story cottage, and Darry would wiggle around in his arms and try to grab at whatever he could, including that stupid pull cord. He’d laugh and untangle it from Darry’s pudgy baby hands and put him down for a nap, right there in that room that never belonged to anybody except Darrel Curtis.

Darry thinks about Grandpa Pat every time he sees it, these days. He can’t help himself when he goes up there, always reaching out to hit it, like he’s a middle school boy trying to show off and touch the top of a doorway in the hall—it’s instinct. He’s still there, in that bedroom—a room built by his grandfather, and now that he works in construction, Darry thinks about that a lot. About how his grandfather put his whole heart and soul into making this place a home, something that their family could use for generations, and how he’s unintentionally letting it go.

If you pulled the cord, a drop-down ladder would take you up into the attic, and it would take up the entire upstairs landing when it was down. You could barely maneuver around it, and that wasn’t Grandpa Pat’s fault, but when Darry was seven, he thought his Grandpa built the whole house (he didn’t—just the two side bedrooms, upstairs and down) and would blame him for everything that he felt like complaining about. Darry could grab the cord if he jumped, but his mother used to nag him about trying, saying “quit it, baby, I don’t want you takin’ a tumble!” as he’d stand up on his tip-toes at the edge of the staircase trying to reach it.

But one day, Mama’s distracted, stuck between trying to convince her most picky eater that carrots aren’t going to kill him and trying to get baby Pony to take medicine for his fever. This is his chance—Darry’s been eating his greens and finally, finally he is tall enough to pull down the attic ladder. He just wants to see what’s up there, maybe find out where that roof leak is that Dad mentioned the other night, and maybe he’s a little stir-crazy because this is the era of barefoot kids playing baseball in sandlots, but it’s a summer afternoon in 1954 and it’s raining cats and dogs out there in east Tulsa, so he can’t go play outside.

His five-year-old neighbor Keith is sitting on the step-up to Darry’s bedroom door, laughing, and his laugh only gets more infectious when the attic door opens and the ladder drops down. Darry dives out of the way, crashing into Keith as they fall back through the door onto Darry’s bedroom floor. Mama yells something up from downstairs, but Darry ignores her, telling Keith to grab the bucket so he can get it up there so Dad doesn’t have to worry about it later. 

Fast forward and Darry’s twenty years old, reaching for that same pull cord so he can put away the holiday decorations. They don’t have to worry about leaks anymore, because Darry’s got a new job and has learned how to fix the roof, but that ladder still drops down like it has it out for him, and this time Two-Bit holds it steady for him. This time, Mama isn’t there to warn him to be careful.

---

The thing about living in what used to be a glorified summer cottage is that it’s nice, almost, in the summer. They don’t have one of those fancy central air conditioning units, but with all the windows and the front and back door open, a nice breeze will blow through every so often.

Darry remembers the summer of ‘57, when he was ten years old, and he was determined to send a paper airplane from the front door all the way out the back. Two-Bit told him it wasn’t possible, not with how their house was laid out (“Maybe if it was a straight shot, but there’s a wall in the way, Dar, it just ain’t gonna work,”) but Darry’s got two little brothers dead-set on helping prove him right.

Keith’s being going through a bit of a know-it-all phase lately, hence why they’ve started calling him Two-Bit—something about getting a little sister and “becoming the man of the house” as he puts it seems to have given him the idea he’s got to be the boss of everybody else, too. But Darry doesn’t care that the kid’s dad left right before Christmas right after his mom found out she was pregnant or that his best friend is no longer an only child or has to be involved in everything. Right now, all that matters is that he’s trying to steal Darry’s role as the coolest big kid in the neighborhood. 

Darry’s the oldest. He’s the smartest and the best at football and he’s been organizing their Fourth of July baseball games (because Darry might think football is better but the Fourth of July is a baseball holiday) for three years now, since enough big kids like them moved in to play. Two-Bit Mathews will run their little corner of the East Side over his dead body. 

He tells Sodapop and Ponyboy very carefully when they’ll need to turn on their little fans to make this work. He can only pray that his brothers are better listeners than Two-Bit’s five-year-old neighbor. The Cade kid doesn’t even talk! Pony can count to twenty and he hasn’t even seen his fourth birthday yet. Soda will make anything happen for a candy bar. Darry’s got the best throwing arm this side of the tracks; he’s got this in the bag.

Darry’s paper airplane takes a nosedive as soon as he throws it.

Ah, well. Bad luck. He’ll get his best buddy back at some point.

---

The downside to being the oldest in the neighborhood is that Darry gets stuck with the most boring jobs. At least mowing lawns makes money; walking his little brother to his friend’s house? Are you kidding? But Mama saw one too many missing kids’ faces posted on the milk cartons and now, in the fall of 1959, Darry’s stuck walking Sodapop down to his friend Steve’s house. 

It’s a longer walk there than to any of their other friends’ houses, which isn’t saying much because Two-Bit lives basically across the street and Johnny’s two houses down from him. Steve’s the only one whose house isn’t on a road directly facing the lot, though; it’s in the next block over and Darry figures that’s why they hadn’t met him until Soda started school. Or maybe he’s one of those kids whose parents just don’t let him out for some reason. 

It wouldn’t shock him if that was the case, not with how Steve’s mom had died. Darry remembers the day his mom told him about it, just a few years earlier. He had been sitting on the counter drying the dishes as usual, just opposite the oven in their tiny kitchen so he wouldn’t be in the way while his mom pulled out a piping-hot lasagna. 

“It’s for Mr. Randle and his son,” she’d said to him, placing it on the stove to cool while Darry carefully dried Soda’s favorite plate. “Glory, that poor little boy. He’s about to lose his mother. No child should ever have to grow up without a mother.”

He wonders if Soda knows what happened, or if Darry had just been told because he was old enough to understand it. The boys hadn’t met until after Mrs. Randle’s cancer caught up to her, anyway. He wonders if Steve ever talks about it. If Darry’s mother died, he sure as hell wouldn’t. Just the thought of losing his mother sends chills running down his spine. 

They’d walked this same way that day, cutting through the lot to deliver the food. Darry had skipped around the bases on the overgrown baseball field, just like Soda is now.

“Why’s this here anyway?” He muses, and Darry glances over at him. 

“What?” 

“The baseball field. Nobody ‘round here even likes baseball. I mean, Dally’s the only kid in town who really goes for that kinda thing, but he spends his summers in New York with his mom and prolly sees games all the time, but I don’t know nobody else who plays, so why we got a field here an’ all?”

“Grandpa Pat told me he asked the city to put up a backstop,” Darry says, kicking an old Pepsi can across the sandlot. “He got everyone in the neighborhood to go for it, hoping it would keep Dad an’ his buddies outta trouble. The socs on the other side of town got a real nice little league park and they thought maybe us greasers would be good like them if we got one. ‘Cept the city’s supposed to take care of our field too, but they don’t, so we got nothin’ to do and get into trouble anyway. If you ask me, I say they shoulda made it a football field, but I figure that was more expensive.”

Soda picks up a stick off the ground and swings it like a sword. “Everything’s expensive.”

“Nah,” Darry mutters, “we just don’t got no money.”

---

Sodapop’s favorite thing about their old house is the load-bearing crayon mark trailing from his bedroom door upstairs, all the way down and around the corner to the living room fireplace. Bright red crayon, scrawled for what felt like miles to the toddler behind the crime—probably his greatest feat to date. He doesn’t remember doing it, but Darry’s always reminding him who the culprit was.

Nowadays Ponyboy’s the artist of the family, and Soda’s crayons have been long since passed down. But the other piece of homemade artwork in the house that Soda treasures isn’t one of his brother’s. Ponyboy might’ve gotten his love of movies from their dad, but he got his artistic talent from their mother. Back before Soda was born, Mama was so deeply convinced she would be having a girl that she decorated the nursery for it, complete with pink, flowery wallpaper and little horses along the baseboard. She’d gotten a horse stuffed animal instead of a teddy bear for her baby girl and when a boy was born instead, she put her foot down and stood by it. Called him her little cowboy. 

(His horsey is named Rascal, by the way. Pony’s the only one who knows he still sleeps with it stuffed under his pillow because every time he sees it, he zeroes in on the “surgery scars” from where his mother had sewed it back together after playing too rough as a kid and he’ll run a finger over the stitches and feel close to her again.)

Soda may not have been the best academically, and maybe he couldn’t even attempt to really start reading until he was seven, and maybe he’s not the best at math but—there are 167 little horses along the walls of his bedroom. He’s named and treasures every single one of them. Admittedly, the walls of what was originally Soda’s bedroom still are covered in the pink, flowery wallpaper. It proved too much of a project to take down.

---

Seeing Paul at the rumble, for Darry, was like seeing a teacher in public. A person that you’ve compartmentalized away into being in one specific part of your life and never expecting to see outside of that. Of course, that’s where the comparison ends, and now, with Ponyboy sleeping the day (and hopefully his fever) away and Soda working a triple shift at the DX because Darry’s gotta stay home with the kid, he’s left to his own devices. 

That’s never a good thing, because free time always ends with him either stressing about money or thinking about Paul, and that’s what brings him upstairs to his old room, where now he’s trying to patch the hole Paul punched into the wall when they were seventeen. 

He’d been angry with his parents that day. Darry doesn’t remember the exact reason why, but he’d watched as Paul slammed his fist into the wall, immediately cringing away afterwards in pain. It wasn’t the first time someone’s done that in their house, and it probably won’t be the last, but it left a hole there that Darry covered up with a football poster and forgot about until now.

Now, when he can still feel Paul’s fist on his jaw. Damn. He really should’ve iced it.

Darry thinks back to that night. He’d been lucky, really, that no one overheard the whole thing. Usually, the walls between their rooms upstairs were so thin that anyone sneaking in would wake Soda up immediately, but when he tore his ACL at the rodeo, their parents made Ponyboy switch rooms with him, and that kid—once he’s really asleep—doesn’t wake up for anything. Except the occasional nightmare, or if he’s sleepwalking, which is why his room was downstairs in the first place. But then Soda got thrown off that horse and his knee has been and probably always will be fucked because of that, and so he gets priority with the downstairs bedroom. Fair enough.

(Pony moved back into that room with Soda anyway after their parents died, so it’s not like it was ever that big a deal. Darry sure isn’t complaining about having the whole upstairs to himself these days. He gets some quiet.)

Paul would show up pretty often back in those days, and here’s the thing. Darry’s bedroom was upstairs, the one on the side of the house, and probably the second-nicest room behind Ponyboy’s, because they both had a window on three of their four walls. Sodapop used to bitch and moan for hours about how hot his room would get at night, having the tiniest room in the house, right above the kitchen. The only downside to Darry’s room upstairs was that Grandpa Pat apparently missed the class where they taught him how to build a level floor. 

(Seriously, it’s a good thing Darry’s got two closets built in, because even his bed will slide down the floor if you don’t push it up against the outer wall, and he could swear it’s getting worse over time.)

That and the fact you’d have to scale the side of the house to get in, which probably didn’t help Paul’s attitude when he was already pissed off. 

Well, he was probably more scared than anything, but Darry’s been sworn to secrecy on pretty much every conversation they ever had that involved Paul’s parents, so he’s not about to question it. He knows what goes on in that empty house on the West Side. 

He punched the wall and Darry had snuck downstairs to get some ice and the first aid kit, praying Soda wouldn’t wake up and hear him. 

They don’t really talk about it, but… but Darry gets it and he’s got a way he copes with getting angry, so he talks Paul into coming with him downtown to Tim’s once his hand is healed, to borrow his punching bag, the same one he was teaching Darry to box on.

There’s a million things Tim Shepard could say about Darry bringing a soc into the ring, but he keeps his mouth shut, ‘cause he knows better.

The thing is, Darry gets angry too, and he gets angry a lot. And it’s really hard to stop being angry once you start, sometimes. His parents have reminded him time and again about when he was eleven how he’d gotten so frustrated while playing with his brothers that he’d held Soda upside down from the monkey bars until he cried uncle, and then when Pony snitched and Mama came out to holler at him, he got so worked up yelling back that he dropped Soda.

And, you know, all those hours in the emergency room waiting for somebody to put a cast on his brother’s arm kinda knocked some sense into him. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt just because he couldn’t control his anger ever again.

So boxing kind of helped. It gave Darry something to get his anger out on, and it was exercise, and maybe—just once or twice—he had made a few bucks off it. He never told his parents about it. They’d gotten real upset back when Soda was nine and spent a month practically begging Mama to sign him up for classes ‘cause he heard about it on tv and thought it was cool.

Dad used to tell them never to hit anything he could hurt. And Darry gets that, he does. But Grandpa Pat didn’t take the fall for nothing, and the money he’d posthumously made from it all paid off the house. Darry lost all interest in the sport after his parents died, and he pretends he doesn’t know that Soda still sneaks out to Tim’s backroom ring just like he used to, just to feel something. 

Darry doesn’t hit people or things anymore, or he tries not to. Whether it runs in the family or not, it has fully lost its appeal. 

Until a storm takes the chimney off the roof and Darry feels like punching another hole into the wall. It’s just one thing after another.

---

The post on the corner of the wall by the kitchen is cracking. Darry hasn’t cried in years—not in front of anybody, anyway, not like Soda does or Pony will under pressure, but.

But right now he feels like sitting on the floor and sobbing.

He knows how to fix it. He knows he should, and maybe there’s even enough in the budget this month to afford it. But at the end of the day it’s really just cosmetic, maybe, and the rest of the house has cracks in the walls and water damage and stains and that fucking crayon mark, and those—well they aren’t more pressing but he thinks about it a lot.

That’s not what’s killing him.

The crack in the wood, now big enough to really be noticeable, is about three feet above the ground, and it runs right through his dad’s name, written in Grandpa Pat’s shaky handwriting. 

Darrel 6/7/30 — 3 y/o — shoes on.

Not the lowest point on the Curtis Wall of Fame’s height chart, but one of Darry’s favorites. It’s dumb. But he crouches down and runs his hand over the letters anyway. He looks a little above, searching for the same date. 

In pencil: 

Patrick Jr. 6/7/30 — 10 years — new boots!

Mikey 6/7/30 —  8 years — barefoot.

Darry’s the only one of his siblings who met their grandfather, but even he’s never met his uncles. They both died in the second world war.

Mama’s on there, too. Only once, and the date reads their wedding anniversary—the day she moved in. The same date is by dad’s name up at the top. Neither of them had much more growing to do, at that point. 

Well, Dad didn’t. Mama was growing a baby at the time.

God, Darry misses them.

He looks down again.

Darrel Jr. 4/17/58 — 11y/o — shoes on.

Sodapop 8th birthday — no shoes.

Ponyboy Michael Curtis 11/14/1953 — 4mos. — sock feet.

Darry can’t help but grin at that one. It’s Pony’s first, measured younger than anybody else. Sock feet. It’s so Mama. Soda’s entries never seem to have shoes on, probably because he has never once willingly worn shoes (or socks) in his life. He hates the way it feels wearing them, and Darry swears he’s spent more of his life listening to Soda complain about his socks being itchy than he has playing football, and Darry has played a lot of football in his twenty years. Soda complains about shoes more than he complains about reading, and he used to cry over having to read six times a day. 

Their family are not the only people they keep track of. The height chart is like a welcome to the family. He knows Pony’s always looking at this wall, like he’s memorizing just how long their friends have been part of their lives.

Keith Mathews — 16mos. 10/20/50 — no shoes.

No surprise there. You know someone's family when even Darry doesn’t remember a time without them around.

John Cade — 4/13/1957 — 6 y/o — shoes on.

Steven Randle — almost 7 — 4/13/57. No shoes.

There’s a mark with Soda’s name next to it listed with the same date. It’d been the first time Johnny and Steve slept over. Soda hadn’t stopped talking about it for a month after. Darry wonders if Soda had realized why their parents hadn’t wanted either boy to go home.

There’s a few marks with names scratched out. Darry knows the one pretty high up that looks like it was carved out with a knife used to say Paul’s name. He’s pretty sure Soda scratched out Sandy’s, too.

Somebody must’ve been embarrassed and started to scribble over the next one he reads, but  they must’ve gotten stopped halfway through, because it’s still legible:

Dallas W. age 9 — cowboy boots — 12/21/58.

Darry’s still lost on how Mama pulled that off. Dally’s got only one other mark on the wall, pretty high up, actually:

Dally — 17th birthday (1966) — cowboy boots.

Soda’s also got one from that day, and it’s the only one where he is wearing shoes, actually. Cowboy boots, just like Dally. Soda had begged for them for years, and got them sixteenth birthday. 

It had been an apology gift from their dad, for banning him from the rodeo. They couldn’t afford Soda risking his health like that, but they could find room in the budget for some nice boots, right? Soda hates shoes, so begging for them was a big deal.

That, and Soda just really likes matching with his friends. Hell, Darry’s half-convinced the reason he works at the DX with Steve is because they get to have matching uniform shirts and hats.

(Well, that, and Evie’s dad owns the greasy joint and has known them for years, so he hired Soda full-time on the spot when he dropped out of school. Apparently he used to be buddies with Uncle Patrick, and Mr. Mathews, actually, back before the war, but now he’s the only one left. Darry kind of understands the feeling.)

Darry hasn’t made the gang line up since his parents died. Most of them are done growing anyway, and even if he did have time to think about it, he can’t imagine seeing anybody’s handwriting up there for his friends, other than his Mama’s and Grandpa Pat’s and maybe a few other family members Darry never got to meet. He runs his hand over the most recent mark, his Mama’s last.

Johnny 12/25/66 — 15 — NEW yellow high tops!

Pony had spent months saving up to get him those. Now they sit up on the mantle collecting dust because he won’t let anyone touch them. 

There’s a crack in the mantle, too, but this house is all they’ve really got, and it just wouldn’t be home if it wasn’t falling apart.

———

bonus inspo pics (because this fic was based on my grandma’s old house that she's since moved out of & it doesn't look like that anymore due to renovations over the years so i'm not doxxing anybody, and I miss it there so. fucking. bad.):

[akaiikowrites]

What work took you the longest to write?

if we're counting ongoing WIPs that i'm actually still working on... dcmb has been crawling along since 2018. no i'm not crying who's crying because it's totally not me in terms of completed works, though, they call you refugee took the longest since the initial drafts were posted in december 2017 and the last chapter was posted in may 2022.

(what we can learn from this is that i'm very slow but i almost always get there eventually.)

[randomnameless]

I seriously hilarious how after a year people are still treating Engage like it burned their spouses and fucked their crops. If they love "moral grayness writing" that much, they have tons of other rpgs with similar themes to play, 8 seasons of Game of Thrones to watch and lots of grimdark fantasy books to read.

Seriously, there's only 3 times (if we want to count 3h that badly) where this franchise has tried to explote more nuanced and complex plots, and those games were the Tellius duology and the Jugdral games. The rest have milquetoast fantasy rpg plots. Why they sticking with FE when it's clearly not the franchise for these kinds remains an enigna.

Mmh,

I wouldn't say GOT's seasons are grim d4rk, imo they're trash in the same vein as the Kadarshians TV show, you're watching it to see how ruined things will be

(c'est quoi l'équivalent US/UK de l'émission "les marseillais"? )

I feel like Martin's books were more in the lines of "deconstruction then reconstruction" of the "traditional" fantasy tropes, with his own choice of depicting very grim and dark things that participate in the "deconstruction" side of his works... even if at times it borders on misery porn and, tbh, misogyny.

Fantasy settings, in general, always have some sort of monarchy and morale of "the good/rightful king returns home and everything is better!" - you can add some twists here and there, but in general, and especially FE, it's that kind of frame. We're not in game where Bob and John feel like Hector charges them too much for the sewer tax, and file a claim to his court to be discharged from paying said tax.

I'm not saying you can't add twists and add some sort of depth to the game, hell the Tales of franchise often tries to add some greater theme to their general "hero with a sword whacks people and is ultimately involved in a greater quest to save the world while eating appel gels", Symphonia tries to tackle racism and how being a victim or racism doesn't give you a pass to create concentration camps to turn people you see as "inferior beings" as fuels/devices to upgrade you and your chosen ones (even if that plot point utterly vanished when the MC goes "i wish we could have been friends" which is, uh, I guess where i found Kishimoto's inspiration for Obito I guess), Abyss tackles the existential crisis of clones/people created to be spares, do they have the right to exist beyond the purpose of their original creation or not? - etc etc.

Funny how you mention Tellius, because IMO, Tellius is even more shaky/wonky than Fodlan (or at least it's a serious competition) with its general message of "racism BaD but miscegenation BaD too" which is, uh... well.

That leaves Jugdral with all of the stuff it wanted to convey - and managed to do while being a SNES duology (I think?) - and yet Jugdral is, at its core, a story of "rightful heir returns to his throne" with some emphasis, especially in FE5, on what "rightful" means but the premise is the same, it's not Dalshin who's going to become the Lord of New Thracia, it's Leif because Leif is Quan'n'Ethlyn's son : his journey in FE5 is all about learning to become a good leader/king.

Back to your post, if people want a game where you "smash the patriarchy" and bring "the revolution"... well, the FE series is not (or wasn't, who knows how it will turn out to be in the near future) for you.