#‘so that means i am entitled to any book i want at any time and if i don’t get it that’s fascism.’ no. i hate you.

[tehriz]

i live in the eternal yet apparently vain hope that people on this webbed site will actually fucking read the details of the internet archive case and the very specific things they were doing that the publishers were objecting to

nobody ever asked to have the entire archive shut down and millions of books on the site were unaffected and always available throughout, the lawsuit was about the scanning and unlimited distribution of recent books in print still under copyright

(and frankly as someone who cares about the very important work the archive does do i was disappointed as hell that they chose to jeopardize that work with this shit that was pretty unambiguously blatant copyright violation any way you sliced it)

but considering the endless facile and self-serving justifications that come up here on the daily for book piracy when the living authors of those books can’t afford health insurance i don’t know why i’m ever surprised

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club)

(strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!x reader)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ only, minors i am ON PATROL

Chapter 011: Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Movie night is cut short when Billy and Eddie both show up to your door in search of compromise.

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

somewhat smut = *

smut =**

word count: 4.5k words

disclaimers — eddie’s bruised lil face, billy’s bruised face, no one is beating the living daylights out of the other this time. 😵‍💫 just a lot of ✨ fluff ✨ and you guessed it… ANGST , traumatic flashback, max being a mastermind with her plotting & scheming 👀

“My head is saying ‘Fool, forget him!’, my heart is saying ‘Don’t Let Go’…”

♡

Isabelle Munson is a menace and a half.

It’s obvious that Eddie’s ex wife married him for one thing and one thing only: his money. And, when caught in her web of lies, Isabelle quickly threw him under the bus to cover her trail.

“What, are you trying to take over Hellfire or something?”

It’s no wonder why Eddie freaked out on you like that. The clinginess and need for control over your ‘situationship’ probably set off all the necessary alarms in his head. Even though Eddie probably knew your intentions, he didn’t want to risk the possibility of another Isabelle. After all, she too started as an employee.

POP! Snap! Fizz…

Max pours a can of soda into her ice cold tumbler. She stirs it around before taking a few sips.

"Your boss’s ex wife sounds like a bitch," she comments.

"The biggest bitch," you shake your head. "I’m reading up on all the tea right now."

A paramour for control, Isabelle’s calling to make Hellfire all about her started affecting the work-life balance. So, Eddie sent her to NDA Gentlemen’s Club in order to keep their affairs separate. But then a romantic affair began to brew between Isabelle and Terry, the owner and actual culprit behind the scandal. And of course that opened up another can of worms.

“Why would Isabelle wanna put Eddie behind bars instead of the guy who actually tried to sex traffic her?” Max inquires.

“Terry Hobb was already gonna be arrested,” you discover. “If Eddie went under too, Isabelle would likely be entitled to his assets while he’s locked up. Probably what she wanted all along.”

Framing Eddie for a crime. Something that’s so easy to do in Hawkins.

Like Billy said, Eddie coming from a long line of criminals did NOT help his case. Drug dealer, murderer. Con-man and arsonist. Eddie being someone who trafficked the vulnerable would be easy to believe, especially in a town full of conservative women who were tired of their husbands coming home late — and drenched in glitter.

To bear the Munson name is not exactly a blessing. Even the woman Eddie made a Munson managed to do him dirty.

There’s another kind of wolf that Mom never warned you about: the one dressed in white — the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“This is all so awful,” you swallow hard, finally planting your phone face down onto the kitchen table.

And now Eddie’s business is in jeopardy again. All thanks to two volatile Hargroves who have no sense of self control.

"Why do I feel like there's something there?"

Max brings you back to earth. When you turn, she’s smirking at you.

“What do you mean?” you ask her.

“Oh come on,” Max rolls her eyes. “You seem really bothered by this. And Eddie beat THE LIVING SHIT out of Billy. Doesn’t seem like he does it for just any employee.”

You feel yourself blushing. Not only that but Eddie never fights anybody, period. He’s always called on Henry to do all the dirty work for him.

But Eddie knew about Billy and how powerless he made you feel. Seeing your abuser meandering so comfortably around his establishment was probably the last straw.

“There…might be something,” you confirm. “It’s hard though. Eddie doesn’t wanna commit.”

“Well after a marriage that traumatizing I wouldn’t either,” Max shrugs. “I’d be deathly afraid of women for the rest of my life.”

She walks over to grab the two bowls of popcorn that you guys heated up for everybody. You two, along with Vicky and Robin, are having a movie night to wind down from all the chaos. Tonight’s choice is Grease.

"Alright kiddos, camp is almost set up!" Robin dances her way into the kitchen. "We ready for some Grease Lightnin'?"

Max swoons as she adds some more key ingredients to her popcorn. "Hell yeah! Love me some Travolta and showtunes."

“What are you doing?” Robin asks, watching your sister douse your shared popcorn bowl with cayenne pepper and lime.

“A lil California spin on mine and Sissy's popcorn,” Max shrugs. “A squeeze of lime and some tajín. Well — cayenne pepper — since we don’t have any."

“That’s outrageous.”

“Wait till you see what we do with street corn,” you gush, dreaming about elote.

“Oh god…” Robin goes pale white.

“No really, Robin! It’s pretty good,” you insist.

“Not that!” Robin shakes her head. She points out the window. “That…”

You turn in the direction that Robin points in, which is outside towards the street.

Billy.

“Billy,” you gasp silently.

Your brother is parked along the curb, climbing out of his rental car with a little pep in his step. You watch as he checks his, relatively bruised, appearance, tugging at his hair and giving his clothes one last pat-down before making his way over.

Concerned footsteps dart their way into the kitchen. Vicky looks just as mortified as Robin.

"Do y'all see this?" Vicky questions.

Everyone nods to validate.

"How does Billy know where we live?!" you demand turning to the only other person here who has his phone number.

Guilt spreads across Max's face. As mortified as you are, you can't blame her. The fucked up parts of yourself would've done the same thing. You and Billy were in dire need of a heart to heart.

"You guys need to talk," Max explains what you're thinking. "I'm not letting him leave without at least a word or two. He agreed to be civil when I texted him."

"Thanks," you mumble. "I would've done the same."

Anyone who didn't fully understand the dynamic would've thought you and Max were crazy. But there is a part of you that will always love Billy.

Billy’s getting closer now. You can hear him clearing his throat from outside.

“So are we going to need the fire department too?” Robin asks, phone readily in hand.

“Most likely,” Vicky shrugs.

“No one’s calling anybody,” you instruct. “At least not yet. Let’s just see what he wants first.”

Billy's at the door now and you have no choice but to answer. You swing it open before he could even get a knock in, knuckle floating in mid-air but slowly drifting back down when he sees you in front of him.

Your big brother. At least by two minutes.

“Sup,” Billy greets you, almost jokingly. He flashes you a peace sign. Hi. I come in peace.

“You look awful.”

“Yeah, mosh pits aren’t really my scene,” he takes a sly jab at Eddie.

He requests entry into your new humble abode to which you deny. Billy backs down without question. So instead you walk out into the porch and close the door behind you.

“Before you press charges,” you preface. “I just want you to know how hardworking, kind, and empathetic Eddie i-”

Billy stops you with a raised hand. “I’m not…pressing charges.”

You’re almost stunned. “You…you’re not?”

“No,” Billy’s eyes are sullen. “I started it.”

“Eddie threw the first punch,” you point out. “If anything all you did was provoke him, which obviously won’t hold up well for him in court-”

“I…” Billy insists. “…started it.”

You don’t question it anymore because you can sense aggression brewing. And you preferred to talk to Billy when he’s calm like this.

Both of you take a seat right on the porch stairs. You can feel Vicky, Robin, and Max staring from inside.

“I deserved it,” Billy shakes his head. “And everything else coming to me for what I’ve done.”

“You don’t deserve it,” you try to convince him — and even yourself — of what you’re saying.

“YOU don’t even believe that,” Billy says, seeing through the bullshit. “Just fucking save it, okay?”

It's not like you can deny it any longer. Billy is the reason why you and Max are in this situation.

“I could’ve killed Max if I had been any more careless,” Billy grieves. “All because, what, she threw a box at me? And punched a hole in the wall because I said shit that made her do it. What I did made me lose everything I had left. Made me lose you guys."

Accountability, that's the first step. You turn away from him, refusing to believe this new change of heart.

"I didn’t honor your wishes to be left alone or at least given a little space..." he continues. "Showed up to your safe space and overstayed my welcome. And it blew up in front of me. Probably shattered my septum too."

"Do you see now?" you choke. "Do you see why we can't live with each other?"

"I'm sure we can, we just gotta change our ways."

"We've been trying to change our ways since Dad and Sue left!" you hiss. "Since Mom died, since the first crack in the glass. We change, but it just evolves into something worse."

Crickets on Billy's end. You can tell he's sitting with the words, no matter how uncomfortable they feel. But that alone is another big step.

You turn to stroke his face. He closes his eyes in dismay, soaking in all the affection radiating off your delicate, trembling hands.

“Look at what we do to each other, Billy," you plead. "It's not like this when we're apart."

Billy opens his eyes. They’re glistening with tears.

You fill him in on the friends you've made in Hawkins. How much your bank account grew. The payments you’ve caught up on since stripping at Hellfire. How you and Max sleep comfortably through the night. After what seems like forever.

Life is beautiful without Billy. As much as you didn’t want that to be true.

Billy finally speaks again. “What happened to us?”

“I don’t know,” you shake your head. “And until we can both get our shit together, we need to stay away from each other.”

And now it’s 1998. You and Billy are four years old, playing tug-o-war over the last chocolate chip cookie in the jar.

CRASH! went the jar when it fell to the floor.

You’re both in trouble now. Or so you thought.

Billy ended up winning this round, scurrying off with the cookie while you attempted to sweep the broken shards of glass away. But knowing Billy had gotten a beating several days prior — it was BAD this time — you decided to take all the blame.

“Say ‘Sorry Daddy’ right now,” your father ordered after three aggressive spanks to your backside.

Bent across his lap, you bite your tongue as he issues two more spanks with his large, calloused hands. It was sure to leave a mark.

“SAY IT,” Dad roared.

But you weren’t sorry. So it came out strained.

“‘m sorry Daddy,” you sniff. “And I’m sorry… Billy.”

The last word wasn’t worth it. It was never worth it.

Your buttcheeks were burning, eyes stinging with salty, resentful tears as Dad continued to use you as an outlet for his rage. When you thought it was over, Dad chucked you off his lap, pulling you by the hair to toss you against the wall like it was some dodgeball game at the Y.

Billy’s eyes watched in horror. Your eyes burned into his as he poked his curious head out from the wall he was hiding behind.

“Doing it for you,” you mouthed to him.

Later that night, your bruised behind hobbled side to side to your shared room after your bedtime routine. To your pleasant surprise, there was something waiting for you on a small plate at the foot of your bed.

The last chocolate chip cookie.

You and Billy never apologized to each other back then. So acts of service like saving each other the last sweet treat made for a good alternative.

Billy walked over to you as you fawned over the last cookie. You turned to him in disbelief.

“I thought you ate it,” you smiled.

“No, I was saving it,” Billy lied. “All for you, Sissy.”

“It used to be us against the world,” Billy recalls. “As cheesy as that shit sounds.”

“But now it’s just...not,” you point out. “We just can’t be in each other’s lives. We gotta love each other from afar, Billy. At least until we can figure out how to be civil with each other.”

Billy doesn’t speak for a while. Instead he takes a look around the neighborhood. The tall trees that decorate the telephone poles. The flat land that perfectly accentuates the edge of the horizon. The fresh air, slightly corrupted with the overpowering scent of Marlboro. It’s no quaint beach town, but there was something about it that screamed “home” in no way San Diego can.

“Are you sure this is something you wanna do?” Billy questions you, referring to your job. “It’s not a safe gig, sis.”

“I can handle it,” you insist. “It’s temporary anyways.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this…” he sighs. “But I’m proud of you… ass and tits out and all.”

“Gee thanks,” you joke as you nudge him. “I’m glad I have your approval.”

After a while, you two finally stand up and make your way inside. Max is reluctant to walk towards Billy when he walks in, but that same invisible cord inclines her to do so anyway.

“You still don’t like me, huh?” Billy infers.

Max crosses her arms. “How can I?”

A timid smile forms across Billy’s face. “But you don’t hate me?”

Max repeats her sentiment. “How can I?”

She runs to him and snakes her arms tightly around his waist and he swings her around. Max giggles like a child when he playfully ruffles her hair.

“Seriously, how can I?” she questions. “I’d really like to take an expert class on how to hate you.”

Billy chuckles. “You need money for school books?”

“No, Sis got me on that.”

“Of course she does,” Billy says, peering over at you. “You’re in good hands.”

You formally introduce your brother to Robin and Vicky but it’s an awkward ordeal. Can't expect your good friends to get along with the person whose choked you out on multiple occasions throughout most of your life. Slapped you around as well. Pulled your hair and tainted your body black and blue. Calls you "bitch" and "slut" wherever he sees fit. But still loves you with everything he's got. And you, him.

Trauma is a weird thing.

Billy didn’t intend to stay for long, so he sees himself out shortly after that.

“Alright, I’ll text you when I leave,” Billy announces. “Call me. Please. If you two need anything.”

“Okay,” you smile. “We’ll be sure to answer this time too whenever you call.”

Billy gives you a half-assed salute as he swings the door open. He nearly shifts himself backwards when an unexpected surprise greets him at the door.

Eddie.

Standing 5-foot-10 with a face full of contusions and cat-like scratches is your boss. Eddie cringes when he sees Billy, eliciting a similar reaction from your brother the moment they register each other.

The silence is deafening.

There’s an urge to pick up where they left off, but both men refrain from doing so for your sake. Billy stomps off, shaking his head without meeting Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie turns to you. Waits until Billy is out of earshot to speak.

“You’re right about your brother being a douche."

You laugh. Eddie gives you that puppy dog pout with his chocolate brown eyes. You want to forget about him so bad. You want to let him go. But your heart is yearning for more.

“Do you still hate me?”

“Kinda,” you shrug. “But less so by the minute.”

“I deserved that.”

You can’t help it anymore. Eddie tries his best not to wince when you fall into him, wrapping your arm around his waist and burying your head in his chest.

He rubs your back gently before ruffling your hair. Then he plants a gentle kiss onto your forehead. It launches you into squeezing him tighter.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

You nod into his chest and he strokes your hair, allowing you all the time you need to let you guard down.

“How long is he staying in town?”

“Forgot to ask,” you answer him honestly. “Probably not for long.”

“You should board up your windows just in case,” Eddie says half-jokingly. “Install a few more locks. Probably a few cameras.”

You tsk. “Okay, I don’t think I need to get that carried away.”

“Fine,” Eddie shrugs. “Of course I can always stay the night too.”

His fingers dance up the small of your back, causing you to inhale sharply out of arousal.

“Protect you a lil more…” he continues.

“Yeah I don’t think so, Munson,” Robin clears her throat, knowingly interrupting the sappy moment you’re sharing. “Movie night is for the girls only.”

“You know I can always leave it to you to cock-block, Buckley,” Eddie laughs. It’s a reminiscent one. “Thought your silhouette looked familiar at Hellfire.”

Your eyes dart between them both.

“You guys know each other?!”

“We all went to school together,” Vicky explains, coming back into sight as well. “The three of us were all in the same band class at one point.”

“Until ‘Dungeons’ over here thought he was too cool for us,” Robin adds. “And started his own band.”

“I was always a lil eccentric, wasn’t I?” Eddie winks. “Thanks for remembering. Though Corroded Coffin is all a distant memory now.”

“So that means you guys went to school with Steve too?” you direct your question towards Robin and Vicky.

Vicky raises an eyebrow. “Steve? Like… Steve Steve? Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington?”

“You know King Steve?” Robin scoffs, completely baffled. She crosses her arms in amusement.

“Oh she knows King Steve,” Eddie smirks. “Knows him real well.”

“Jealous much?” you quip.

“I plead the fifth,” Eddie mutters.

“And I plead that we all know less and less about each other,” Max sighs. You almost forget that she’s there. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The girlfriends follow Max back into their room to continue with movie night. Now you’re left alone again with Eddie.

You stare up at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Just a couple ruffled feathers, I’ll be fine,” he dismisses your concern.

"You've got a great deal of damage control to do when we go back.”

“Eh,” Eddie shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time my business was in trouble.”

You laugh and roll your eyes.

“And for as long as you’re along for the ride? This probably won’t be my last.”

“Swinging at my estranged family members, my hero my hero,” you joke, finding yourself leaning into him further.

And then you kiss him. It's your first advance in a while that Eddie doesn't shy away from. He kisses you back, with an ignited passion that surpasses even the electricity from Saturday in his van. It's an aching, and a longing.

His lips interlace ever so comfortably with yours. He's missed you so. And you missed him too. Even when you were being irrationally jealous over Nina.

“Gettin’ me in so much trouble, Hargrove,” Eddie grazes your back as he slowly pulls away.

And your eyes can’t help but trail down to his hands. Knuckles bloody, fingers absent of any rings for once, tan lines on all but one special finger.

“Did you love Isabelle?”

Eddie stares at you like you’re insane.

"Of course I did,” he insists. “She was my wife. There were some warning signs that she was after my money though, but I was too stubborn to believe it was true.”

You nod.

"But now you know," Eddie grins in exhaustion. “Now you know why I’m guarded. Because like you, even Isabelle looked like a dream”. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear as he mumbles, “Too good to be true.”

Your heart shatters for him.

“You need to start saying what’s really on your mind,” you say to him. “Speaking up, asking for help. I’m tired of watching you fight battles alone.”

“Then don’t look,” Eddie jokes. One second later and he’s back to being serious. “It’s pretty hard to trust people when they prove to you time and time again why you shouldn’t.”

He steals some popcorn from your bowl, tossing it up into the air. It successfully lands in his mouth.

“Besides. I’ve come this far without anyone, but Wayne’s, help. And I turned out fine.”

You glare at him.

“Couple scrapes and bruises,” he continues, alluding to his scuffle with Billy. “But I’m fine.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Eddie offers you a look.

“What, you think I’m bluffing?”

“No,” the pitch in your voice heightens. “I just think…a healed person would let a little love in.”

Then those sad doe eyes meet you again, the kind of gaze that would cause anyone to go weak in the knees. You swallow hard.

“Please be patient with me,” Eddie mumbles. “I’m really trying.”

“I know you are,” you rub his arm. “We don’t have to rush into anything.”

You both lean into each other again, the need to have and be with each other a palpable energy between your torsos. You beam up at him as you run your fingers down his hair.

“I am ready for something though,” Eddie proposes. “I’d like to keep whatever this is going.”

“I’d like that too,” you heart begins to flutter.

You picture yourself grocery shopping at Meijer with Eddie. He’d push for you to buy desserts, but you’d remind him that he needs veggies in his life. You see yourselves going to the pumpkin patch as autumn approaches and taking goofy Polaroids by the scarecrows. And it’s like he’s already in front of you on Christmas, his tongue poking out slightly — like it always does when he’s deeply focused on something — as he fixates on making his gingerbread house a gingerbread home. And when the ball drops on New Year’s Eve, he is going to be your kiss, dipping you like the one sailor did with the nurse in that one iconic picture of the world war being over. And then you two would recreate that same pose when you take him back home to experience a San Diego summer.

A romance for the books.

“Just…sex and quickies all the time!” Eddie speaks, instantly yanking you out of your daydream. “Smoking together…asking each other about our day…cuddling, in the nude…”

Suddenly, Eddie’s cock-blocked himself with his fantasy that he revealed to you. The familiar tinge in your chest returns again.

“Oh…hooking up is what you meant,” you nod.

“Duh, what else?”

You swallow hard again. So now you know what this is all about. You know now what he really saw when he looked at you.

“So… just purely sex. I gotcha.”

“Whoa, don’t put it like that,” Eddie grimaces. “It sounds bad. We’ll get to the titles eventually, I just gotta dip my toes in first.”

“I don’t want you dipping any of you in anything,” you glare at him with disgust. “Sorry but for a while I thought you liked me for me.”

“I do, Shy Girl,” Eddie insists. “I’m just not ready for titles yet. We literally just got done talking about that.”

“Oh, but you wanna keep me around as a fuck doll, that’s it?”

“Don’t act like you don’t have needs yourself…” he protests.

“Yeah and Steve is meeting those needs,” you hiss. “The reason I’m bouncing between you guys is because Steve is my fuck buddy, but I’m willing to let him go if you want to be exclusive with me. Which I don’t get why you won’t call it exclusive if that’s theoretically the case.”

But should’ve known Eddie only saw you as a booty call. You two hang out at nighttime, flirt, and touch each other too often for that to not be a case. And, of course, when something else catches his eyes, Eddie moves on and simply pays you no mind.

“I thought you saw this going somewhere,” you scoff as you cross your arms. “Beyond a mattress and the back of your van.”

“I thought I saw this going somewhere too,” Eddie shrugs bitterly. “But now that you mention it, someone who is always questioning my intentions without letting me explain myself doesn’t deserve the title anyways.”

Could Eddie stomp on your heart any more?

Did he just expect you to wait around for him? Did he expect you to run around with ‘Reserved For Eddie’ while he decided how much of himself to give you on whatever day? None of it is fair. But Eddie doesn’t play fair. He just calls the shots, as always.

And to think the two of you would come to any sort of compromise tonight.

“Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Hargr-”

“Good…night… Eddie.”

“The power you’re supplying… it’s electrifying.”

Defeated, you end up excusing yourself from the rest of movie night and lugging yourself to your room. Max is in the room too, a huge surprise considering John Travolta was metaphorically a room over.

“Oh she is cuuute,” Max raves.

She’s talking about the red lingerie set from Nocturna, you realize when you drag your feet into your room.

“Thanks,” you shrug sheepishly, taking the set back from jet. “Eddie bought it for me to wear actually.”

You take the set in your hands and smooth it out just a little. It’s such a pretty set. Now it’s just collecting dust, a shame because you loved how amazing you looked and felt in it.

“Why don’t you wear it to Hellfire?” Max suggests. “I’m sure Henry would love it if you did for his dance in a couple days.”

“You want me to wear it for Henry?” you scoff. “That’s a no. Eddie doesn’t wanna see me wearing that specific set for anyone else but him.”

“Hmmm,” Max thinks. “We’re talking about the same Eddie. Right? Eddie ‘Non-Committal’ Munson?”

You smirk. She smirks. Your sister is a genius.

If Eddie truly doesn’t want to commit to you and make you his, then there is no need for you to commit to him either.

And the DEVIL WOMAN set is clearly no exception. There’s no need for a hot outfit like that to go to waste.

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down…” you grin, a rather wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing grin.

Max rubs her evil little fingers together. “Figured you might.”

“TELL ME ABOUT IT!” you two hear Robin and Vicky yell from their room. “STUD!”

And ‘You’re The One That I Want’ starts blaring through the speakers.

Its a shame that you and Max were missing your favorite part of the entire movie. But you two have your own revenge plot in the works.

And you, you’ve got your own dance number to practice. A dance for the One that you want. In this case, it’s Henry.

“You better shape up because I need a man. And my heart is set on you.”

Oh Eddie…

Let the mental gymnastics begin.

—————————

author's note: when eddie goes low, shy girl goes lower…. do you guys think eddie will be mad seeing shy girl dancing for henry in the red set he bought her? 🤔😈

—————————

🏷️ tag list: @battymunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerr , @jxps i , @munson-magic , @lindseyj23, @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @justinelittlewoodsworld , @ahoyyharrington , @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse @kellyxo1 @emsgoodthinkin @winchester-angel @chloe-6123 , @redbarn1995 @angietherose @kiyastrf94 , @purplewitchcauldron

[seyaryminamoto]

COMMISSIONS ARE NOW OPEN!

Hello, everyone! My circumstances are getting a little bit more complicated and it's been fairly tricky to find a job over the past year (aaand it's only going to get worse...), so it's time for me to fully, officially, reopen commissions. Some prices have increased since the last time I did this, mainly in the hopes that this reflects my improving skills a little better. Some options are quite costly (particularly the animations and comics) because they demand a ton more work than one might expect. Terms are also more strict than they used to be in order to ensure a more professional dynamic between myself and anyone who commissions me.

Send me a DM if you have a commission in mind, but first, make sure to read through the Read More. I want to expand on what's stated in the final picture to ensure better clarity on the terms of my services:

I'm open to working with any fandom or OC, be it one I'm familiar with or not. I'm also open to working with crossovers, as well as making book/fic/album covers, and even drawing real people as characters of a fandom of the commissioner's choice.

I am open to drawing ship/romance content but, tied directly to the next point...

I reserve the right to refuse any commissions that make me uncomfortable in any given way. This does not mean that everything besides my OTPs and the headcanons I support is guaranteed to be rejected, but it does mean that, if the behavior of the commissioner or the specific subject of the commission does not sit well with me, for any given reason, I will decline the commission. I won't work on something that squicks me, nor with someone who displeases me. No artist should.

Animals, mythological creatures, gore and +18 requests are fundamentally valid but must be discussed thoroughly first. None of these areas are my forte as an artist, as much as I've dabbled in them here and there, so, in order to get it right, I may need extra time and I will most likely modify the base price for any requests that includes these elements.

Payments will be done through PayPal or Wise. The final, full-resolution piece will not be delivered until full payment is completed. Half payment is expected at the start of the process, the second half at the end. The client is entitled to two revisions of the art process to ensure expectations are met. If a piece does not match your expectations after the revisions, the commission will be considered cancelled and you won't need to pay the second half of the expense. Any commissioner who wishes to pay upfront from the get-go does so at their own risk. Revisions are always included, but there will be no refunds if the final piece is not up to the commissioner's standards.

The commissioner is allowed to publish and share the commissioned work across social media, provided it follows the rules of each site (as in, don't post any +18 artworks on sites that do not allow it, pretty much). I can offer basic Glaze and Nightshade in order to protect the artwork from AI theft, to no added expense. Credit MUST be given to me as the artist whenever commissioned pieces are posted elsewhere.

For anyone who wants a list of fandoms I'm better acquainted with:

Avatar: the Last Airbender

Legend of Korra

Bleach

Digimon

Code Geass

Inuyasha

Dragon Ball

The Mentalist

The Dragon Prince

Disney

My Hero Academia

Dragon Age

Hades (Supergiant)

Cowboy Bebop

Hollow Knight

Star Wars

Ghibli Films

Overwatch

Full Metal Panic

Artemis Fowl

LOTR

Farscape

Haikyuu

Fullmetal Alchemist

Naruto

Stranger Things

Spy X Family

Kaguya-sama

Chronicles of Ancient Darkness

Eragon

Thor

Harry Potter

Free!

ASOIAF

Shaman King

K-ON

Critical Role/Legend of Vox Machina

Dungeons and Dragons

Blue Eye Samurai

Arcane

Castlevania

Again, any fandom, character or OC is valid, but I'm far more likely to know what I'm doing and to have my own opinions, for better or for worse, when it comes to anything on this list.

If there are any further questions, feel free to DM me and we'll sort them out!

Thanks for reading so far, and I look forward to working with you!

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 13: The Fallacy of Power

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.5k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

TW: Astarion's past abuse under Cazador is mentioned/visited in this chapter.

She has been cold and withdrawn since their discussion when he refused to say what she wanted to hear. She avoids him if possible and ignores him unless he directly speaks to her. When she walks around the manor, she is like a phantom gliding, lifeless and vacant, the ghost of a ship long ago wrecked at sea that still wanders the waters wayward with no purpose. So far, he’s left her alone in her misery. Should he be trying to cheer her up? His heart tells him he should, but his head tells him it’s unbecoming of the Vampire Ascendant to postulate himself in such a way. He should not have to seek her attention. She should give it to him willingly. If she wishes to wallow in her desolation, so be it.

He’s missed her in their bed, against his skin, and on his lips. Her silence is as deep as demise and simultaneously deafening. He misses her laughter, happy giggles, and his name on her tongue in her sweet, musical voice. Hells, he would even take a scolding from her right now as long as she’s speaking and more expressive than this wall of dysphoria. He will take anything but this pale apparition of surrender and hopelessness. He’s tried to goad her into arguments if only to get a rise from her, but she does as he requests without question, challenge, or emotion.

She wants a real relationship, but what does that mean to him? What kind of relationship is he capable of giving her? That presence in his head bids him to control, claim, and make her belong to him with or without her consent. It encourages him to give the command to make it so. The Vampire Ascendant does not request love - he simply fucking takes it because he is entitled to it. He is entitled to have anything and everything he wants, including her.

No.

There his thoughts go again, getting away from him, towing him down like quicksand. He must be careful not to let himself be cast down that ungodly rabbit hole. He may not get the chance to surface. Astarion’s hands rack over his face and through his hair. He needs the physical sensation that often interrupts the slow descent into madness.

Astarion. He reminds himself. I am Astarion.

She does not acknowledge his presence when he enters the library. Her sullen eyes are moored to the book lying in her lap, and she flips the pages idly. She did not even bother to light any of the candles, scones or oil lamps. She sits in the shadows like a lone lily, white and fair, against a pond reflecting dusk.

He clears his throat to get her attention, “I need you to attend my business meeting with me today. It may put you in a position where you are… uncomfortable, but I will be there to protect and stop you if needed.”

She closes the book, staring straight vacantly, not bothering to look at him. Her voice is as whisper quiet as a catatonic echo, “You’re taking me to a business meeting?”

“Yes,” he replies softly, making his voice as warm as a summer day as if he could warm her with it. “I need my consort by my side.”

“I am not your consort, Astarion,” she shakes her head with a despondent expression. She is so cold it makes him shiver. He’s used to flames veritably leaping off her tongue when she speaks. This... He has never witnessed this in her, but he recognizes it. This is how he was when he all but gave up after a few lashings, “I will go with you if you need me, but I am not your consort.”

Please, don’t give up on me... just yet.

“If you do not like the word consort, that is fine,” he crouches and takes her hand. It remains limp, and she still does not look at him. Astarion gently cradles her cheek and walks her eyes to him. They seem to look through him instead of at him, and his heart seizes in his chest. “Tell me what you would prefer. Partner? Girlfriend? Soulmate? Bride? Hells, wife? Just tell me what you want me to say. Please.”

The words scour his tongue like steel wool. Can his spawn truly be his partner, girlfriend or… Good Gods, he said wife, didn’t he? Where in the Hells did that come from, and why does the notion fill him with genuine joy? Will he be able to see her as an equal? He is the Vampire Ascendant… No one is his equal, and no one could ever be. But he is also Astarion. Which him does he want to be? Does he even have a choice?

He stares at her, trying to discern how he views her. When he looks at her, does he see an equal? Or does he see his spawn, his puppet, his favourite little toy to play with? He views both versions in parallel spaces of his mind. He cannot ascertain which one is him and which is the Vampire Ascendant.

“Consort. Partner. Girlfriend. Soulmate. Bride. Wife,” she repeats hollowly as if she’s saying the words without thinking about them, just a recording being played back, “None of them because we are none of those.”

“Perhaps not yet,” he retorts with a plea clinging to his voice. “You said you want something real, and I agreed to try and give you just that. Let me try.”

“Are you capable of love,” she whispers, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“I… don’t know,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re view of what love is may differ from mine, but perhaps we can meet in the middle?”

“When do we leave?” She asks dryly and slips her hand out of his, “And what do I wear?”

“I had something made for you,” he smirks. “It’s in your room. Wear it or don’t. The choice is yours.”

“You’re giving me a choice?”

"Darling," he drawls in an unemotional infection, “I admittedly do not know much about relationships, but I don’t think forcing you to wear something would be very… nice. You are free to dress yourself in whatever you wish.”

“What if I decide I wish to wear a burlap sack?”

“Well…” he cringes. Gods. He would not put it past her doing just that to prove a point. Would he let her do that? Could he? His skin crawls just thinking about it. “You would look very foolish, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

Hells below, he hopes she does not wear a sack.

Truthfully, he does want to control what she wears, where she goes, and even how she does her hair and makeup, but he does not understand why he is so drawn to it. He does not recall feeling the need to be so controlling when he was a spawn. He must quell those desires and untoward thoughts if he has any hope of showing her that he can be what she wants and needs.

Because he needs her…

He’s almost afraid to look when she walks down the hall, scared she’s going to see if he truly means what he said, but he’s elated to see she decided to wear the ensemble he had fashioned. An extravagant, high-necked navy-blue robe with delicate golden lace sleeves and a bodice embellished with dragon wings with gleaming rose-gold scales to match hers.

His coat is very close, except it is raven black, inlaid with deep purple and golden embroidered dragons revolving around his arms. His chest is embellished with dragon wings expanding across the breast.

“Dragons?” Her hand glides down the breast of his coat, “I thought you were fonder of bats.”

“It seems I have become rather smitten with dragons as of late,” he winks. He feigns puzzlement, bringing his finger to his lips, “I wonder why.”

She gives him some semblance of a smile. It’s the first time he’s seen any emotion in days. It fades quickly, and her face is once again a smooth plane of vacancy.

“What do you mean I will be uncomfortable?” She mutters, eyes fixed straight ahead as if looking at him pains her like staring directly at the sun. “You promised you would not put me in a situation I cannot handle.”

“And I won’t. You have my word.” He bows slightly, “There will be people around. If you need to leave, you say the word, and we will go. You know I could compel you not to feel that hunger…”

She scowls at him and hisses, “Do it, and I will walk out that door. I will not return.”

Well, even anger is better than emptiness.

“It is just an offer,” he nods curtly with his hands up. “I would not do it without your expressed permission. Shall we go?”

You follow Astarion, twisting down alleys and paths in the Lower City. You refuse to hold his hand and are attempting to use pure willpower to ignore all the tasty citizens scurrying about. They smell good, and it’s making your mouth water. No matter how much you eat, bloodlust is insatiable, unquenchable and never fully slumbers. There’s always this stitch in your side and a dryness to your throat that will not ebb. When you smell blood, you are immediately starved, and your stomach pinches in your belly. It could easily send you into hysterics. Astarion always keeps a close eye, sticking by your side and matching your pace instead of his usual elongated strides.

You recognize the alley with the guards and the secret door, “The guild?”

“The very one,” he nods with a cunning smirk.

“Lord Ancunin,” the guard bows low and stiff. “I see you have brought a guest.”

“Lady Ancunin,” Astarion drawls, confident and poised. If your heart was beating, it would surely have skipped beats and possibly stopped. “She is to be treated with the same respect as I. You are to follow her orders as you would follow mine. Is that clear?”

“So you command, so shall it be,” the guard bows low before you. “Lady Ancunin.”

You stare detached past the guard, barely noticing the reverent display before you. A welcome numbness has incorporated itself into your psyche. You felt so much, and now you feel nothing. You’re not sure which is worse.

“Come,” Astarion gestures to the stairs.

The Guildhall has been rebuilt with more extravagance. The walkways are now properly constructed and far less shabby looking with richly coloured wood. It is organized, not the haphazard mess you remember. There are so many hearts beating the chant of life. Their blood smells like Elysian fields teeming with ichor blossoms. Pressing your eyes shut, you try to tune out the thump, thump, thump assaulting your ears. You clutch Astarion’s hand and squeeze as hard as you can.

Yes, this will be a challenge.

Astarion senses your apprehension and squeezes your hand reassuringly, “We can leave whenever you want. I do not have to be here long.”

“You operate the Guild now?”

“Yes and no,” he grins, devilish and handsome enough to make you melt despite your discomfort. “Nine Fingers still handles the mundane day-to-day. You know I have never been a details person.”

“How did this come about?”

“Simple,” he smiles wolfish and sly. His eyes glint mischievously. “If you know the right people to coerce, anything can be taken. Grease a few palms here, blackmail some merchants there. You know how it is.”

“Coerce or kill?”

“Well, negotiations don’t always go as planned,” he chuckles with a cavalier shrug. “But I do not go around killing everyone, just those who need killing anyway. Gods. What do you think of me? I’ve been manipulating people for 200 years. This was hardly a challenge.”

“Ah, Lord Ancunin,” Nine Fingers strides up with a tight look as if she’s working hard not to frown. “How nice of you to bless us with your presence. I do not believe we have a meeting scheduled for today.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re running my,” Astarion accentuates the word with a low, threatening growl, “Guild befittingly. I received reports of your idiot pickpockets getting caught by the authorities and inconsistent yields. Do I need to appoint someone more suitable for such a role?”

“Lord Ancunin,” Nine Fingers snickers, and you wonder how he hasn’t killed this one yet. She was always snarky. “The pickpockets have been dealt with. They did not even make it to prison. As for the yields, I’m looking into it. You will not find anyone more proficient at running your guild than I.”

Astarion and Nine Fingers continue to talk business. Boring. You walk away, down the stairs and watch the people flitting about, ledgers in hand, counting shipments of what looks like silk from Cormyr and imported liquor. Others with clearly stolen pieces of art and other antiquities. The bottom of that cesspool pit has been cleaned up, and it appears new tunnels have been put in place, with more still being constructed.

You catch bits and pieces of a conversation between a short, rotund man in a burgundy coat speaking about a shipment being lost or damaged. Leaning on a railing, you watch the conversation play out with a shrewd eye for a while before you make your way over there. The closer you get to people, the harder it is to control yourself, but you’re getting better.

You sit close to the conversation so you can listen and watch. Nine Fingers sits beside you, “I remember you. Jaheria’s friend, right?” she gives you a scrutinizing once over and then her eyes finally settle on yours. “I remember you being much more… alive the last time you were here. The lords doing, I presume.”

“I wanted it,” you growl through your clenched jaw. “There is nothing further to discuss on it.”

“I’ve seen his little compulsion trick,” she says sourly. “It’s not a stretch to believe-“

You cut her off by grabbing her by the neck and pushing her up against a support beam. The rhythmical pulsing of her vein is felt on the pads of your fingers. Good Gods, you are tempted to take a nibble. Just a little sip...

No. You throw her away from you before you lose your precarious control.

“Watch your tongue,” you snarl, baring your teeth. “I am just as deadly as the lord.”

“Deadlier even.” Astarion chuckles, leaning close to your ear, “Are you okay?”

“I’m managing…” you whisper. Raising your voice, you point to the man, “Who is that?”

“A local merchant. He caters to the aristocracy.” Astarion arches a brow, “Why?”

“You were talking about inconsistent yields,” you watch the man circumspective, who now stares at you wide-eyed. “I think you will find he is the reason for some or all of your inconsistencies.” You sneer at the little fleshy liar, “Won’t we?"

“No,” Nine Fingers interjects. “That can’t be. He’s been working with the Guild for many years and is well-known and respected by the patriars. He’s an invaluable asset.”

“Silence!” Astarion orders brusquely, making her flinch. “Your superiors are having a discussion.” Astarion’s fingers come to his chin. “Go on, darling. How do you know?”

“His speech pattern is all over the place. He does not make direct eye contact. He’s fidgeting nervously. I can hear his heartbeat kick up from here every time he has to alter his story, and he’s sweating like a pig,” you smirk. You are good at this, and it feels natural. You give the man a grin as you virtually hear his heart sink, “You are a terrible liar. I think you’ve picked the wrong business.”

“Well,” Astarion cocks his head while watching the man as sweat rains down his face, “Let’s find out, shall we?” He points at the rotund traitor, “You. Come here.”

“Y-yes, Lord Ancunin.”

Astarion hauls the man into the air by his coat with an eerily cordial smile, “You’ve been stealing from me. Come clean now, and I will consider allowing you to keep your pathetic life.”

You expected to hear the anger in Astarion’s voice, but it’s matter-of-fact and impassive.

“My lord,” the man’s eyes widen, and his feet kick uselessly in the air. “I would never dream of it. Honest!”

Astarion’s eyes glow that wicked crimson of compulsion, and he brings the man close to his face, “You will tell me the truth. How long have you been stealing?”

The man’s eyes become glossy as the red tendrils of compulsion twist around him and into his mind. His body becomes limp. “I will tell the truth.” He repeats hollowly. “I have been skimming off the top for years. I misconstrue reported earnings and inventory, record shipments as lost or damaged and keep them for myself.”

The man continues spewing his transgressions, and you can see the rage start building in Astarion.

“That wasn’t so hard. Was it?” Astarion smiles manically. His eyes start to flash as he draws his dagger.

You put your hand on his shoulder, “Astarion…” You soothe and request the connection with his mind. You do not want to undermine him, but you need him to stay in control. He opens it, and you wince at the pain that splits through your head. It feels as if your skull has been cracked open. You push through it and roll your thoughts over the bridge, “His death will not gain you anything, Astarion. Hold onto yourself.”

His muscles strain under your fingers, and sweat starts to sheen his skin, but he answers in your thoughts, “His death would serve as a reminder to these insolent fucks that no one betrays the Vampire Ascendant and lives.”

“Astarion, please.”

“I am the Vampire Ascendant!” He bellows in your head so hard you wonder if your ears are bleeding, leaking your brain matter.

“Is that all you are? Is that your entire identity?”

He growls viciously aloud, snarling and turning his head to look at you with violence humming in his flickering eyes. With a pained grunt, Astarion throws the man on the ground and hisses, “Leave. If I ever see you in my city again, I will kill you and your family.”

Astarion whirls, taking your chin roughly in his fingers, bringing his mouth to yours, savage and hungry, with enough force to split and bruise your lips. You can hear that tittering in his head, straining against his control, trying to claim him. It bites like a serrated blade at your mind, and Astarion tries to close the connection to save you from that pain, but you rue against it.

“Don’t,” you think. “I can be your light. I can help you, but you have to let me.”

His fingers curl into your hair, and his tongue laps at the blood smeared across your lips, sucking on the cut gently. Your fingers caress the back of his neck. You’re not exactly sure how you do it, but as if on instinct, you flood Astarion with every iota of your love, light and fire into his psyche, upending the darkness and silencing his demons.

His body relaxes. His fingers no longer grip aggressively but embrace, and he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on yours as he pants. As your senses return to you, so does the angelic chorus of beating hearts and the enticing smell of blood, and you clench your jaw as your stomach does cartwheels in your abdomen. Your fingernails incise your palm.

“I’ve got you, my treasure.” Astarion interlocks his fingers with yours to stop you. “Hold onto me.”

Astarion turns to Nine Fingers. She’s staring at you with a speculatively arched brow, “We will be taking our leave now. I expect to see improved totals on your subsequent report, or we will have a very unpleasant discussion, and if any more pickpockets get caught, you will not be calling yourself Nine Fingers any longer. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Lord Ancunin,” she nods curtly with a twisted mouth and narrowed eyes. “Do bring your spawn along more often. She is incredibly useful, it seems.”

Astarion roars, slamming Nine Fingers against a wooden column, splitting it. He bellows when he speaks, making sure everyone can hear him, “No one is to call her “spawn.” If I hear anyone utter that word in reference to her, I will hang them from the rafters by their intestines while they still draw breath.” Astarion looks around with a frightening scowl, verifying everyone is paying attention, “She is my right hand, and you will treat her with due respect. Any orders from her should be treated as if they are coming from me directly.”

“Astarion,” you whimper, scratching lacerations into the top of your hand to keep yourself grounded. “I need to go.”

He releases Nine Fingers, spins and grabs your hand. He keeps a tight hold on you until you’re back in the alley. He orders the guards to stand further away. You sprint to the dead end and grip a fence as hard as you can, taking in large gasps of air to try and quiet the bloodlust ravaging your mind, bullying you into mania. Astarion’s hands come to the rail on either side of you, caging you in with his chest pressed against your back.

“You did well in there,” he purrs. “Controlling the bloodlust.”

“You could have warned me that I would want to eat everyone with a beating heart,” you groan, leaning into him.

“I suppose I could have been a tad more forthcoming,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “To be fair, I was a young spawn centuries ago. It’s not exactly fresh in my mind.”

“How did you learn to control it?” you sigh. You’re falling into him again, slipping into that blissful completeness that melts that icy numbness keeping you sane.

There’s a quiver of torment that dithers across the harmony. “Cazador…” he starts, spoken with a desolate undertone. He folds his arms around you, holding you close, and he trembles, “Cazador would starve me and then have people stand in the kennels while I was chained or caged. He would cut them, small at first, but gradually worse. They would get progressively closer. If I made a move or lost control in any way, I would be punished. Severely.” He pauses with a sigh, and his brows turn down at the sides. “I lost control a lot.”

By the Gods. You would not have been able to understand how torturous that would be without being a vampire yourself. Bloodlust hurts, a physical pain that progressively gets steadily worse until you are nothing but a writhing, rabid animal with no semblance of sentience.

“Astarion…” you turn to him, wrapping your arms around him. “That’s… Gods, there are no words. I’m so sorry.”

“Come,” he clears his throat, uncomfortable with the emotion as if he does not believe he deserves your empathy. “Let’s go home.”

“Thank you for telling me.” You murmur, hoping you’re not overstepping, “About… him. I know you don’t like to talk about it.”

“Partners talk about this type of stuff openly, yes?”

“I…” you balk at the question. It seems so out of character for him. You expected him to ignore you or scold you for bringing it up further. “I suppose they do, but-“

“Yes,” he cuts you off. “I know what we aren’t. You keep reminding me every chance you get. You requested real and real you shall have. I never wanted you to see that side of me.” Astarion sighs and looks at the setting sun reverently, his face softening, a glimpse of his former self, “Cazador is no longer an off-limits topic for you.”

What?

Can you trust him not to fly into a blind rage when you speak of his former self, the pathetic spawn he is so genuinely disgusted with? Perhaps this is not the time to test the limits of this newfound freedom.

“Lady Ancunin?” You quirk a brow at him. “That’s not my name.”

“Not as of yet, it’s not,” his arm wraps around your waist, and a smile flashes over his face like wintry sunshine. He whispers, “You bear my name beautifully, my love.”

Your eyelashes flutter open, and you’re shocked to be in the familiar halls of the Crimson Palace, but it does not appear as you remember it. Everything is washed in a drab sepia tone, and you blink, trying to clear your vision. The walls and floors appear to wave as if they are an illusion. Servants blink in and out of existence as they flit around. You try to walk in the way of them, waving your arms to get their attention, but they pay you no heed, blinking out and reappearing behind you.

A scream you would recognize anywhere reverberates through the ghostly halls, shrill and bone-chilling.

Astarion…

You sprint toward the sound, descending the dark staircase two or three steps at a time that appears to end in a black well of nothingness. You’re trying to grip the weave and call on your magic, but when you reach for it, you find nothing but a yawning void where it should be. Staring at your palm, you shake it, confused, as you burst into the hall leading to the spawn quarters. Another cry echoes. You forget about your lack of magic as horror grips your heart, and you sprint around the corner and halt dead in your tracks.

Astarion stands in the hallway. He’s hunched over with hands pressed against the doorframe as he stares distantly into the room before him - the kennels. He is the only thing in undulled, vivid colour. It’s a stark contrast to the atmosphere of mousy undertones.

“Astarion?”

He jolts, whirling and staring at you with a disoriented tangle of sorrow and perplexity. His jaw tightens, and his eyes shift quickly from side to side, “No,” he mutters, shaking his head, “No, this isn’t right. You would not have been here.”

“What’s going on?” You sputter, voice breaking. “I don’t understand.”

Another strident shriek. You are stirred into action, dashing down the hall at full speed. Astarion’s eyes widen as he gauges your target, and he takes long steps to cut you off. His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you backward from the open doorway.

“No, darling,” he coos, trying to swath his voice in velvet. “You don’t want to go in there. Please, trust me on this.”

“What?” You’re panicked, clawing at him, trying to push his arms away. “I can’t just stand here! Let me go!”

“You can’t help him… Me. You can’t help me.” Astarion rasps. His eyes are sad, but he tries to smile. “This is long over and done. It’s a memory - my memory.”

Anguished wailing reverberates, making the walls appear to shudder. You can’t take it, you can’t fucking take it, and you push out of Astarion’s arms and charge into the kennels.

The scene that greets you makes tears instantly flow down your cheeks, and you can’t help but dry heave as your stomach shoots into your throat.

“That’s right, my boy.” Cazador snickers, compulsion glowing in his eyes, tendrils stirring the air. “Sing those sweet, sweet cries for me.”

You try to grab Cazador, screaming in anguish, but your hand swishes straight through the apparition. Arms come around your waist, hauling you up and out of the room while you reach and clamber, trying to do something. Anything.

Astarion sets you down, folding his arms around you, “Shhh, little love,” he purrs. “It will be alright.”

“Astarion,” you sob, knees quaking. Astarion braces you against himself, “What in the Hells is happening?”

“I’m not entirely sure. We are tranced, in the manor, I think. This... it already happened long ago. So long, I cannot even recall the colours anymore.”

His thumb clears the rivulets of tears storming down your cheeks so sweetly, like the whisper of a fairy dream. His eyes, so intensely crimson, are doting, inviting you to get lost in them.

Another soul-crushing outcry discharges from the room, and you can’t help but scream with him. Astarion firmly but gently places his hands over your ears, trying to provide you amnesty from the howling cries.

You lean into him and beg, tugging on his clothes, “Make it stop, Astarion. Good Gods. Make it stop. Please. I can’t… I can’t… Wake us up.”

“I’m trying,” he breathes faintly, pressing harder on your ears as another jarring yowl rolls over you, and you start slipping to the floor in a puddle of sorrow.

Everything dissolves around you, turning black and silent, and you’re pitched into a bottomless void that makes your stomach lurch.

You thrash in your bed, convulsing so violently that you throw yourself to your hands and knees on the floor with a discordant shriek. Your bedsheets and clothes are soddened with sweat, the delicate fabric clinging to your body, and you tremble so turbulently that you can barely push yourself to your feet.

You blink rapidly, trying to see through the distortion caused by unshed tears. Your chest heaves in quick, rapid breaths as you sprint into the hallway. Astarion is already running toward you, and you slam into his arms as your legs give way.

“It’s okay,” he comforts you with a soft, deep baritone, a salve to your pain. “Everything is alright.”

Your mind sees that gruesome vision, a ghostly layer veiling the man before you. Your stomach twists and knots. Saliva floods your mouth. Pushing out of his hold, you scramble away as far as you can, and your liquid dinner is a sanguine spill spreading across the floor. Astarion holds your hair back and rubs your back as you continue to dry heave between your rapid breaths.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out between sobs.

“It is I who should be sorry,” he sits on the chaise, beckoning you into his arms. You curl up in his lap once the wave of nausea eases, desperate to be close to him. Astarion strokes your arm, “I left the connection open. I did not know you could get transported into my dreams. I will not make that mistake again.”

You look up, cupping his cheek in your palm and searching his eyes. That beautiful face is calm and carpeted with earnest affection but otherwise unfazed while he sweeps strands of your hair behind your ear, “Are you okay?”

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he kisses your palm. “I have relived many of my memories hundreds of times over. There are only a few that truly disturb me anymore. Thank you for asking, but I am fine.”

“Okay...” you breathe deeply, unsure if your mind can accept how undaunted he is. The last remnants of your weeping shudder through your body, “I’ll clean that up.”

Pushing yourself away from him is a monumental task. He is warm like sunshine and comforting like darkness. You hate him a little for being so… him.

“Will you come to bed?” Astarion looks at you longingly. “ Our bed, I mean.”

“No.”

“When are you going to stop punishing me?” He laments, following you while you grab a rag and bucket of soapy water from the rarely used kitchen.

“I’m not punishing you for anything, Astarion.”

“Bullshit.” He exclaims sourly. “Do not think me blind. You’ve been ignoring and avoiding me purposefully. I- I miss you.” Astarion’s arms fall limp at this side, “Tell me how to make it right.”

You hand Astarion a cup, “Break this.”

His brows pinch as he turns the cup over and over. He looks at you, confused, but throws it to the floor, shattering it. “What was the point of that?”

“Now, fix it.”

“I have many mind-blowing abilities,” he stares at the shattered pieces strewn across the floor, brows pinched. “Fixing broken goblets is not one of them.”

“Because not everything can be fixed."

You start wiping up your sick in the tense muteness between you and Astarion. He sits on the chaise, just watching with a grief-stricken expression that makes you want to weep.

“I can run up walls, walk upside down on ceilings, turn into a bat and mist, among other things. All this power…” A low laugh rumbles in his chest, crestfallen and mournful. “All this fucking power,” he clenches his fists, craning his head to look up at the ceiling, “and I still cannot have the one thing in the world I want most.” He sighs, shaking his head. Astarion cocks his head to look at you and smiles bleakly, “Sleep tight, my love.”

Astarion disappears into his room, and you bite your tongue to stifle your crying. After you’ve finished cleaning up and are back in your bed, you toss restlessly. How long will this harrowing purgatory go on? You take deep breaths, but it does not even begin to fill the void in your chest. You are fragmented without him in your head or against your skin. As if you’re soul has deformed, warped and splintered into a mangled husk.

This is why you’ve been avoiding Astarion. His words tear your heart open, dissect it, and then you must stitch yourself up anew. How many times can your chest be torn open and your heart ripped to pieces before the scarps are too small to glue back together?

I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I don’t care.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

In the hall, you jump at the sight of Astarion halfway up the long corridor. He halts, and you stare at each other in reticence. His hair is a disarrayed jumble of soft silver curls. The moonlight streaming in from the windows brilliantly sets the ivory skin of his bared chest aglow. His shoulders are slumped in a disconsolate stature you’re not used to seeing on him. The iron countenance and steely confidence he oozes are absent.

“Love,” he whispers wearily. “Lay with me tonight.” Astarion gestures toward himself, splaying his hand on his bare chest. Desperation clings to his voice, “Be with me. We can workshop the details as we go.”

“Tell me you love me,” you say, moon-eyed, lips quivering.

“I-I,” he pauses. Anticipation clenches your heart in your chest. Please, you think, please just fucking say it so we can stop playing this game. You think he just might until he grimaces. “I can’t.”

“No. Of course, you can’t,” you mewl. You wrap yourself in your comfortable cloak of numbness to preserve your sanity, “Because how could you love a lowly spawn like my good self?”

He does not answer, and that is answer enough.

You’re crouched low in a dark alley, skulking around in the shadows in the Lower City. Astarion went out to deal with some business you were not invited to, so you’ve taken the chance to survey the tavern you last saw that purple-haired bitch at - Elowyn. Your intuition tells you she has something to do with the Gur attacks, regardless of Astarion’s assurances that she’s harmless. The earth-shatteringly handsome man can be blinded by his overconfidence at times.

You’re not sure what Astarion will do if he gets home and you’re nowhere to be found, but you left him a note saying you went for a walk. He probably won’t tear the city apart looking for you. You’re not a caged bird. You can come and go as you please.

... Right?

You’re about to give up for the night when you see her. She glances out the tavern doors, askant, surveying her surroundings before pulling up her hood and slinking down the street. Elowyn takes an oddly winding route, up and down dark alleys and paths, often doubling back. She strolls confidently but takes acute notice of her surroundings. She is practiced and methodical in the way she observes. You should have eaten her when she cornered you with her singsong voice and dainty little face, spewing filth and lies. Maybe you should eat her now…

No, no. You can eat her after you figure out what she’s up to. You smile sadistically at the promise to yourself, licking your lips. You will eat her when you’ve ascertained how she means to harm your master.

Gods. Where did that thought come from?

Elowyn turns abruptly down a side street. Casting Misty Step, you appear on a roof, crouch at the edge and watch her intently. She walks up and down the pathway, looking in all directions except up, much to your delight.

Hardly anyone looks up.

She leans down and opens the entrance to the sewers, climbing down and replacing the cover. The sewers… You fucking hate the sewers. It’s the last place you want to follow her, but nothing can deter you.

This place is a maze of tunnels and run-offs. It’s an arduous task to track her with any degree of certainty. The rayless, glum passageways look similar, but you glimpse her here and there. Her course is consistent with the streets above as she makes arbitrary turns left and right, retracing her steps before continuing. It makes you question if she spotted you and is just taking you on a wild goose chase for shits and giggles, but it’s doubtful. There is purpose in Elowyn’s steps, even if you’re not quite able to understand it yet.

Elowyn steps onto the wooden platform, pulls the lever, and floats up the nauseating river of excrement and contamination. You recognize the area she is going to by smell alone. She’s heading into the lowest floors of the ruined temple under the Crimson Palace. You frown. You’ve been all through those lower, ravaged corridors.

You used to try and hide from Astarion down there, but he always found you. You shudder at the memories of playing some sick, twisted version of hide and seek, where the consequences were more dire than being tagged “it.”

What could be down there that’s of any interest to her? Does Astarion know? Is that where he set the Drow up to do her assessments? Unlikely. He would not want Araj that close to home.

There’s a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere. The chilled air starts to warm unnaturally, embers floating around. Your skin prickles as the hair on the back of your neck and arms rises. You smell the smoky stench and pollution of sulphur crawling through the air. It stings your nostrils, twisting in the back of your nose and down your throat, choking you. A liquid black maw opens in the stone before your feet, and the inky, viscid silhouette emerges from the gaping orifice, taking shape and wings stretching with a boastful flare.

You jump backward, filling yourself with the Weave, heating your palms and skin with spells dancing on your fingertips and primed on your tongue.

“Darling,” a toothy grin greets you. “Now, now, Sorceress. Put those spells of yours to rest. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Mizora.”  

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's never a good sign when Mizora shows up. We are getting into the thick of it now :)

[fatgirlonadate-blog]

21 Days - Day 10

Xavier has the unique ability to keep everyone, even those closest to him, at an arm's length. He will speak freely and easily about casual topics, yet guards anything personal like his life depends on it. He's an open book until you dare try to turn the page past the first chapter. It's something that you've had to accept about him over the course of your friendship, and you rarely get anywhere when you press him on it. But as the two of you grow closer, it's becoming increasingly frustrating.

"Why am I just now finding out that your birthday is in six days?" You ask him, scrolling through his employee profile on your phone as the two of you sit at the dining table eating breakfast.

"You never asked," Xavier replies simply, continuing to eat his food.

The deep scowl you shoot him over your phone makes it clear that his answer isn't good enough and he sighs, setting his spoon down.

"Why would I mention it? It's the same as any other day."

"The same as any other day?" You repeat his words, incredulous. "What do you mean? It's your birthday!"

"It's not important. I don't really celebrate it."

The way he says it so casually, like he really believes it, doesn't sit right with you. Sure, it's his birthday and he's entitled to celebrate it however he wants, but the idea that it's not important - that no one has ever made it feel important - cuts through your chest like a knife.

"You don't do anything for it at all?" You press, setting your phone down to really look at him.

"Sometimes I have hot pot or spend the day reading a new book."

It takes everything in your limited self-restraint to keep your expression neutral and only nod in response as a plan begins to form in your mind. Hot pot and a new book were not going to cut it - not this year. The mature thing would be to respect his wishes, you know. But you've never been particularly mature, and Xavier deserves more than a bowl of noodles and a new book. He deserves to know that he's important. He deserves to feel...loved.

"Maybe we could spend your birthday reading together then? I'm feeling nice, so I'll even let you pick the book," you joke, trying desperately to sound natural.

"How very generous of you," Xavier says with an amused laugh, "I'd like that."

He returns to his meal, and you suppress the urge to ask him more questions. It would be nice to know what his other birthdays were like; surely he must have celebrated them with his family when he was younger? The image of a 5-year-old Xavier flashes through your mind unbidden, and you can almost picture him: chubby cheeks, wide blue eyes, fluffy hair, and a light blade taller than he is. You'd sell your soul to hear stories about him as a child. But you know better than to ask him. He'd grow quiet and tense, giving you a vague, evasive answer that would only make the distance he keeps between you feel wider.

The rest of the meal passes in comfortable silence, and you spend the time mentally creating a list of things you want to do for his birthday. It cannot be the same as any other day. Not this time. Not with you. Six days isn't a lot of time to plan something, but it should be more than enough with a little help.

"I have to head back into the city today." You mention, grabbing the bowls and utensils to clear the table. "I got distracted and forgot to cancel a doctor's appointment. I'll probably be gone for a few hours."

"Are you sick?"

"No," you call back to him, placing the dishes into the sink, "it's just a routine check-up."

"I'll come with you." Xavier offers, joining you in the kitchen.

"Nah, you don't need to. Besides, someone has to stay behind and make sure our suspect doesn't happen to choose today to finally make an appearance."

The old faucet squeaks to life as you rinse the dishes, and distracts you from the sound of his footsteps. You startle slightly as Xavier wraps his arms around you from behind and presses his chest against your back. "I'll come with you. Who else will keep you out of trouble if I'm not there?"

These small moments of blatant affection are still new. Xavier had always found subtle ways to express himself before: a brighter smile whenever you walked into the room, a hand on your back to steady you even though you didn’t need it, linking his pinky with yours as the two of you fell asleep on his couch, his lips brushing against your ear during a hug. But things have been different the last few days—it’s as if he can’t stop touching you. Neither of you has acknowledged it—too afraid to give it a name.

"I'm a grown-ass woman," you protest, "I don't need anyone to keep me out of trouble."

Xavier hums against your ear, and you can practically feel the way the corners of his mouth turn up in amusement, "I don’t know about that. Do you know how many times I have had to practically carry you home? I'm coming."

You huff in protest, but your smile is wider than a Cheshire cat’s. "Fine. Come with me then, but make yourself useful. No sleeping on the train, mister. I expect to be entertained."

You can feel him smile again as he places a kiss on the side of your neck.

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Shen."

It is not a surprise that Xavier lasted all of 15 minutes on the train before promptly falling asleep with his head on your shoulder. Light shining in through the window bounces off his fluffy hair making it look more golden than usual. The soft glow he's illuminated in transforms his normal cute features into something more ethereal. He's handsome. Jaw-droppingly handsome. It's easy to take for granted when you're seeing him every day, but you are painfully aware of it now.

He had insisted that you wear his white zippered jacket the moment you'd left the house despite it being quite warm for an Autumn day. Between the added layer of clothing and his body pressed against your side, it's hot on the train. It's not the kind of heat that makes you sweat; it's the kind of heat that makes your body feel languid and sleepy. Xavier never stood a chance of staying awake for the entire train ride.

You're nearly nodding off yourself when the loudspeakers announce that you've arrived at your destination. A flutter of excitement builds in your chest as you rouse Xavier and the two of you exit the train. Dr. Zayne is a man of few words, and you'd hardly heard from him over the last 10 days. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since the two of you reconnected, and you're anxious to see him again.

The streets are bustling with shoppers and tourists, and the sounds of the city are almost deafening after spending nearly two weeks in the relative silence of the countryside. Xavier's fingers lace with yours, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze as the two of you weave through the sea of people on the sidewalk.

The receptionist greets the two of you as you arrive, and after confirming the details of your visit, instructs you to sit in the lobby while you wait. The hospital looks much the same as the last time you were here; the white walls are stark and bright, and the sterile scent of disinfectant is strong in the air. The space is relatively empty, and there is no sign of Dr. Zayne - likely still busy with his last patient. But your eyes light up when you see Dr. Greyson passing through the waiting room, and you give him an excited wave.

"Hey, doctor!" You call to him, "It's been a while."

He approaches the two of you with a warm smile and takes a seat in the chair next to yours, "Ah, Dr. Zayne's most unruly patient. How are you doing? You look well."

Xavier sits silently beside you, his eyes shifting between you and Greyson.

"I am, thanks to the two of you. How are you? How's the protocore syndrome research going?"

"Busy, but I can't complain. Not much progress has been made since your visit last month, but I did run across something you might be interested in." He pulls out his phone and angles his body closer to you to share his screen. With deft fingers, he quickly navigates to a medical journal that he has bookmarked. "It's a paper that Xander Sciences just published."

Thankfully, the abstract is brief, and you instinctively lean in toward Dr. Greyson as you skim through it. Xander Science's research is notoriously secretive, making it surprising they've released new findings. Just as you reach out to scroll to the bottom, your chair unexpectedly skids several inches to the side.

"Woah!" You yelp in surprise and turn to look in the direction your chair was yanked. Xavier's hand is retreating from your armrest that is now flush with his.

"Sorry, hand slipped." He says flatly, looking not at all apologetic.

Dr. Greyson eyes flit curiously between the two of you, and he slips his phone back into his pocket. "Right. Well, it was good to see you. Dr. Zayne's schedule is packed today, but I doubt your wait will be much longer."

"Thank you, see you next time!" You say to Dr. Greyson's retreating back. The moment he's out of hearing range, you turn toward Xavier and hiss, "What was that about?"

Xavier looks sheepish for a moment, and then shrugs, "My hand really did slip."

You frown and roughly tug at the cuff of his long-sleeve black t-shirt. “Really? This hand just moved on its own?”

“Yep,” he answers definitively, grabbing your hand with his and holding it in his lap. His thumb idly traces back and forth across your wrist.

"I don't believe that for one sec-"

A short woman wearing scrubs interrupts you mid-sentence, "Dr. Zayne will see you shortly. Please follow me."

As soon as you rise to follow her back to Zayne's office, Xavier stands up too, catching the petite nurse's attention.

“No guests are allowed in exam rooms—only immediate family. I’m afraid I'll have to ask you to wait here, sir,” she says, her tone flat and dismissive, as if she’s had this conversation a thousand times before.

"I'm her husband." Xavier says with a lazy smile.

It is a good thing that he wrapped an arm around your waist at the same time as he said it or you would have tripped over thin air. Husband. HUSBAND. What in the world is he thinking? This is Linkon. This is your hospital. These people know you!

The entire English language is wiped from your memory as you open your mouth to speak, and you're left stuttering like an idiot, "I...um...well..."

The nurse shifts on her feet and glances between the two of you, clearly uncertain if she should believe you or not. But after glancing at her watch, she simply shrugs and motions for you to follow.

"You'll be seen in exam room 4 today rather than Dr. Zayne's personal office."

The walk to the exam room is short and punctuated only by the sound of your footsteps and the beat of your own heart in your ears. The room itself is familiar - plain white walls, a single exam table, an ECG machine, and a small desk in the corner. It's the same every month. But what isn't the same is the sight of Xavier slouched in the chair by the door looking comfortable and at ease with the situation.

The nurse begins running you through the typical set of diagnostics for your visit: checking your pulse, blood pressure, and a slew of questions about any symptoms you currently have. Though you've answered questions about your menstrual cycle and sexual activity a dozen times at these appointments, it feels so much more awkward with Xavier listening. Finally, when she's satisfied that the basic checks are done, she excuses herself, and the two of you are left alone.

"You are not my husband! I cannot believe you said that!" you whisper-yell at Xavier.

"I am," he retorts, "for the next few months, to be precise."

"Not here, you aren't! Not in the city! Not actually!"

Xavier laughs softly at your quiet outrage, clearly not appreciating how embarrassed you feel. "Should I have said I was your brother? We do not really look alike."

You groan, and bury your face in your hands, "No! You should have just stayed in the waiting room!"

He lets out another soft laugh, and then goes quiet. The only sound in the exam room for a moment is the sound of his chair sliding across the floor as he moves closer to the table. The next thing you feel is his hand wrapping around your right wrist and pulling your palm away from your face.

"Did I mess up? I'm sorry," he says softly, "I thought you'd want me to come in with you."

The teasing expression is gone from his eyes and replaced by something gentle and vulnerable. He's trying, you realize. He's trying to be supportive and a part of your life in a way he never has before. He's trying to support you for something even as simple as a checkup. He cares about you. It's always been obvious that he cares about you. But this feels like more. It feels like...a word you won't even let yourself think.

A soft knock at the door interrupts the moment, and you spring away from Xavier like you've been burned and jerk your wrist from his grasp. Your eyes snap in the direction of the door right as it swings open.

"Hello," Dr. Zayne greets you, his voice cold and professional, "I apologize for the delay. My last patient had a lot of questions."

If Zayne is surprised that Xavier is present, he makes no outward sign of it as he takes his seat at the small desk and reviews your file on the screen of his monitor. He's dressed impeccably, as always. The white dress shirt and black tie under his lab coat look good on him, but there are darkened circles under his eyes that hint at sleepless nights.

"It's good to see you, Dr. Zayne. How have you been?"

Zayne responds without looking up from his computer, "I've been quite well. But that's not why we are here. How have you been feeling? Any changes recently? Fatigue? Shortness of breath?"

The coolness in his tone would have once intimidated you, but you'd long since come to understand his aloof facade. With more and more frequency you were able to break through it, but for the second time today you wish Xavier had stayed in the waiting room. It's rare for Zayne to let his guard down while inside the hospital, and Xavier's presence here makes the possibility virtually nonexistent.

"I feel good. Sometimes I'm tired, but who isn't? And no, no shortness of breath."

"Good." Zayne says with a slight nod and turns to face you, "Should I ask why you've brought a guest or would you rather I stay in suspense?"

His eyes cut toward Xavier briefly, and then returned to you. His gaze is sharp and intense, and it's unclear if he's irritated or simply curious.

"Xavier. I'm her partner," Xavier answers before you have a chance to speak.

"My hunting partner!" You clarify quickly.

Zayne's brows raise infinitesimally, "I see. And is it customary now for your colleagues to accompany you to your doctor's visits?"

While it was unclear before, it's not now. Irritated. That's irritation in his voice, and he is pointedly ignoring Xavier's existence.

"No," you answer with a nervous laugh. "We're on a long-term mission. He wasn't supposed to come back here. We just had a teensy misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding." Zayne repeats, and his lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile. "Interesting. Hard to believe that could happen with your excellent communication skills."

The tension in your shoulders ease at his small attempt at humor, and you return his ghost of a smile with a much livelier one. The moment of ease is fleeting, though, because Zayne quickly slips back into doctor mode. He asks question after question about your daily activities, sleeping habits, and nutrition. Zayne finds very few of your answers to be satisfactory. By the time he's finished, you feel properly chastised. Xavier, thankfully, remained silent throughout your interrogation.

"Sit here, please." Zayne requests, pulling a stool out from under the desk. "I'd like to check your heart before we part ways."

You do as you are told, and move to sit in front of him. He slips the stethoscope from around his neck and places the instrument over your chest. His silence during this part of the exam always makes you nervous, and you cannot help but try to fill it for him.

"I'm sure it's fine, right? If something were wrong I'd have felt a difference. Wouldn't I?"

Zayne leans closer as you babble, his brows furrowed, his attention focused.

"It's only been a month since my last checkup. What could have chang-"

"Shhh," Zayne shushes you, and his eyes on yours are a reprimand.

You immediately snap your mouth closed with a click and freeze, sitting perfectly still under his stethoscope.

"You should still breathe," he softly admonishes, meeting your eyes.

You immediately suck in several quick lungfuls of air, your chest rising and falling dramatically in response.

"Slowly. And deeply." He corrects, moving his hand to the small of your back and pressing insistently to correct your posture. You straighten your spine at his touch, and take a deep, slow breath in before releasing it at the same rate.

The corner of Zayne's mouth twitches upward as you comply, and he moves the stethoscope to another spot on your chest, "Good girl. Keep doing that for me."

You flinch and feel Zayne's hands tense against your back as the lights in the room flicker once, twice, and then go completely dark for a moment. There's a scraping sound as Zayne scoots his chair back and stands up just as the lights in the room hum back to life as if they'd never gone out in the first place.

You dart an accusatory glance at Xavier only to see that his posture has completely changed. He's sitting with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, and is staring unwaveringly at Zayne.

Zayne, however, remains the picture of composure as he settles back into his chair. Though you're seated directly in front of him, his gaze shifts past you, locking onto Xavier with a calculating look.

"Must be a storm," Xavier says roughly, leaning back in his chair and uncrossing his arms.

"Must be." Zayne replies, his expression is as inscrutable as Xavier's.

Silence stretches between the three of you as they continue to stare at each other. Your eyes shift between the two men, waiting for something to happen. An explanation. A diversion. An act of God. Something. Is this how men size each other up? Does the man who speaks first lose?

"So...how'd my heart sound, Dr. Zayne? Fit as a fiddle, right?" You ask, breaking the silence for them. They both turn to look at you as you speak, and the tension eases a fraction.

Zayne swivels in his seat to face the desk and begins typing. "You're in good health, despite your best efforts to sabotage it. I'd like to see you back in two weeks for a follow-up."

"Two weeks?" You repeat, "But I usually come once a month."

"Two weeks." He confirms, reaching into the drawer of his desk, "We'll go over your test results then. Privately."

Zayne stands and nudges the drawer closed, gesturing toward the door. A clear dismissal.

You stand and Xavier is quick to follow as Zayne opens the door and steps out of the room to show the two of you out.

"Thanks, Dr. Zayne. I'll see you in a couple of weeks, then."

Zayne nods as you and Xavier exit the room into the hallway. He gently catches your wrist in his hand as you're about to walk away, and presses a small, foil-wrapped candy into your palm.

"Do not hesitate to call me if anything changes," Zayne says quietly, his voice as professional as always. But you hear it. The message that's hiding in the words he won't ever say: I'm here for you. Any time.

Zayne pulls away and returns to the exam room with a polite, distant smile.

As soon as the door shuts, Xavier slips his hand into yours and begins walking toward the hospital exit. His fingers around yours are slightly too tight for comfort, and his pace is quicker than normal. It's an effort to keep up.

"What is that?" He asks, clearly not having missed the small exchange between you and Zayne.

"Oh! It's candy." You open your other palm to show him the small piece of candy in your hand. "I always get one after a checkup. It's kind of an inside joke."

"He complained about your diet." Xavier says wryly, glancing down at your hand, "But he gives you candy?"

"Are you jealous of the candy now? Do you want me to give it to you?" You tease him, bumping your shoulder into his.

Xavier scoffs, "No. You can keep your hospital candy, Mrs. Shen."

Your laughter echoes through the hospital corridor, and Xavier's face relaxes into a smile. The tension leaves his body, and his grip on your hand eases. His pace slows, and he falls in step beside you instead of pulling you along behind him.

The streets of Linkon are crowded by the time you and Xavier leave the hospital. The sky has grown darker, gray clouds rolling in from the distance, and the air smells heavy. There's a chill wind that wasn't there earlier today, and you wrap Xavier's jacket closer around you as you walk.

You're halfway toward the train station as the first raindrop lands on your face. It's followed by another, and then another. The clouds open up and the rain falls in a torrent. Within seconds, you're both soaked to the bone.

Xavier tightens his grip on your hand and the two of you begin to run, weaving your way through the crowd of pedestrians. It's cold and wet, but the adrenaline of running hand-in-hand through the street with him has you giggling uncontrollably. You squeal with laughter and pretend to protest as he scoops you up and carries you through the large puddle separating you from the entrance to the train station. 

The train is already boarding when the two of you arrive, so there's no time to find a bathroom and dry off. You're wet, shivering, and the two of you leave a trail of water and footprints in your wake as you board.

The train car is mostly empty, and you quickly make your way to the back and claim the last two seats in the row. You sit by the window and Xavier plops down beside you, shaking his head like a wet dog. Water droplets fling in every direction, and you laugh and whine as you try to shield yourself.

"Xav! No!" You scold him, "You're getting me all wet!"

He stops shaking his head and turns to grin at you, "What? You're already drenched. Is it even possible to make you more wet?"

The thought that instantly springs to your mind has nothing to do with rain, and you feel your cheeks heat even though you're shivering in your seat. Xavier's grin grows wider and you can see that he's caught onto your thoughts.

"Oh, are you blushing?" He asks, trailing his cold fingers down your too-warm cheek, "I wonder why."

"No! I'm not blushing. Shut up. It's...It's just very cold."

"Cold? Really?" He coaxes, "You sure it's not something else?"

"Very sure. What else could it be?"

"Hm, I think I know," Xavier says softly.

He snakes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. He's cold, too. The thin material of his black t-shirt is damp and clings to his chest in a way that should be illegal. Your eyes stray to the planes of his chest and stomach that you can see against the fabric. The temptation to touch him is only tempered by the way he's shivering and the fact that you're both very much in public.

The rain is still falling hard as the two of you make it back to your temporary suburban home. The warmth of the cozy apartment is an immediate relief, and you do not waste any time kicking your soggy shoes off and peeling off your jacket. Your damp jeans cling to your legs as you bend over and roll your drenched socks off one-by-one.

"Come on, let's get changed. You'll catch a cold if you stay in wet clothes," Xavier says, placing his hand on the small of your back to lead you down the hall to the bedroom.

The moment you're both in the bedroom, Xavier begins stripping out of his wet clothes. He peels the soaked t-shirt off of his upper body and throws it into the laundry basket near the door. There's no hesitation in his hands and he's not looking in your direction as he starts removing his jeans. The button is quickly undone, and he's just hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants when you finally remember to turn away.

Your attention is now directed to your own clothes, and you suddenly feel more shy than you should. The two of you have changed clothes around and near each other for the last several days, but there's always been some unspoken agreement to find a reason to leave the room once one of you gets down to your underwear.

Your cheeks feel hot again, and your fingers are clumsy as you pull at the hem of your shirt. The wet fabric sticks to you as you pull it over your head and toss it into the laundry basket to join Xavier's wet clothes. You fumble with the button of your jeans, and the zipper sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room. Your heart is beating hard in your chest as you push the stubborn wet denim down to your ankles and step out of them.

Your bra and panties are slightly damp, and there's no reason not to take them off. There's no reason to be blushing this hard from simply changing your clothes in a room with a man. Especially with a man you're sure already has his back turned toward you, but you're not brave enough to check.

"I'll get some towels," Xavier offers, his footsteps already heading in the direction of the door.

Your shoulders sag with relief and maybe a little disappointment. With a frustrated shake of your head at your own conflicting emotions, you quickly unhook your bra and slide off your panties. They land in the laundry basket with a quick toss, and you open the closet to find something to sleep in. You swiftly scan through your side, but can't help but notice that all of Xavier's sweaters look so soft and warm. A lot warmer than any of your pajamas.

You reach for the frayed white sweater on the shelf and pull it over your head. It's soft and warm, and the sleeves hang well past your fingertips. The bottom of the sweater falls midway down your thighs.

Choosing a pair of panties, something you normally do without a second thought, shouldn’t make you blush. "It’s not like he’s even going to see them," you whisper to yourself. Yet your hand hesitates as you sift through the options. There’s no reason to pick anything sexy—you barely own any, and it’s not like you’ve had someone to wear them for. But before you can second guess yourself, your hand moves instinctively, reaching to the back of the drawer to pull out a lacy black pair. You slip them on without another moment’s hesitation and pull the sweater down to stretch past your thighs.

Xavier returns moments later with a towel hanging loosely around his bare shoulders and another one grasped in his hands. His hair is tousled and messy, sticking up at all angles. It's a sight that you'd find adorable under different circumstances, but not tonight. Not right now because he's shirtless and his gray sweatpants are hanging low enough on his hips that you can see the beginning of the "V" line of his pelvis.

There should be an award for the effort it takes not to stare at him, and you reach your hand out for the towel that he's holding. Xavier shakes his head, and moves the towel further out of your reach.

"I'll do it," he says quietly, "Sit down."

"I can do it myself" you protest, but he's already herding you toward the bed.

You back up as he advances until the back of your knees press against the bed and you sit on the edge. Xavier joins you and wraps the plush towel around your shoulders, rubbing it lightly over the wet ends of your hair. He's gentle and thorough as he wrings the water out of your damp hair and uses the towel to dry the moisture off of the back of your neck.

Once you’re mostly dry, he sets the towel aside and gently runs his fingers through your hair, combing it out with care. Gathering it in his hand, he drapes it over one shoulder to clear the way. His fingers trail from your ear down to the nape of your neck.

"Is this mine?" He asks, tracing the collar of the white sweater you're wearing.

"I had no choice. I had to borrow it."

Xavier's eyes drift lower, to where the sweater ends at your bare thighs, before returning to your face.

"Is it the only thing that's mine?" He asks, his eyes searching yours.

For the slightest moment, you had thought he was asking if you'd stolen any of his other clothes. But then his meaning hit you like a lightning bolt burning heat through all of your nerve endings. Your mouth goes dry and you swallow thickly, trying to find your voice.

"Do you want me to be yours?" You whisper hesitantly, unable to directly answer his question.

"More than you could ever imagine."

His answer is quiet and breathy, but there’s not a second of hesitation in it. And it's the only push you need to finally close the gap between the two of you. You lean forward and catch his lips with yours, cupping his face in your hands to pull him closer. His lips are soft and warm against yours. When he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue you part them instantly to invite him in.

He kisses you slowly at first, but then his lips become more greedy and desperate. There’s a lack of finesse due to the urgency with which he’s consuming your mouth. And every movement of his lips and tongue against yours draws you in deeper and makes you feel more needy.

Need. That’s what this is. You know he feels the same way as his hands move to your shoulders and he pushes you back against the bed. He moves with you as you lie back against the bed and presses you down into the mattress with his weight. You part your thighs instinctively so that he can settle in between them. 

He caresses a path up your sides as he turns his attention to your neck and begins to place wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. These are not the chaste, small kisses he usually gives you while you fall asleep. You gasp and rock your hips against his as you feel the bite of his teeth against your throat. His tongue quickly soothes the area as he sucks on the ache his teeth left behind. His fingers halt near the top of your ribcage and he fists the fabric of the sweater in his hands before pulling back slightly to look at you.

"Can I touch you?" His voice is ragged and he's breathing hard between his parted lips.

"You already are," you answer distractedly, dragging your nails lightly down the smooth skin of his bare back.

"No," he clarifies, slipping one of his hands under your sweater. His fingers are rough and warm as he slides his hand up the expanse of your stomach, stopping right under the curve of your breast, "Can I touch you like this?"

Your heart is beating wildly, so hard and fast you're sure he must hear it. The warmth of his hand against your skin, so close to where he's never dared touch you before, makes you squirm with need and anticipation. You nod, eyes locked on his, and Xavier leans down to capture your lips in a hungry kiss as his hand inches higher and finally cups your breast.

The moment his fingers graze your nipple, your back arches off the bed, and a whimper escapes into his mouth. His warm hand caresses your sensitive skin, sending waves of pleasure straight to your core, but it’s not enough. Your sweater is bunched awkwardly around your waist, his arm trapped beneath it, though he doesn’t seem to notice as he kneads your breast more firmly. But you do—you don't want anything between you. Tilting your head to the side, you break the kiss and press gently against his chest until he pulls back.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" He asks softly, confusion clear on his face as he relaxes his grip on you.

"No, I just...I want..." Your words trail off as you move your hands down to tug on the sweater that's bunched up between the two of you.

The sound that he makes in response is somewhere between a groan and a growl, and he immediately pushes himself up to help you yank the sweater off and toss it on the floor. Goosebumps erupt across your skin as the cool air of the room hits your skin.

"You're beautiful," Xavier whispers reverently, his hands moving to cup both of your breasts, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to touch you."

Your head falls back against the pillow as you let out a breathless sigh of his name, "Xavier..."

He exhales a shuddering breath and leans down to fit his body against yours - chest to chest, skin to skin. He moves one hand to the back of your neck and tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling gently as he leans down to kiss you again. You can feel the hard length of his cock is pressing insistently against you through his gray sweatpants as he grinds his hips against yours.

"It sounds so good when you say my name like that. Say it again." He commands softly, trailing kisses along your jaw and down to your ear.

"Xavier," you repeat, your voice breathy and barely audible as he bites your earlobe. "Please."

"Good girl." He whispers against your ear as she shifts to trail kisses along your collar bones.

You fist your hands in his hair as he moves lower, kissing and nipping a path between your breasts. The gasp that escapes your throat is loud in the quiet room as his mouth closes over one of your nipples and his hand caresses the other one while he sucks.

The coil of tension is building low in your belly, and you can barely contain the way your body responds to him. You're so wet that you can feel the lace of your panties slide against your smooth skin every time you rock your hips against his thigh. You want him so badly that your whole body starts to tremble with need.

“Please, Xavier," you beg through gasping breaths.

"Please what?" he asks, releasing your nipple with a wet sound and trailing kisses across to the other. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything."

"More...just more..." You plead, "Touch me."

He leans back onto his knees and his hand slides down your stomach, tracing circles around your belly button, before his fingers finally come to rest at the waistband of your lacy black panties.

"Here?" He asks, unable to draw his eyes away from his own fingers, "Do you want me to touch you here?"

You nod, and your chest rises and falls rapidly as his hand trails down the lace and presses against your pussy. The sound he makes when his fingers find the wetness between your legs is almost a whimper. You throw an arm over your mouth to muffle the cry that leaves your throat as Xavier strokes you, his fingers brushing against your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. His touch is bordering on too gentle as he rubs his fingers up and down the front of the lace.

"Is this mine, too?" he asks, cupping your pussy with his palm.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you know your face must be flushed crimson due to how hot it feels. You nod slowly, lips parted, your eyes glued to the way his fingers are splayed over your center.

"I need to hear it." He says in a low rough voice, and his fingers flex against your skin.

"Yours," you answer, your voice shaky and breathless.

Xavier groans softly and trails his hand upward to hook his fingers in the lace, "Can I take them off?"

"God, yes." You find your voice.

His fingers tremble slightly as he grasps the waistband and begins to pull the lace down your thighs. It's the hottest discovery in the world to see that Xavier - cool, calm, and collected Xavier - is just as nervous and affected by this as you are. He shifts somewhat awkwardly, his position between your thighs making it difficult, and you can't help but giggle as you help him pull the panties down and off.

But your giggles die in your throat and reincarnate as soft gasps and moans as his fingers slide up your thighs and he finally caresses your bare pussy. You rock your hips up against his hand, urging him to touch more of you, and you whimper loudly as he slips one of his fingers into your wet heat.

A moment later, he slides in a second finger, and the gentle stretch as he fills you sends a shockwave of pleasure rippling through your body. His fingers are long, curling inside you at just the right angle, making your legs tremble and your pussy tighten around him. It’s as though he already knows exactly where and how to touch you, like he's done this countless times before.

"Xavier," you whimper, feeling a familiar pressure beginning to build inside of you.

"You feel so good," he murmurs, "You're so tight and wet. Just for me. Isn't that right?"

The second you nod he crooks his fingers inside of you, pressing against a spot that feels electric, and you cry out his name as his thumb circles your clit. Your back arches and you reach out and fist the sheets in your hands.

"Good girl. Just like that." Xavier says, shifting so that he can lean over you and kiss your lips again.

His lips are firm and insistent against yours, the kiss is messy, and your breathing becomes shallow and fast. Your hips rock and grind against his hand as his fingers pump in and out of you. His thumb is still stroking your clit is the most delicious torture you've ever felt, and you don't ever want it to stop. You can feel the pleasure coiling and building low in your stomach as you suck on his tongue. He pulls away from the kiss and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your flushed skin.

"You're so close. I can feel it," he whispers, and his voice is low and rough, "Come for me. Please."

The sound of him begging and the feeling of his thumb pressing harder against your clit is all you need. Your orgasm crashes over you, your walls convulsing around his fingers, and electric pleasure blooms from your stomach and spreads through your body.

You're still trembling as he slowly withdraws his fingers, and you watch with sated eyes as he sucks both of them clean. He hums softly and closes his eyes, and if it were possible to cum again on the spot, you would have.

His hair is messy from the way your fingers had tugged and pulled on it, and there is a distinct dark spot on his tented gray sweatpants from where you were grinding against him earlier. But it's his eyes that you can't seem to pull yourself away from. They're that soft, happy blue that you love and shining with adoration.

With a smile, he lies down next to you and pulls you into his arms. He grasps the edge of the blanket and brings it up to cover both of you as he places small kisses all over your face. You giggle as he kisses your nose and then rubs it with his own.

"Close your eyes," he says softly, threading his fingers through your hair as you yawn.

"I'm not tired."

"Yes, you are," he insists.

"But..." You trail off, too embarrassed to actually voice your thought, and slide your hand down his chest toward the waistband of his sweatpants.

He circles your wrist in his hand, and gently slides it back up his chest, "It's okay. Tonight was just for you."

You pout, "But I want-"

"Shhh." He shushes you quietly and shifts so that your head is resting against his chest with his arms wrapped around you.

"Just let me take care of you. That's all I want."

[somewhere-at-the-burrow]

Your blog is such a breath of fresh air. Experienced shifters have been deactivating their blogs left and right lately (mainly reasons relating to the tumblr community becoming too negative), the community is still mostly filled with people who are still learning so I hardly hear about successes (if ever), and when it comes to those who are successful, so few people share their experiences in such detail nowadays. Not that they have to of course. I do feel shifting is a personal and private thing and people are entitled to their privacy, but I can't tell you the last time I've seen someone share such specific, mundane details about their other lives. I just wanted to thank you so much for covering details so many people flat out don't get into when it comes to talking about their DRs. It really helps hammer it home that this is indeed real to those still questioning it.

thank you for the kind words.. it really means so much to me that people find solace in my stories and ramblings!

when I first shifted in 2020, I immediately knew I wanted to share my experiences and provide help, especially since many people were skeptical and discovering shifting. I used to share a lot of methods and stories over on tiktok, but I have to admit that I also thought the community got overwhelmingly negative with the rise of shiftok, and that lead to me leaving my account.

I instead told my family about shifting, and they were surprisingly supportive! it definitely took them a while to accept that this was something I do, but my family is pretty eclectic and they even had some experiences themselves! I know that is not common at all, but my mom loves to hear my stories and she knows about my old account / used to watch it. so, one day we were talking about my first shift to the burrow, and she said she thought it was a mistake that I left my account because my stories make me so passionate and she can see that!!

that is where this blog was born! I usually just use this to ramble about the random things, but I've heard that those are the most motivating and I have to agree. I always loved reading the little mundane details, and those helped me most on my journey to validate that this experience felt like real life.

if I can help any shifters, I will be so glad! shifting changed the direction of my life so much, and I can't ever imagine stopping bc it is so important to me! for now, I love to document as much as I can and use this blog as a personal journal, but one day I would love to maybe aid in research about shifting or write a book or something?? my mom always says that she would love to see me get a brain scan while I shift, but I dunno if that would actually do anything with it being consciousness and all! but I am so glad my passion is reflecting in my blog and you all enjoy it!!

I am open to try and answer any questions! this blog is also so motivating for me as well when I feel myself in a shifting slump, and answering these questions just makes my heart swell with happiness

thank you for sticking around! good luck shifting everyone!!

DAPHNE

[violetasteracademic]

i don't know why "you are the new ribbon az" is turned into something romantic. after the interaction gwyn and azriel had in the bonus chapter gwyn immediately saw the ribbon as an opponent.

"Gwyn nodded her farewell, again facing the ribbon. A warrior sizing up an opponent, all traces of that charming irreverence gone."

if azriel=ribbon, then gwyn was showing her true feelings for azriel through the ribbon after she stopped talking charmingly to him.

Hello anon!!

While I always want to come from the most well informed place as possible, I must admit I am someone who does not wade into the pools of anti Elriel tags. Thus, I get the majority of the information about what Az and G/wyn shippers are using as evidence against my will, or from my real human friends who ship them but are not deep in the trenches. For them, it really doesn't go deeper than: I'm neutral about L/ucien and Elain so they might as well be paired off but I love G/wyn and Az so I want them to be together. Fair.

So- I'm kinda spinning my wheels here, but I will say some recurring themes I have noticed with my limited exposure is this:

Much of the G/wynriel ship is centered around the idea of symbolic transference. This logic is actually not flawed in of itself, and is an extremely common literary device. However, in the current story, it relies on creating narrative context where it doesn't exist and erasing the context that does exist for it to make sense.

What I mean is this:

I understand there to be a belief that Elain returning Truth-Teller at the end of ACOWAR was symbolic transference that reflected that Elriel's developing relationship was over because she was symbolically "giving Azriel back and not turning back." Then started "opening up" to L/ucien. The context that this lacks is that we have two more books following this where they did not in fact end, but grow. And Elain did not, in fact, open up to L/ucien but further shrank around him and snapped about him not being entitled to her her affection and time just because he was a nice boi bringing her presents.

There is a belief that Azriel regifting the necklace was the symbolic transference of Azriel's confirmed romantic feelings for Elain to G/wyn.

I can only assume that, because so much of the thought process relies on a belief in the employment of this literary device, symbolic transference also somehow needed to be applied to G/wyn, and the ribbon was all that could even remotely apply.

I think what is missing from all of this, apart from the obvious which is that Azriel and Elain are feral for each other, is that this type of literary device is typically applied symbolically at the culmination of the story and character arcs. Think of when Aelin returned her amethyst ring to Chaol. She had an entire book with Rowan, away from Chaol, reflecting on their relationship, developing feelings for her end game romantic interest and finally becoming the lost Queen of Terrason and quite literally learning to move away from her human body- the one that Chaol had loved.

She finds her path, her purpose, her future, and after all of this, she finally lets go of what she has been holding on to. She returns the ring.

Elain and Azriel have not had their story yet, and this is where the holes lie. For any of this to be foreshadowing or the literary device that people are assigning to it, the cart is being placed before the horse. The food is being served raw.

If Elain and Azriel did not have a story in development, there would be no need for all of these little items to symbolically represent the end of their story. It actually has to happen first for these little details to mean what they are being interpreted to mean, and then we look back and say, oh, how clever, when Elain gave Truth-Teller back, it's because she was ready to let go. When Azriel regifted the necklace, it's because in two pages and the interference of a third characer, he moved on from her.

But if Elain and Azriel in fact ended off page in a bonus chapter due to symbolic transference of a relationship, absolutely nothing will land as intended. Which, again, is where it gets messy. Elain returning the knife didn't end of Elriel's budding romantic interest. So that piece gets taken out. Azriel regifting the necklace to G/wyn was not based on his emotional growth as a character and his maturing and finding himself and learning he is not interested in perusing a woman he is forbidden from seeing, so that gets taken out.

Which leaves us the ribbon. And looking at the other perceived literary devices, we have to ask- what is Gwyn transferring?

Azriel giving Elain Truth-Teller was romantic.

Azriel gifting Elain her necklace was romantic.

Both of those moments are being used to symbolize the literal transference of romantic affection.

Was G/wyn... romantically interested in the ribbon? Was she attracted to the ribbon? But she realized she couldn't have the relationship she wanted with the ribbon, so now she is symbolically transferring her feelings for the ribbon to the better choice, Azriel?

Context, friends. Context. Unless we are suggesting that G/wyn was in fact in a romantic relationship with the ribbon, the symbolism and assumption of the employed literary device does not even make sense. You cannot employ transference with nothing to...well... transfer.

Thanks all I've got for this one! Stay kind out there, fam.

[the-rollerchloster]

Parasocial relationships are strange. Parasocial relationships in a fandom like this one can be even stranger.

I want to preface this by saying that everyone is entitled to their feelings, and feelings are sometimes completely irrational. I am also aware that sometimes our feelings are driven by incomplete thoughts, and have a tendency to overwhelm us and those around us before we can process them. In saying that, I have seen a lot of conflicting emotions and reactions to the reveal that Misha Collins has a "serious" girlfriend (and a large cock apparently, but that is a whole other thing), and I know I shouldn't be surprised by it, but part of me is.

There was a conversation in my discord server over the complicated feelings people have about this news. As a cockles-friendly space this was to be expected, as any new development in the lives of either half of JenMish often spurs these kinds of conversations, but as it started to get emotional I was thanked for bringing some perspective. I hope that I can help anyone who also needs a different way of viewing this situation by making this post, while also helping myself to organise my own chaotic and complicated thoughts.

As I understand it, during the It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time event at this weekend's Burbank convention, Misha told a fun anecdote about gift-giving with his new girlfriend and her daughter, wherein Misha got some things delivered to said girlfriend directly from Amazon, and girlfriend wrapped them for the daughter including what she thought was a microphone but was actually another similarly shaped item not intended for children at all. He continued to say that this "microphone" was for his girlfriend so she wouldn't need to go searching elsewhere for intimacy, as they are currently living in separate states. Now, I was not at the event, and the lack of recordings (recording was strictly prohibited, so if you've got one shame on you, I don't want to know about it!) means that everything I will ever know about this story and the way it was told to the small audience who were lucky enough to be able to attend this event comes as a form of the Telephone game, and therefore lacks a whole lot of body language, tone and context. We, as a fandom, have been severely burnt by this kind of missing nuance before - think DenverCon'21 - and it's these kinds of kneejerk reactions that have the potential to spiral out of control and limit the things we get told at future events - think bishagate.

Think for a second about your personal perception of Misha Collins. He's chaotic, he can be a little self-deprecating or self-effacing, he likes to turn serious anecdotes into jokes. He is also a passionate and caring man, who has a lot of respect and appreciation for his fans. Think about the way he tells anecdotes at standard con panels - it's often a bit tongue-in-cheek, a bit sarcastic, a bit exaggerated - so why would his behaviour at this event, which was specifically set up for Misha to tell stories he wouldn't normally have the space to do in a convention setting, be any different?

I am going to go through my thoughts on some of the things I have seen mentioned about what this all means…

First off, the elephant in the room, what does this mean for Cockles? To me, absolutely nothing. Whatever Jensen and Misha have going on completely transcends a standard sexual and/or romantic relationship. Misha was in his relationship with Vicki for the majority of his life, including when he met Jensen, and we all know she literally wrote a book on polyamory; his perception of relationships is literally shaped and moulded by this, and it's not something he's going to just switch off. Danneel has been a permanent fixture in the cockles dynamic this entire time as well. The JenMish panel at Burbank this weekend will hopefully alleviate any of the doubt anyone is having here, and give us some knowledge that regardless of how Misha defines his relationship status, things will continue in the same chaotic, loving and ridiculous nature we've become accustomed to.

Which segues nicely into the implication that the vibrator was purchased so she wouldn't stray, and therefore their relationship is monogamous. See above thoughts about tongue-in-cheek, exaggerated and self-effacing - when I imagine him telling this story, I see that cheeky, gummy grin going the whole time. Without the nuance of watching this unfold, I think we are all safest to assume that this was a joke, not a firm declaration that he has left his polyamorous attitudes behind.

On thoughts of him "moving on too soon" from his marriage and subsequent divorce, this is where my own feelings get complicated as well, but also where we need to remember that the key feature of a parasocial relationship is that we only see and know what he wants us to. We don't actually know what the trigger for that dissolution was, so in terms of the actual calendar timing it might seem soon, but emotional development and change doesn't run on a standard calendar. We don't know how long the process was before the decision was made to separate. I am currently working through a messy separation, and while I can pinpoint the decision to somewhere in the past 6-12 months, my marriage has realistically been dead for 3+ years, and we're a (supposedly) monogamous couple. As a poly couple, I can imagine that Misha and Vicki worked through every alternative option possible before landing on the decision to formally separate, and had probably well and truly been through the mourning period before it was even all over. Adult relationships are complex at the best of times, and no one ever truly knows what is happening in them except the people involved. I also think that as a man who is nearing 50 and just come out of very long term relationship, that he doesn't actually know how to be "alone", nor does he want to…

Lastly, for some of us, this is someone important in our lives who has found happiness in another person when perhaps we don't have that for ourselves. When those feelings hit, they can be extremely disheartening, and I want to send all my loving thoughts to anyone who falls into this category. It's difficult when the envy turns your stomach in knots and then your thoughts spiral into all the things wrong that mean that no matter how much you want to you can't just be happy for someone. Love and life are complicated, human beings are complicated, society is complicated. There is this hugely widespread and toxic mentality that we are all raised on that says we are halves of something that is destined to find our other half in order to feel whole, and it's utter bullshit. We shouldn't need one singular significant other to feel complete, and sometimes we get so determined to find that someone that we end up sacrificing ourselves to make them fit. (see also; Daniel Sloss' thoughts on this subject in his stand-up special Jigsaw)

There are many different kinds of love, many different kinds of relationships, and many different kinds of people. If anyone proves that to us, it's Misha Collins. He is walking evidence that human life is chaotic and unpredictable and indeterminate and we can make our own fucking rules. I hope that we can collectively be respectful of him, no matter what (or who) he chooses, and feel grateful for everything he trusts us enough to share.

[viridianevergarden]

“Elain is weak”

“Elain is plain”

“Elain is boring”

“Elain has no personality”

Really? I’m convinced that people either glaze over the page any time Elain’s name is mentioned or they completely forget out of their own ignorance and convenience.

(This is long so read at your own peril, mainly a lot of receipts from the books for proof)

This is where the internalized misogyny really becomes externalized at this point.

I mean- Elain is the epitome of the common woman at the moment. Of course she’s not some battle hardened warrior. Of course she’s not some head strong fighter that actively goes into the face of danger to save the day as a hero.

She’s a woman who wants a normal life, or at least, the most normal she can have it.

She wants to love and be loved by someone of her choosing. Thats normal.

She enjoys more “feminine” hobbies or activities. Thats normal.

She helps the people of velaris by acts of service. Thats normal.

She wants to help her family any way she can.

She is normal.

Normal is good. Normal is relatable.

I think that some people’s brains have been plagued by the case of “every female main character should be a strong warrior” disease and hate Elain because she doesn’t currently fit into that mold. Thus she’s deemed uninteresting.

They want another Feyre or Nesta copy out of her. They want her to wield a sword and have the power to dominate whole territories and rule a court or two. Yet Elain doesn’t want that.

But even then Elain isn’t weak. She’s not boring. Elain has a voice.

Every rose has its thorns to protect itself.

Here’s a few big examples:

ACoTaR, ch. 40

Context: The queens just left the sisters’ manor after their first negotiation.

And it was Elain—Elain—who sighed and murmured, “I hope they all burn in hell.”

Omg she cussed. Elain showing outward hatred and opening her mouth about it? That’s new.

ACoWaR, ch. 21

Context: About tracking the cauldron, Elain claimed she will find it if Nesta cannot. Nesta protested immediately.

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?” When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

Elain finally bearing her fangs to Nesta? Nesta flinched at her words.

ACoWaR, ch. 74

Context: during the war, Elain saved Nesta and Cassian’s life from the King.

Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

Weak huh? I mean if she was weak, I don’t think she would’ve wielded the blade. Let alone step out of a shadow with it. Yet she had the courage and will to do so. (She will protect what she holds dear even if it means she has to kill for it, even if she doesn’t like spilling blood or causing harm).

ACoFaS, ch. 18

Context: Feyre talking Elain about Lucien, Elain standing her ground on her decision.

Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

“He doesn’t know me.”

Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.”

She has boundaries and she sticks by them. What a surprise. Using her voice.

ACoFaS, ch. 58

Context: Nesta finally came to solstice on her own accord per Cassian’s request. Elain greeted her and pleaded that Nesta does not upset Feyre since it’s her birthday. Nesta cussed Elain out without a thought.

And then Elain burst out laughing. Howling, half-sobbing laughs that sent her bending over at the waist, gasping for breath.

Elain held up a hand, wiping her eyes with the other. “You’ve never said such a thing to me!” She laughed again.

Elain being elated that Nesta had the balls to cuss her out? To be mean to her? Must’ve been a breath of fresh air from the suffocating overprotection. If anything, I’d feel intimidated that she laughed. Confused like Nesta. Elain has never laughed like this before.

ACoSF, ch. 76

Context: Feyre on her death bed during childbirth.

And when Elain began praying to the Fae’s foreign gods, to their Mother, Nesta bowed her head, too.

Elain was desperate enough to pray to The Mother and the Fae gods for help. For comfort. Shows some semblance of development in her journey of acceptance of her new life. (I don’t know why people think she refuses to accept her new life, the NC is her home)

ACoSF, Azriel’s Bonus Chapter

Context: Solstice night, Elain gifts Azriel earplugs with a humorous meaning.

Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days, and then opened the lid.

Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. "Nesta wouldn't appreciate the joke.”

Elain has the humor for making sex jokes lol.

• • •

I could continue adding more but I think you get the point now.

I don’t want her to be like Feyre.

I don’t want her to be like Nesta.

Elain has a voice and she has used it time and again.

She has plenty of character and I’m sorry if you don’t like it. She’s shown hatred, assertiveness, compassion, elation, acceptance, and humor throughout the series.

Just because she’s soft spoken and less combative than her sisters doesn’t make her any less than them.

No one can make you like a character except yourself. However, if you’re going to bash a complex character and say there’s no sustenance to her when she’s been shown to have obvious development and presence, then that’s an issue lol.

She’s a very fleshed out character and we haven’t even gotten to her story yet.

Even without military or magical prowess like her sisters, Elain has personality and I find that a lot of people including myself can definitely relate to her.

SJM merely set the stage for Elain.

All she needs to do is begin her Act.

[crmsnmth]

1000 posts (a little note for the readers and to my fellow poets)

I started this project back in February. February Third to be exact, ( a month after my father passed away from a car accident and a major stroke) posting really short one liners, still unsure if I wanted to share my art. I'm glad I did share it though. I'm not gonna lie, this helps with my self-esteem, and if you've actually read any of my work, it's pretty obvious I'm not my biggest fan (I am fine, I'm ok, I will never go down that path again) I know I post a lot, and considering I like to write about the same instances, some of my work is redundant. But still, there's always someone out there who sees it and lets me know, be it a like, a reblog, a comment and sometimes even a direct message. And that kind of makes it worth it. It makes me feel like that maybe I'm helping someone out there go through their own personal hell. I've been to hell and back so many times, Satan just waves when I show up. But all that means is, if I help just one person, my obsession with nonstop writing is worth it. Thank you to everyone for the kind words and the likes and all of that jazz. You have no idea how humbling it is to hear or see this happen. My heart is so warmed, and I don't feel nearly as alone as I did for so long. So very long. I've always written like a maniac, and I've always written stuff that might be consider a little emo, or a little dark (there's a reason I call myself a misery poet) and for years I kept them in my notebooks, hoarded away to never see the light of the day. Honestly, most of those won't ever be seen. If they were meant for public consumption, I would've done it. Those words stay hidden. Putting myself out is difficult, due to years of abuse, both by the hands of people who said they loved me, and from my own twisted up medication filled brain. I found another reason here, and I've gained confidence in my real life from this. I cannot possibly thank you all for the positive feedback. Even the few negative things I take with pride and in stride, I wish I could thank each and every person that's interacted, or even just read my work in passing. I never would've guessed that I'd be putting my work out on a public forum like this, but here I am, 1000 posts later, most of which being original poems and parts of stories. I love you all. Thank you for being here on this weird little journey I'm on. Hopefully, one day my name will be on an actual book, and when that day comes, you are all entitled to a free copy and a dedication page for you all. And I am 100% serious. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my bottom less heart

[nonconstories]

I am absolutely HAUNTED by this post I saw where this entitled-ass rando was seriously complaining that none of the girls they want to bang are well-read enough for them. Like, the post went something like "UUUUHHHHHHHGGGGG its sooooooo FRUSTRATING when I meet a girl who says 'I love to read!!!' and I get SO EXCITED but like, it turns all she 'reads' is BOOKTOK TRASH like barely-concealed-fanfic rewrite TRASH like its soooooo DISAPPOINTING where are the ACTUAL READERS lol" and like

I'm dyslexic! I'm SEVERELY dyslexic! And my school wouldn't accommodate me. They told my parents that the combination of ADHD + Autism + Dyslexia was too severe and they should "lower their expectations" for me, aka "your six year old is too stupid, give up on them ever being able to read". It took MULTIPLE YEARS of VERY EXPENSIVE private tutoring and its still HARD. Its still so FUCKING HARD, and the ADHD makes it even HARDER, and BTW, I was reading graduate school level material by the time I was 12 because I worked my brain into MUSH and I FOUGHT and I TRIED and it was EXHAUSTING.

But I fucking did it, and I'm bringing that up so you ~* book lovers *~ can't dismiss me as another slack-jawed yokel drooling in front of reality TV or whatever other imagine you are choosing to use to dehumanize others. I can READ and I read VERY WELL when I have the TIME AND ENERGY. FOR MANY YEARS I HAD NO TIME AND NO ENERGY AND YOU ASSHOLES COLLECTIVELY SHAMED ME FOR IT.

"Booktok romance trash readers thinking its impressive to read eight books a year lol I read like eighty during a BAD YEAR oh my god I can't believe how dire the sitch is fam!!!"

Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

Eight books a year is so fucking impressive for THE MAJORITY OF THE COUNTRY. How do you read eighty books a year, huh? HOW? Do you work a white collar job that requires zero emotional labor from you? Do you spend 40 hours a week in an air conditioned cubicle and then have a 30 minute subway ride home so you're nice and rested when you get home at precisely 7pm every night and your weekends and vacay are guaranteed? Do you make $85k a year and have a nice secure Xanax prescription to take the edge off your anxiety?

Did your parents read to you? Did your school teachers make reading fun? Did your hometown have a safe, clean, well-stocked library you could regularly access????

Or did you grow up in fucking Detroit? Or did you grow up in fucking Flint? Or did you grow up in fucking East LA? Or did you grow up in fucking Jacksonville Missouri? Or did you grow up in fucking Bucksnort Tennessee?

Maybe that girl you suddenly found less hot because of her reading choices was raised by parents who were also undereducated. Maybe she's fucking dyslexic. Maybe her school shoved her through year after year despite how hard she was struggling. Maybe the shitheads running her county budget slashed anything allotted for library maintenance. Maybe it was only open four days a week and her parents worked full time and granny couldn't drive so good anymore so she didn't have any books to read to begin with.

Or maybe she read two books a week when she was a kid, but then she grew the fuck up and had to get a job where she's on her feet eight to ten hours a day and the schedule changes every other week and its fucking LOUD and HARD and STRESSFUL and she's always getting yelled at. Maybe after all of that she's doesn't want to waste an hour and a half of her precious, vital free time trying to scrape and struggle and cry through 10 pages of whatever ~* important artistic triumph *~ you privileged brats are using as a litmus test for personhood this fucking week.

So she reads something FUN something she ENJOYS something she can ACTUALLY FINISH because AGAIN reading is HARD its EFFORT and sometimes you are too FUCKING TIRED TO READ especially when you did not have EXTRA BONUS SHIT TO HELP YOU GET INSANELY GOOD AT IT.

Disliking TV is not now, nor will it ever be a virtue, and your leftism doesn't mean shit if you can't stop being a smug, classist, ableist, dipshit. If adult literacy makes you THAT DEPRESSED, go volunteer to teach adult learners! Or bother to vote in your schoolboard elections! Or donate your old books to a book gifting program! Fucking DO SOMETHING instead of posting on tumblr about how 'booktok people' kill your boner.

[rise-my-angel]

I am here for your takes on Dani. I'm glad I'm not the only one who thought her x Jon smelled of hot garbage. Like at best she was meh, and then when the two of them met I was just like "oh no....you're an entitled bitch". And now that its been years since I last consumed GoT, my thoughts have fermented into "oh no, she really is a conqueror" "oh no, everyone loves her because 'pretty badass lady'" "oh no i'm the fandom minority again". Anyway, where was I. She and Jon had no chemistry. The end.

The *only* way putting them in a romance even makes sense in concept is when you realize Benioff and Weiss gave Jon the Young Griff arc. It's why they gave him a Targ name, beacuse if they call him "aegon" then they can fufill that part of the books without ever having to establish Young Griff as his own character. He is the supposed son of Rhaegar Targaryean and Elia Martell, he goes to Westeros with intentions of using his better claim to take the throne and intends initially on marrying Dany, and it's theorized heavily that Dany will see his claim as a threat and the Burning of Kings Landing will come down to Aegon against Dany.

Jon Snow has nothing to do with that. He is a moral opposite to Dany as a charecter, and we've seen him time and time again be at strong odds against people with her morals. But by giving him the Young Griff arc, it means putting him into the romance spot when it makes no sense for him.

Hey I put a read more beacuse I cannot shut the fuck up about how this relationship is just rape and abuse but beacuse Jon's a man we think he wants it.

All of season 7 Jon is so out of place because he doesn't belong anywhere near Dany's Iron Throne plot, and he's being forced to interact romantically with a charecter that clearly he does not like as a person and is uncomfortable with.

But, Dany is the sacred cow of the GoT/asoiaf fandom. You love her and if you critizize her for villanious actions or morals then you are using bad faith towards her. While I personally don't like her, I don't mind other people liking her but I despise that her stans all refuse to allow any conversation about her being a morally bad person. A person who enjoys cruelty and death, enjoys creating fear and is smug when she can control others. That is not a person Jon would love, let alone even respect.

Their entire relationship wreaks of abuse, of Jon being forced into this and knows he cannot leave it without risking his and his families lives. Remember when Tyrion gave a very small level critisism of her actions and she angrily accused him of treason and siding with his family instead of her? Well what do people think would she have done, if her attraction to Jon was refused? Someone who she took all the defenses away from, all the power from, and could have killed at any moment (dont make an ygritte comparison mimi dont make an yrgitte comparison this is a different anti jon x fandom female fave charecter post).

I don't care how the show frames it, or what the intent was. What we got on screen, was Jon Snow being held prisoner to an immoral, cruel, military conquerer. And when that woman was attracted to him, she essentially forced herself into his life and gave him all but no choice. The Jon bending the knee scene and..the uh...boat...scene...later...uhhh....anyways, those to me feel so out of charecter. You cannot convince me Jon did any of this willingly. He is clearly trapped in this situation and cannot leave and is only with her beacuse she is violent and bloodthrirsty. But beacause Jon is a strong, capable man, it's not talked about as if he's the victim and that is insane to me. (Oh my good god the ygritte comparisons are almost laughable send help).

I don't consider a lot past season 5 to be canon, but if I am forced too, then I refuse to accept Jon was a willing participant in that relationship.

Jon's parentage reveal will always be about the revelations of his mother, and the understanding and acceptance of WHY Ned raised him the way he did. And how it was both his parents, his mother and his adopted father who loved him and kept him safe. The very fact that Young Griff's entire story is based around whether or not he truly is Rhaegar's son as opposed to that being a twist reveal is beacuse HE is the charecter whose Targaryean links is the important one. Jon's story is about him as Stark, and is always shown to be the moral opposite of Dany.

Their relationship in the best senario is not canon, but if it has to be, then there is no world in which Jon is there of his own free will. He is being forced into this relationship against his will. But considering his other love interest was another charecter who essentially forced him into a relationship against his will, and we were supposed to root for that tells me all I need to know.

Dany is a sacred cow charecter, and her stans are unreasonable in defending her. When you can like a charecter and critize them for their actions. Ned Stark was an idiot for ever trusting Petyr Baelish, Catelyn Stark's spiteful attitude and neglect of Jon Snow is was abusive behavior, Theon Greyjoy was a moron who ruined his own life for a father who long since abandonded him. Bam all charecters I love and there are some major flaws that I refuse to defend them for but thats also what makes them good charecters. Their flaws arent writing flaws, they are personal flaws for them as people.

Dany is not allowed to have personal flaws she is always to be justified even with incredibly bad faith defenses, but when she is flawed it's the writings fault not hers. Dany is a cruel, sadistic, controlling, military tyrant who enjoys watching her subjects fear her and her dragons. And she forced Jon Snow into a relationship with her beacuse otherwise then he is against her and we already knew she has no use for people who dont support her to be alive.

Jon Snow deserved better then to have both his love interests be domineering, controlling, abusive women who forced him into a romantic and sexual relationship.

Also, I mean, incest being normal is only a learned trait from Targaryens supporting their own blood purity. Jon was not raised to think incest is normal. Dany thinks its normal beacuse she and Viserys both were raised to think that, and Young Griff thinks marrying Dany is normal beacuse he too was raised with the mentality that Rhaegar would've been raised with. Jon finding out Dany was his aunt would've had Jon looking right at Sam and just

[noxinkwell]

Let's Talk About: The Bizarre Relationship Between Readers and Writers/Authors and Book Reviews/Fanfiction Comments

So this is gonna be a rambly one and I'll put a TL;DR somewhere, I promise, but I've been on BookTok and I wanna talk about the weird relationship between authors/writers (published and non published) and readers. Let's create a discourse on the types of conversation we see online about books/literature and fanfiction. TL;DR: A book is not bad because you hate it. A character is not bad or poorly written because you hate it. And it is so freaking important to remember to think about what authors are intending to do with their writing before you make very strong claims about it. Writing is such a personal experience because of most of us (if not all of us) write from a personal place in our hearts. Getting negative feedback is not at all helpful from randoms on the internet so maybe don't share it where the author can easily see it (i.e. don't tag them, don't comment on their fanfictions).

Disclaimer:

We are all entitled to share our opinions.

The BUT to that is: We are entitled to share out opinions kindly, respectfully, and we should keep in mind keep the thoughts of those who are on the receiving end of those opinions.

Initially, I thought it was a cognitive dissonance but I'm not sure the definition quite matches up. But maybe it does, so let's go with it.

If anyone is curious though:

Cognitive dissonance occurs when a person's behavior and beliefs do not complement each other or when they hold two contradictory beliefs. 

Typical examples:

"I want to get healthy, but I'm not going to make the changes to do it."

"I could have done more work, but I watched TV."

"I really want to help the planet, but I'm not going to recycle."

To me, it occurs with readers like this: "I want to help make the writer better by giving some random concrit/constructive criticism to an author when I have zero idea on what their intentions are as a writer."

Or: "I'm going to leave a negative review for a book and it will impact other people to read the book or make the author change how they write."

I am mostly talking about this as a fanfiction writer and someone who reads more published writing than I do fanfiction (these days).

My first thing is: Goodreads. Or just comments/reviews in general on fanfiction and other literature/books.

Some of the Goodreads reviews are. fucking. bizarre. And by bizarre I mean, they are so aggressive. And they bring zero productive conversation to books. They're just inflammatory. They're not at all constructive and quite frankly, they're not helpful for readers either.

And let me just say, that is entirely fine. Y'know, I think book reviews are for READERS and not the WRITER/AUTHOR, but still... I'm not even sure what I gain as a reader reading this type of review:

*yawn* I'm really sad I wasted my time on this romance that was completely overhyped, in my opinion.

or

at any given time, i feel like i'm reading romance as a cry for help.

And when I see these types of reviews, I feel like people fail to remember this very simple thing: Not. all. books. are. made. for. you.

Not. all. fanfiction. is. made. for. you.

You. are. not. always. the. target. audience.

So why do you read it? Stop reading it—especially if you can't share that opinion in a kind way. It's not productive.

When I get feedback on my writing (as a fanfiction writer) I will always, always, always ask for specific feedback. Is this line okay? Are my characters coming across in this way? Is the pacing okay? Does this make sense? How's my SPaG? How's my prose as a whole? Am I varying my sentence structure enough? Is my character development going okay?

And sometimes, with my most trusted writing friends I will say: "Hey, give me whatever feedback you think I should hear. Give me what you feel is going to help strengthen my writing."

Because YES—in my opinion, some parts of writing is purely objectively good or bad.

So when I see reviews or comments about someone saying a character is objectively annoying or that they don't relate to them I get sad. When I see that someone says a book is bad because of xyz reason... I sometimes want to shake them because it's just not how that works.

A book is not bad just because you hate it. A character is not bad because you inherently dislike her/him/them.

A fanfiction is not bad because a character did not do something you didn't like. A fanfiction is ALSO not bad if the character was out of character from canon and you didn't like the choices they made (this one irks me the most as a beta reader and a writer).

Why am I saying all this?

Because sometimes, readers forget what the author or the writer is intending to do with their writing. Sometimes the writer intentionally makes the characters annoying. Sometimes the writer intentionally adds angst and hurt and pain and jealousy. Sometimes the writer intentionally adds TOXIC traits to a character because they thought it would be fun or because it serves the moral they're attempting to tell. Sometimes they're toxic because it's DRIVES THE PLOT.

If a character cheats or kills someone it does not at all mean 1.) the author is condoning it and 2.) it doesn't mean the character is a bad character or a poorly written character either.

It just means it didn't resonate with you.

So I want to ask you all: Do you ask yourself why you dislike something before you decide 'yes, I hate it'? Do you think about what the writers intentions are when you're reading? And hey, perhaps, this type of reading may take the fun out of it for you. And I get that. What I don't get though, is disparaging authors and writers who are trying to make a living or trying to write for fun because you feel the need to give criticism on something that you actually may not know enough about.

To top it all off, we don’t know the authors. We don’t know the writers. So an author/writing receiving “advice” or “constructive criticism” from a random “schmuck” in their writing is just not gonna over well. Writers take a lot of time practicing their craft. While we’re all entitled to an opinion, it doesn’t always need to be shared in the face of the creator. I say this kindly, sometimes, you’re reading a fanfiction or a novel and you don’t like it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you know why and it doesn’t mean that your opinion on it aligns with the goal of the person telling the story.

Constructive criticism is a WHOLE other post probably, but I'll just say this here: If you don't know how to give it, then don't give it. If they didn't ask for it then DEFINITELY don't give it. If you REALLY have to give it, think about what you’re saying before you say it. And if someone is upset with you giving concrit and they never asked for it, maybe look within and ask why you felt this was helpful for the person on the receiving end of that concrit.

Also, if you're gonna post something negative: Do not tag the author. And if you're gonna comment negatively: Don't post it on the fanfiction either.

Why? Because reviews are. for. readers. You saying that you didn't like something on a fanfiction does not do anything for the writer except discourages them. Fanfiction writing =/= Published writing.

If the author wants it, they'll ask. (And I will post something this later). Did you make it this far? If you did, damn. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. Authors and writers are humans. We write from a personal place in our hearts. Sometimes we write about the things in our lives that hurt us the most. Sometimes we write about other extremely personal experiences. So getting feedback on it is scary and forcing negative feedback for them to see is not kind. Writing takes hours, days, weeks, months, and even years to do. Reading takes...a fraction of that. So before you go and destroy someone’s work with your words online, maybe think about it first.

I, too, am an avid reader and sometimes we just want validation for our opinions (good or bad). But sometimes it's important to remember how we share them.

[purplesaline]

Piracy is preservation, and authors would rather have their books in front of people who can't access many books for free instead of looking those people in the eye and saying "fork over your month's earnings"

Shut up

To be clear, I'm not against Piracy in general. In fact I'm not only an advocate, I'm a prolific pirate myself.

I'm sure you can find a handful of authors who feel that way, but those I know personally (one indie author and one traditionally published) as well as those I've seen comment on the issue are adamant that piracy has caused them significant personal harm.

They'd far rather people who can't afford their books use libraries to access them or, if the libraries they have access too don't carry the book(d), they'd rather people reach out to them personally to arrange for a copy within their budget (sometimes including for free).

Pirating books is not the same as pirating movies. It's the difference between attacking a Spanish galleon and a fishing sloop.

Bigger names like Brandon Sanderson, Steven King, Diana Gabaldon, etc have a entire fleet of sloops and are unlikely to miss a couple going missing, but the less famous (and thus less highly paid) authors can have their entire career ruined by their book being pirated. It can even prevent them from getting offered another book deal, meaning there won't be any more books by that author for you to read.

We aren't entitled to the intellectual property of others. Full stop.

If the author wanted their book to be free, they'd have made it freely available (as some do!). Maybe if everyone had a universal basic income that covered the cost of living we'd see more art available at no cost, but as it stands artists need to make a living too and that means they need to earn a profit to survive. If they can't do that with their art they have to find another way to do it which means less time and energy to make art.

Not to mention the advance an author gets is usual peanuts, and unlike actors who get paid by the time the movie is out, an advance isn't a wage and if the author doesn't sell enough books they have to give back whatever amount of the advance the sale of their books didn't cover. If they get a $5000 advance and only sell $3000 worth of books they owe the publisher $2000.

Again, I'm not against piracy. I am against harming individual artists to the point where it significantly impacts their career. I want more art in this world.

I'm also not telling people they can't, or shouldn't pirate books. I'm against it but I'm not trying to for e others to believe the same as me. I'm providing information so people can make a more informed decision and better understand the consequences of their choices.

So do what you will with the info I've provided. Just be willing to acknowledge the harm you cause with those choices. Even the piracy I take part in causes harm on a smaller scale.

I have no argument against "I don't care, I'm doing it anyway" and I won't bother trying to argue it.

[symwinter]

So… about that Miraculous rewrite, what do you have in mind?

Okay, thank you for asking, I appreciate it. I’ll try and make this as concise as possible, because there’s a lot and I tend to ramble, so I’ve made it in the form of a numbered list:

1. I don’t plan on redeeming Chloé. I feel like despite actually knowing why Chloé didn’t get redeemed, there’s a pretty decent lesson about how entitlement doesn’t mean you get what you want that they definitely also could’ve gone with of if they were a bit smarter with it.

2. No zodiac kwami. They’re the bane of my existence. Why are two of them time travel based in power?

3. Adrienette is the endgame couple.

4. As of right now I’m sitting at three seasons, each one being 16 episodes plus three specials but I might either add a season four or make season three longer. One of the specials is the alternate dimension one. I love the concept of it.

5. I also gave the show an actual timeline. Because the Christmas specials says it’s Adrien’s first Christmas without his mother, but then season one has the Valentine’s Day episode which means it’s February and then the school year in France starts in September so if we look at season one as somewhat chronological, it means the Christmas special is wrong and that drove me crazy so I just redid the whole timeline. Because it would be his second Christmas without his mom.

6. Nathalie doesn’t have an unrequited crush on Gabriel. I never quite got that.

7. Any rich kid that was a sentimonster isn’t one anymore. The peacock miraculous doesn’t create sentimonsters but rather charms enemies as its main skill.

8. Adrien has more of a backbone than he does is canon and Marinette’s crush on. Adrian is a bit more healthy.

9. Rather than using potions to unlock new skills, the kwamis can manifest them themselves. They just need to expend extra energy and there are just some situations where that’s more difficult. I just feel like the book and the potions and the rennlings from the Shanghai special make the kwamis feel less like something ancient powerful and more like a tool. And also because Frozer takes place in January/February and Syren takes place in March/April (both are season two episodes though).

10. Up until the collector, Natalie didn’t know that Gabriel was Hawkmoth and agrees to wear the butterfly miraculous in order to get Gabriel to let Adrien go back to school and not be able to pull them out for a stupid reason anymore otherwise she’ll just go to the cops and be like “my boss is the supervillain.” She does this again in Simon Says but with Adrien’s love life as a preemptive caution.

11. Adrien is in the finale battle. I don’t get why they didn’t include him in season 5.

12. Emilie Agreste is a famous actress so her disappearance (aka I haven’t quite settled on what I want to do with her) is a lot more well-known to the public.

13. I am planning on renaming both of Felix‘s parents. I just haven’t quite settled on names yet.

I think that’s all I got right now. I’ve mainly been focussing on the timeline and the episode list and any changes to episodes rather than the characters themselves which feels counterproductive, but it’s just the way that my brain works, especially since I find it really difficult to think out Marinette and Adrien as individuals. My brain kinda just weaves them together.



[therulerofallpotatos]

I love your comments! 🌺 Why do you think people hate ship Fivela so much?

You mean besides hayes code loving puritanical thought police reasons that pretend they aren’t the exact same as the Moms of Liberty gay book burning group with a leftist hat on?

That is 90% of it.

But for the more reasonable ones who simply dislike the ship personally, it’s not unreasonable to assume a lot of people just don’t like thinking of Aiden’s face and romance in the same sentence. Especially if you also look at the way people treat the ace! Five headcanon as if it’s canon when in fact there has never been any evidence supporting that headcanon either in the show or the original comics. Even less so in the comics, where Five is in fact a lecherous old man who is seen multiple times with strippers. People latched onto it either because they were projecting, wanted to infantilize Five (and ace people for that matter), or think the idea of a “13yo” having lustful thoughts is icky (side note: teenagers being horny is a well documented fact. pretending it doesn’t happen literally never led to anything good historically speaking. Side side note: Five is in his 50s and pushing 70 by the last episode.). Also I say “icky” because i keep seeing words like that as if we’re all a bunch of five year olds on the playground and someone’s parents’ kissed in front of us. I digress.

Most of this is whatever. Ship and let ship also means you’re welcome to have your notp. Just don’t be a judgemental dick about it. I only take issue when it is being judgemental or it’s crossing over into other behavior. Specifically the infantilization of asexuals, which as an ace myself I find frustrating to say the least. (treating asexual people like innocent little babies is acephobic. If you treat me like I don’t know what sex is or can’t possibly have an “unpure” thought, I will bite you and it will not be fun)

Aside from all that. There’s also just plain old ship wars. Nenufair has referred to Liliego as a cost sunk fallacy and that is at least partly true. I don’t dislike the ship, personally, but some people just cannot handle when their ship doesn’t go canon, isn’t validated in some perceived way, or isn’t as popular as a different ship. It’s a tale as old as toxic fandom practices and dressing it up in therapy speak and activist terms doesn’t make it any less a ship war. You’re just being extra insulting to people who are affected by and fight for those real issues on top of being obnoxious. If you just want more attention on your otp, then being nasty about it just makes other people want to block your favorite tag altogether. It’s no way to encourage creativity and discussion.

The execution of Fivela going canon is it’s own discussion which some people liked and some people didn’t whether they shipped it or not. I have mixed feelings personally, and yeah. I would have written certain things differently, but I’m also not the author and never was. I didn’t put Five on a pedestal the way some other people seem to have, and I’m partial to happier endings but that’s my writing preferences. This wasn’t actually my story, and I am mostly content to be along for the ride. A lot of people seem pissed because this wasn’t something they wanted and the writers didn’t listen and it’s really just revealing how entitled they felt to the team just taking their order down like this is a restaurant and not a story. People are rabid right now about the whole season and their notp going canon is an easy thing to latch onto especially if they need to address the cop in their head. This is the same fandom that seethes when Allison and Luther have a cute little childhood sweathearts romance in the show adapted from the incest superhero comics. Just like people go pissy when there’s incest in their incest dragons show or gore in their violence on display anime.

A lot of people also didn’t see it coming and felt blindsided. Some are going back and realizing the tension was always there, but many refuse to see it. There’s nothing like willful blindness to fuel a good outrage.

And for some it’s just not their cup of tea, but I doubt they’re the ones screaming right now. Not everyone likes an enemies to lovers arc or messy dynamics or love triangles. Some have been burned by poorly executed tropes in the past. Some just prefer softer less dynamic relationship development. I can’t relate, but that’s fine.

Of course there’s also anyone convinced that Aiden must have been coerced or something into doing a simple kiss scene as a grown actor pushing twenty years old. People love infantilizing Aiden and it’s actually really getting on my nerves. The whole age gap discourse in general has been poisoned by pedo hysteria and judgement assholes treating grown adults like babies who can’t possibly know what’s best for them instead of looking at each individual relationship and looking for mistreatment. It’s much easier to assign a number to things as a shortcut for “bad” and “good” than to recognize abusive behavior both in others and yourself. I’ve seen nothing to suggest Aiden was mistreated on set in regards to his romance arc with Lila, and unless I do, I’m not going to assume the worst here anymore than I did when Hermione and Ron got together or...I don’t know, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts.

Anyways I have a job interview to get to so I’m sorry if this is barely coherent ramblings. I just woke up and I had some venting in me ig. if someone more eloquent than me wants to expand on anything I said, I just ask we try to remain civil.