#''we cannot give you any hints nor clues as to what the question will be. study everything so you're prepared''

[glitterrosesnzz]

taking a break from studying and wanting to write but my head immediately goes blank. i need to be tossed overboard,

[criminalmindzjunkie]

Unlucky in Love

masterlist

Gif credit to @ogledalo-moje-duse​

Summary: Spencer is unlucky in love - until he isn’t.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, some suggestive content

Word Count: 3.4k

           Spencer Reid is, by most people’s definition, unlucky in love.

           It wasn’t for lack of trying. In his early twenties, Spencer often caught himself fantasizing about being on the receiving end of some great storybook romance straight out of one of the classic novels on his bookshelf. On the rare occurrence where his mind was able to slow down long enough, Spencer would daydream about what his future partner would be like. Would they share his fondness for the written word, or his penchant for foreign cinema? Would they find his tendency to go off on tangents endearing and his less than fashionable style of dress charming? Spencer liked to think so, but the likelihood of finding someone who could accept him despite all of his quirks seemed low.

           But still he hoped, even though he knew hope was a dangerous thing. Hope gave life to the possibility of disappointment – and if there was one thing Spencer did not need more of, it was that.

           Spencer Reid was in love with the idea of love – obsessed with the idea of his soul intertwining with someone else’s. But with his thirtieth birthday quickly approaching and absolutely no prospective love interests in sight, Spencer was feeling more than a little disheartened. It certainly didn’t help that everywhere he turned, love was running rampant. Hotch had Beth, Penelope had Kevin, Jennifer had Will, and Morgan had… any number of possible partners. Emily and Rossi were both unattached, but happily so in a way that Spencer just couldn’t quite manage.

           It wasn’t that he didn’t like seeing the people around him happy – it was just that he couldn’t help but wonder when he’d finally get his chance at love.

           A month before Spencer’s thirtieth birthday, everything changes.

           When a member of Garcia’s victims’ support group goes missing, it’s all hands on deck at the BAU. It’s not that they’d give any less than one hundred percent on any other given day, but as with any case that hits close to home, everyone on the team is in a frenzy trying to put the pieces together. The thing that makes this case different is the fact that people from other departments are quick to lend a hand. It comes as no surprise to Spencer – Penelope is a social butterfly by nature. She made it her business to know and befriend everyone in the building. Her sunny disposition is hard not to love, and her current distress had garnered the support of more than a few non-team members.

           By the time the case wraps up, the bullpen is much busier and, much to Spencer’s chagrin, much louder than usual. The steady influx of people has Spencer’s head spinning and he can’t seem to focus on the papers sitting in front of him. What should take him thirty seconds to read has almost taken twenty minutes, and at this point the words on the paper are all running together. Spencer knows that it doesn’t help that he’s running on less than three hours of sleep, as evidenced by the frequency of his yawns. Worse even is the fact that his coffee cup is empty and no, he thinks, that simply will not do. With a sigh Spencer pushes away from his desk, bones creaking as he stands.

           With his coffee cup in hand, Spencer shuffles to the breakroom. He goes through the motions of preparing his drink, lazily stirring in the mountain of sugar before turning to leave.

           Spencer supposes that if it weren’t for the fact that he was horribly sleep deprived, he would’ve seen you walking down the hallway. But alas, Spencer’s alertness had been compromised by poor sleeping habits, and he isn’t aware of your presence until his body is colliding with yours and his hot coffee is dripping down the front of your blouse.

           “Ouch,” you whimper, and Spencer is immediately overwhelmed with guilt.

           “O-Oh my God, I am so sorry,” he splutters. Without waiting for a response, Spencer’s rushing into the break room and procuring a thick stack of napkins. The part of his brain that controls logical thinking is apparently overrun by the onset of his mortification, and in an act of absolutely panic, he begins to dab at the stains with one of the napkins.

           “I-I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m so so sorry,” Spencer stutters out, frantically attempting to blot the stain. “I’ll give you money for a new shirt. A-Actually, you should probably take this one off.  The best way to treat scalds is to immediately get the person away from the heat source. You should also run some cold water over it.”

           In his hurry to rectify his mistake, Spencer hadn’t managed to take a good look at you. When his eyes leave the stain in favor of looking at your face, he prepares himself to see anger there. What he doesn’t expect is for your face to be just as flushed as his, with eye brows raised in shock.

          Spencer also doesn’t expect this to be the moment he’s been waiting on his entire life, but one look into your eyes tells him this is it - this is your person.

           Stunned into a stupor, Spencer stills, eyes boring into your own. You’re even more beautiful than he’d dared to let himself imagine, but in all honesty that didn’t matter much. What matters is the fact that there’s a faint hint of smile lines etched into your skin, and your eyes are so inherently kind that Spencer has no doubt that you’re as gentle as you are alluring. Your benevolence is also evidenced by the fact that you hadn’t immediately begun to yell at him, and for that he is thankful.

           Spencer’s revelation renders him unable to form any semblance of thought, and before he knows it almost a solid minute of him gaping at you passes. You begin to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze.

           “I, uh, appreciate the help, and you seem like a nice enough guy, but your hand is on my boob and I kind of make it a point to not let strangers touch the goods. So, if you don’t mind,” you stammer, looking pointedly at his hand that is still pressing a napkin to your chest. Spencer recoils as if he’s the one that’s been scalded.

           “I-I didn’t mean to, um, t-touch your -,” Spencer gulps, “- chest. I swear I was just trying to get the stain out. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he chokes out. Spencer had imagined the moment he’d come face to face with his person a million times, and none of his daydreams had accounted for the possibility of him giving her second degree burns and inadvertently copping a feel. His emotions fell somewhere between mortification and elation.

           “Mm likely story,” you murmur, lips upturning into a smile that has Spencer feeling weak in the knees. Spencer practically swoons. “Do you make it a habit to ask strangers to take their tops off, or am I just special?”

           Oh God, had I really suggested that? Spencer cringes and wonders what good an IQ as high as his was when it seemed to fail him at times like these. Speaking to women had never been a specialty of his, despite Derek’s coaching, and Spencer was floundering to come up with an acceptable response.

           You are the most special woman in the world, probably. Nope – too creepy, and Spencer definitely doesn’t want to scare you off. Not when he’s been waiting the better part of thirty years to meet you.

           I didn’t mean to insinuate that you should take off your shirt, but I also wouldn’t particularly mind if you did. Even worse – that would certainly earn him a stern talking to from HR.

           Spencer decides to go for the honest approach.

           “I-I’m not sure how to answer that.”

           His honesty draws a laugh from you, and Spencer loves the sound so much that he decides then that he’ll never tell a lie again. You shake your head at him and reach for the napkins that he still has clutched in his hands.

           “What’s your name?” you ask him as you continue his earlier efforts to sop up the coffee.

           It’s probably the easiest question he’s ever been asked. That doesn’t stop him from making a fool out of himself, though.

           “I’m Doctor Spencer R-Reid. Uh, I’m Spencer. Y-You don’t have to call me Doctor.”

           Someone please put me out of my misery.

           Your eyes meet his again and he can tell that you’re holding back a laugh.

           “Okay, then, Spencer,” you say as you discard the napkins in a nearby trash bin. “I’m Y/N.” You punctuate your words with an outstretched hand, and before Spencer can think better of it, the usual spiel come tumbling out of his mouth.

           “The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss.”

           Your lower your hand and cock your head to the side.

           “Are you always this forward, Doctor Reid?” you tease him, eyes flashing amusedly.

           “I-I didn’t mean that we should kiss,” Spencer interjects, cringing at the way his voice has suddenly raised in pitch. “N-Not that I wouldn’t kiss you! I-I’m sure that kissing you would be really n-nice. I just meant that… you know. Germs.”

           Are you there, God? It’s me, Spencer. A hole opening up in the ground and swallowing me up would be great.

           To Spencer’s delight, you don’t seem offended in the slightest.

           “I cannot believe that they’ve been hiding you up here, Spencer Reid. I should’ve come to visit Penny years ago.”

           Wait – what?

           “You work here?”

           You nod.

           “I work on the floor below this one – sex crimes,” you explain.

           “For how long?”

           “Coming up on three years now.”

           Three years. You’d been right under Spencer’s nose for three years and he hadn’t the slightest clue. You’d parked your car in the same parking garage and taken the same elevator as he! How many times had your paths nearly crossed in the last three years? If he’d been just a little bit earlier or a little bit later getting into work, might the two of you met earlier? The possibility of it was maddening.

           “Oh, wow. I-I’ve never seen you,” Spencer mutters lamely. But miraculously, you don’t think he’s lame, if your response is any indication.

           “Nor I you, Doc. It’s a shame, too. You’re a funny guy.”

           Spencer Reid has been called a lot of things in his lifetime – funny was never one of them.

           “Y-Yeah. I’m a real riot at parties,” he deadpans.            “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” you hum, and Spencer really hopes that you mean it. “Would you mind escorting me to Penelope’s office?”

           Spencer nods, and the two of you fall in step together. Spencer’s wracking his brain again for something – anything- he could say to fill the silence. Thankfully, you don’t seem quite as inept at conversing as he, and you beat him to it.

           “You look a little young yourself, Spencer. How long have you worked here?”

           “Uh, I’ve actually worked here for almost eight years. I started when I was twenty-two.”

           Your eyebrows raise in shock.

           “Twenty-two, huh? That makes you – what? Thirty now? I wouldn’t put you a day past twenty-five,” you muse, and Spencer isn’t quite sure what to make of that. You must pick up on the conflicted look on his face, because you clarify. “That’s a good thing, Doc. I hope I look as good as you do when I’m thirty.”

           Spencer has to remind himself how to breathe.

           “I’m not thirty yet. Technically I have twenty-three more days. I could have a rapid decline in attractiveness by then.”

           Spencer’s not usually one to try to be funny, but she seems to have a good sense of humor and he wants to impress you in any way he can.

           “I guess I’ll have to swing back by in twenty-three days and find out.”

           The two of you come to a stop in front of Penelope’s office and Spencer tries not to look as disappointed as he feels. He doesn’t want your meeting to come to an end – not when there’s so much about you that he wants to know. He wants to ask about your opinion on books and obscure foreign films and most importantly, Spencer wants to know what you think about him. Did meeting him affect you in the same way it did him? Did you secretly wish to make this moment last, too?

           Spencer wants to say so much, but he can’t. He’s too awkward and too scared and too nervous to find the right words. So instead, he gives you a tight-lipped smile.

           “I’m sorry about your blouse. Can I please give you the money to buy a new one? I feel like it’s the least I can do.”

           “Absolutely not. It’s really not that big of a deal. Didn’t even really care for the shirt, if I’m being honest. Red really isn’t my color.”

           Spencer wants to tell you how wrong you are – that he’s infinitely certain that you’d look irresistible in any color – but he doesn’t.

           You reach for the door knob, and Spencer’s shoulders slump.

           “It was nice meeting you, Spencer.”

           And then you’re gone, and Spencer can’t help but think that he royally fucked up the most important introduction of his entire life.

--

           When Spencer envisioned how his life would look at age thirty, he’d imagined it being a lot different than it is now. He’d hoped to use his intelligence for something great – finding a way to cure Alzheimer’s had been his main aspiration. Yet, here he was, thirty years old with nothing more than three PhDs to his name. He’d accomplished nothing of great significance, and the idea of having wasted his intelligence was eating away at him.

           In short, Spencer Reid was in a bit of a funk.

           It didn’t help that he hadn’t seen you since that fateful day in the bullpen. Spencer had contemplated paying you a visit, but the lingering embarrassment over his actions kept him from reaching out. He didn’t think he could handle how badly a rejection from you would hurt, so instead he sulked around the office and wallowed in his own self-deprecation.

           Spencer’s birthday wasn’t something he tended to advertise. From a young age, he’d chosen to observe it silently. Usually, his mother would forget, and he never really had any friends to celebrate with, so the day was always rather unimportant to him. Perhaps he would order takeout and gorge himself on greasy food while he sat alone in his apartment. It had been good enough for him last year, and he supposed it would have to suffice this year as well.

           He made it a point not to mention it to his coworkers, and the day passed by just as any other day. By the time five o clock rolled around, Spencer was waving a goodbye to his coworkers and heading out the door. As he waits for the elevator, he debates on whether to order Thai food or pizza for dinner.

           Just as he settles on Thai, the elevator doors open.

           “Oh, thank God, I was worried that you had left already!”

           Before Spencer can get over the initial shock of seeing you, you’re stepping out of the elevator and into his space, an excited smile on your lips. And then you’re holding out your hand, and Spencer’s almost moved to tears when he sees you wielding a single chocolate cupcake.

           “I wasn’t sure if you’d like chocolate or vanilla better, so I went with my gut. I get the feeling you’re a chocolate kind of guy,” you say, eyes shining as you look up at him. “So, was I right?”

           “You brought this for me?” Spencer asks, voice barely above a whisper. He can’t fathom it – that you had spared him any thought past your initial meeting. Spencer had surely expected you to forget about him entirely. Either that, or you’d written him off as someone to be avoided.

           You nod.

           “Of course, I did. It’s your birthday. Everyone deserves something sweet on their birthday.” You pause, the smile dropping from your face. “It is your birthday, right? I didn’t miss it, did I?”

           Spencer is slow to shake his head.

           “N-No, you didn’t miss it. I’m just surprised you remembered.”

           You chuckled softly.

           “You’re very unforgettable, Doctor Reid,” you say, and Spencer’s heart flutters in his chest. “And you didn’t answer my question.” You gesture to the cupcake expectantly.

           “Chocolate is my favorite,” Spencer breathes out, raising a shaky hand and taking it from her. “I… Thank you. You didn’t have to do this. It’s not that big of a deal.”

           “Are you kidding me? You’re turning thirty. That’s a very big deal, Doc.,” you argue, and Spencer gives you a tentative smile.

           “If you say so.”

           “I do,” you smirk, before hitting the button to open the elevator doors. “So, do you have any big plans to celebrate?”

           The doors open and you and Spencer file into the elevator together– an event three years in the making.

           “Not really. I was just going to order some food and stay in,” Spencer says before taking a bite of the cupcake. It tastes wonderful – better than a store-bought cupcake could ever be. This cupcake was undoubtably made from scratch, and the thought of you taking the time out of your day to bake something for him makes him feel weak at the knees. Pair that with the way you’re looking up at him and Spencer worries he might collapse.

           “What kind of food?”

           “Thai,” Spencer says around the mouthful of cake.

           “Mm,” you hum. “You know – I happen to love Thai food. And I also happen to not have any plans for the evening.”

           Even Spencer, who struggles to decipher the simplest of social cues, can deduce that you are insinuating that you want to spend the evening with him. He’s thankful, then, that he had already swallowed the bite of cupcake, because there’s no doubt in his mind that he’d have choked on it. Spencer gapes at you, but your gaze is unwavering and your body language gives no indication that you were joking.

           “D-Do… Do you want to, uh, come over?” Spencer trips over his words more times than any grown man should, but in his defense, he isn’t exactly well versed in matters like this.

           “Do you want me to come over?”

           “Yes.” Spencer answers so quickly that it should be embarrassing, but it’s hard to feel anything but happy when you’re looking at him like that.

           “Then in that case, I thought you’d never ask,” you sigh dramatically, and then the door opens up and you link your arm with his. “You know, I was beginning to think I’d never see you again. I’ve been driving Penelope crazy asking about you, Doc.”

           “You’ve been asking about me?” Spencer asks, incredulous.

           “Absolutely. It’s not every day that you meet a guy who has the audacity to feel you up and ask you to undress within the first five minutes. I just had to know more,” you tease, and Spencer can’t help but laugh. Despite the cold air of the parking garage, Spencer feels warm – warmer than he’s ever felt and he knows that it has everything to do with the way you’ve pressed yourself against his side.

           “In that case, I’m very glad I spilled my coffee on you,” Spencer says and you let out a snort.

           “Yeah, I could’ve done without that part. And the part where you called me germy.”

           “I did not mean it like that,” Spencer insists. You hum and detach yourself from him, and Spencer instantly misses the contact.

           “Because it’s your birthday, I’ll let you off the hook,” you announce, making your way to the other side of his car, all while never taking your eyes off him. “And if you’re lucky, birthday boy, I might just be willing to test that theory of yours.”

           Spencer cocks his head to the side.

           “Theory?”

           You nod, and the smile that creeps across your face is the best birthday present he’s ever gotten.

           “You said you thought kissing me would be nice. I think we should find out.”

           Spencer Reid is, by most people’s definition, unlucky in love. But as he steals glances at you on the way to his apartment, his chest swells with a hope that maybe – just maybe – his luck is about to change.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 12 FINALE

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: Nope! Notes: How lovely it has been, to go on this journey with you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to every person who has liked, reblogged, or left a kind comment on this story. Combined, you all have genuinely changed my life. I'm writing more than ever, more consistently, and I'm having a blast. So if you like this story, and wish it wasn't ending, well... maybe don't worry too much. There will be a sequel of sorts, same timeline but new reader, instead focusing on Cassandra. Also oops this is hella long. And mostly dialogue. Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy, Pt. 7: Harmony, Pt. 8: Obbligato, Pt. 9: Berceuse, Pt. 10b: Hymn AMAB, Pt 11: Cadence

Chapter 12: Cadence (Reprise)

(Cadence: Two chords that mark the end of a song)

Truth be told, she had never expected much of anything to come from this. ‘Twas not that she thought her daughter to be talentless, or that she denied the capabilities of the servant-turned-teacher, rather that she knew just how difficult it was to keep Daniela’s attention for any measure of time. Even as the weeks went by with undeniable progress, there was a part of her awaiting the collapse of it all. How long would this instructor last? How long before they were drained of blood, either for some perceived insult, or merely out of boredom? Surely, in the end, Alcina would not need to lift a single finger.

And yet here she was, at the end of a concert, pride roaring within her chest. What had she missed? What clues had eluded her, what had changed within her child’s nature? She knew that there were hints of deeper affections, fragments of a would-be love, but she had thought them miniscule. Thought that those feelings were doomed to crash and burn, unable to live up to the expectations set by decades of romance novels. Well, maybe they had failed. Maybe, somehow, Alcina had missed something else entirely.

The thought might have sent a shiver down her spine, if she weren’t so readily distracted by praising her youngest child… or by the looming shadow of a life-changing revelation.

“Mother… we need to talk. I… I have a confession to make,” Daniela explains, hesitantly slow, but with a conviction she rarely ever showed. Taken aback by the unexpected announcement, Alcina pauses, silently awaiting some form of elaboration. Instead, Daniela takes her hand, pulling her towards a set of chairs. They sit gingerly, each feeling the weight of terrifying possibilities upon their shoulders. When she at last continues speaking, she does so without a trace of showmanship or false bravado, trading it in for heartfelt sincerity. “I love them. All of this- these lessons, this concert- has been for them. For my sweet, innocent little songbird.” So here it was, the birthplace of her fears, brought forth from her mind into reality.

“I was afraid you would say that,” Alcina muses, leaning back into the chair with a deep sigh. Something itches in the back of her throat, and she yearns for her pipe, or even just a normal cigarette to distract herself. Without one, she is left to metaphorically chew on her thoughts. Realistically, there has to be some way to deal with this, some way that she can convince her daughter of the sheer foolishness of this mess. “Daniela… how can I put this in a way you will understand, hmm?… The two of you have only known each other for three months. There is no chance that you truly love them, or them you. How close can you possibly have become?”

“When have I cared about anything for three whole months? I dedicated myself to-” Daniela is cut off by the sound of the door opening, revealing the rest of her little family. It was guaranteed that they would have heard the conversation from outside, seeing as they were all inhuman, though they perhaps intended to intervene. A single hard glance from both of the room’s occupants convinces them to change their minds. “Wait, Ava, can you get us some tea, please? Something tells me I’ll need a soothing drink soon.” Hesitating in the doorway, the butler in question eyes the both of them, naturally tempted to stay and fill the role of a therapist.

“I do believe my daughter gave you an order, Ava. Don’t tell me you have forgotten the stipulations of your agreement with Mother Miranda?” Alcina interjects. With that said, the butler finally moves, exiting with an apologetic bow. An awkward silence hangs in the air once xe closes the door behind xerself, as Daniela takes a moment to recall her place.

“Three months is a long time for me. I put all of my energy towards both them and what they taught me, almost every single day. Even when their work kept them busy for too long, I still practiced, because I wanted to make them proud! For all my flirting, I’ve never bonded with anyone this way before now,” she says, hating the way her voice gets a little shaky. No matter how much confidence she has in her own writing, it is another thing entirely to be convincing out loud, with a truth she had been hiding for so long. All of her practice had been with lies. Now she had to contest with the hope that the strength of her emotions would be enough. “That song we played together, at the end, they wrote that for me. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Oh, my dear… I want you to be happy more than anything. But we both know that your ‘history’ is stained with a number of incidents. You have always been absorbed within those books you read, and the fantasies that they provide for you. It is one thing to enjoy these stories on the side, but another matter entirely to let them corrupt your relations with others. As your mother, it is my duty to keep you safe, first and foremost,” Alcina proclaims, sitting up straighter, trying not to let her frown evolve into a full out scowl. Beneath the table, her hands ball into fists, clutched tight to stop herself from breaking the table. In the back of her mind she could think of little other than dismembering that damned piano instructor. Focusing on the discussion at hand, she takes a deep breath before finalizing her point. “You don’t know what a healthy relationship looks like, nor what it feels like. Your books are not ideal models for reference. One- or both- of you are going to end up suffering, and that is something I cannot allow, regardless of how ‘happy’ they make you before then.”

“You’re right,” Daniela whispers in defeat… or a feigned version of it. A split second later she’s making eye contact with her mother again, lips curling up into a smile. “I didn’t want to admit it, especially not to someone as attractive, talented, and charming as my Songbird, but I didn’t have to. They understood from the very start. We talked about it, about my expectations and my shitty behavior, and we worked on it. We’re still working on it. Maybe there will be bumps along the way, just like in every relationship, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be worth it in the end. What we have is still real, and they make me want to be a better woman. I know they’ve already helped me make the change.”

Once more the door opens, making the conversation pause, as Ava near-silently brings in the requested tea. If a pin had dropped at that moment, it would have felt as ear-shattering loud as a gong. Every second that passed felt like it dragged on, stretched out by the tension in the room, as though xe was moving in slow motion. The ‘clink’ of ceramic against the table makes xer flinch, almost spilling the tea. Neither Alcina nor Daniela react, or even acknowledge xer presence with anything more than their eyes, instead remaining impassive until xe makes a hasty retreat.

“Use what you’ve learned on someone else, then. Perhaps another one of Miranda’s experiments will someday provide a suitable match. But this ‘songbird’ of yours? They’re nothing. A human, a servant, they are not worth your time, nor are they worth mine. No matter what words or songs they weave, or illusions of grandeur they show you, you will end up getting bored of them. I’m afraid it is inevitable, my dear,” Alcina says, as soon as the door is closed once more. Then she attends to her tea, with the composure of someone convinced that they had just won an argument. On the other hand, Daniela was not so quick to give in, some of her worry melting into anger.

“How can you say that? How can you be sure? We were all human, once! Even Mother Miranda was human. And my Songbird is no mere human- they are wondrous, with flowery prose and lovely melodies, with soft-lipped smiles and reassuring eyes, and don’t even get me started on how beautiful they are!” She rambles, voice getting louder with every word. All at once it is too much for Alcina, who sets down her glass a little too hard, nostrils flaring as she stares at her daughter. When Daniela speaks again, she does so with love coating her tone. “We have weathered each other’s anxieties with no signs of stopping. I promised that we would weather yours.”

“I only want you to be happy. I need you to understand where I am coming from. This may be your longest lasting infatuation so far, but you have yet to honestly convince me that this is any different from your past ‘distractions’. I’m sorry, Daniela, I simply cannot allow this to continue,” Alcina sighs, hating to break her youngest daughter’s heart like this. There was only one thing that Daniela had yet to try. Maybe two, if she was willing to resort to begging.

“Can’t you trust me enough to give us a chance? Cassandra of all people seems to understand. Bela went as far as to lie to you, for our sake! She never does anything she thinks will hurt me, or you, or any of us. Please, mother, please. How can you ever know if what I have will last, if you cut it down now? Are you going to wait forever for some ‘perfect candidate’ for me? And what if that person loves someone else? Or what if the ‘perfect’ person doesn’t exist! What if we’re stuck waiting for them like Mother Miranda waits for another child, hmm? Would you have me spend another century alone, my only memory of genuine romance being poisoned by the thought that you broke us apart?” Daniela’s words ring throughout the chamber, echoing a damning accusation, somehow more bitter than the taste they left in her mouth.

All at once, Alcina’s heart takes a hit like no other. Her hands damn-near tremble, her lungs ache, her lips purse, and her brow furrows. So be it, she thinks.

“Bring this ‘Songbird’ here. Let me talk to them.”

—————————

Goddess, you are practically vibrating at the speed of sound, palms sweaty, nervousness trashing your mind. What the hell had Daniela done? Last thing you knew, she was determined to keep your secret, even if meant being unable to celebrate with you. But now you were getting tugged along by her, while tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She had said something about “mother” and “important”. That was all the context that you had been given. When you round one last corner, pulling up in front of Lady Dimitrescu’s study, you are shown a sight that somehow makes you feel worse: Bela, Cassandra, and Ava are all resting outside of the room. They appear exhausted, and motion for you to be quiet as you approach.

“They’ve been listening in on our conversation,” Daniela admits with a whisper. Then she’s pulling you into the study, ensuring that the door doesn’t open wide enough for the eavesdroppers to get spotted. Something told you that Alcina was already well aware of their presence. “Alright, mother, here is my Songbird. What did you want to ask us?”

“Daniela… leave us. My questions are for ‘Songbird’ alone,” Alcina replies, seemingly confirming the absolute worst of your fears. This was where you would die. By her hand, without your lover by your side, after what could have been the happiest night of your life. Of course. But Daniela is not willing to go without a fight. As soon as the words leave her mother’s mouth, she is moving between the two of you, just as she had when she first called you her teacher. Before she can speak, her mother stands up and stares her down. “Don’t make me ask again- there will not be a third time.” When she still hesitates, it is your turn to be brave.

“Hey, it’s okay, we’ll be okay,” you promise her, reaching out to take her hand. Instantly she’s returning to your side, hand cupping your cheek, eyes filled to the brim with sadness. “Firefly… ‘Tell me love, we shall last until the end of days’. I love you. Nothing is going to change that, not now, not ever. We’ll be okay.” Maybe not now, you think, but you’ll be okay eventually. Cassandra and Bela, and Ava I suppose, will make sure of it.

“Okay. We’ll last until the end of days. I love you too,” Daniela says, swallowing the lump in her throat. With one last kiss she pulls away, wishing that her departure didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. She pauses in the doorway, meeting your gaze, unable to bring herself to move until you give her an accepting nod. The door swings into place with a click, sealing the room and your fate.

“So,” Alcina begins, returning to her seat as she does. For now you stay standing, unsure of just about every part of this situation, especially your upcoming role in it. “You have been deceiving me. That alone is a crime worthy of severe punishment, and yet you stooped so low as to do far, far more. I had hoped you had, somehow, managed to teach my daughter a real lesson, that you had inspired a love of music in her, that you had made an honest difference in the way she learns. But all this time… it has been nothing more than a ruse.” The last word comes out dipped in venom, acidic enough to make you flinch. Thankfully, your beloved was not the only person who had a gift with words. More than that, this was a topic that you had spent numerous nights thinking about, making you as prepared as you could ever hope to be.

“You know, as much as I desire to claim that I am that interesting, or that Daniela felt so strongly from the very start, I can do no such thing. The truth is this: Music is what brought us together in the first place. It was the catalyst for our first real interaction, the first time she ever looked at me as more than just another servant or bloodbag. We bonded because of it, and so when we went to play together, to learn, Daniela honestly did connect to it,” you explain, despite the fire in Alcina’s expression. To your surprise, she does not interrupt you, and you take it as permission to keep going. Which was very good, considering that being nervous only made you ramble more. “Music is something we’ve shared for the entirety of our relationship. Even if it’s not something she would do much of on her own, I know that she’s grown to care for it more than she might be willing to admit. And, well…

“Even if you decide that what I’ve done is unforgivable, even if I’m destined to die within the hour, I know in my heart that everything the two of us worked on still matters. Because, like it or not, she is capable of growth, of change, of progress. And even if I die, someone else will come afterwards. Daniela will get to use music as a way to forge connections for the rest of her life, now that she knows it works, now that she knows how it works. And every goddamn time that she plays, or Bela plays, or you play, she’s going to remember me. She’ll remember every moment we spent together, every piece we ever played. I’ll live on in the melodies we made. In the song that you can’t quite place, that gets stuck on loop in your head. In the song the maids sing to themselves between shifts. In the quiet evening when the rain against the window feels so much like a familiar rhythm that your daughters can’t help but start humming along, without even thinking, muscle memories in sync.”

“Are you trying to convince me that there’s no point in killing you? That, regardless, you will be in my life until the end of time?” Alcina’s eyes are narrowed, but there isn’t even a hint of anger in her tone. Just curiosity.

“No, not really. Guess I’m just making peace with my fate the best way I know how- by remembering the echoes I’ll leave behind,” you answer, pausing to wipe a few tears from your eyes. All you can think about is how much Daniela will miss you. How much pain you think she’ll go through. Because at this point, who are you trying to fool with your hope? Yourself, or the people listening?

“Hmm. I think I understand. Now, tell me… what was that you said to my daughter a minute ago, before she left the room? It sounded familiar, though I cannot place it,” Alcina questions, idly toying with her glass of tea. You’re not entirely sure why it matters to her, but you have no qualms delaying the inevitable by answering. Besides, it was a chance to talk about how much you loved Daniela (and you’d never skip such an opportunity).

“It’s a line from a poem she wrote for me. “Tell me love, we shall last until the end of days”. A promise. The song Daniela and I played together… I wrote it in response. My way of doing what she asked of me, I guess. Like I said, she’ll always have the music we shared,” you answer, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

“Damn this… I can hardly believe I am asking this, yet I feel I have no choice: Tell me, do you love my daughter? Do you honestly, with your entire being, desire a future with her? Or was this a game of survival you couldn’t afford to lose, that turned out to be more ‘fun’ than you had anticipated? Show me your heart, as it is, bare as it would be if I tore it from your chest, this very moment.” There’s no room for argument in her voice, using the very same tone she reserved for maidens who got a tad too close to refusing her.

“Alright. It was a game. At first. Daniela wanted a distraction, something to entertain her. I didn’t want to die, like I had heard so many of her ‘playmates’ did. I can’t tell you when things changed, at least not for her,” you confess, with a shaky breath. Did that make you a monster? One worthy of death? If so, you wondered if it actually made you more fit to date Daniela. “For me… I just remember her smiling wide at me, hand on my cheek, having just cracked some lame joke. Next thing I knew, well, I knew. We had a spark of something, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to make her happy, you know? All the sudden there was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I just wanted to see that smile again, everyday for the rest of my life.

“To answer your question: Yes. Goddess, yes. A thousand times yes. A ‘yes’ for every smile she’s ever shown me, for every butterfly in my stomach, for every time she’s held my hand, for every breath she’s stolen from my lungs, and for every single time my heart has skipped a beat in her name. I love her. I know we haven’t been together long, but the things I feel are undeniable. I will give her every part of myself, for as long as she wants me, for as long as I am blessed to live,” you pour your heart out, weaving your heartbeat into every turn of phrase, spilling your lifeblood onto the very conversation.

“And what will you do if she does change her mind? If she grows bored of you, as she has done with a dozen others?” Alcina counters without hesitation.

“I will weep. I will fall to my knees, and mourn this beautiful thing. But I will cherish every memory she leaves to me. Every moment where I am hers is a moment worth living, worth remembering. It will be better to have loved her with all my heart for a little slice of her immortality, than to love another, lesser so, for all of my life.” With that, Alcina sets her empty glass of tea onto the table, eying you with an unreadable expression. Something seems to stir in her chest, and at last the mask crumbles. She smiles.

“I see. Daniela, you may come back in now. Do not bother pretending that you have not been eavesdropping.” Not even a full second passes before the door opens, revealing a shaking Daniela, both of her sisters quite visible behind her (though they quickly move out of frame, leaving behind Ava, who gives a cheesy thumbs up as the door closes in xer face). She rushes to your side, taking your hand, looking stunned that you were still alive. But what shocks her more is what her mother says… “Of all the women I have ever known, family or otherwise, you are, perhaps, the most determined. Normally only in… ‘spurts’. Yet here you are, defying what I have come to expect of you. It almost feels as if I have been fooling myself this whole time, falsely believing that there is more than one possible outcome. So, ‘Songbird’, I say this: Three months ago, I agreed to give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of my daughter, for the sake of her happiness. Now, I suppose it is only fair that I do so once more.”

“Wait. Are you saying-” Daniela is once again cut off by her mother, who seems eager to avoid a trademark rant.

“Yes, yes I am. For the time being, the two of you have my blessing. I cannot say that I am entirely convinced of your chances at success, but, having seen the strength of your affections for one another, I sincerely hope that you will prove me wrong. Now come here, Daniela. I never got to finish telling you what I thought of your concert…”

—————————

In the glowing comfort of your girlfriend’s room, with the fireplace keeping things warm and cozy, you lay with your head against Daniela’s chest. One of her hands absentmindedly plays with your hair, and you release a sigh of bliss. Ava had assured you that xe would let Daphne know the good news, as xe thought that having one of the castle ladies visiting the servants’ quarters might cause a stir (and Daniela was far from willing to let go of you so soon). Now the two of you were just enjoying time holding each other close. Regardless of Alcina’s concerns, you knew that everything would be looking up from here. Assuming that Daniela didn’t have any more surprise confessions to involve you with.

“That was one hell of a surprise, Firefly. But I’m glad we don’t have to hide anymore. I love you, and I don’t know how long I could have survived without being open with it,” you say, a light teasing to your voice. Beneath you, Daniela chuckles, but holds you just a bit tighter. Then she places the softest of kisses to your forehead. “I’m always gonna love you, Firefly.”

“Until the end of days?” She asks, in a delighted whisper, grin practically audible.

“Until the end of days.”

—————————

Elsewhere in the castle, a caring mother takes another long, hungry drink from her glass of wine, staring intently into the fireplace. By her side is a silver-haired servant, who wordlessly watches her every move.

“There’s still a chance that this will all end horribly. Only time will tell, of course… but I can’t help worrying for her, she’s my daughter,” Alcina proclaims, gripping the glass hard enough for a web of cracks to form along its bell. But it does not fully shatter. No, it remains just steady enough to still be of use to her. For now. “Of course, you knew about this all along, didn’t you, Ava?... I know that you value how close you are with my children, and I know that they trust in you as much as I do… but if there are relationships or entanglements that I am unaware of, I expect you to tell me, or there will have to be consequences, regardless of your affiliation with Mother Miranda. Do you understand?”

Sighing, the mute servant pulls a notebook from xer pocket, opening it up to pen in a fresh script. There’s much tension in the air, and it only gets worse when Alcina catches a glimpse at what the note reads. As xe hands it to her, she scowls, and the wine glass fully breaks into countless shards. Immediately, Ava gets to work, picking up the largest of fragments with xer bare hands, refusing to complain about the resulting cuts. All the while Alcina stares into the fire, thoughts racing, wondering if maybe this time she could end her daughter’s problem before it was too late. Beginning to brainstorm ideas, she sets the notebook aside. Inside, in perfectly penned cursive, is a very, very dangerous piece of knowledge. The sort that could affect not only Castle Dimitrescu, but the entire village.

“In that case… there’s something you need to know about Cassandra- and Mother Miranda’s lovely little ‘pet’.”

[write-r-die]

Prisoner - Part 17

March 1067, Norman Conquest of England 

Masterlist

A/N: Drama!!

gif from demivampirew

For the first time in a long time, Thomasin felt safe.

Henry made her promise never to remove the pendant he gave her. It seemed terribly important to him, though Thomasin didn’t know why. Still, she agreed without question.

Henry never did shout at her. He didn’t like being angry, especially with someone he loved. Instead, he sat his wife down like a child and looked very deeply into her grey eyes while simply telling her she would never disobey him again, nor would she disagree with him in public. She was welcome to shout and scream and call him all sorts of names when they were alone together, but their situation was precarious. They had to present a united front so no one – just Lawrence, really – would think to pit them against each other.

Lawrence, though, seemed the same as ever. Maybe even scarier. He always had that awful grin on his face. He never got red; that’s what really worried both Henry and Tom. He was too calm, too self-assured. He planned out what he would do to them; now they were stuck in fear until he decided to act. It had only been a week since the wedding, and there was no telling how long Lawrence would wait. But he wasn’t a patient man.

Henry didn’t let Thomasin see his fear over Lawrence’s retribution. Since the wedding, she’d become all soft and willing. He thought she showed something akin to vulnerability. When they were alone, she would sit on his lap or press herself right against his side. They needed to be touching when they went to sleep, either with Henry spooning against her back or Thomasin lounging across his chest. She demanded his attention and affection. Henry obliged her, even going beyond. He’d kiss her in public when he thought no one was looking. She didn’t even mind.

He met her vulnerability with steady confidence. He’d sworn to look after her more times than he could count, and now that she was finally allowing it, he didn’t want to show any weakness. That was what husbands did for their wives – they remained strong and sure.

Henry asked a baron sailing back to Normandy to deliver the message to his family that he was wed; he was quite sure his mother would cry upon hearing the news.

“Should we send someone to tell your family?” he asked that night as he and Tom lay in the dark together. He was pressed tightly against Thomasin’s back. She used one of his arms as a pillow, and his free hand roamed over her body.

“I haven’t got a family,” Thomasin replied.

Henry nuzzled her rosy gold hair. “Yes, you do.” He kissed the back of her neck and sighed into her hair. “And you’ll never be rid of me.”

**

When the king finally summoned Henry, it wasn’t to chastise him. If he did mean to shout at Henry, it was low on his list of things to do. Henry found himself in something of a war council among other barons and knights of high praise.

“It is time to execute the Saxons,” William announced. “I’ve kept them alive for too long. It will embolden other rebels to attack if they believe I won’t kill them.”

“The rebels are all but gone,” a middle-aged baron said. “Even that young baron from the north has disappeared.” He looked at Henry from the corner of his eye; everyone knew he was referring to Hammond.

“Permanent imprisonment is not much better than death,” another put in. 

“All the same,” said the king. “The surviving Saxon prisoners will be put to death by hanging this afternoon. I expect you all to bear witness.”

“What about our wives?” a knight asked. Henry was grateful someone other than him asked the question. “Should they attend?”

William shook his head. “Tis no sight for a woman’s eyes.” He took a deep breath before declaring, “It is warm enough now to travel. We will hunt down the other rebels. If we cannot capture or kill them, we will at least run them out of England and keep them in exile for the rest of their lives.”

The men started shuffling out, murmuring to each other about the Saxon threat. Henry lagged behind the crowd, too lost in his thoughts to keep a fast pace. He was so distracted that he didn’t even notice when Lawrence sidled up beside him.

Lawrence made a sound like a sigh. “I do hope poor Tom won’t be too broken up over Cerdic’s execution.”

Henry felt like he had the wind knocked out of him. How did he find out about Thomasin’s relationship with Cerdic? How much did he know about it? What execution? Was that why the barons and knights were gathering?

But the true source of his fury was the fact that Lawrence had referred to his wife as Tom.

Lawrence looked at Henry from the corner of his eye. “Are you broken up, dear Henry?”

He turned his gaze to the other man, a savage look in his eyes. “You will never speak my wife’s name again. Do you understand me?”

Lawrence bowed his head in mock apology before moving along.

Henry paused in a nook in the corridor and ran his hand over his face. Damn.

Coming to England was like stepping in dog shit that one could never quite wipe away. Meeting Thomasin was like stepping in dog shit. One bad thing followed another like a cloying stink with that poor girl.

No, Henry realized. Thomasin meeting him when the troubles started.

***

Thomasin was grateful that Henry had been able to spend both his days and his nights with her. She knew it could not last forever, but she was sad all the same when he was called away, no doubt to discuss matters of war.

Now she would have to spend her days embroidering with other ladies or pursuing some other womanly hobby. She was never terribly good at that, though. At one point, her governess simply gave up trying to make Thomasin a proper lady. Her father let her have free reign of the estate so long as someone was always nearby and she returned to the keep by dark.

She imagined having a similar arrangement with Henry, but they first needed an estate of their own. Everyone assumed the king would give them the estate Thomasin grew up in, but she secretly hoped he would not. It would be haunted, at least for her, and she was sure she would never feel comfortable there. It wasn’t her home anymore. Just another conquered fortress.

The couple spoke a little of returning to Normandy so Tom could meet Henry’s family and there were some vague mentions of estates near his brothers that might be suitable for their needs, but they hadn’t had a real conversation about it.  What they wanted didn’t matter; William would likely keep Henry in England to fight his endless war against Thomasin’s way of life. Maybe they would be dismissed in a few years when things were calmer.

She would have to figure out how to spend her days. Her only true friend at court was Elaine, but the healer was often busy during the day. Thomasin accompanied her on a meeting with an elderly baroness with a horrifying rash; she would never do so again. 

She was returning from a brisk walk when she nearly crashed into her husband and his friends on their way out.

“Henry!” Thomasin bounced forward and grabbed onto his hand. She waited for him to kiss her while Charlie and Roger were pretending not to look. She knew something was wrong when he didn’t. “Are you well?”

Henry’s expression was as hard as it had been the day Thomasin tried to escape from him. She resisted the urge to step back. “Thomasin, go back to our rooms. Wait for me there.”

His clear agitation alarmed her; she spoke as calmly as she could. “Is something amiss?”

“Do as I say. I’ll be along soon.” He turned to Kal. “You go with her.”

Something must be truly wrong if Henry was willing to part with his shadow, even for an hour or two. Thomasin’s eyes flickered to Charlie for some hint of what was happening, but his expression was as stony as ever. Roger hadn’t stopped when Thomasin intercepted them so she could not look to him for clues.

She glanced at Henry one more time. He didn’t look all right. She wanted an explanation here and now, but she remembered her promise not to disobey him in public. Staying and demanding something from him would certainly count as disobedience. “Of course,” Thomasin said, forcing a mild tone of voice. She gave a shallow curtsey. 

She was chattering to Kal as they walked up a tight staircase when she heard a ruckus outside. There were no windows in the stairwell, only thin slats from which archers inside the castle could shoot at enemy soldiers in case of an attack, but they would do. 

Thomasin rocked up on her tiptoes to peer through one of them. There was a large cluster of men spread out across the field. They stood in clumps of three or four, talking among themselves as a handful of servants erected some makeshift structure she couldn’t quite make out. Perhaps if she had something to stand on, she would be able to see more clearly . . .

Kal made a grumbling sound. 

“I don’t mean to ignore you, Kal,” Thomasin said. “I just want to see what’s going on.” 

She never thought it unusual for one to speak to one’s pets, and Henry regularly held complex conversations with the bear, so she wasn’t embarrassed to talk to him in public as other women might be.

Thomasin pushed up a little further and caught a glimpse of fresh scaffolding, then of a handful of shackled men making their way over to it. The Saxon prisoners were finally being executed, then. Thomasin couldn’t blame Henry for not telling her. He was only trying to protect her.

She was about to turn away when she glimpsed a familiar silhouette and an even more familiar red beard. She squinted into the fading light as the hangman put a rope around the Saxon’s thick neck. 

She hated that neck. She once joked to Justina that she’d like to strangle him, but his neck was as sturdy as a thick branch on a tree. She’d only tire herself out trying to kill him.

Cerdic.

Thomasin was so shocked and upset that she pushed away from the window too hard and fell backwards; Kal softened her fall somewhat.

For a moment she couldn’t move or even draw in a lungful of air. Kal was breathing in right in her face, but she didn’t care. She felt removed from somehow, as if she weren’t truly in her body.

Cerdic was a ridiculous oaf, but she’d known him all her life. She’d cared for him not as a lover or brother or even a friend, but in the way a woman was expected to care for her husband-to-be. And he was all that was left of her life before.

It was easier when she thought he was dead, that he’d died in the fray along with most of the other Saxon men. She’d grieved him in her own strange way and put his memory behind her, but now everything swelled up again and tightened her throat. 

This was the last straw. She was strong but she wasn't made of ice. There was only so much someone could endure before they broke.

And Thomasin truly did break.

She ran to her rooms barely holding back tears. Her throat was sore with the effort of holding in sobs and her hands were shaking so hard that she almost couldn’t open the latch on the door to the antechamber. 

She barely made it through the antechamber and into the bedroom before she fell apart. She slammed the bedroom door before Kal could follow and fell forward on her hands and knees into the rushes scattered on the floor; she couldn’t hold herself together a moment longer, not even long enough to reach the bed. She began to weep so hard that she could barely breathe. She made choked, ugly sobbing sounds she couldn’t control that shook her shoulders as snot and tears ran down her face.

Kal whined and scratched at the door, desperate to comfort his mother.

Thomasin kicked the door hard enough to shake the hinges. “Go away!” she shrieked. Her throat was already raw.

She was too tired to move anymore, even to get into bed. She fell to her side and curled in on herself, shivering like a dog left outside in a storm, still whimpering and gasping for breath. 

***

Henry stood with Charlie and Roger as they waited for the executions to begin.

“You look unwell,” Henry remarked to his brother-by-law.

Roger heaved a sigh. “It’s always said when something beautiful dies.” 

“What, the men?” Charlie asked.

Roger turned to face his friends. “Their lives. Their spirits.” Their physical forms, too, of course. 

“That’s the nature of conquest,” Charlie said. “The old ways must end for the new ones to begin. If people cannot accept change . . .” He shrugged.

“I do not like the end part. You must feel some grief on behalf of Thomasin, Henry,” Roger said. “I cannot imagine. . .” he trailed off.

“I didn’t tell her,” Henry said. 

“She’ll find out,” Charlie said neutrally. He still didn’t like Thomasin by any stretch of the imagination, but he was coming to accept her. “Assuming she hasn’t already.”

Henry knew that, knew it would be better to tell her himself. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“I know,” he said. 

***

Cerdic had no last words – or if he did, Henry didn’t hear them. 

The men were strung up all at once, the nooses looped around their necks and the wooden bench kicked out from under them. A crueler king might have removed their heads one by one to heighten their fear, but William just wanted the business done with. He’d likely cut their heads off afterwards to mount on spikes near the city gates, though.

Henry left the first moment he could. Thomasin was probably fuming quietly in their room, probably repeatedly stabbing herself in the finger as she furiously embroidered something or other.  He hoped so. 

Charlie was right: Thomasin had probably found out about the executions somehow. He prayed that she didn’t know Cerdic was among the dead. He wasn’t sure what reaction to expect.

He tried to enter the antechamber quietly, but the room was deathly silent; every small sound he made seemed to echo. The first thing he saw was Kal stretched out in front of the door that led to the bedroom, his chin resting on top of his paws. He looked downright pensive.

“Kal.��

The dog leapt to attention as Henry knelt to scratch his ear.

“Good boy,” Henry murmured.

Kal whined, trying to communicate that something was wrong with Thomasin. He’d been guarding her as best as he could, but she wouldn’t let him into the bedroom.

Henry scratched Kal one more time before steeling himself. He opened the bedroom door. His wife lay on her side on the floor, still sniffling and hiccupping from weeping.

“Tom?” he knelt on the ground beside her. 

She moved her head the slightest bit to look up at him with bloodshot eyes. “You knew that Cerdic was here. That he was alive.” She was too exhausted to inject an accusatory tone into her raspy voice.

Henry took a deep breath. A lock of her rosy golden hair had gotten free of its braid; he gently tucked it behind her ear. “Yes.”

Her chin quivered as her eyes filled with tears. She shut them and turned away. “It was easier when . . .”

“I know.”

Her chin still moved. “I wish William had never come to England,” she said, voice high and tight. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on a Norman.”

Henry took a deep breath. “Tom, you can’t blame every Norm –”

“Yes I can!” She shouted, jumping to her feet. Henry stood, too. On the other side of the door, Kal whimpered. “It’s your fault! You came here and you took what wasn't yours and you killed the men and raped the women. My country is dead!” Her voice cracked. “I have nothing left! You took everything from me!”

Henry’s voice was low but strong. “You have me.”

“I don’t want you!” she shouted. Her words cut Henry like the blade of a knife. “You or your bastard king and your merciless countrymen! I wish I’d never met you! I – I –” 

I want to go home. 

“Enough, Tom,” said Henry. “You’ll give yourself a fit.” Thomasin reached for the back of her neck; Henry caught her hands in his and stopped her before she even touched the necklace’s clasp. “Don’t,” he said softly. 

Thomasin shoved away from him so hard she nearly fell backwards. Henry, who had the build of a stone wall, hardly budged. That made her so furious that she slapped him – tried to, anyway. Henry caught her wrist in his hand and used it to tug her close. 

“Let go!” she shouted. “Henry, let me go!”

But he held her to his chest and would not unlock his grip. She kept shoving and hitting him until he finally released her – only to capture her again.

Somehow, she was suddenly lying back on the bed, her wrists firmly locked in Henry’s grasp as he pinned them above her head. He hovered over her on his knees, locking her legs between his strong thighs to make sure she didn’t try to kick him in her anger.

“Thomasin, enough!” he shouted.

Exhausted, she finally gave up the fight. She sank limp against the bed and started to weep. 

She’d never cried in front of him before, Henry thought. He wasn’t even sure if she cried when she was wounded on the road. There were tears in her eyes on their wedding night and the day she tried to escape from him in the forest, but he didn’t think they ever spilled over.

He couldn’t stand to watch but he couldn’t look away. Thomasin needed him now. She was in mourning – for her father, her former betrothed, her relationships with her siblings, her country. She was mourning her own life, too, and what it might have been if William had never come.

“I hate you,” Thomasin whimpered through her tears.

“No, you don’t.” Her husband’s voice was tired but kind as he released her wrists and climbed off of her.

Her eyes were already shut; her outburst at Henry and fit of emotion after seeing Cerdic hanged drained her of all energy and she was on the very edge of sleep. “I hate you, Henry,” she insisted weakly. 

Henry knew she wasn’t sincere, that she was just speaking out of anger, but the words still stung him all the same.

It wouldn’t hurt him at all if she’d just say out loud that she loved him. He only needed to hear it once. None of her accusations or insults would bother him if he knew beyond a doubt that she loved him even half as much as he loved her. With those words, he’d be invincible.

But she didn’t say it. Maybe she never would. She loved him, Henry was sure of it, but she was too proud to admit it.

Tom’s tears had slowed and turned from sobs to sniffles to deep, loud breathing.

Henry stayed beside her in bed, both of them still fully dressed, and soon drifted off. She turned to him in her sleep, unconsciously taking her rightful place in his arms and against his chest. Henry didn’t wake; his body knew instinctively to put his arms around her.

[chibimyumi]

Hi, I hope you're doing well and staying healthy. I've read your post about how Elizabeth attacking ciel is sexism. What about Sebastian getting bully by Frances? Frances is a noblewoman grabbing a servant's hair in front of other people. And fans (including me) are like: oh! What a lioness! Even the devil himself is terrified of her! what if it was the other way around? The idea of a nobleman grabbing a governess's hair calling her nasty and indecent makes me uncomfortable and even angry.

【Response to post: Sexism against men and Kuro Sexist jokes】

Dear Anon,

I’m doing well, thank you very much. I hope you too ^^

Your question is a very good one, and it really had me thinking for a while! I myself admittedly do laugh very hard at Sebastian getting a hard time from Frances. But indeed, like you said, it is still bullying, and bullying is bad. In this post-feminist era, we have been so trained to see women bullying men as ‘funny’ or ‘empowering’, but women getting bullied as unambiguously bad instinctively, that sometimes we forget to check our double standards.

Feelings are feelings, we can’t help what we feel. But how come then that to many of us, Frances bullying Sebas is so funny, but Lizzie almost murdering O!Ciel and Nina bullying men not? This post is merely an attempt to explain this feeling for myself too, but hopefully we can all reach SOME explanation together as well???

Let us first look at in what ways Frances has been making Sebastian’s life hard. From all the interactions we have of these two so far, her main points of criticism seem to be his hair and his lack of professionalism.

Slovenly Hair

Sebastian’s hair is something we’ve gotten quite used to now after more than14 years. In Sebastian’s time however, his hair really would have been the height of impropriety for his profession.

Just like I translated O!Ciel’s looks to 2020 standards, I quickly translated Sebas’ hair to 2020 standards as well. Very clean, innit?! Very professional, innit?!

Even without the translation however, if we look at the worst of wigs from the Kuromyus, we can also see how Sebastian’s hair would be atrocious in any formal setting. Look past the fact that these actors are supposed to represent a drawn character. Just imagine being in a fancy restaurant and encountering a dead-spider feather duster on your waiter’s head.... erm....???

Something that is objectively bad on Frances’ end however, is that chapter 14 is not the first time that Frances has seen his ‘slovenly hair’. If his hair really is so unacceptable, as an authority figure Frances has the right to say something about it. However, as it seems, until this point she has never communicated at all (no, “hinting” is not the same as communicating), so Sebas had no way of knowing what he “did wrong”. She immediately grabbed for Sebastian’s hair without mercy, probably because her crept up frustration got the better of her. This is indeed entirely too harsh for a first time call-out, and entirely on Frances.

Much later in the story Frances criticises and touches Sebastian’s hair again, and this time in public while he was infiltrating as a teacher. Here Frances is even publically humiliating Sebastian in front of his students and other high ranking guests.

Especially when you keep in mind that Frances is a noblewoman and Sebas a mere servant, Frances is indeed abusing her power against a servant who cannot strike back at all.

This is indeed power play. However, though it does not justify anything, in the very least her criticism does have ground; Sebas’ hair is by all measures inadequate for any professional setting. Just be nicer about it, Frances.

Useless Butler

Now, let us look at the other reason Frances disapproves of Sebas. Sebastian is a very competent butler according to most people. To Frances however, this claim is empty. When she arrives, parts of the estate have been destroyed and something very literally exploded in her presence.

Even though Sebas is not the person actively causing the explosion or the destruction, as the senior servant of the household, it is literally his job to manage the other servants. So yes, here too, the fact that things can be destroyed in the household because he either hired inadequate staff or because he mismanages his household, DOES INDEED prove he fails at his job. As the aunt of O!Ciel who cares about her nephew AND her paternal home, Frances is in her right to be concerned and call Sebastian out for NOT doing his job.

In chapter 14, Sebastian’s schedule was all over the place and kept changing the plans for Frances. It is no wonder that she would be quite annoyed and doubt Sebastian’s adequateness. When you know your 13 year old nephew’s household is in the hands of somebody so apparently inadequate, anybody would probably be concerned. However annoyed though, Frances does not overstep any boundaries about this specific issue; she is simply supremely unimpressed. Fair enough?

Compliments where due

Something that is quite interesting though, is that despite disapproving of Sebastian, Frances does also know when to compliment him when due. After Sebastian has saved Lizzie’s life without boasting, Frances recognised how the butler does indeed have some value and the correct attitude as a servant.

She says “though you look indecent what you say is true,” and it is yet another jab at the demon’s expense. But here she is also showing that she is willing to acknowledge somebody’s achievements, looking past appearances.

Before Frances leaves, Frances jabs at Sebas a bit again, but she really is not doing anything dickish this time. Instead of making Sebas think she’s simply chosen him as target to be a prick towards, she concretely states why she doubts his professionalism. She mentions the smashed tea set, bare garden and burnt food; mistakes that are objectively unacceptable. Instead of yelling at him, she actually gives him constructive criticism. So here too, Frances is quite stern, but her grounds are solid.

In the Campania arc Sebas shows up again with the hair Frances disapproved of. Frances clearly wants to do something about it again because in her eyes, the butler simply won’t learn. But given the circumstances and Sebastian’s proven usefulness, Frances actually does shelve her agenda. Just like above, here too Frances shows that she is capable of acknowledging somebody despite their looks.

Later when the zombies dramatically outnumbered the living humans, Frances sends Sebas - who had come to her aid - back to her daughter and nephew. By sending Sebas back, Frances also shows that she in fact trusts this ‘slovenly butler’ with the lives of two children she loves deeply. Sebastian protests, but Frances immediately replies: “don’t you trust our ability as swordsmen?” Here what Frances is functionally saying is: “I trust you with your abilities, so you can trust us back.”

In short, Frances is harsh and doing power-play against a servant, but she can shelve her agenda, and does acknowledge Sebas when due.

Contrast to Nina and Lizzie

So now we have seen how Frances bullies Sebastian, and her motivation behind all her points of harshness. As we have seen, Frances’ only points of criticisms are concrete ones; Sebastian’s lack of professionalism in looks, and his lack of professionalism in management. She goes about them too harshly, but all points are legit criticisms, and something Sebas CAN and probably SHOULD work to improve.

Nina

This is in stark contrast with the way Nina bullies her victims. As far as we have seen, none of Nina’s victims have offended her in any way, nor does she ever give any concrete criticism. She has just decided that because men are men, they don’t deserve proper treatment. Even when providing clothes for men is literally part her job, she refuses to provide the ‘professional service’ she is being paid for. And because she is AN EMANCIPATED LESBIAN!!!!!!! #FEMINISM, it’s FINE (!?!?!?)

Unlike with Frances’ criticism of Sebastian’s inadequate hairdo and managing, being ‘men’ is not something any of these men can do anything about (except Sebas, but Nina doesn’t know). Bullying is always wrong, always low. But it’s EVEN lower when you bully somebody for who they are, and not what they do wrong. What does not help is that Nina seems to only be capable of treating people nicely if they happen to be sexuality-wise compatible with her... but if you are, you’ll get molested. What is wrong with you, Nina????

Yes, Frances is saying: “you are a man, and yet your fringe is so long”. So on the most surface level, it is a woman saying this to a man because he is a man. As we later get to know Frances a bit better though, she would be harsh to anybody who looks slovenly. She just has different hairstyles which she considers appropriate for men and women respectively. Had Sebas been a woman and his hair was the ‘feminine equivalent of slovenly’, Frances would most likely have acted exactly the same. So in this sense, unlike with the jokes using Nina and Lizzie, it is not purely: “Haha, girl bullies boii, lol.”

Something else that is terrible is that what Nina does seems to be systemic. Logically it checks out too; it can’t be that only since the past few weeks she’s decided only women and young boys deserve her kind treatment. For all we know, Nina’s been treating the male Phantomhive staff like this for 2-3 years. Sebastian’s comment about Nina thoroughly ignoring men again with “as always” further supports this theory.

With Frances in contrast, in chapter 14 (so barely a year ago in story time), Sebas seemed to have no clue whatsoever about Frances’ terrors. Sebas announced Frances’ arrival to his master and is very calm about it. It was not until O!Ciel alerted Sebas about his aunt that anybody even guessed what hurricane was headed for them. As such, we can safely conclude that Sebas had only been subjected to Frances’ criticism a couple of times, unlike having had to bear with Nina for years.

Yes, Frances still should have communicated, but I already addressed the details above. Still, the point remains that even though Frances is overstepping boundaries and abusing her power, her criticisms are at least not empty.

Lizzie

Lizzie too just like Nina, had zero grounds for showing that much aggression. She did not give anybody the benefit of the doubt, did not communicate, or even so much as give O!Ciel any chance to explain the situation. So far O!Ciel has given Lizzie no reason to think he’d cheat on her, and yet she hurled so much aggression at him Sebas had to intervene.

Still, Lizzie is marginally better than Nina because she is not systemically bullying O!Ciel. It is a one time event. However, this one makes me more annoyed with Yana because it means that even Yana had to use this stale, stale trope of “LOVE TRIANGLE COMEDYYYY”. Have I ever mentioned how MUCH I hate love triangles and jealousy???

Conclusion

Feeling wise, the most important reason for why Sebas being bullied by Frances is funny is probably because of who Sebas is. Sebas is otherwise an all-powerful demon, but to see him inventing colours to shit at Frances - a human Sebas could crush between his fingertips like a cookie - is just hilarious. Had Sebas been a human though, I would not have laughed so hard personally.

Rationally however, Frances is doing power play against a servant who cannot talk back, so it is still bullying, and bullying is inexcusable.The only bit of “right” Frances has is that she does not seem to be systemically bullying Sebastian, and that her criticisms have some ground.

So if Nina and Lizzie’s behaviours played for jokes are like... a -7 and -9 respectively, Frances’ at least scores a -2 for me?

(Yes, as we’re talking about bullying anyway, I just have to make a jab at Vincent.)

Afterword

Something not really related to why “Frances:Bad”, “Nina-Lizzie:Worse”, but I do wish to mention is Yana’s improved drawing skills. I have no proof, but I think it MIGHT have been where this Frances-joke originated.

Yana’s time in the more traditional mindset of manga-worldview really showed, especially at the far beginning. Besides, she was still in the process of finding a way to draw handsome men. In the more traditional mindset of the early 2000s, handsome men were just not supposed to have slicked back hair - “that was reserved for old men and nasty dudes!!” Yana’s discomfort with drawing handsome men with slicked back hair was clearly visible in Sebastian’s early appearances, and making the ‘”hair, back!!! says old-fashioned lady” was potentially even a way of Yana to laugh at herself.

I don’t know who else is old like me and grew up with 80s to early 00s manga, but at the time, hair for handsome men was a BIG deal. In that world ‘slicked back hair’ just carried a certain laughability about it; a “rule of not-cool”. To me at least at the time this ‘laughability’ really resonated with me, and Yana probably also trusted this same ‘unspoken rule’ to resonate with her audiences.

Much later though, Yana clearly grew more comfortable and  maybe even fond of slicked back hairstyles as she confidently chose to portray Sebas as ‘appealing’ while wearing his hair in the style Yana previously disliked.

Again, I have no proof, but I can’t help but think that if Kuro had started 10 years later, the running gag revolving Frances might look altogether different.

What do you guys think? ^^ Cheers, and stay healthy!

Character analysis Nina Hopkins

Character analysis Vincent Phantomhive

Sexism against men and Kuro’s sexist jokes

MASTERPOST Gender in Kuroshitsuji

MASTERPOST Analyses & Info

[sourbat]

General, 9 for butter knife? 🥺

“Are they Dead?” 

Summary: Charles surprises Magnus with dinner and a show. Guest starring Trindle and Melmord. 

Warning: imprisonment; implied Stockholm Syndrome 

It was late in the evening when, after another day filled with repetitious meandering in his cell, two hoods surprised Magnus with their unannounced presence. They gave no clues as to where they were taking Magnus, only wheeled him through the unseen, narrow corridors, and warned him when they were about to turn so he could bring his legs close. There was little point in asking any questions; the gears never shared what was in store for Magnus, and it wasn’t like he could flee once unstrapped from the wheelchair if they bothered to provide any unsavory news.

They wheeled him into what he assumed was a security room of some kind. It was the interior of a dark, massive shaft (perhaps the neck?) that stretched several levels high. Magnus rode up the elevator, gears at his side, trying to make some meaning of the red, eerie flashes caught between the levels: brief glimpses of klokateers heavily armed, others in front of computer monitors, a couple carting massive loads of what hopefully wasn’t bodies.

Charles greeted him at the topmost level, offering a silent nod the moment the sliding doors parted. One look around the large, blood-red dome had Magnus screaming “central hub.” The room was lined with screens, cameras and flashing lights, and klokateers attentively typing and clicking away at whatever task assigned to them. Magnus desired nothing more than to comment on Charles’ profuse megalomania, but as he was carted forward, caught the smell of something heavenly in the air that had his mouth filling with saliva.

Charles approached, passing Magnus’ left and briefly vanishing from existence, save for the sounds of his heels hitting the floor. “I hope he wasn’t any trouble. Take him to the table, then lock the wheels. I’ll take it from there.”

“Of course, Master Offdensen.”

The source of the delicious scents took the form of a small, clothed table set in front of a gigantic monitor. Adorning it was a set of finely polished silverware, napkins and crystal wine glasses. Magnus allowed his stare to linger on the knife resting beside a fork. A klokateer set Magnus on the side opposite to a single, empty chair. While the first gear locked his wheels into place, the second lifted a silver cover, unveiling a plate of the nicest looking steak Magnus had ever laid eyes on, with butter still melting and oozing all over the steaming center.

“What’s the occasion?”

“A celebration,” Charles answered plainly, taking his seat and giving the second gear permission to remove the cover to his meal. He returned, brows lifting slightly when met with Magnus’ befuddlement. “You don’t know?” 

Magnus wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. Charles, his only source of information, the well of knowledge from which he refused to drink from. Not that it mattered. Thirsty or not, Charles would eventually supply him with a drop of the bucket, even if it meant forcing it down Magnus’ unwilling throat. Toki’s lapse in therapy, Miss Remeltindtdrinc’s continued success, news of Magnus’ past altercations with annoying hoods, a physician’s request for a change of prescription, or a paltry report detailing unveiled portions of an unfair prophecy.

He stared nervously at the delectable meal resting before him. The decadent smell of garlic mashed potatoes covered in scallions, and the pop of a klokateer freeing the cork from a bottle of dark red wine, alerted him that the information to be revealed could be drastic, potentially life-ending.

He grinned. “Refresh me.”

Charles took a napkin, placing it over his leg. “I’ve checked this month’s reports,” he said, grabbing a knife and fork. “You’ve been taking your vitamins. You, ah, also gained seven pounds.”

Magnus rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Weight I cannot easily shave off.” 

“You’re still under by twelve, but with some work, will be at a healthy weight.” Charles cut into the steak. It bled and oily, reddish bubbly broth that stewed near the roasted vegetables.

Magnus’s hand drifted over his silverware, unsure to take the knife. “And this warrants a steak?”

Since being locked in Mordhaus, the daily meals sent to his room, while a far cry from the fast food he used to sustain himself with, wasn’t nearly as rich in smell and appearance as the meal before him. Magnus picked up the knife. Charles continued to cut his, sawing a small piece of meat which he jabbed and picked up with his fork. Hesitantly, Magnus did the same. As far as he could tell, no gears had their weapons aimed at him, but he still gingerly brought the blade down in case someone trigger-happy hood mistook his hunger as a desperate try for revenge against Charles.

Charles swallowed. “No, your compliance.” 

Magnus had made it as far as cutting himself a tasty morsel when the word smacked him across the face.  

“It’s been several long, grueling months.” Charles shoveled a lump of creamy, golden mashed potatoes with his fork.

Grueling didn’t accurately cover the anguish Magnus endured since falling victim to Charles’ whims. Being locked in a tiny room, deprived of fresh air sunlight unless he behaved, performed simple tasks upon being handed the instruction, or forced to tolerate Charles’ presence and spend his days alongside him, working together and transcribing old English to unveil more hints of the incoming apocalypse. If he snapped at too many klokateers, refused a meal, medication, vitamins or Charles, then he was ignored, left without any means of entertainment other than the memories that persisted to haunt and fill Magnus’ nights with dread. He spent days alone with no books to read, puzzles to complete, pen or paper to bide through the long, endless hours. Not a person to acknowledge him, nor clock on the wall or light switch to help give a sense of time, no matter how false. 

A few rounds of absolute, agonizing silence were all it took for Magnus to determine fighting Charles simply wasn’t worth the trouble. Magnus could handle manipulation, a fist to the face and a threat to his life, but Charles was hitting him where it hurt most, and Magnus couldn’t bear another reminder of his nonexistence, and not from the man he once loved so dearly. A man who, despite the cruelty, still cared for him. As difficult as it was to comprehend, Charles never laid a finger on Magnus, physically harmed or dared to take advantage of his current physical limitations, restricting all forms of punishment to just mental and emotional. And when the punishment finally ended, Charles always reintroduced Magnus to his bookshelves, television and access to the yard. He apologized when giving a punishment, explained his line of reasoning, and was quick to provide condolences when it was over, hands always reaching, hovering or ghosting over Magnus’ gaunt form, but never making contact unless given explicit permission. True, it could be just as well that Charles was enacting his own divine punishment, proving to Magnus that he didn’t need to harm him to make him bend, but since living within the harsh, deprecating confines of Mordhaus, Magnus wanted to believe this wasn’t the case.

Surely, the man serving him medium rare steak and French champagne was doing this as an act of tolerance, friendship even?

Charles continued: “You’ve been far from agreeable…but now.” 

The words gripped Magnus by the throat, rendering him silent. Utensils lowered, their stares met one another’s. Magnus expected a snicker, eyes confidently framed into slits to better make out his discontent. Instead, Magnus couldn’t tell if it was just him, or the combination of bubbly alcohol and a candlelit dinner, but Charles stared at him with a smile he hadn’t seen in years. There were round, lifted cheeks, and that all-too straight grin that almost crossed the line from being endearing, to becoming a tad awkward.

“I feel like I can rely on you,” Charles said, “Like, ah…like we used to, when we were young.” 

Charm aside, it was a difficult pill to swallow. Magnus dropped his stare, to his once decadent meal. It was hard to keep an appetite upon learning the meal was a celebration for his submission.

A hand settled over Magnus’ right. His eyes returned to Charles, and upon the second glance, made out those small features he spent hours admiring during long nights spent waiting for the bus, in line, or just from sharing the same space. Sharp tip of the nose that always glowed under the smallest of lights. Perfectly shaped eyebrows. The very subtle way the glasses hung down the bridge when he lowered his head to meet him. 

Magnus stabbed at his roasted parsnips, finding it equally difficult to be mad at the man who continued to offer help during bathing, purchased whatever form of literature he demanded, when he was acting in accordance. He picked at his meal, taking small bites and savoring the rich taste of butter, fluffy texture of potatoes and steak that melted in his mouth. The few glances he made at Charles, no matter how brief, were always met with positivity.

Something about it frightened him.

“I have something I want to show you.” 

Upon completion of their meal, Charles called a klokateer from the red depths of the room, and then offered Magnus two thick files. Magnus opened the first, revealing the photo of a young woman dressed entirely in high-end gothic fashion, staring wildly at him. The first thing he noticed about her was that she was a stranger, an unknown he’d never engaged with in his entire life. Yet, he knew there was a connection, something that Charles connected with him.

Magnus rolled a thumb over the faded blur of her nose piercing, eyes briefly engaging with the uniqueness of her name, then closed the folder. “What’s this?”

Charles snapped a finger. “Special cases.”

Klokateer approached with a tray. While they replaced Magnus’ wine glass with smaller, round cups, he picked up the second file, and like before, met another smile, this time from a man. Unlike the goth, the man in the photo appeared lax, if not in a slight, distant daze. The blond highlights in his hair made Magnus want to connect the man with the goth-woman; the goatee and length of his hair made Magnus hesitant to try and tie the stranger with him.

After locating the name, and finding it equally as alien as the woman’s, Magnus sighed. On the other side of the table, Charles was waiting, patiently.

Magnus lowered the second file. “Are they dead?”

The candles’ embers flickered. A devious smile manifested across Charles’ ivory face. Another snap from his long fingers, and the gigantic monitor resting before them turned on, sending Magnus into a state of shock. His wheelchair jolted as he tried backing away from the now active screen, locked wheels keeping him in place while he gathered himself. Displaying on the screen were two people in a small room. A rec room, with a few old arcade games, display cased lines with boxes, an old couch, and a long, rectangular table. Magnus squinted his eyes, making out the dark blur of a shapely figure standing at one end of the table, picking up a paddle and ball. Magnus recognized her as the same woman from the file. He turned to the second figure standing on the opposite side, a tall man with a broad frame, shoulder-length hair, and carrying a lazy grin.

They were playing ping-pong.

A ball bounced from one side to the next as the two jumped, stretched, and did what they could to earn a point. If Magnus didn’t know any better, he’d assume this was just a friendly game between acquaintances, but the files on the table, and the curious glint in Charles’ eyes, told Magnus there was something far more ominous at hand.

Just as Magnus turned from the screen, caught something hanging in the corner of the cluttered room. A calendar, and when Magnus set his eyes upon it, turned sickly pale at the discovery of the month.  

“They’re like you,” Charles suddenly began, his voice a faint echo while Magnus slowly drew away from the calendar, back to the two unknowns playing ping-pong. “Dead to the world, but–” 

“A never-ending source of entertainment for you,” Magnus harshly bit back. A hand hit the edge of the table, pulling some of the cloth down. Charles remained seated, but his chair had groaned, dragging from the unannounced outburst. Magnus heard it, and he took and rolled with it, hoping it would serve and supply him strength against Charles. 

“I always knew you were a control freak, but this…” Magnus gestured morosely at the screen. “I must say, the voyeurism is taking me by surprise.”

“It’s necessary to monitor prisoners.” Charles appeared calm, but his hands were clasped tightly together, wrinkles deepening from the lowered brow and frown, and patience nearing its untimely end. Still the answer was quick, short and to the bloody point. It was, like everything else that came from Charles, practical to the point of being insufferable.

Magnus humored the idea of their being cameras in his room, and Charles, his once beloved, using the very same excuse to watch him struggle each time he transitioned from chair to bed, chair to toilet, chair to floor. 

Frustrated, he heaved a dry laugh. “And you’re quite sure you never read the works of Harlan Ellison?”

Charles didn’t answer. Magnus hit the table again, sending one of the candles to topple on its side. The flame died on its way down, but the effect was immediate. Weapons were drawn, and Magnus could see fine red dots pin-pointed all over his arm, and when he fell back into the wheelchair, saw a dozen more spread across his chest.

Unaffected, Charles waited until Magnus sank into the wheelchair, momentarily defeated. 

“Would you like to meet them?” 

“Is that a threat?” Magnus asked, arms crossed, the only act of defiance he could get away with.

“An invitation,” Charles insisted, as though it changed a damn thing.

For whatever reason, Charles outstretched his arm, hand hoping to return and rest upon Magnus like it had minutes ago. When it crossed the halfway mark, Magnus withdrew, going as far back into his seat as he could without having to drag his lower half with him. 

Charles sighed, dejected. “I know it must be lonely, what with you, ah–”

Magnus opened his mouth, ready to lash at Charles for even trying. He saw the calendar. Whether he’d been handed a live recording, or something saved from days, even weeks before, nothing could change the terrifying knowledge he had picked up on when his eye set on the estimated date. 

A year. He’d been locked in Mordhaus for a year, and never noticed! Time had blended, blurred and stagnated into a concrete wall that he couldn’t pass nor break. He was getting along better with Charles, tolerating him and almost…a year. Charles had been training him for an entire year, and now, after months of arguing, spitting out his meds, saying nasty words and refusing to wheel himself around, Charles was celebrating a year of them together, and of the slow, but now blatantly apparent improvement of his condition from having broken Magnus at some point. 

“I figured, after you and I finished with the scriptures, you might be willing to offer a helping hand with these two.”

And he had broken him, to some extent. Otherwise, why the candles, the steak and that smile? Why let him use a knife tonight, when so many other nights he’d been handed only the plastic spork, later the spoon and fork, but only when in the company of gears?  The comment about his weight, about the future hard work to come; it all amounted to Magnus surrendering, complying with Charles and doing whatever it took to remain noticed, acknowledged, alive. 

“Well?” Charles’ voice broke through the fury building inside Magnus. “What do you think?”

His nails dug into the tablecloth. “And why would I ever consider aiding you in training additional human pets?” Magnus snapped. His entire chair lurched alongside him, dragging forward and colliding his lower abdomen against the table. Magnus barely noticed, too fixated on Charles’ calm, unmoving demeanor. The smug bastard. Magnus threw another fist at the table, sending his cappuccino to teeter near the end, threatening to fall and shatter. “Really Charles, you know how jealous I can get. Me, sharing another man with you? And a woman? Ha!”

He had done an excellent job refraining from bringing up their old flame, a mere pile of ashy white cinders long since carried off by the cruel, cold winds of fate. Charles had no problem hinting at it, calling forth old memories in a futile attempt to sway Magnus towards his favor, but until now Magnus’ pride had forbidden him to going so low as to attack Charles with stories of walks across the park, going to concerts to sight out potential competition and talent, or nights spent smoking and dreaming aloud.

Not anymore. Magnus undid the harness keeping his legs in place. He pressed his left arm on top of the table, elbow held firm under his weight. With this right, he dragged himself up, using the table for support as he tried to create some height over Charles. 

“Let me guess? They’re exes of yours as well?” Magnus heaved a little as he lifted himself, lame legs adrift in a senseless void. Charles’ eyes finally gave to emotion, widening as Magnus carried himself using rage alone. “They piss you off, too? Didn’t like your prudish attitude? Your compulsive behavior? Tell me, Allied Mastercomputer, other than the fact that you own me body and soul, why the hell should I help you, huh?”

The words spat out, flicking and landing across Charles’ spectacles. He flinched, head and neck reacting to the meager onslaught, then returned to their usual placements. Magnus watched, arms shaking under his weight, while Charles picked up his napkin and removed his glasses to clean the lens. As he did, Magnus’ right elbow locked, and he slipped back. Though he couldn’t feel it, he knew his legs tripped over themselves, and were it not for a klokateers hastily grabbing him by the arms and guiding him back to his chair, Magnus knew he’d have likely fallen to the floor and be made a fool in front of Charles.

He wasn’t sure if this was any better.

No. He was still the fool in this scenario.

“I’ll grant you your legs back.”

Magnus slumped, eyes blank at the promise.

Charles lifted his glasses up the light, nose wrinkling slightly at the smudges that remained, and nothing more. “What’s more, I’ll grant you some privileges, allow you to traverse the hidden pathways on your own.”

Cruel words hardly had any meaning, anymore. And what was the point of trying to give the illusion of height, when both very well knew Magnus couldn’t so much as stand without the use of a wall, pole or beam? Was it even standing, or just support? Was it even support if he constantly leaned, dragged down by his broken body’s weight, bodily dysphoria that mapped out an incomplete form?

“What do you say, Magnus?” Charles asked calmly. There wasn’t the smallest hint that he was angry. Quite the contrary, he appeared as hopeful as ever, like he had been when asking Magnus out on their very first date. That Charles had also been calm, smile favoring his chances, the starlight above casting a light that brought out the rosiness of his cheeks, the pink of his smile when affirmed the upcoming date.

Magnus blinked. The red hue of the room really did bring out the sharp contours of his high cheekbones, the shallow hood of his eyelids.

Magnus shook his head, and when he dropped down to witness the awkward positioning of his legs, felt Charles’ hand return to him.

There it goes, again. “Would you be willing to try?” 

Magnus glanced at the thick files, no doubt filled with all the information he needed to manipulate and convince these unknown factors in his obstructively miniscule world to follow his every word. He’d done it before, had ticked greater men with less information to work with. 

And to walk again…?

Magnus returned to facing the left, at the overcast monitor now displaying just the man sitting on a couch, legs and arms spread as he stared peevishly at the swaying camera observing him. The goth girl was gone. After an inhale from what looked like a cigarette, possibly a vape pen, the man waved at the security camera, and Magnus tore away, ashamed for even considering putting another person through a similar hell as his.

Charles was waiting for him at the table. “Well?”

He swallowed a lump. “What’s for dessert?”

Unmoving, Charles responded: “One of your favorites.”

The circular dome lifted, revealing a small, thin slice of dark chocolate cake, interior thick and layered with a darkening shade of increasing bitter chocolate. Surrounding it were several, plump little raspberries, and just as Magnus was handed a new spoon, a klokateer poured a bright, vibrant pink syrup over the slice. Like dinner, few words were shared between the two. His appetite long gone, Magnus struggled to make due and distracted himself with small bites that tasted less sweet each time his eyes caught the man in the monitor switching between the various forms of entertainment, and looking up to ponder over the unknown taking delight in his situation.

Magnus licked his lips, tasting the tart syrup spread across his upper, and wasn’t surprised when he saw Charles watching him, eyes soft and overflowing with nostalgia. Remembering the date on the calendar, Magnus dared and tested the dark waters. 

He picked up a raspberry. “Happy anniversary, Charles.”

Lowering his cappuccino, Charles replied with a hum. “Happy anniversary, Magnus.”

[laurelleghuleh]

OCAF | Ch.10 “Stitches”

Warnings: read the masterlist first

Songs: "Broken" by Lund, "Baby You're Worth It" by Kina, "Lost On You" by Lewis Capaldi 

DAPHNE'S POV

"I'm sorry Daphne, I really can't do this". While I was trying to avoid Levi, I kept repeating his words in my head, thousands, and thousands of times again. Neither I could do such a thing. I already knew that one of us would get hurt. And I perfectly knew that would be me.

I already knew I couldn't let myself go with anyone else again after what happened with Alec. I knew exactly how it would have ended.

At the thought of those horrible memories, I immediately felt more confident in my decision.

While I was in the kitchen making some chamomile, I felt that unmistakable, haunting presence behind my back. Accidentally, I had prepared too much water, therefore, as a sign of peace, I thought to leave an extra cup for Levi. Before he could tell me something, I left, hoping that he wouldn't say anything too.

One word from him would have been enough and that wall I had built between us would have collapsed in a second. And still, I could not understand how he had managed to do it. How he had gotten under my skin.

I needed to keep in mind that nothing more would have been between us. I'm just a cadet. He's the captain.

And above all, soon one of us two could have even died. Right? Even died... But Icouldn't allow myself to die yet.

I tried not to dwell on it too much, even if I could already feel a huge weight, like a boulder, shaping on my chest. I went back to the room where Eren and the others were waiting for me. As soon as I took my seat between Ymir and Reiner, I witnessed an animated conversation between Jean, Eren, and Mikasa that made my skin crawl.

"Until a few days ago, you didn't even know this dark reality of yours. And as if that wasn't enough, you're not even able to control yourself..." hinted Jean. "That's true..." Eren replied, keeping his eyes low.

"Well, then our lives and those of mankind depend on Eren. It means that we all risk getting killed without him even realizing it" continued Jean. But soon Mikasa rebutted: "Jean. That's enough. Do you mind explaining to me what is the point of treating Eren this way?".

Without looking back at her, he spoke again: "Hear me out, Mikasa. Not everyone around here is as ready as you are to die for someone just in the name of friendship, you know? We must know what we are called to risk our own lives for. Otherwise, at the crucial moment, we may even hesitate. I must ask him for guarantees. And realize that the risk is worth our life". Then turning to Eren and holding him vigorously by his shoulders he cried out to him: "Listen, Eren, I will fight for you too! Don't disappoint me!"

I don't know what my brain told me at that specific moment, but I instinctively stood up. That boulder on my chest had become unbearable and I had to run away from there as soon as possible. I was going insane. My heart seemed to be running out of my chest, and I only knew one place I wanted to be.

LEVI'S POV

I lingered in the kitchen staring at that cup for I don't know how long. I held the tissue in my hands, turning it and turning it a couple of times more. Then I slipped it into a pocket inside my jacket and brought my attention back to the mug.

There I could read some sort of armistice between us, both unaware of what would have might happen the next day. I could read the sum of the last days since Daphne had arrived here, as parts of that carousel on which we kept chasing each other, without ever reaching or catching each other, but without ever losing sight of one another.

I held the cup in my hands, took a couple of sips, and again that calming and warm taste under my tongue suggested to me I had already savored it somewhere else. Daphne. Daphne had that taste. As soon as it became clearer to me, my legs pushed me to go find her, even if just to say her goodbye, perhaps even for the last time.

Running down the main hallway, I heard a murmur coming from one of the salons, therefore I entered there. I figured that if I found those brats, Daphne would have probably been there with them. As soon as I entered the room, they all turned to look at me. I inspected them one by one, but Daphne was nowhere to be found.

"Captain" they all greeted me in chorus. "Daphne," I said, without even articulating a precise question. "Captain, she just left, sir," Historia immediately told me. Without a word, I left by slamming the door behind me and proceeding to her room.

When I arrived there, I didn't think about it twice and I immediately opened the door. I called her name, but nobody seemed to be there. I walked around in circles a couple of times, and then something in my head told me that I actually knew exactly where she was. Tch, what am I supposed to do with you...

As soon as I arrived on the roof, I found her, crouched in a corner, with her head in her hands. "Daphne?" I whispered. She faintly raised her head, that little much to allow her reddish eyes to peep out. There I could no longer hold myself back and I got closer to her.

Lowering myself in front of her, I said, almost whispering: "What's going on?". She began to shake her head and then stuttered, looking straight into my eyes: "L-Levi... I cannot die". Those words in my head sounded like she had just told me, "Levi, I can't allow myself to die".

Daphne was not afraid to die: she could not die. And I could not promise her that it could have not happened.

I took her hands in mine trying to calm her down, but she kept wheezing uncontrollably and her body trembled relentlessly. Then, staring somewhere between our hands, she mumbled again: "I can't... I can't... I can't breathe". As soon as I remembered a few nights before, in the courtyard with her and Lauda, I immediately knew what I had to do.

I decided to give up my obsessions for a moment and sat on that disgusting roof floor next to her. Catching a tear running down her face with my thumb, I told her: "Hey, listen to me, okay? Follow my voice and try to breathe a little". She slightly turned her eyes and trying to hold back more tears, she faintly nodded.

With one hand I made her lower her legs from that strange posture she had been until shortly before, saying "Relax and look up". Above us the sky that night seemed to have flaunted all the stars of its firmament. The moon was full and its gleam seemed to light everything all around as if it were already morning.

I leaned against the wall behind us, imitating her position and staring at that night sky. Then I told her, stroking the back of her hand: "Breathe in... 3,2,1... Breathe out". She obediently followed my orders, but glancing at her, I noticed that her face was tensed and her eyelids tightly closed.

I told her what to do a couple of times again and then, at some point, I got closer, sitting beside her but now facing her. With one hand I grabbed her face, turning it towards me "Oi. Look at me" I ordered her as she continued to exhale. As soon as she opened her eyes, I said, "You're doing well, Daphne".

At the sound of my voice, her expression loosened up a bit, but her eyes continued to travel impatiently between mine, looking for something to say. And as she tried to regain control of her breath, she secretly reached my hand, which was still caressing her cheek.

At a certain point, she seemed not to bear any longer that constant staring between us and so she rested her head in a spot on my chest, almost close to my shoulder. Having her so close to me allowed me to feel even more the restlessness that her body emanated. I slipped my hand down her back, rubbing delicate patterns along her spine. Then I decided to give her my jacket, placing it on her shoulders.

I hated how much I secretly enjoyed letting her and only her getting so close to me.

Running my fingers through her hair, I asked her: "Better?". With her face hidden, she moved her head still leaning on me, nodding as if to say yes. "Then? Mind telling me what the fuck happened?". She suddenly raised her head. Then looking away, she said: "It's nothing..."

"Yeah, sure". She slightly snorted, then looked at me, undecided on what to exactly tell me: "It's just that heard the others talking about tomorrow's expedition... They all seem so ready to sacrifice themselves in the blink of an eye, instead I...". She paused as if she did not want to tell me the whole truth. I noticed that her body was still shaking. "... I can't".

Then she looked me straight in the eyes: "What it's going to happen, Levi?". I had absolutely no fucking clue about what to say next. "Levi, I cannot die. Not yet. Not before I have saved them...". I'm sorry, Daphne, I can't promise you anything. And don't ask me to lie to you about it now, because this may be the last time I even see you.

"I'm sorry, Daphne, I can't promise you anything..." I said now out loud "Nor I can go to Erwin and ask him to let you stay here or free you. He would never agree" I continued, but she immediately interrupted me: "I never asked you for something like that".

"I know. Just, let me finish," I said, grabbing her face and bringing her attention back to me: "Listen, if anyone can make it alive tomorrow, that's you. The others may have something to fight for or even die for. But you, you have something to live for. To survive for. Keep this in mind tomorrow." At the sound of my words, her eyes opened wide, in wonder.

For a moment we stayed like that as if suspended, between my words and her big, watery eyes.

I took a lock of hair from her face and then placing it behind her ear, I said: "And if something goes wrong, I'll do anything I can to come and get you". "Levi, don't even say it... I know the mission comes first, so..." she started, but I immediately interrupted her: "Of course. The mission comes first. I said if anything goes wrong. So, don't let it go wrong, okay? Are you in, cadet?"

Finally, the tension on her face faded and she managed to give me a half-smile, saying "Yes, captain". "Well, and now..." I started to say standing up from the ground. Before she could protest, I tucked one hand under her knees and made the other one slip behind her back. Therefore, I lifted her, holding her to me.

She clung to my jacket around her, looking at me completely shocked, and then said, "L-Levi, what are you doing??". "It's time to go to sleep. I already told you that you cannot stay up here any time you want. Now, shut up and hold on to me". After giving me a dirty look, she quietly obeyed. She held on to me, wrapping her arms around my neck and resting her head on my shoulder. Good girl.

On our way down the hallways, she didn't protest. Rather, I could sense her quietly spying on me. But I kept going straight, without saying a word or thinking about it too much.

When we arrived in front of her room, I let her get off of me. I watched her put her feet on the ground: she still could not stand upright properly. I tried to open my mouth, but her quick move caught me off guard: she had grabbed the sleeve of my shirt. Maybe she just wanted to thank me.

"Do you want me to stay a little longer?" I asked her. A brief nod from her was enough, so I went into the room after her.

"I'll run a hot bath for you. In the meantime, don't sit on the bed in those clothes after been sitting on that filthy floor" I ordered her, and immediately she rolled her eyes but didn't bark anything back. When I got back into the room, I noticed she had prepared some clothes for me too and handing them to me she said, "It's a man's pajamas. It should fit you. It was already in the closet when I got here...".

I thought it was of Tom's, the former team leader who used to sleep there. I don't think I should take it. I shouldn't stay here any longer... Even if I want to... Maybe I should... But before I could say something, she had already entered the bathroom. Therefore, without overthinking it too much, I started to change my clothes.

As I was about to put the tunic on, Daphne came out of the bathroom, saying: "Listen, Levi..." but she stopped. I watched her as she stood there, on the threshold, staring at me with her mouth slightly open, and at that point, between me and another bad decision stood only that little white towel wrapped around her body.

All of a sudden, she started getting dangerously close to me. "Oi oi oi, Daphne, wait..." I tried to say, when suddenly her fingers found my chest and with an absorbed expression on her face, she asked me: "Levi... What are these signs on your skin?". I tried to distract myself from what that thin piece of cloth could suggest to me of her body and I told her, bringing my attention back to her fingers: "The device's straps. I spend a lot of time in my uniform".

"Levi, don't tell me you sleep with your uniform on..." she worriedly said. "No, Daphne. I don't sleep at all" I replied to her. She looked at me with an unbearable concerned look. Then she delicately moved her fingers on those marks, following the route on my skin, tracing an imaginary line along my chest. I had to do something quickly before that situation got out of my hand.

Against my own will, I stopped her, grabbing her wrist, and then I said, "Hey, if you keep touching me like that, I may think you're hitting on me". I perfectly knew how to piss her off. She looked at me with an angry expression and then went back to the bathroom saying "I'll be back soon".

DAPHNE'S POV

I immediately closed the door behind me. But what the fuck was I thinking? Touching him like that, so suddenly? After all he had done for me, now I act like that... Get it together, Daphne. I thought.

I left the towel on the sink and as soon as I was in the tub, a thought caught me unawares. I realized that Levi must have seen me like that, half-naked, with only that piece of cloth on...

Full of shame, I sought refuge in my hands, bearing my face there, as the images of a couple of minutes before passed through my head. I was never used to ask for help, let alone accept it so easily. And yet I found myself once again unable to do anything but get lost under his touch as I returned to breathe.

Before Levi's sculpted torso appeared in my head again, I rushed out of the tub, got dressed, and went back to my room.

He was sitting on my bed with his forearms resting on his thighs, watching the moon out the window. He was wearing the pajamas I gave him, a pair of dark trousers and a simple light linen tunic, definitely too big for him and that let a glimpse his chest- "How are you feeling?" his voice interrupted my flow of thoughts.

I began to make my way in the room towards him, nodding my head and whispering with that little voice I had left in me: "Better".

As soon as I realized I was only wearing my nightgown, I held myself in my arms, embarrassed, again. Levi immediately intercepted my discomfort and reached out to me, grabbing my leg, which was still shaking slightly, to pull me closer to him.

"Why are you still shaking like this?" he asked me, gently sliding his hand up and down behind my thigh. "I don't know... I have a thousand thoughts on my mind, I don't know how to stop them" I said, praying that he would not notice my growing and overwhelming awkwardness. "You should try to get some sleep..." he suggested. "I don't think I could..."

"Well, what is it that still bothers you so much?" he continued. I instinctively turned my back on him. "Levi, you know what bothers me. I want to go back. Back to the Underground. And not only I don't know when I can ever go back, but now I'm wondering if I'll ever really make it back" and saying that, I nervously carried my hands to my face. I felt like ripping my skin off.

He immediately stood up, grabbed me by the shoulder to make me rotate, but I opposed some resistance. I didn't want to be seen again like that. "Daphne" he called me again, pulling me more vigorously. I don't want you to see me like this. I felt so miserable.

As soon as he successfully made me turn around, he said, "Daphne, you can't go on like this". "What do you think I should do then, uh? Give up just because you're holding me here?" I snapped. "I don't think you should give up on that. I'm sure that if you go along with this mission, Erwin might grant you a pass or soften a little with you" he tried to comfort me.

"No, Levi. You don't understand. It's not just about tomorrow. It's everything. It's not knowing what's going on down there. Not being there. Not being able to do anything. Not-" I tried to add something else, but suddenly Levi took me by the shoulders, saying: "Look at me" and I immediately obeyed.

Then looking at me dead in the eyes, he added, "You can't go on like this. This thing is eating you up alive. You can't think that you can save everyone. It's not up to you to save everyone. You can try, but you can't think you can have this thing completely under control. You're not their mother. You're you. Think about saving yourself first".

I hated how much I admired him. How I admired his way of speaking to me without ever mincing his word, of always telling me the hard truth, and of always knowing how and when to say it.

All I was good for was to stand there and stare at him, quiet and small in his hands.

"Now try to sleep... Seriously," he continued. I lightly shook my head, nervously massaging my hands. "Look, here's the deal. I will stay here until you fall asleep. I can tell you a lot of boring stuff thanks to shitty four-eyes".

"Levi... You don't have to. You've already done enough. Too much for me. You don't have to help-". I started to say, but he promptly interrupted me, saying: "I want to help you". Then we stared at each other for a few seconds and in our silence, I realized that was the moment when I should have loosened up a bit with him.

I started to approach the bed, then I turned around and saw him getting ready to take his seat in the chair near my desk. I couldn't stop thinking about those marks on his chest sticking out of his shirt. I went out on a limb and said, pointing at the bed behind me, "You can lay here if you want... You never sleep, at least rest for a while. There is room for the both of us". Maybe I had overstepped.

Instead, Levi silently put the chair back in its place, approached me, and then walking past me he laid on the bed, on the side against the wall. I immediately threw myself on him, pulling him by the shirt: "No no no! That's my place! You sleep here". Levi was quite taken aback by my sudden reaction.

He opened his eyes wide and grabbing my wrists, he yelled "What the fuck is up now?". "No Levi, you don't understand! Please, I have to sleep there, otherwise-" I didn't make it to the end of my sentence because Levi immediately threw himself on me, hovering over me with his body and immobilizing my hands above my head. "Why does it even matter??" he asked me while his hair was hanging from above, brushing my face.

I swallowed at the sight and the sensation of his body above mine. His hands were pressing on my wrists tightly but never hurting me and lower, his legs were blocking mine. So, I confessed with my eyes closed, like I was terrified of something: "That's the safe corner of the room. From there, I can control the window and the door".

Then I heard a small laugh and Levi's body falling back on the bed, next to me.

"The safe corner of the room..." he almost laughed, slamming his hand on his forehead, "I noticed some strange things you do, you know. At the cafeteria, when you line up the cutlery or when you enter some room you have never seen before, you immediately take a look around. You count all the windows, the doors and you always keep an eye on them... Now it all makes sense" and then he continued to lightly laugh saying "The safe corner of the room".

Then he turned over, rotating his whole body in my direction and bending his arm so he could rest his head on his hand. He stared at me straight into my eyes for a while and then said to me with a grin painted on his face: "Just rest. I'll keep an eye on the situation, all right?".

LEVI'S POV

Daphne did not make me repeat it twice and after she had adjusted the pillow under her head, her eyes closed slowly. Her body was turned towards me and from that position, I had the perfect view of it. A moonbeam filtering through the window fell upon her, outlining the path on which my eyes walked on her.

After a while, her body had finally relaxed, her legs slightly crossed and her hands had loosened the grip on her skin. Her forehead was now stretched out, and finally, even her eyes seemed to have calmed down behind her eyelids.

That was one of the few times I happened to be able to watch her being so quiet and serene. And I soon realized that never before had I found myself so close to anyone. Physically and mentally. And yet I didn't feel particularly uncomfortable. Indeed, not at all.

Since I met her, Dafne had suggested to me the desire for things I didn't even believe I wanted.

We were so close in the silence of that moment that I managed to focus better on a scent that I seemed to have forgotten on the tip of my tongue. Just to be sure, I went a little ahead. A few centimeters from her face, I slowly inhaled, as if to not disturb her, and there I was sure about it. That was her scent. The scent of camomile.

I figured she used that tiny flower to make some soap, maybe a lotion, or a perfume. I felt like I was spying on her, during one of her little secret rituals.

I closed my eyes to savor some more of it, but at a certain point, I was distracted by a voice. I heard her whispering in her sleep: "Levi... Levi...". So I immediately opened my eyes and noticed that she was still sleeping soundly, but her body seemed to have started shaking and her mouth opened up to call my name again.

"Daphne, I'm here. What's going on?" I whispered. But nothing, she kept on sleeping and moving restlessly. "Oi Daphne" I tried to wake her up once again. Then suddenly I felt her lips brushing mine and calling my name again. With her warm breath on me, it took all my goodwill to not be carried away by the moment, but I was at my limit.

"Daphne," I said, articulating every single letter of her name directly on her lips.

A wide smile was painted on her face and finally placing her lips on mine, for our last, short kiss, she called again my name: "Levi".

I laid my forehead on hers, sighing. Then, sliding an arm under her, I embraced her, holding her tightly onto my chest, as if I were afraid she might suddenly slip out of my hands or run away again. As soon as her body responded to mine, adjusting itself in my arms, from above her head, I dipped my face in her hair, inhaling for the last time that scent, as if it were a lullaby that I now knew by heart.

I allowed myself to stay there a little longer. Then, as promised, when I was sure that she had fallen into a deep sleep, I left her one last mild kiss on her forehead and so I went away. Whatever happens tomorrow, at least we had today.

[thelazyhermits]

The Perfect Challenge

This is dedicated to the super sweet @mandsand who so kindly sent some Ko-Fi my way earlier this week. I remembered your ask about Nedzu and came up with an idea that I wanted to write out which goes along with one of the ideas you mentioned in your ask. 

I hope you enjoy it! Also, thank you so much for the Ko-Fi! ^-^ I really appreciate it!! <3 <3 <3 <3

Around the middle of February, you find yourself in the principal’s office, sipping tea, while the other teachers keep Eri entertained in the teachers’ lounge. While having teatime with Nedzu isn’t exactly unusual since he often likes to visit the dorm and join Eri’s tea parties, it’s been a while since you last visited his office.

Thankfully, you’re told upfront that you’re not here because you’re in trouble. However, that’s all you’ve been told, so you have absolutely no clue what he wants to talk with you about today. 

After you both spend a few minutes calmly enjoying your tea, Nedzu sets his cup down and focuses his attention on you. “I’m sure you are wondering why I called you here today.”

You nod your head. “I know it’s not ‘cause you have bad news for me, but besides that, I have absolutely no idea.”

He chuckles, “The same could be said for the other teachers. Their reactions to finding out that I wanted a private meeting with you today were all very amusing, especially Aizawa-kun’s.”

Blinking, you tilt your head curiously. “So, even they don’t know? Now, I’m even more curious.”

His smile grows. “It’s very simple, really. I wanted to discuss Class 1-A’s final exam with you.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Their final exam? In that case, shouldn’t Shouta-san be a part of this discussion too? Why call just me here?”

Nedzu takes another sip of his tea. “Because I have an idea that I want to run past you first before suggesting it to the other teachers. I will only go through with it if you show your support.”

An idea that he’ll only use if you support it. What in the world could that be?

As if reading your mind, the principal answers your unspoken question. “I would like to do a repeat of what we did in the summer but with one exception.”

A wide grin appears on his face. “Instead of All Might, I want you to be one of the exam proctors.”

Your eyes grow large as your jaw drops. “You want me to what?!”

His eyes glow with obvious amusement and just a hint of mischief. “I want to see how much our students have grown since the summer by using the same exam structure. However, since All Might is now retired, he obviously cannot fight against the students like he did before. So, I am in need of a replacement.”

Once you finally get over your shock, you give him an incredulous look. “But, why me?! Why not another pro hero like Hound Dog?! I don’t understand!”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I have considered that possibility and will likely have him be an opponent in Class 1-B’s final exam since I do agree he would pose an excellent challenge for the students.”

Confusion dawns your features. “Then, why not have him be an exam proctor for Class 1-A too? How could I possibly provide more of a challenge than an actual pro hero?”

Nedzu presses his paws together. “While it’s true that he overall would be a more challenging opponent for the majority of the students, there is one pair of students I can think of who would benefit more from having you as an opponent instead of him.”

All you can do is stare at him with obvious surprise. “Really? What pair of students would that be?”

With a wide smile, the hybrid outstretches his arms with a flourish. “Why, the two students you know best, of course! Midoriya-kun and Bakugou-kun!”

Once again, you find yourself gaping in disbelief. “You want to put Midoriya and Bakugou in a team against me?!”

The obviously amused principal nods his head. “That’s right! I want to see how much those two have grown by placing them on a team together. Obviously, they have worked together since then, so we know their relationship has improved. However, I have unfortunately not had the opportunity to witness this development with my own eyes, so I want to take the chance to do just that with this exam.”

Well, it is true that the two times you’ve seen Midoriya and Bakugou team up to fight are both times that Nedzu nor any of the other teachers could see them work together. Considering how the events of your vision about the Midoriya/Bakugou vs All Might match went, you can understand why the hybrid would want to see for himself how much they’ve actually grown since then.

While that does make sense to you, there’s one thing you still can’t wrap your mind around. “How would I be the perfect opponent for them? Those two could easily take me down if they worked together. Sure, I can predict their movements with my Quirk, but I can only dodge for so long, especially against two opponents coming at me at the same time.”

Nedzu wags a finger at you. “Now, now, I think you should give yourself more credit. While it’s true they have you beat when it comes to a contest of power, when it comes to a contest of will and intelligence, I think you could be quite the challenging opponent for them.”

Before you can tell him that you’re not so sure about that, he continues, “It seems you haven’t realized it yet, but you have a special advantage over those two, Y/N-san. One that’s great enough that I would choose you over every other teacher to be those boys’ opponent.”

At the sight of your shocked expression, the principal smiles, “You know those boys better than anyone else at this school does, excluding the boys themselves, of course. You’ve been watching those two in your visions for quite some time. So, you are likely very familiar with their strengths and weaknesses along with any habits they may have.”

His smile grows. “I also don’t think it’d be a stretch to say that you’d have an easier time predicting their movements as compared to anyone’s else, and that’s without even using your Quirk. Or, am I wrong?”

For several seconds, all you can do is stare at the hybrid, too stunned to speak. Once you eventually find your voice, you slowly shake your head. “No, you’re right. I didn’t notice it until after I started training with Nighteye, but after he showed me how to better analyze my opponent’s movements, I realized that I do have an easier time doing that when I spar with Midoriya and Bakugou as compared to everyone else.”

You didn’t notice that fact until the day Nighteye had you spar with Midoriya and told you to predict his movements without using your Quirk. You expected to have a hard time with such a feat, but soon enough, you realized that you were wrong. 

Because you’ve spent so much time watching the green haired boy, you are very familiar with how his mind works. Obviously, you’re no mind reader, so you can’t predict his every move like you can with your Quirk. However, you have noticed that he has little tells that indicate what direction he’ll be moving in or what kind of attack he’s likely to use.

In the case of Bakugou, you have a slightly more difficult time. However, like Midoriya, you are good at reading the blond’s movements when it comes to hand-to-hand combat since you’ve spent so many years watching him fight and listening to his former childhood friend analyze his movements. Of course, you learning how to fight by watching Bakugou also played a big role in you gaining such a good understanding of his fighting style.

The fact that Nedzu noticed this all on his own proves just how observant he is. You wonder how many of the spars you’ve had with the two boys he has watched for him to notice this fact or if he found out through some other means.

Eventually, you’re brought out of your thoughts by his voice. “You have a very high opinion of both boys which is perfectly understandable, but you shouldn’t throw in the towel so quickly, Y/N-san. Those boys are strong, but so are you. You all have your own special strengths. It’s just up to you to figure out how you can use your strengths to your advantage.”

A contemplative expression dawns your features as your gaze falls to your hands which are still holding your teacup. After several seconds pass in silence, you reply, “Growing up, I would often compare myself to those two. I always thought they were so strong while I.…wasn't, which always made me feel pathetic since they were years younger than me.”

Your grip on your cup tightens. “I always wanted to be strong like them, but it just seemed like an impossible dream.”

“But, it’s not, is it?”

When you lift your eyes, you meet Nedzu’s kind gaze. The tension in your frame eases at the reassuring sight. “No, it’s not. No dream is impossible if you work hard enough.”

The corners of your lips curve upwards. “Never give up on your dreams. That’s something Midoriya taught me.”

Wearing a matching smile, the hybrid nods his head. “I agree completely. Anything becomes impossible if you give up from the start, but if you persevere, anything is possible. That’s what I believe.”

At that moment, your Quirk activates. Your surroundings change, replaced with the scenery of a cityscape much like what you saw in your vision of the Midoriya/Bakugou vs All Might fight.

All you can do is watch amazed as you run all throughout the cityscape, leaving traps and causing destruction wherever you go. Meanwhile, Midoriya and Bakugou are hot on your trail, trying to stop you from causing further damage while also having to avoid all your traps. 

Much to your amazement, the boys are having a harder time than you expected. While they come close to capturing you several times, you always somehow manage to escape before they can put the handcuffs on you. 

Unfortunately for you, your vision ends before you can see the results of the exam. As your sight returns to normal, you find yourself staring at an obviously intrigued Nedzu with wonder. “I...I really can do it. There is a way to provide a challenge for them while playing to my strengths.”

A grin appears on his face. “I had no doubt about that, but please do tell. What requirements were established for their final exam?”

You set your teacup down on the coffee table before clasping your hands together. “It was obvious that they were trying to capture me, so either they didn’t want to try running to the exit even though that would be the easiest way to win or that just wasn’t an option for them.”

Nedzu thoughtfully rubs his chin. “Most likely, it was the latter. If you were to agree to be an exam proctor, I planned to do away with the option of escaping through the exit for those two since that would’ve, as you said, been far too easy for them.”

Remembering your actions from the vision, you decide to share another observation you made. “One other thing I noticed was that I was doing a lot of intentional property damage, and I think there was a reason I was doing it besides just to be true to my villain role. Also, every time I was successful at destroying a part of the city, the more panicked the guys became.”

With a chuckle, the principal finishes off the rest of his tea. “I see. Obviously, a requirement was created in which the students must capture you before you destroy too much of the town you are attacking. What a wonderful idea. Perhaps, I should include that as a requirement for the other team exams as well.”

So, that’s how it is. Now, it all makes sense. That’s why you were causing so much property damage--because you could win the match if you destroyed enough of it before Midoriya and Bakugou caught you.

Thanks to that requirement, there really is a way for you to come out on top if the students don’t bring their A game. With enough careful planning and lots of Hatsume’s beloved inventions at your disposal, you really could give Midoriya and Bakugou a run for their money.

Before you even realize it, you find yourself grinning broadly. “Looks like Class 1-A is in for a very exciting final exam.”

Nedzu dons a matching grin. “Indeed. I am very much looking forward to the results.”

So are you. 

[alyssa-orowane]

Fantasy tropes to avoid (and ideas to reinvent them)

Hello aspiring writers of Tumblr! How is it going?

This is my first post on here and I decided to dedicate it not only to the genre I am writing in, fantasy, but also to a crucial topic, which relates and affects every genre in different ways.

TROPES.

It's lazy to build stories on something that has already been written a million times before. I don't like tropes at all as a reader. If I wanted to read the same stereotyped story all over again I would just stick to the previous book I have read with that same plot, so I would also spare myself the trouble of learning the unpronounceable names of these new stereotyped characters.

On the other hand, as a writer it might be tempting to give in and use tropes. "Why not? After all everybody uses them and I am already SO busy writing the actual chapters of my story."

I tell you what: every time a trope threatens to slide into your story, crush the page and throw it across the room, yelling:

Seriously, though: tropes are just general, undeveloped ideas. That's what you need to do, develop them. In this way only will you ever be able to unleash their hidden potential.

Without further ado, may I present you three of the most common fantasy tropes and hints to reimagine them.

*Keep in mind that this is only my personal view on the subject and you can either agree or disagree with it.

1. The chosen one

This one is the most obvious one and I am also quite sure that you expected to find it on the list. Interesting, Watson: I guess that it makes this article stereotyped too…

Well we all know those characters. Those characters that were meant to be the one. The prophecies had spoken about them long before they were even born. They might as well be the only one capable of using magic or wielding a certain weapon. This character is either the only one who pushes forward the storyline or that one protagonist who does everything except choosing anything actively in the plot. There is no in between. Either way, they only possess notable qualities. Of course there is no trace of flaws. I mean, they are the hero.

Have a side-kick (or co-protagonist) be the chosen one instead

A great idea, if you really want to insert this trope in your story, is to use it to your advantage and surprise the reader with it. Who could ever expect that the protagonist was actually never the chosen one? Or that another character is the chosen one from the start?

To see this trope well recreated I recommend watching the BBC TV series "Merlin" in which a young sorcerer, Merlin himself, must help the future heir to the throne, the prince Arthur Pendragon, to fulfill his destiny and become the greatest king who has ever lived. Arthur has no clue of what has been foretold, nor that he even is at the centre of a prophecy. All of Merlin and Arthur's choices will determine either the glorious success or the tragic failure of the quest; all of this while Merlin hides his powers from Arthur and everyone else as magic is condemned in Camelot.

2. Overused fantasy Races

...which translates mostly into putting Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, dragons and any of the Tolkenian elements and creatures in your own story. Now, don't get me wrong. Tolkien is one of my favourite authors, hence I am always captivated by those fantasy novels that display these Races in their stories. But I don't want to read a copy, I want to read your own masterpiece.

That's exactly why you should:

Redesign the well-known fantasy Races and adapt them to your world and to your theme or just create brand new ones

Personally, I absolutely LOVE to craft new fantasy Races. I believe that it adds depth and realism to the world-building (which does not consist only of geography). Each civilisation brings their culture, their traditions to your story and that's what makes a world truly breathe. In my opinion, the purpose of fantasy is not to focus just on the epic deeds narrated or on endless battles enriched with magic and legends, though those are very important part of this genre and they must be just as equally developed. The reason why I write fantasy is to spread awareness around the vast variety of themes that coexist in our society nowadays, in the first place global warming, the racism that still today people experience, LGBTQ characters which are often unrepresented both in literary fiction and TV. What better genre than fantasy is there to represent diversity and multiculturalism? On these latter points I will never not be thanking and loving the works of Steven Erikson which are part of the high-fantasy series "Malazan Book of the Fallen". Diversity and the brand new variety of intriguing Races are a huge part of what makes Malazan such an awesome fantasy series. I refer to Steven Erikson as the main inspiration of my writing and I recommend you to give a try to his books, if you have the chance. I warn you though, that it is not any light or easy reading.

The other option might be to reinvent the well-known Races. Tolkien himself did not "invent" the Elves of Middle Earth, rather he made a legend of his own after having studied the myths and ballads of ancient civilities. Then he developed their language, their history and their culture as if they were a real existing population. Every single aspect of Tolkien's worldbuilding can be read in his Silmarillion. I think it is a must-read for anyone who is looking forward to reinvent the traditional fantasy Races or just to know more about them.

3. Unfailing magic systems

Magic can be anything you want. That doesn't mean, however, that it should be your escape point: stuff in your story should happen because of your characters, not only because of magic as it is simpler to put it that way. A magic system should be rational and engaging. The reader needs to be able to understand exactly how, when and why does magic work in your world. No, the answer should not be "because it's fantasy."

Set rules, limits and costs to the magic in your world

How do character gain magic abilities? Is magic accessible to everyone or is it elitist? Is it taught in specialised schools or is it something that resonates from within? Are wizards free to practice magic or is it banned? Or maybe are there only specific areas of magic that are prohibited? What is its source? Does magic come from higher beings or are spells more powerful the stronger the mage's will? Does magic need a catalyst (such as a talisman, a weapon etc.) to be casted? If not, do wizard recite spells? Do they need to trace specific symbols? Otherwise is it necessary to make specific hand gestures in order to release their powers? Does it exist only one system for all mages to use or are there multiple kinds? Last but not least, what are magic users in your world called? It's all up to you to decide. Ask questions and let each question lead you to another one. You need to know exactly how your magic system works and so does the reader.

What I love about crafting magic systems is the freedom to establish the boundaries and the natural laws that apply to your world, as magic is a huge part of the story if you're writing fantasy. Well, this could also lead to another question: is your world actually ruled by magic forces or do magic abilities have just a marginal role in the world building?

Remember that magic should not be used as an excuse to fill eventual plot holes in your story. Your magic system should function correctly and it should always stay true to itself. In other words, it must be believable.

And I can hear you thinking "but it‘s magic!"

Then guess what? You need to make the readers believe that magic is real!

First of all, set the rules, the limits and the costs that apply to your system. Having done that, you'll have finished most of the work that concerns the use of magic in your world. Most, not all. If you are a bit of a perfectionist like I am, consider the importance of developing your system furthermore by asking yourself questions, such as the one I have written above.

Rules: decide what makes your system work and what magic can be casted for.

Limits: decide what kind of tasks your magic system cannot perform.

Costs: decide from what kind of source is magic obtained from and, literally, what does it cost to mages to obtain their magic from this source (as Rumpelstiltskin of OUAT wisely says: "all magic comes with a price.")

The most excellent and well-rounded magic systems I have ever come across are the ones created by Brandon Sanderson in this "Mistborn" trilogy: allomancy, feruchemy and hemalurgy. All three magic system permit the magicians to use a wide range of abilities based on the metals they can "burn". Magic originates in the Shards and from Preservation and Ruin, two god-like beings. If you're already interested, I definitely recommend you to check Sanderson's novels out: they are a useful resource of inspiration.

I hope this post has somehow given you the inspiration to go and write right now. 
If you have questions about some of the points or requests for the next articles, don't be shy and send me a message! I will try to cover your topic as soon as possible and as best as I can (and I will also tag your profile, if you agree). 
Thank you all for your attention. Bisous^^

[borisbubbles]

23. IRELAND

Lesley Roy - “Story of my life”

Yesterday, the rehearsals would’ve started in Rotterdam. A depressing thought, so, using the mathematical paradigm that a negative + a negative equals a positive, let’s counteract with a thought so depressing it circles back into hilarity. 

Ireland thought this entry was gold. 

Song analysis

It merely speaks for RTE’s status as the Eurofamily’s dork dad status (say, if Ireland were a character in Will Ferrell’s Eurovision movie, would he be played by Eugene Levy - HA! trick question, there’s no such thing as a Will Ferrel Eurovision movie and also the answer is yes) that they thought a *literal* K*ty P*rry b-side by an ageing woman was going to get Ireland the success and recognition? BUT GASP SHE’S A LESBIAN SO SHE ACTUALLY KISSED A GIRL AND LIKED IT!!! whoa i have news Ireland, this is 2020 no one cares. 

like

RTE: OH MY GOD WE HAVE AN ALMIGHTY EUPHORIA BOP!!! Also RTE:

and it’s not “Story of my life”’s fault that people regard it with contempt, because poor “Story of my life” tries its best. I personally like the song and I like that RTE went with an *actual fucking LGBT person* with their rainbow-themed entry this year (DIEEEE TOGETHER DIEEEEEE). SOML doesn’t *TRY* to be some innovative, deep, “LIKE ME OR YOUR OPINIONS ARE VOID” type of song either. On the contrary, i think its dank datedness adds a small layer of pathos to the overall experience - “Story of my life” is so hopeless it becomes charming due to it. 

Naturally, many people beg the question: “Why even enter a “story of my life anyway?” and well... beats fucking me, to be honest, but at least isn’t as viscerally offensive and/or boring as Ireland’s usual fucking tripe is so BOO HOO I WIN as far as I’m concerned. I’m not going to condescend its existance like others have, nor will I trivialize its message of “I WILL BE MYSELF NO MATTER WHAT AND YOU CANNOT CHANGE ME!!” The message may be vague enough to be part of an astrologer’s sidereal almanac, but message is good and personal and means something to Lesley, so... why would the meaning behind it be any less valuable than that of Fai Rumore? Messages don’t matter unless they do (that is to say, they only matter when other people decide that they matter, which most people simply didn’t bother with in this case because lol nbody got time for Kety Perr. u tried LesLes...x) 

The problem for me is simple: everything “Story of my life” offers, other in this year do better.

 If I wanted a frumpy bird-looking hag slay my life, I wouldn’t go for Lesley because MILA MOYA KATRYOSHA already fucking exists. If I wanted a perky little sanitized wokeness anthem, I would go for “CLEARPATRRA”. (although Cleopatra’s wokeness is hard to swallow due to the flag it is performed under - but more on this when I get to rank that next week) If I wanted an entry in which an insane blonde woman obnoxiously waives her life’s first-world-problems into our faces and dances on them, I’d go for “Steel Breeding”. (lol feminism my ass, but this too will have to wait for next week)

Ireland are sadly stuck in a purgatory of sorts: they are inherently likable, but don’t really offer much. They’re like that one RPG character who has cool lore and characterization, but advantages so insignificant you cannot ever justify using them in your party. Sorry girl. 

Ireland 2020 vs Ireland 2021

I will give you a hint. 1) Ireland 2) A Katy Perry song 3) first half of a killer semifinal. It would have been another last place for Ireland, right? (since Vasil will get votes from the other Balkan countries at least - yes Lesley/Vasil would’ve been the bottom 2 anyone who thinks otherwise is a FOOL). “Story of my life” was dead on arrival even before we factor in Lesley herself. I mean, this may seem harsh, but this stood no chance:

Good lord the “Shout it out” by Mariette teas served by Lesley at times are real and fucking TERRIFYING. It sort of bothers me that frumpism only seems to affect women and not men, but like I said before, usually it’s the women who are rated *fairly* by the masses while men are given passes they don’t deserve, that’s the story of *my* life NA NA NA NA NA.

It will also be of no surprise to you that RTE haven’t confirmed Lesley for 2021 yet? Good. Let’s move on. 

FREAKY! FRIDAY! FACTOR!

A of all, Ireland being fun? WHAT. B of all Ireland being fun twice in a fucking row? WHAT. C of all, how did this entry even come to be? It sounds like it came straight from 2008, plenty of resources were sunk into its production and it still sounds/looks like that and - again worth repeating - Ireland SOMEHOW thought it could do well?(in a semi where Eden Alene is a fucking BL qualifier) Did they approach Lesley and let her do what she wanted? or... did they interfere, somehow? Did they pick this song from 250+ hopefuls like they claimed with “22″? No clue how the RTE selection process works, besides the fact that it doesn’t. 

If we really lean into the mold-breaking theme of the Freaky! Friday! Factor! this is a win all-around, however. Ireland are trying to be fun, modern, hip and relevant. ‘Trying’ did all the lifting in that previous sentence, but hey, you cannot succeed if you don’t make an attempt! They’re not quite there yet, but I do think their efforts deserve to be rewarded with a few Senheads:

Score: 3 Senhits out of 5.

[gamerwoo]

Baekhyun: Persona (part 19: somebody knows i’m ar3um)

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Summary: Rising Twitch streamer, Baekhyun has a massive crush on a popular Twitch streamer who goes by the name “ar3um”. You never knew Baekhyun even existed until a few odd turn of events that led you to get closer with him until you can’t help but fall for his own charm. There are only two problems: Baekhyun has his heart set on someone else, and he doesn’t know that you, his friend’s reclusive roommate, is actually the faceless girl he’s falling for.

a/n: so I took a break for a week because despite updating everyday, people were still nagging me for updates. so basically don’t ask me for updates because I’m doing things as fast as I can (and it literally says in my faq to not ask for updates). that being said, I hurt my back and honestly just sitting hurts, so I can’t write more updates and there’s only one update left that I’ve already written and saved to my drafts, so I can’t promise daily updates nor can I give a solid update schedule (and I’m leaving for New York on Friday and won’t be back until Monday). so I’m just going to be updating whenever I can until I’m feeling better. and no, that doesn’t mean you can ask me about when the next update will be

Tags: @baek-byunies @thalasoophilia @byunfirstlady @yangkeosang @littleflowercrown13 @khelmatic @mingiholic @huexauzzy @kittysbtscorner @diamondsvts @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sxojihye @ravyeolii​ @vampybaek​ @ximaginx  @cosmicralway​ @luv1ee​ @uwuteamleader @rosyyeols @cbxtual @purplelady85

Unable to tag: @seventeen-atiny-army

-

Before Chanyeol had so rudely barged into not only your apartment, but your room, you were streaming as normal. Junmyeon had said he was leaving for a late class, and you said “see you later, Junmyeon,” before he left. That was what tipped off Chanyeol to your secret. You thought he was too busy with his friends to even listen to your stream, but he was on his way home when he heard it.

“Gotcha!” he shouted with a smirk on his face, seeing your surprised expression.

He knew he was the first to figure it out. He was considered the dumb one in his friend group, and he was proud to have been the first to figure out the mystery of who ar3um was. He felt like a genius.

“What’re you doing here?”

The familiar voice made him jump instead, spinning around to see who it was. He assumed you had been home alone since he didn’t see Junmyeon anywhere -- then again, he could’ve been in his room and Chanyeol’s outburst would definitely catch his attention.

Sehun was walking out of the bathroom, giving Chanyeol a quizzical look.

“Sehun?” Chanyeol asked, looking completely confused. “What are you doing here?”

He just shrugged, “Hanging out.”

“With _____? Why--? Wait, hanging out?” Chanyeol’s mind was going a million miles a minute as he tried to make sense of everything going on. “Wait, so... You knew?”

Sehun nodded casually, hands in the pockets of his joggers as he slipped passed the older boy to sit down on your bed like you’d been friends for years. You were still in your gaming chair in front of your setup, watching the interaction silently.

Chanyeol watched him, his eyes narrowed before they widened again, “Oh my god, are you actually dating?!”

“No,” you mumbled with a disgusted look on your face at the same time Sehun burst out in laughter and said, “Fuck no!”

“Wait, so then...what happened?”

Before Chanyeol had burst in, Sehun was talking to you on Discord.

oohsehun: I’m awake if you’re still streaming

ar3um: yeah, I am

ar3um: when’s baek get home?

oohsehun: Why do you always wanna play with him?

ar3um: no reason, just think the three of you are fun to play with

oohsehun: He tells us when you talk to him yknow

oohsehun: You talk to him a lot more than you talk to us

oohsehun: Not that I’m mad about it. I don’t actually want to date you, I just do that shit to tease Baek

ar3um: whats your point?

oohsehun: You like hyung, don’t you?

ar3um: okay lets say i did like him

ar3um: so what?

oohsehun: Wouldn’t you tell him who you really are then? Nobody knows, and if you wanted to date him, he’d kinda have to know

ar3um: i know that

ar3um: but i don’t wanna tell him yet

ar3um: so please don’t bring it up around him or anything, okay? i’ll tell him when i’m ready

oohsehun: Don’t worry, I won’t

oohsehun: Besides, he’s pretty clueless despite him being book smart. He literally has no idea you’re _____

Your heart stopped, your body froze, and you couldn’t stop reading it over and over again. Sehun knew? How did he know? When did he find out? Why didn’t he say anything? You were panicking so badly that you just ended the stream completely. Your hands were shaking so badly, you knew you wouldn’t be able to play anything.

oohsehun: I didn’t mean to freak you out

oohsehun: I’ll come over

You had let him into the apartment, and then into your room since he’d already called you out. He sat on your bed while you sat at your PC and listened to him explain how he figured it out.

“I follow both your twitter and ar3um’s, and you tweeted something pretty similar. I knew it wasn’t much to go off of, but I was watching you play at the gaming cafe, too. I’ve watched your streams only a handful of times, but I’ve seen you clutch plays like that before. I wasn’t positive, but I kind of had a suspicion. That was only furthered when ar3um tweeted she had homework to do and couldn’t stream that one time, and then I just happened to have had to stop by here to get my headset back from Junmyeon. You were in the living room doing homework that night.

“Typically, I wouldn’t have cared enough to look into it. Honestly, I didn’t really give a shit who ar3um was, but then I went with Yixing to check on you. You two went to the kitchen and I had to use the bathroom, and Yixing told me not to go snooping. Well, I didn’t care enough to listen, so while you and hyung were making boring small-talk in the kitchen, I was looking around the apartment out of boredom. I didn’t go into your room because I’m not a creep, but I went into Junmyeon’s and saw the Twitch sweatshirt with ar3um’s name on it.”

So that’s where your sweatshirt went. Clearly, it was a mistake to get it baggy.

“It was pretty obvious after that, but then it just kept getting more and more obvious. I brought up the ‘you sound like ar3um’ thing to tease you and give you a hint that I knew, but you didn’t realize. You said on stream you met your ‘friend’ through a mutual friend -- you met Baekhyun through Junmyeon. Ar3um followed Baekhyun randomly. It was like, a couple weeks later out of literally nowhere. She hadn’t followed anybody else, so I knew it wasn’t just random chance. She didn’t follow him when he was mentioned during her stream, it was just out of nowhere.

“By this point, I obviously already knew it was you, so it made sense to pick me or Chanyeol for your contest over Baekhyun because picking Baekhyun would be too obvious. And I knew you did all of this because you had a crush on him. Any idiot could tell, but Baekhyun’s not just any idiot. You two spend all your time together, and from what Junmyeon says, you’re not one to spend your time with anybody outside your apartment. It was really easy to piece together, honestly -- especially in retrospect since we never really saw you around. I just didn’t bother saying anything because I don’t care and it’s not my business.”

After hearing his explanation, you realized you weren’t as sneaky as you thought you were. There were too many hints and clues. You just didn’t think Sehun would’ve known this entire time.

“If you didn’t care...why did you keep digging?” you wondered quietly, unable to look Sehun in the eye.

Through your peripherals, you saw him shrug, “There wasn’t much to dig for. Everything was right in front of our faces -- except the Twitch sweatshirt, but I could’ve figured it out even without that, and I only went snooping in hyung’s room because I was bored, not because I was looking for clues. But I was bored and keeping up with this gives me something to do. Kinda wanna see how long it takes for Baek to realize. I don’t think you know how amusing it is to see how fucking stupid he is.”

Sehun’s amused smirk made you feel slightly better about this, but you still felt anxiety coursing through your veins. You couldn’t believe you’d gotten caught. What were you supposed to do now? 

“You’re clearly still terrified,” he began as he stood, “so I’m gonna give you a minute while I use the bathroom.”

And that was when Chanyeol burst into your room.

Chanyeol’s eyes widened as he jaw dropped, dumbfounded that Sehun somehow figured it out. He kept saying it wasn’t you. Most importantly, he was supposed to be asleep!

“You were watching her stream?” Chanyeol questioned.

“No,” Sehun scoffed, “I’m just not a moron. I knew it the whole time.”

Chanyeol’s face fell, sputtering out beginnings to questions and sentences but not knowing which one to finish.

“I’m-- I didn’t figure it out first...?” he asked, his voice quiet and sad.

You and Sehun both shook his heads -- Sehun looked casual and almost uncaring while you looked upset that somebody else caught on.

“If it makes you feel any better, you figured it out before Baekhyun-hyung.”

“Speaking of which,” you finally spoke up, looking between the two boys, “you cannot tell him or any of your friends. Absolutely nobody can know.”

“I haven’t told anybody yet, have I?” Sehun pointed out.

Chanyeol just nodded, “Got it. ...Wait, what about Junmyeon?”

Sehun sighed, falling back on your bed, “Maybe Baekhyun still is smarter than you.”

[thesnadger]

Hard To Extinguish

We don’t know what exactly the connection between Gertrude and Agnes entailed, but I’m very interested in the idea of emotional feedback. Probably something that comes and goes in quick moments so that other people don’t realize what’s happening. But it has an effect all the same.

Ao3 version

- - - 

Truth be told, I don’t know what you actually did do; neither Arthur nor Diego would explain it to me in detail, and Jude simply flies into a rage when it’s brought up.

It was a binding, she knows that much. Why the Mother of Puppets would want her linked to Agnes Montague, Gertrude can’t imagine. It may be that the Web’s aim is the same as hers: stopping the ritual from succeeding. But she very much doubts that. She knows not to be optimistic when dealing with the dread powers. Far more likely that the connection is only one step in some dreadful, convoluted plot.

Still, she doubts there is any merit in trying to understand the Web’s machinations. That line of thinking only to leads to a paranoia that ultimately feeds it. And perhaps there is no greater ‘plan.’ Perhaps the Web simply pulls and guides and manipulates for the sake of it, just as the Slaughter rends and the Desolation destroys and the Eye watches.

She only wishes she knew what exactly she invited into herself that day. Whether binding herself to an avatar of the Desolation will have side effects that Gertrude can’t predict.

She’s in the Archive today, following a potential lead regarding the Church of the Divine Host. Attempting to, at any rate. There’s a new archival assistant there, so new he still thinks this is an ordinary job. He’s clearly hoping to prove himself as an enthusiastic worker by pestering her with questions and suggestions every few minutes. She hints rather blatantly that he probably has work he ought to be doing someplace other than her office. But he remains oblivious to her irritation. He’s wasting her time, and her time is absolutely invaluable.

It’s as the last thought enters her mind that a sudden, white-hot rage rises in her. Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s wrapped her hand around a letter opener and she’s holding it out, shouting at the man. Growling in a way that doesn’t suit her at all and describing in specific detail exactly what she'll do to him if he doesn't quiet his babbling and get far, far away from her this instant.

He backs out of the room quickly, propelled by a mixture of confusion and animal fear. Until today he’d no doubt seen Gertrude as a reserved, doddering old woman. He won’t know how to respond to the suddenness of her outburst or the downright unsettling knowledge she seems to have of the human nervous system and the various ways to damage it. But he at least has some instinctive sense for danger. He’ll steer clear of her from that day on.

The strange pulse of anger fades after he bolts, and Gertrude is left shaken. Unsettled. Wondering where on earth that all came from.

Agnes is at her apartment with Jude and a few others, staring out the window into the street. She likes watching the people as they walk by outside. She sits and wonders about them, about the places they’re all hurrying towards, what they do with all their days. Whether any of them think about destiny or fate.

Behind her, Eugene is going on about the glory of the Scorched Earth. How everything that stands here now will one day be ash and so on, and so on, and so on. She’s so bored of it all. So tired of hearing the same sermons repeated over and over. She wants him to be quiet so she can think her thoughts about the people outside.

She glances back at them, her family, her caretakers, and her keepers. And something comes over her. Suddenly they all seem . . . ridiculous. Not one of them has a clue how any of this works, but they're all so confident that they're serving a higher purpose. So certain they're powerful, free creatures far above the mass of humanity when they're no less lost than anyone else. It’s ridiculous, it’s absurd, and she can’t help but laugh. But the laugh that comes out of her is an odd one. Her laughter is rare, especially these days, but when she does laugh it’s wild, loud and barking. This is a dry, bitter chuckle--barely audible, but it quiets the room.

With contempt in her voice, Agnes fixes her gaze on Eugene. "Can't you talk about anything else? Your droning is dimming me."

The whole cult freezes, not sure how to react. They've seen her angry. They’re used to that, they understand that. They understand screaming and tears, they understand throwing things and threats made and threats carried out and fire. What they don’t understand is the cool, certain superiority in her as she turns her attention back towards the window.

Eugene isn’t sure whether he’s glad she didn’t burn him. But he quiets down, and Agnes is left with her thoughts again.

Many days later Agnes is alone. She’s in her apartment. Waiting, as she always is, for a future she is meant to bring.

Something creeps into her as she sits. It’s a feeling she’s not able to name because she only knows the word contentment as something to be disrupted. Satisfaction and accomplishment are always setups to the inevitable conclusion, which is devastation. She would not think to apply them to this soft, pleasurable wave that settles on her. It’s the feeling of being someone who has survived another day in a hostile world. Someone who goes to their rest knowing that they’ve arranged a small part of that world to their satisfaction.

For just a moment, Agnes doesn’t feel restless. She doesn’t feel a yearning for something she cannot name. She feels . . . at peace.

It passes, and she feels the hiss and pop of tears evaporating as they roll down her face.

Then one day, Agnes is dead. Gertrude keeps tabs on the cult’s affairs, of course, but in the end it isn’t necessary. She feels it as it is happening.

She’d have expected it to be painful, the binding had certainly been. But when the moment of death arrives Gertrude doesn’t feel anything that she would call pain. Just a sudden absence. A sense of loss and a chill that cannot be eased for days no matter how warm her office is kept or how many sweaters she piles on. She knows what it means. The child born of flame is no more, and another ritual has been prevented.

If Gertrude is unable to feel any pleasure at that thought, it is no doubt because of the binding. She can hardly expect to live through the death of someone she is metaphysically tied to without it affecting her mood, after all.

She’ll get over it. There’s too much to be done for her to sit and mope about.

Time moves on, and so does she. Eugene Vanderstock’s statement fills in the details her assistants in the field had missed. She finds that she’s hardly the worst-off survivor of the affair. That young man, Jack Barnabas . . . Gertrude has a strong stomach, but she feels a twinge somewhere when she sees the photos. The burns, she knows, are only the beginning. For someone as defenseless as him to attract the ire of the Desolation? He would have been far better off if Agnes’s kiss had reduced him to cinders.

Barnabas’s silly, earnest attempt at flirtation stopped a terrible future from coming to pass. And of course, he would never know it. Any more than he’d know why the rest of his days on earth would be filled with misery, torment, and pain. He’d saved the world in ignorance, and he would suffer just as ignorantly. It’s a bit poetic, Gertrude thinks, the tragedy of it all.

She dwells on it as she looks over his file. However little Barnabas understood about the situation, the fact remains that she has him to thank for preventing the Scorched Earth. It seems a shame to let him suffer and die. Besides that, sitting back and watching his fate when she has the ability to intervene feels uncomfortably like what the Beholding would want from her.

Eugene has been taken care of already. She isn’t the type to let someone with a long, long history of murder walk away after threatening to burn her alive. In hindsight, her method of disposal might have been overkill. But then, overkill seems to be the only thing those who attach themselves to the Lightless Flame understand. There can be no doubt that some other representative of them will come banging on her door one day. When they do, perhaps she’ll speak to them directly. And if Jack Barnabas comes up in conversation, well, no harm in making a few extra threats on his behalf. Assuming he’s still alive by that point.

As she makes this decision, she feels a quiet heat rise in her. A feeling of satisfaction tinged with sorrow that is not altogether unpleasant.

“If I die quietly,” Agnes says, taking in the shocked faces around her. “Without fire, anguish or mourning, my spark might return to the Lightless Flame so that a new chosen one can be born. One that will not falter.”

She speaks softly, without emotion. She isn’t certain what she feels and hasn’t been certain of that for a long time. She only knows what she does not feel. Agnes has never known what she wants. But she is finally sure of what she doesn’t want. Perhaps never wanted at all.

A few of the assembled members are shaking their heads, still not believing it. Some clench their fists and shout and growl. Not in true anger, she knows, but in the desperate rage that flies up when one feels their heart begin to break. When one finally, truly realizes that everything they built and toiled and struggled for is being burned. Something that has been inside Agnes ever since her birth is feeding on their misery even now. She can feel it giving her strength she neither needs or desires.

Jude is, of course, one of the people shouting. Her anger does nothing to hide the agony that surrounds her like a haze. She’s saying something, but Agnes isn’t paying attention. She just looks at Jude. The lines of her face, the edges of the tattoo barely visible on her bare shoulders. She’s wearing the same tank top that she’d worn in the cafe a few months back.

They’d been talking about the future. The Scorched Earth, the Lightless Flame, Agnes’s destiny, it seemed like that all they ever talked about. Jude was frustrated with waiting and believed that the best way to release Agnes from whatever tied her to the Archivist was to go to their institute and burn her out of it. She said that an old woman and a pile of ever-so-flammable records would have no hope against Agnes’s full glory. The Eye would be left an ashen husk, and Agnes would be free to embrace the fate she had been born for.

Agnes had never met the Archivist, of course, and there was something appealing about the idea of confronting her. Though she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kill her as Jude hoped or just see her, face to face.

Either way, she shook her head. “If I did that . . . .” she said, “I think that something in me would burn up with her.”

Jude hadn’t liked that answer. She’d pressed her palms flat on the table and looked pleadingly at Agnes.

“Maybe it’s something that needs to burn,” she’d said. “Something you’re better off without. Even if it isn’t, surely any loss you suffer can only feed the Lightless Flame.”

A week after that day, Jack had asked for her name.

Agnes had been worshiped and adored, and in many ways loved. She’d felt the heat of a supplicant’s devotion and the burn of a fiery, passionate longing. But Jack was the first person who seemed to want to know her. To know the person she was, instead of the person she was going to be - that destined destroyer whose light was so blinding it kept everyone from seeing her. Jack didn’t know her, but he’d wanted to. That had been enough.

Jude is still shouting, and now there are tears. Her words have gone from pleading to recriminating in the face of Agnes’s silence.

“How could you give up on yourself,” she shouts. “After everything we’ve done, all we’ve sacrificed! Do you even realize what losing you will do to me? To us?”

Agnes reaches out, drawing a gentle finger along the side of Jude’s face. A deep groove forms in the melting wax, and Jude is quiet.

“Surely,” Agnes says, her voice cold, “any loss you suffer can only feed the Lightless Flame.”

There are no more protests after that.

Jude Perry has a scar now that extends from cheek to jaw. Wax is easy to mold, she can be rid of any scar with a moment of concentration if she wishes. She keeps it all the same, and whenever the heat of a burning building or the struggling limbs of a person she’s tying up cause it to lose its shape she is careful to reform it exactly as it was before.

Jack Barnabas endures three terrible years. Then slowly, eventually, things begin to turn. He finds a job in a warehouse where no one gives his face much thought, at least not after the initial surprise. He begins to make friends again, moves out of his father’s place and finds an apartment of his own. Things are still difficult, but he can see hope on the horizon.

He thinks about her now and then. Wonders if that end had been what she’d wanted or if those people drove her to it, not sure which answer would sadden him more. He has no way of guessing, of course. He knows he never understood anything about her, couldn’t even say what she was or why her touch held such blistering agony. He won’t ever forget her, though.

The scars on his face still ache sometimes. But it’s the one on his hand, the path of a single teardrop, that hurts the most.

Gertrude Robinson isn’t the mother type. She’d made that very clear, not that Eric had needed reminding. Still, she promised to find his son and has no reason to break that promise. If Gerard is a threat, she’ll deal with him. If not . . . perhaps he can be useful, perhaps not. Either way keeping him close probably isn’t the worst idea given his upbringing.

She is prepared for a threat. What she isn’t prepared for is the young man she eventually finds huddled in the corner of some horrid little dive bar, speaking to no one. Drinking in the mechanical, joyless fashion of someone looking to obliterate their consciousness as quickly as possible. He looks up as she approaches, and she wonders briefly if his connection to the Eye is enough for him to have Seen her coming. Unlikely. She doubts he can see past the edge of his own glass at the moment. Without asking, she sits down across the table from him.

“Well,” she says. “It has certainly been a while, Gerard.”

He looks at her with a little suspicion. Mostly resignation. “Do I know you?”

“Not personally. You could technically say we’ve met, in that I saw you once when you were an infant,” she replies. “But I imagine your mother has spoken of me.”

“Yeah, well. If you’re a friend of mum’s you can fuck off.” Gerard’s expression moves from resignation to dismay the moment Mary is mentioned, and he lowers his head to the table. “Not dealing with more of her stuff today.”

A wry smile moves the corner of Gertrude’s mouth. “‘Friend’ is not the word I would use.”

Gerard sighs heavily. “Look. I’m not in the mood for dancing around the point. If you’re some enemy of hers here to kill or kidnap me to get at her, you’d be better off going after something she actually values. And if you’re one of the ones that likes being creepy on purpose you’re wasting your time. Whatever you’ve got to scare me with, I’ve seen it before.”

Gertrude pauses and considers the young man in front of her. He's half-drunk now, but she doubts he would look better sober. There’s a desperation in him that she’s seen before, usually in people who come in to give statements and then disappear a week later. She doubts he’ll be able to manage much longer unless something changes for him.

Poor man hardly had a chance, really. Raised by someone who could have only seen him as an extension of her will, an heir to mold into the continuation of her legacy. Gertrude isn’t the sentimental type, but she's not unaware, either. She certainly doesn't imagine Mary ever gives much consideration to what Gerard himself is feeling, or if he feels anything at all. Only interested in the person he is going to be, never the person he is.

Her mind briefly wanders to a few years ago. When she’d been shivering under five layers of clothing and for a moment found herself madly, ridiculously wondering whether Agnes Montague had ever dreamed. Were her dreams only of fire, of torturing heat and despair, or were there ever gentle dreams? Dreams of other futures?

It’s a thought Gertrude lets go of quickly. A pointless thing to speculate on even at the time. Agnes is dead, and any dreams she might or might not have had are hardly relevant to the current situation.

“All right,” she says. “To the point, then. How would you like to be rid of your mother?”

Agnes’s death is cold and quiet. But it does not go completely unheard.

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Hi, I first heard of N+A=D from your page. Ever since then I was wandering through internet to find more evidence on this theory. But the only thing I cannot digest is the lack of any concern in Ned's PoV. Honestly the only way it could've worked is with Ned not knowing about Ashara's child. Maybe Ashara was angry with him , or she wanted the best for him and spare hum the pain, either way she asked her family to keep the existence of the child's alive status a secret.Maybe that's (1)

(2) why Dany was sent away. Because Ashara wanted to keep her knowledge away from Ned. It's not you or me we are talking about here, it's Ned Stark the most honourable man in the entire solar system! In any way I can't possibly imagine any other scenario in which Ned doesn't even think about his former love and child that is alive. What do you think???

___________________________________________________

Hello! Thanks so much for the question! I definitely lean "Ned has no idea" - and that it's actually Jon Arryn who has been working behind the scenes with Ashara on his (unwitting) behalf.

While there are a few fishy things about Ned (like his weird connection to the Searlord of Braavos) that raise some questions, based on what we get in his POV - it's safest to assume that if he thought he was the father of Ashara's child, that that child died in stillbirth and Ashara, in suicide. Which is exactly why, over a decade later, he's not actively thinking of either in his POVs (I like to use myself as an example - my first boyfriend died in a car accident a little over a decade ago. I almost never think of him. So to me, it's not weird that Ned isn't dwelling on the death of his first love because he has a wife and children and the whole North and now all of the Seven Kingdoms to concern himself with).

Even people who don't believe this theory tend to speculate whether or not Ashara faked her death. Many people assume she is Septa Mordane. To which I always wonder... but why? For a casual reader who believes Ashara faked her death, what is the motivation there?

Meanwhile, I have my theory: Ashara faked her death and the death of her child to protect not just the man she loved, but the 'prince that was promised', Jon. After all, the Daynes have a heavy hand in Jon's birth, as detailed with Arthur guarding the prince and Starfall lending their milkmaid. As a lady of the court under Elia Martell and in close proximity to Rhaella, with Jon Arryn's help, it would be quite easy to fabricate a different origin story for the baby girl who donned very prominent Dayne features - which so happen to look Targaryen.

And before I get any retort about what a terrible idea that was? Yes, I get that Daenerys and Viserys ended up "on the run" at some point - but that was never the plan. Many, many children across Westeros are fostered with other families (Ned and his brother Brandon included, might I add). Daenerys was always meant to live a nice, safe, relatively cushioned life until she made it back to Dorne to wed Quentyn Martell (the pact signed by Oberyn, himself - who, based on context clues, happens to be a friend to Ashara). While Robert would’ve loved the death of the Targaryen children, it was Jon Arryn who protected them for years and years, as confirmed by Renly. So long as Jon Arryn lived, Daenerys was safe.

I'm absolutely willing to bet that prior to Brandon's death, many things were supposed to unfold differently. Such as Ned marrying Ashara. But the Rebellion happened, and Ned was forced to marry his brother's intended upon his death.

While readers have the impression that Ned is 'the most honorable man in the solar system', remember that those across Westeros had seemingly no problem buying these rumors about Ned and Ashara (Harwin, Cersei, etc) as well as his having fathered a bastard (Jon). (I mean, Cersei even tried to seduce Ned at one point!). To me, Ned is one of the most misunderstood characters in the series! Here’s why:

Honor has two different meanings, really. For modern readers, we relate it to integrity and morality, but from what I can glean from Westerosi expectations, it's more about prestige and respect, honoring one's king or duty first, even above what's morally right (that's why you see so many characters, such as the Cleganes, rewarded with gold and prestige for heinous, immoral acts).

Consider Ned's honor again while reading this quote from Aemon to Jon:

Tell me, Jon, if the day should ever come when your lord father must needs choose between honor on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?

Jon hesitated. He wanted to say that Lord Eddard would never dishonor himself, not even for love, yet inside a small sly voice whispered, He fathered a bastard, where was the honor in that? And your mother, what of his duty to her, he will not even say her name. "He would do whatever was right," he said… ringingly, to make up for his hesitation. "No matter what."

Jon hesitates. He wants to believe his father's honor is unimpeachable. Yet what he says is that Eddard would do what was right - and that's true. Ned did not choose the honorable path when he chose to save Jon's life that day - he did what was right:

Then Lord Eddard is a man in ten thousand. Most of us are not so strong. What is honor compared to a woman's love?

This hint is twofold - that there isn’t anything special about Ned, he’s subject to the same emotions as any man, especially when it comes to a certain woman’s love... and that there is a clear difference between honor and love, that they do not go hand-in-hand as many readers/viewers assume.

What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms... or the memory of a brother's smile?

Duty would've been to Ned’s king - handing over his nephew upon his discovery. Duty would've been telling his wife the truth. Instead, the most important thing to Ned - even above his own life - was the love and memory of his sister. Which is why, even if he's completely oblivious to his bastard daughter's identity - he cannot stomach the death of another innocent child at the hands of his king. He knows what will happen to Jon if ever the secret comes out, because he had witnessed it with Aegon and Rhaenys. Likewise, the life of one innocent child - Daenerys - means more to him than does his honor, which is why he quits his position as Hand. Ned is not the pinnacle of honor nor has he ever been, but he strives to be the pinnacle of morality and justice, often at the cost of his honor and respect.

I'll leave you with this, as I might've just had a tiny little revelation. When first asked about whether or not the books would end differently from the show, GRRM decides to give us a strange comparison:

"Book or show, which will be the 'real' ending? It's a silly question. How many children did Scarlett O'Hara have?"

This subtle suggestion might actually insinuate something huge - that perhaps a certain character will have more children in the books than their show counterpart... 🤔 Such an insignificant detail in one series could result in shockwaves in another.

Combining that with GRRM's latest comments about the books having a different ending, it's certainly food for thought! And, assuming Daenerys is Ned's bastard daughter, this force of power that uses her moral compass to guide her all the way back home to save the world... what would the perfect ending be for such a character? Becoming queen or going mad? Somehow, I don’t think so.

Considering there has been much more foreshadowing for Daenerys pining for a simple life and for love rather than queenship or madness (🙄)... I still say her perfect ending is to do what her father, in this case, never could - choosing love over honor.

Thanks again for the question, it’s been my honor to indulge in my favorite theory once again! 🌠🐺

[erikaf-94]

Everything’s Dark

When I open my eyes, everything's dark. I try to turn to one side, but for some reason my right leg hits a hard surface. I release a groan of pain, and I realize immediately that I’m not lying on a mattress, my back is supported on a sort of rigid table. Therefore, I'm not in my bed. I instinctively bring my hands forward, finding out that the space around me is surrounded by close walls. I start to move, touching everywhere, grasping second after second to be confined from every possible angle. The material under my fingers is irregular, fibrous. It must definitely be wood. «This can’t be real», I say aloud, fearing what I'm starting to believe. I force myself to remember everything I can of the past few hours. I had been with Nick, my new boyfriend for five months now, and we were drinking at the local club. It was roughly a quarter to eleven. Maybe almost eleven. I can't say for sure. We were talking about this and that, about our working day, and how nice it would be to organize a holiday in London for August. We were having fun, even though at some point I started to feel a little sick. From then on I don't remember anything. Only a vague sense of nausea lingers to torture my stomach. I must have had too much to drink, and fallen asleep. So where the hell am I now? To my great relief, I still wear the evening's clothes, a fancy black tank top and a pair of light jeans. On my feet I can feel my boots. Maybe it hasn't been long since I've been here, wherever here is. I decide to put my hand in my jeans pocket, where I usually keep the phone. Fortunately, that's where I find it. As soon as I unlock the screen, I instantly check out the time: it’s midnight sharp. After that, I take a look around, glowing everything with a soft, blue light. What I see is the worst nightmare of my life: I'm locked up in a fucking coffin. An old wooden coffin. My heart starts to accelerate, and with each beat the breath gets shorter. I drop the phone near my head and start screaming at the top of my lungs «HEEEEEELP!» My fists beat against the light wooden lid above me. «HEEELOOO? CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME? SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEEEASE! NIIIIICK! NIIICK, DO YOU HEAR ME? HEEEELP!» Even my feet start to kick violently against the immovable wood. I stop for a moment and stretch my ear against the surface. I don't hear any sound. No one answers. It's all useless. There is no one who can hear me. Warm tears run slowly down my cheeks, while my chest twists in despair. How is this possible? How on earth is this possible? I'm screwed. I gasp for the already little air that is in here. And now what should I do? What the hell am I supposed to do? There must be something I can do, besides tearing my vocal cords and scraping my hands. So I remember the phone. I pick it up and carry it in front of my face. Rapidly I unlock it and try to illuminate the bottom of the coffin, where I glimpse my bag in the corner with surprise. It seems to have been thrown away without regard, because it’s upside down. I want to take it, cause maybe I can find a clue inside, or anything else that allows me to remember some useful detail. I drag myself with my legs towards my goal, and I succed to grab it with my feet, so I push it higher, close to my thigh. I place it on my chest and take a look inside by lifting my head: there are my house and car keys, a notepad with a small pen, two protein bars, paper handkerchiefs, a mirror and a couple of cents tucked into a pocket. Not a shadow of the wallet. «What the fuck...�� I murmur, sinking into total confusion. Who could have taken my wallet? Have I and Nick been robbed? What if the robber thought of locking us up in two separate coffins, maybe to get more money with a ransom, or something? What if Nick’s situation was worst than mine? If he was hurt, or even... No, I don't wanna think about it a minute longer. The phone lighting goes out. I unlock it again and check the battery level: six percent. «It ain’t real, it ain’t real, it ain’t real... It's just a bad dream, just a fucking bad dream.» I press with my thumb the address book, and without further thinking I choose Nick’s number. I have to wait a long time before an answer. «Nick? Nick, are you okay?» I blurt out without giving him time to say a word. «Nadia?» His voice is practically flat, although I notice a hint of disbelief. «Yeah, it’s me! Where are you, Nick? Are you okay?» «Oh, I'm doing great. Aren’t you supposed to be dead already?» A shot in the chest, that's how his words feel like. I can't come to terms with what I’ve just heard. «Was it... was it you who put me here?» "Who else, you filthy bitch? Jesus fucking Christ? You had no friends or relatives who cared about you. In your stupid meaningless life you only had me. What a pathetic waste of space.» Its tone, warm and welcoming until a few hours ago, now it gives me goosebumps. I realize that he has just used the past tense to speak to me. I start to cry, like I've never cried in my whole life. «Why did you do this to me? I thought we were in love!» I say between sobs, feeling extremely nauseous.  «Well, you just need to know that I never loved you. And now, sweet dreams, baby. For good.» He hangs up on me. «NO, FUUUUCK!» I scream, hitting the lid once more and sticking a splinter in one of my knuckle. A trickle of blood slides down the back of the hand, so I bite my lower lip in pain and hold my breath, trying to remove the splinter from my flesh carefully. Then I grab a handkerchief from the bag, and press on it for a few moments. I cannot understand. Why would Nick do this to me? I've always been good with him. I don't deserve to die this way. I don't deserve any of this! And yet, instantly, I realize that I actually got screwed from the start. Nick never took me to his house. Nor did he tell me too much about his parents, or his friends and acquaintances. In fact, he never introduced me to anyone who was part of his life. Maybe he even lied to me about his job. He is right, my life has been insignificant for a very long time.  When we met, I believed that he was the meaning of my existence. Loving him was my life purpose. What a fool I was! Maybe this is the perfect ending that a person like me deserves. I’m gonna die exactly as I lived: alone, helpless and far from the world. Suddenly the phone vibrates and distracts me from my depressing thoughts. The caller is unknown. «Hello?» I say, wondering who might call me this late.  «Hi, is Nadia Putman speaking?» «Yes, it’s me. Who is it?» «I’m Natalie Holland, a secretary of the local police station. Ten minutes ago a woman brought us a lost wallet, which happens to be yours. Have you noticed a missing wallet on your bag, miss?» «Yes, I have. My boyfriend, or should I say ex-boyfriend, stole it from me and decided to put me in a coffin.» «I’m sorry, miss, what have you just said? He put you in where?» «In a fucking coffin, goddammit! Could you help me, please?» «Oh, okay, sorry to hear that. I’ll put you through with the deparment chief, Oliver Finch. Hold on a minute, please.» «I don’t have a min» I try to say, but she’s already gone. Seconds pass by, while I’m waiting on the line. I check the battery: three percent. Panic is making my heart race a little faster. I don’t wanna be delusional, but as they say, hope dies last.  «Oliver Finch speaking. Miss Putnam, are you still there?» «Hi... yes, I’m here.» «Good. I was informed of your current situation, miss, and I want you to know that we’re going to make everything in our capacity to get you out of there, but first I need you to answer a few questions for me.» «I’m running out of time, sir! My battery is three percent, and I’m very claustrophobic. I don’t know how much air remains in here. I don’t even know where I am.» «Please, I need you to calm down. Take some deep breath, okay? We’re already trying to track down your phone’s signal. Now, to facilitate our job, you have to tell me what is the last thing you remember before finding yourself in there.» «I was at a club near the city, it’s called “The Joint”. I was there with my ex-boyfriend, Nick Allen, around eleven o’clock. We were drinking, I think he put something inside my glass, because I felt dizzy. Then, nothing more. Now I’m not even sure Nick is his real name.» «Okay, miss, you’re doing fine. We’ve just found a Nick Allen on our archives. He’s been in jail several times for theft, rape and attemped murder. He’s real name is George Frederick Clark.» «Fucking George, or Nick, or whatever! That piece of shit has just ruined my life. I can’t believe he fooled me that way. I was so stupid... so stupid!» I keep on sobbing, and I don’t care to wipe the water away from my face with my hands. «Nadia, I need you to focus. Do you know where he lives? It could be crucial for...» The phone is dead. I scream in frustration with all my strenght one last time. It was all in vain. Great. Perfect. I let out a sigh of resignation. Tears run copiously down my face, as I realise that this is over. That’s it. I’m gonna die here, unless the police has localized my GPS by some miracle. At least I’ve tried. At least I’ve lived more than certain people. Now, the only thing I can do is to wait. I’m not sure what for, the police or death. Either way, it’s okay. I’m gonna be okay. I’m okay. Then, I close my eyes, and everything’s dark.

[funkymbtifiction]

[answered asks for the week]

INSIDE:

Advice to high Ne on how to explain thing simply.

how could a Fe-Dom determine if they’re actually a 2 or a 6?

Hey, I'm toying with the idea of being 7w6 vs 6w7 as an ENFP with SX/sp

it’s totally possible for a Thinker to be “less intelligent,” right?

I'm 6w5 (social stacking) and I've had a very hard time self-typing.

Would believing that other people are responsible for their feelings and should be mature enough to choose not to get upset when you do something they don’t like be a low feeling thing?

IV Help for INFP 4w5 5w4 1w2

Hi, this is a semi-mbti and weird question, but since two of the mods are Ne-doms, do you have any advice to high Ne users who want to be better at explaining stuff? I admire how the ENFP mod makes good analogies to explain stuff, which I do too since I'm INFP, but despite Si being higher in me, I lost connection to it and I feel useless and incompetent. What I say/write is lost in scattered abstractions which make me sound unreliable, which abhors Te and my (4)w3.

You need better Te development. Te is all about finding something that works for everyone that uses it – a streamlined process that produces the same results in a variety of different people. This is why a good analogy appeals to Te, because the information it is talking about has been simplified into language anyone can understand. It’s tempting for any intuitive to stay abstract in their conversation – but imagine yourself trying to explain whatever you are trying to explain to a child. What language would you use? Simplicity (if you can find it, some things are tremendously complex) is best, because not everyone speaks the same language – literally.

So if you find yourself being vague or abstract, slow down in whatever you are doing, and think about how you could make this more detailed or plainer in expression. This is HARD at first. Extremely hard. And it will be hard in some topics going ahead, even after you have gotten good at it. Most people are not simple and straightforward in their communication. They leave out details. They need others to ask them clarifying questions. Think about that, when you are looking at whatever you are writing – even if it’s just an e-mail. Is this clear enough that they will know exactly what I mean? If not, how can I make it clearer? Keep working on it, until you are being clear.

For non-Te users, and especially INTPs (I like y’all, but sometimes I don’t know what you are talking about) the key is to know what the point you are trying to make is, and to lay it out clearly without deviating into sub-trails. I realize you cannot do this in conversation, you process in your head as you go and that switches your conversational tracks, but when sending someone something you have written, you need to use the same idea – SIMPLE. Straightforward.

As for finding other things to compare it to, what’s an analogy everyone can relate to? That’s a good place to start. What do humans all have in common? (Basic needs, desires, and emotions.)

The thing I admire most about one of my INTJ friends is that she says exactly what she means and she means what she says, and if you ask her to explain what she means, she can do so in a way anyone can understand. She said she worked hard to develop that skill (to be plain-speaking) but it’s tremendously useful in her professional and personal life. So my advice is to practice saying what you want to say, and to make sure you are clear. When in doubt, ask someone else if they understand what you mean. If they say no, keep working on it. Practice. Make it a habit.

Hi there! One of your tips on tritype finding (of among thousands, this was the one to stick with me, as a fiction lover) was looking for characters you understand above all else. What happens if you understand a few characters, but they don’t share a tritype? Also, how could a Fe-Dom determine if they’re actually a 2 or a 6, since I think you’ve mentioned before that Fe users can mix their cognitive functions for Enneagram motivations? Sorry for the initial oddball question, and I hope you’ve all had a great holiday season!

We have, thank you. :)

The character thing isn’t foolproof, since you could relate to or understand a lot of characters for a wide variety of reasons (cultural, religious, instinctual, gender-related, their struggles, their decisions, their indecision, etc). It’s easier to identify characters with your same tritype after you’ve found yours, because then you can recognize the same unhealthy behaviors (based on similar motives) that you both have and see how you similarly cope with defense mechanisms. :/

I used a variation of easy-to-understand Enneagram cards on family and friends recently that helped them figure out their types (I had most of them pegged accurately, which helped – since I already knew the answer, it was a test to see if they would accurately perceive themselves by choosing the right card, thus validating that the cards were useful for total beginners).

I will share them one of these days.

Using the cards and with the character examples I used, my father was able to recognize 2 and 6 in himself in that order because he does not identify with nor exhibit the traits of a proper 6. Since I am one, it’s an easy contrast – I am far more analytical than him, and far more … 6 ish. I tell him things about being a 6 and he gives me funny looks like, “People are like that? You think that? Really? Wow, that’s weird.” Real 6 traits. Like being indecisive, self-doubting, ambivalent, challenging of authority yet not pushing people too far, being cautious and watchful of others, but being hard to “rile up.” Under stress, I just work harder (3). He explodes when his 2 moves to 8. You tell him a problem and his 2 has to fix it for you (sometimes before you even have time to turn around, there he is with whatever you need), and if it doesn’t seem fixable then he’s mad that you asked at all, because he’s translating being asked in his head to someone needing help – and then him attempting to provide it and being “shot down” is rejecting him on an emotional level. He’s an image type. Emotionally reactive. And this is on top of being a Fe-dom. Wonderful man, and extremely generous, loving, and kind, but reactive in a 2ish way of wanting payback, not a 6 way.

6′s are not looking for “payback” like a 2 is. If a 2 rubs your feet, then they will expect you to offer to rub theirs at some point in the future. If the 2 continues handing out foot rubs and no offer is forthcoming, the 2 will either drop hints or feel rejected and “used,” even though they volunteered to rub your feet in the first place. And unless the person whose foot they are rubbing is also a 2, or aware of the Enneagram and what’s going on, they will not have a clue that “offering” does not mean “I am doing this ONLY because I love you.” Of course they love you, else they wouldn’t offer to rub your feet. But a 2 finds it extremely hard to ask for the things they need, because they assume that other people should KNOW, because as a 2, they know what YOU need. They are tuned into what YOU need. And they are there to give it to you. So why aren’t other people doing the same for them? The problem is, the 2 never asks… so other people do not know what the 2 wants/needs in return, leading to the 2 becoming bitter about all the nice things they do for other people – with no one giving them any kindness in return. Which other people would do, if the 2 could just admit to their own needs instead of feeling that their own needs are “less” in comparison to other people.

This works even as a lower fix. I have seen 2 lower fixes go through something hard – alone, because they did not want to “impose” on others. Because admitting they need someone’s help or love or attention or support seems selfish to them. They are so used to “giving” and not “asking” – and it is very, very easy for other people to grow used to the endless, abundant “giving” and take advantage of it. Sometimes maliciously, and sometimes totally innocently. And then the 2 will find a sympathetic ear and vent their frustration – often my ear. And I sit there grinding my teeth and encouraging them to “Just ask for what you need. It’s okay. You are not being selfish when you admit to these things. And your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/child is not a mind reader. So you need to be open and honest with them. They love you. They will happily give you what you need, but THEY NEED TO KNOW WHAT THAT IS FIRST.”

You should also read through the Institute’s comparisons, and pay attention to stuff like this: “The feeling-tone of both types is completely different: Sixes warily invite selected others into their lives, whereas Twos throw out the net of their feelings with more abandon and see whom they can sweep into the fold. Sixes want to create partnerships with others that will support them in their bid to be more independent, but start to feel anxious if the relationship becomes too merged or “mushy.” Twos want to be close with others, and the more intimacy and merging they have with their loved ones, the better.”

2: aww, you want to be close!!! *cuddles you and smothers you with kisses*

6: you want to be close to me? why? *gives you a suspicious look* What are you up to? And ugh, don’t even think about smothering me with kisses. I’m not even sure I like you yet. I realize it’s been 8 years but I don’t do feelings. :P

Good luck. I know it can be hard. But being a Fe-dom doesn’t mean you’re immune to being able to figure yourself out. Just… leave others out of it. Go get a proper book on Enneagram, read the chapters carefully, think about your life and the decisions you have made, and why you made them. Ask yourself hard things, like WHY you are doing what you are doing. You should be able to relate not only to the “good” things about your core, but the bad things too.

The good things about a 2 is: helpful, generous, kind. Bad things: overbearing, controlling, manipulative, insincere.

The good things about a 6: analytical, humorous, friendly, warm, likable. Bad things: suspicious, anxious, self-doubting, distrustful.

If you recognize both in yourself, ask yourself which one, if you were allowed to choose only one of them, describes your personality the most.

I should probably also say that it can be extremely difficult for a Fe-dom to realize or accept that they are a 2, because they often do not want to admit that their main motive for being so helpful and generous is so that you will love them. It’s hard for them to think of themselves as worthy of love even if they do “nothing” for you. They just can’t imagine that. Each heart type has their own neurosis, either the need to stand out and even romanticizing their flaws to cover up insecurities (4), the desperate need to achieve and “become” so that you will admire (and then love) them (3), or the need to do things for you, so that you will not turn them away (2).

I have a big heart for 2′s, in case you cannot tell. Maybe because they break it the most often in that I see them as giving, selfless, generous people often taken advantage of or not given enough of the appreciation they deserve.

Hey, I'm toying with the idea of being 7w6 vs 6w7 as an ENFP with SX/sp. I know that 7w6 is usually considered more common for an ENFP, but all descriptions also appear to have the built in assumption of being Sp-blind insread. Would so-blind change your expectation of frequency for an ENFP, or can you give descriptions of both..?

There are… so many differences between those two types, in terms of ENFPs.

Basic things like the 7 being an optimist, the 6 being a pessimist. The 7 having a short attention span, the 6 being able to focus longer. The 7 having bouncing, random thoughts (especially with Ne) and the 6 having linear thinking. The 7 not following through on things, the 6 working steadily to avoid anxiety. The 7 dropping people, things, places, interests when bored and moving on; the 6 holding onto people, things, places, and interests longer than necessary. The 7 dreams of all the things you can do, the 6 tells you all the ways it will go wrong. The 7 being a more stereotypical ENFP, the 6 bringing in way more Te and Si.

You also NEED to consider the sx-first variant, because it makes a HUGE difference. Sx 7 is the most idealistic of the 7s – they don’t want to face the harsh realities of the world, they want to dream and have a good time and be with whomever catches their eye (for as long as that lasts, and for a 7, it is not often a long, long time) – and an sx6 is assertive, combative, and seeks to find someone to take care of them / combat their anxiety. So you have one driven by dreams and cheerfulness (sx7) and one driven by anxiety and self-doubt (sx6). The so-blind means neither one will be much concerned with people other than who they bond to (sx) and will look after their own needs (sp).

If you look at Veronica Mars, she’s a good example of an sx-first ENFP 6w7. Fearful, anxious, reactive, distrustful. Turns on people, tells them off, wonders about their motives – after trusting them too much and being burned. That’s how sx6w7 acts. Contrast her with any sx7 ENFP in the tags. The 7 ENFPs are generally upbeat, playful, optimistic and not nearly as intense as the sx6.

Hi there! This could be a really dumb question, but it’s something I’ve kind of been passively wondering about for a while... obviously, being a Feeler is not an indication of low intelligence (and Thinkers can feel, etc.), so it’s totally possible for a Thinker to be “less intelligent,” right? What would this look like/do you have any examples?

IQ has nothing to do with what personality type you are. There are stupid people of every type. Just go people-watch sometime. ;)

Do I have specific examples? No.

I will, however, say this. Being blessed in one area with a certain kind of intelligence has a deficit, always. A blind spot, if you will. Or an area in which you are not smart, even if overall you appear to have a high IQ. Like the brilliant professor who can do complex math equations in his head but wears mismatched socks to the office.

Reading about Stephen Hawking, it struck me how he could be so brilliant in certain ways and so foolish in others. It was actually heart-breaking. He was a very poor judge of character and wound up being mistreated, neglected, even abused later in his life because he placed himself into the hands of someone untrustworthy. That would seem foolish, and yet… he was brilliant. So there was the trade-off – smart in one area, but unwise in his personal choices.

In my opinion, there’s a difference between “intelligence” as defined by IQ and “wisdom,” which I would consider the true intelligence, because without wisdom you can have a high IQ and still screw up your life irreversibly. Without wisdom, you will chose the wrong business partners and romantic relationships. You will trust the wrong people. You will leap on the wrong opportunities. You will make poor choices in many aspects of your life. And unfortunately, because so many people with a high IQ consider themselves “smarter” than most other people, and thus often have a strong ego, wisdom is something they have to learn the hard way – if they learn it at all.

I'm 6w5 (social stacking) and I've had a very hard time self-typing. If I look at the functions, Fi and Ne are what I relate to the most but I don't relate much to most descriptions of INFPs (including the ones on this site). I'm more academic than I am artistic. Although I have a strong sense of identity, I still need reassurance from others. I do pour a lot of energy into elaborating a trustworthy and logical framework for myself (in a Ti-like manner). Can being 6w5 explain that?

Self typing is difficult, especially if you are a 3, 6, or 9, since all three of those can obscure your functional stack. (3′s tend to see themselves as how they want to be, not how they are; 6′s do not trust their own perceptions and can be inconsistent in their behavior; 9′s can identify a little bit with everything.) Unless you elaborate on what you consider to be a framework, I can’t answer to if you use Ti or not. (A lot of people say they use a framework and then you ask them to explain it and they go ??? or offer a shallow explanation that shows their lack of Ti; an actual Ti-dom can and usually enjoys talking about it.) Though yes, needing reassurances from others is so6 based.

As an NFP 6 so-core myself, I can tell you what it’s like to be a feeler and a 6.

I approach each situation from a logical standpoint. That’s what so6 is about – so6 does not necessarily mean clinging to an “outside” system for security (religion, politics, a social movement) but it can consider “logic” itself a system if you go by, it cannot fail. From a young age  I used “logic” as a system to feel secure. My thought process was and has always been, “If you are logical about this, you will stay safe and be okay.” I looked at people who made what I saw as illogical or irrational decisions as… irrational and unsafe.

It has not given me false Ti, because I don’t do inner frameworks. My logic is based in facts. If you can prove my facts wrong, I’ll change my mind. But you must use evidence and facts, not generalities or inferences or stereotypes.

I have over the years found Te-based (factual) excuses not to do things I did not feel like doing – to myself and others. How fast my brain switches to the facts of the situation sometimes astonishes me. Things like a friend asking if we could do a road trip and use my car. Aww, that’s a sweet thought but I’d rather put several thousand miles on a rental car than my own. Driving = miles on your car. Miles on your car = wear and tear on your car. Wear and tear on your car = the quicker you’re going to have to replace car. Mine has extremely low miles, is paid off, and in excellent condition. So, no, I’m not taking her on a road trip.

There’s also “rationalizing” with facts 6 does, which in a way is aggravating to me, because I’m never able to sulk for long. I’ll give you a specific example. I was friends with a small group whom I saw maybe once a month in my teens. I lived too far away to see them a lot (over an hour away) and I did not want to ask my parents to take me to their house a lot since it was inconvenient for them. We had a mutual fondness for a certain author’s work and agreed to see the movie adaptation of one of their books together when it came out. I looked forward to it. I wondered when we would go. I kept my eye on the release dates. And then I found out they had all gone without me.

I knew the truth: they had forgotten me. Out of sight, out of mind. I felt a little hurt but it did not take my 6 logic long to kick in and come up with a list of practical, factual reasons why they had left me out – thus diffusing my sense of disappointment. I live over an hour away, a parent would have to drive me to a theater downtown and then home again, when they lived within a short distance of each other and could carpool, and see each other every day and decided to go together some Saturday morning. It was not intended maliciously… they just forgot your excitement because they do not see you every day.

That soothed the burn because I accepted the reality of the situation. (But you’ll notice I haven’t forgotten it, either. ;)

Would believing that other people are responsible for their feelings and should be mature enough to choose not to get upset when you do something they don’t like be a low feeling thing? I just learned someone in my family thinks like this and I can’t understand it, and its even giving me mild anxiety. I get not letting others get to you, but believing that you should be able to do whatever you want and others should just choose to not get upset, seems heartless to me. The funny thing is this person gets very upset when other people don’t like them, or call them out on any thing that isn’t perfect. This person thinks they are an INFP 9, so maybe it’s some sort of loop or grip? It just seems off to me, I’d like to be able to help them, but I don’t even know where to start.

There’s a lot to unpack here, so we’ll start with this:

Would believing that other people are responsible for their feelings and should be mature enough to choose not to get upset when you do something they don’t like be a low feeling thing?

No, actually that’s Fi anywhere in the stack. What I mean by that is, Fi takes personal responsibility for how it feels and thinks other people should do the same. Fi knows that the only person responsible for its reactions is… me. And the only person responsible for correcting their own attitude is… me. And if I am responsible for all my reactions and feelings, I don’t see why other people should not do the same. Healthy Fi will not go out of their way to hurt other people, and will apologize for hurt feelings or misunderstandings, but it still believes that if there’s an overreaction or hurt feelings unnecessarily, the other person is responsible for adjusting their attitude.

You can actually tell an unhealthy Fe from a Fi based in where the blame goes. Fe points outward and is attentive to the emotional environment, so an unhealthy Fe is always going to blame the other people first. Fi is inward and focused on “me,” so the blame will go inward first. Thus you will have unhealthy Fe’s who blame other people for their feelings and opinions and overreactions and justify it in some way by refusing to take responsibility; and unhealthy Fi’s who take on too much blame in a relationship or assume it’s always their fault, because they did something wrong.

I get not letting others get to you, but believing that you should be able to do whatever you want and others should just choose to not get upset, seems heartless to me.

What you describe is unhealthy, immature Fi in terms of assuming you can do whatever you want without any emotional or real-life consequences. Fi needs a healthy, sensible Te or it develops an attitude of “this is who I am, get over it” – Te is what says, “Yes, but if you do this, that will cause these consequences.” You will no longer have friends. You will get a reputation as a selfish jerk. You may get fired. There’s your desire to do what you want, and the fact that like it or not, you live in a society that doesn’t care what you want. You also have friends and family who deserve better than for you to treat them poorly.

(On a different note, sounds like this person as an sp/sx social stacking. Meaning they are so-blind, which causes them not to care much about what others think of them. It’s all about their sp-needs and what stimulates them. They will have to work hard not to be isolationist and selfish, and find Fi [treat others as you would like to be treated] and Te [or these are the consequences / how you will sabotage yourself if you act this way] reasons for responsible, mature behavior that takes other people and their feelings into consideration.)

This person thinks they are an INFP 9, so maybe it’s some sort of loop or grip?

Might be Fi-dom (and probably is, frankly) but I’d doubt a 9. Even an sp/sx 9 still does not like conflict and “doing whatever you want” tends to make people upset with you.

I’d like to be able to help them, but I don’t even know where to start.

Just like they believe your feelings are your business, their health levels are their business. You cannot help them unless they want and ask for help. People will not change unless they want it badly enough to learn how to change and actively work toward it. It’s hard (believe me, I know…) but you either have to like them for who they are and let them be themselves and find their own path in life or if you can’t stand their behavior, find different friends.

-        ENFP Mod

IV Help for INFP 4w5 5w4 1w2

Based off of the information provided by you, I think it is safe to conclude that you are more likely an so/sp. You show a lot of awareness and orientation towards soc matters, apart from what you did share as evidence of possible soc in you. Being socially awkward can be indicative of the skewed first instinct. It is said that the first instinct is what we are neurotically insecure about. An sp first would be concerned with “Do I have enough? Will this be enough? How am I right now? Am so comfortable, safe?” That’s their number 1 priority. You don’t exhibit that kind of awareness about yourself.

Hating crowds and preferring one on one interactions, being an intense and romantic individual is also not conclusive proof of sx. You are an INFP, your dominant function is introverted. 4w5 also turns to pull away more from the world, even with a soc variant first. I would advise you to not conflate sx 5 and sx blind 4. The two are vastly different in terms of how the instinctual needs manifest when filtered through the lens of the pertinent enneagram type. It is true that sp 4 is the long suffering 4 that neither seeks to ooze and punish like a sexual 4, nor broadcast the image of a broken/unique individual by comparing itself to the rest of society or its groups like a social 4.

“I can’t actually see myself dating anyone I don’t have strong feelings for or knew as a friend beforehand, and I end up idealizing the person/never telling them anything.” - This is not sx. Sx has a sort of inexplicable pull towards someone, something that doms cannot control. Intensity alone is not sx. We all tend to exhibit intensity in one part of our life or another. Besides Fi doms can be very strong, tenacious and passionate people. Seeking friendship before love is a very good indicator of higher soc because friendship/connecting/affiliating/bonding are primarily soc concerns. This argument is supported by your over analysis of your actions, as well as the way you speak about work with a much wider focus than just enriching your resources first. Emotional intensity, competitiveness especially in the comparative sense you have mentioned is not sx 4. These are just 4 things, as the principle vice associated with this type is Envy.

Sx 5 has issues with trust. The way they open up to intimates is by confiding in them some pretty heavy secrets which can overwhelm the other person if they aren’t ready. It is like an intense secret inner world shared just between the 5 and the person they have sx-ed with, for lack of a better word. The strategies you mention for making friendships is also pretty heavily social dominant. I want to emphasize that being soc first does not mean that you are a social, outgoing individual who is super groups oriented. What it does mean is an acute awareness of others’ perception of you, the people and group dynamics in any room you walk into, knowledge of hierarchies and prioritizing them. Ichazo states that the instincts speak of unmet emotional needs. Misinformation about how the variants affect the enneagram type can cloud your understanding, or even lead to mistypes. Of that, sp 4 descriptions are the worst offenders. As a counter type, its description suffers from ambiguity and a lack of precision.

You are right in your analysis, in that you are sx blind who wanted to be an sx user. However, I urge you to reconsider the order of your stacking typing in light of the data provided by you. A good link to peruse would be oceanmoonshine. Hope that clears it up!

- ENTP Mod.

[thewritewolf]

Truesight Chapter 12

I remember when I was writing this chapter, I was surprised to realize it was the first actual appearance of Gabriel in my story. Maybe it’s because I like writing fluff, and where there is Gabriel, there cannot be fluff. 

Enjoy!

Read the full chapter on AO3

Adrien awoke in a cold sweat, Plagg still sleeping near his head. He put his hands to his face and tried to remember the dream that woke him up, but he only caught fleeting glimpses of the scene that was so vivid, so real just moments ago. He checked his phone for the time. Four in the morning. And he was completely awake now. Perfect.

Plagg stirred. “Turn that thing off. Some of us still have a chance to get some beauty sleep.”

Adrien rolled his eyes, but returned the room to darkness. Plagg's tiny snoring rumbled against his blonde head as he stared at the ceiling. It had been two weeks since Rena had been permanently gifted the Fox miraculous, and Christmas was fast approaching. He'd gotten presents for his (admittedly few) friends, with one notable exception. He had been struggling with what to get Marinette. It wouldn't be so difficult, except he suspected that she was making him some awesome stuff. Because of that, he didn't want to just buy her something like he did the rest of his friends – superheroes and civilians like.

Well, there was a second reason why he wanted to get her, in particular, something special, but he was barely ready to admit that to himself let alone say it out loud.

Knowing her love for fashion, he had toyed with the idea of making her clothing, and he even made some sketches. The big problem was... well, they were bad. Turns out being able to wear clothing professionally did not confer the ability to design them. Nonetheless, maybe she would find it endearing. Like a child's macaroni painting. He sighed. He had to at least try before he gave up.

He clambered out of bed, much to the irritation of Plagg. The kwami changed his tune once he had the entire, warm pillow to himself. Adrien snatched his mostly-unused sketchbook off his side table and stealthily made his way out of his room. He didn't bother dressing up – he wasn't planning on going anywhere today until late in the evening for training with the others. He frowned. We need a name for this team.

Mentally working on his names to present to the others, he sneaked into his father's typically unused workshop. There was reams of untouched fabric here, plenty of supplies, and, most importantly, a sewing machine. As he gathered up what he needed, he was reminded of a time, years ago, when he would walk into this very room and watch his father work. He hadn't been much warmer back then, but at least he hadn't minded the company.

Of course, these days, if he tried that, he was usually told that Adrien had better things to do, or that his father needed quiet so he could focus. One less connecting thread between him and his father...

He accidentally tore the fabric he was working on. He growled under his breath and started again. His father had made it look so easy, with his dexterous fingers practically dancing around the fabric, unerringly guiding the raw materials into beautiful pieces. Almost as if that was what they were destined to be from the beginning. It didn't surprise him that Marinette had looked up to Gabriel Agreste – at least, as the pinnacle of the profession she yearned to join. As she got to know him better through Adrien's infrequent allusions to his home life, she seemed to have lost a lot of her awe for his father as a person. At the very least, she didn't bring him up in conversation anymore, nor follow his fashion lines as closely.

Adrien frowned. Should he really be making people think such things about his father? He jolted as he accidentally pricked his finger. I really shouldn't let my mind wander when I'm working. Maybe that's why Marinette plays movies while she works?

He stashed that information aside with a proud grin. This task was already giving him insight into his friend's habits. Even if he completely failed to make anything, that alone was worth the hassle.

The opening of the door – and, more importantly, the familiar figure that stood there – made him reconsider. After all, if his father killed him before he could make use of this insight, then it probably hadn't been worth it.

“Adrien? What are you doing up this early? And in my workshop, no less.” His tone took on a more accusatory edge. “Rifling through my personal belongings? Again?”

Adrien winced. His father hadn't forgotten how he'd almost lost his book of inspiration – which, unbeknownst to his father, contained the accumulated lore of the miraculous. Adrien donned the proper expression when appeasing his father – cowed and deferential. “Sorry, father. A nightmare woke me up, and I couldn't get back to sleep. I wanted to see if I could use the time productively.”

Gabriel Agreste let his eyes slowly pan across the area that Adrien had been working in. His eyes narrowed at the several false starts that had been piling up beside Adrien, who grimaced as he waited for his father to pass verdict. “Why are you wasting so much fabric?”

He chafed under that question, some boldness slipping back into him. It wasn't a waste – it was for Marinette. “I'm trying to make a gift for one of my friends. I think she is making me something, so I wanted to return the favor.”

His father once again took in the small pile of ruined fabrics, then looked back at Adrien. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and seemed to at last notice Adrien's sketchbook. “Is that the design you are working from?” He nodded. “Give it to me.” Begrudgingly, he did so. His father raised an eyebrow imperiously. “A dress, hm? You are finally motivated into fashion because of a girl, then.” Adrien was about to respond when his father held up a hand to forestall him.

While Gabriel carefully examined the design, Adrien felt a sense of inadequacy bubble to the surface. Why did I think this was a good idea? Gabriel made disapproving noises as he pointed out several design flaws. “Little of this fits together to form a cohesive whole. Certain structural flaws make it so that this dress would fall apart after a few washings, or vigorous use. It would also be inconvenient to wear. And you seem to have only a rough estimate of her size. Overall, disastrous.” He looked back up at his son. “Who is this for, exactly?”

Adrien, still reeling from the frank dismissal of his design, responded glumly, “Marinette.” Some of his energy returned as he expanded on this, seeing the lack of recognition in his eyes. “She goes to my school. She won your derby hat competition?”

“Ah yes. She has a talent for design, from what I saw.” His eyebrows scrunched up in thought. “Didn't she wear the Ladybug costume that I had made for Clara Nightingale's canceled music video?”

“Yes, father.”

“It fit her like a glove, if I recall.” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait here.”

Adrien didn't respond and simply did as he was told, shoulders hunched and head hanging. He hadn't gone into this thinking that he'd make something to rival what Marinette was making for him, but now he realized how bad of an idea it was to have tried to do so at all. It would have been insulting to her to receive something so well crafted from her, only to give a shoddy dress in return. He sighed. Back to the drawing board...

Gabriel Agreste returned a few minutes later, an electronic pad in hand. “Thankfully, I still have the measurements for that design here. I can use those measurements when redesigning this dress.”

“Father? What do you mean?”

“If you still want to make this dress, then we are going to do it properly. We cannot have the Agreste name attached to anything but the most exquisite of craftsmanship – even if it is only meant as a Christmas gift. Give me a few minutes to rework your piece. I see you made it for use in spring, autumn, and winter?”

This began a barrage of questions as to Adrien's design philosophy, which, since it was largely nonexistent beyond thinking 'this would be neat,' he had to make up on the spot most of the time to avoid looking more like an idiot in front of his father. Still, the next few hours were fruitful and most of the dress was complete by the time his father had other matters to attend to. Adrien was beaming by the end. It had been peaceful, and certainly had been the longest he had interacted with his father in a long time.

By the time he had returned to his room, Plagg was... well, he was still sleeping, but he had definitely been awake at some point in the interim if the cheese wrappings were any clue. He checked his phone. Ten in the morning. Still some time before his Chinese tutor came over. He pulled out a black mass from under his bed.

He had been surprised when he found the Chat-themed (i.e. black with lime green paw prints and some images of bells scattered across it) fabric at the store. He felt obligated to get something for Marinette, both as Adrien and Chat Noir, since she had gotten something for both of them. While Adrien could give her quality dresses made from Agreste fabrics, that might be too much of a hint if it came from Chat. So it had to be something simple and unattached to the Agreste name.

When he saw the soft fabric, he had been struck by inspiration. Hence why he was now sitting on his couch, making a tie blanket. He had been slowly working on it in his limited spare time, and it was almost done. Adrien smiled to himself, thinking about how he would now get the opportunity to watch Marinette's face light up twice when he gave her these gifts.