#(and how my experience was VASTLY Different from Most I Think)

[please-picturemeintheweeds]

..

[mcmansionhell]

we've found it folks: mcmansion heaven

Hello everyone. It is my pleasure to bring you the greatest house I have ever seen. The house of a true visionary. A real ad-hocist. A genuine pioneer of fenestration. This house is in Alabama. It was built in 1980 and costs around $5 million. It is worth every penny. Perhaps more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Kate, that's a little kooky, but certainly it's not McMansion Heaven. This is very much a house in the earthly realm. Purgatory. McMansion Purgatory." Well, let me now play Beatrice to your Dante, young Pilgrim. Welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

It is rare to find a house that has everything. A house that wills itself into Postmodernism yet remains unable to let go of the kookiest moments of the prior zeitgeist, the Bruce Goffs and Earthships, the commune houses built from car windshields, the seventies moments of psychedelic hippie fracture. It is everything. It has everything. It is theme park, it is High Tech. It is Renaissance (in the San Antonio Riverwalk sense of the word.) It is medieval. It is maybe the greatest pastiche to sucker itself to the side of a mountain, perilously overlooking a large body of water. Look at it. Just look.

The inside is white. This makes it dreamlike, almost benevolent. It is bright because this is McMansion Heaven and Gray is for McMansion Hell. There is an overbearing sheen of 80s optimism. In this house, the credit default swap has not yet been invented, but could be.

It takes a lot for me to drop the cocaine word because I think it's a cheap joke. But there's something about this example that makes it plausible, not in a derogatory way, but in a liberatory one, a sensuous one. Someone created this house to have a particular experience, a particular feeling. It possesses an element of true fantasy, the thematic. Its rooms are not meant to be one cohesive composition, but rather a series of scenes, of vastly different spatial moments, compressed, expanded, bright, close.

And then there's this kitchen for some reason. Or so you think. Everything the interior design tries to hide, namely how unceasingly peculiar the house is, it is not entirely able to because the choices made here remain decadent, indulgent, albeit in a more familiar way.

Rare is it to discover an interior wherein one truly must wear sunglasses. The environment created in service to transparency has to somewhat prevent the elements from penetrating too deep while retaining their desirable qualities. I don't think an architect designed this house. An architect would have had access to specifically engineered products for this purpose. Whoever built this house had certain access to architectural catalogues but not those used in the highest end or most structurally complex projects. The customization here lies in the assemblage of materials and in doing so stretches them to the height of their imaginative capacity. To borrow from Charles Jencks, ad-hoc is a perfect description. It is an architecture of availability and of adventure.

A small interlude. We are outside. There is no rear exterior view of this house because it would be impossible to get one from the scrawny lawn that lies at its depths. This space is intended to serve the same purpose, which is to look upon the house itself as much as gaze from the house to the world beyond.

Living in a city, I often think about exhibitionism. Living in a city is inherently exhibitionist. A house is a permeable visible surface; it is entirely possible that someone will catch a glimpse of me they're not supposed to when I rush to the living room in only a t-shirt to turn out the light before bed. But this is a space that is only exhibitionist in the sense that it is an architecture of exposure, and yet this exposure would not be possible without the protection of the site, of the distance from every other pair of eyes. In this respect, a double freedom is secured. The window intimates the potential of seeing. But no one sees.

At the heart of this house lies a strange mix of concepts. Postmodern classicist columns of the Disney World set. The unpolished edge of the vernacular. There is also an organicist bent to the whole thing, something more Goff than Gaudí, and here we see some of the house's most organic forms, the monolith- or shell-like vanity mixed with the luminous artifice of mirrors and white. A backlit cave, primitive and performative at the same time, which is, in essence, the dialectic of the luxury bathroom.

And yet our McMansion Heaven is still a McMansion. It is still an accumulation of deliberate signifiers of wealth, very much a construction with the secondary purpose of invoking envy, a palatial residence designed without much cohesion. The presence of golf, of wood, of masculine and patriarchal symbolism with an undercurrent of luxury drives that point home. The McMansion can aspire to an art form, but there are still many levels to ascend before one gets to where God's sitting.

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[bmpmp3]

i NEEED to be more annoying about being mixed race in public i keep forgetting how dire it is. sometimes i point out stuff in like visual culture classes about like a magazine cover with a biracial model or something and it blows peoples MINDS because the whole class forgot mixed people were real

[thedarkestrivernymph]

A Heart Of Gold

Platonic! Y! Royal Child x Cruel/Uncaring! Royal! Mother! Reader x Y! Mistress! of cheating husband x Y! Brother in Law

-> part 2 here

word count: 11,5k (probably one of the lengthiest fics I have ever written haha)

warnings: mention of abuse (both verbal and physical), neglect, infidelity, unhealthy relationship dynamics, murderous thoughts, morally gray! reader, paranoia, harassment, unconsenual acts, kissing, mentions of death(s), killing, breakdowns/meltdowns, generational trauma, unhealthy mother/child dynamics, obsessive behaviour, classism, misogynistic views, homophobia, not completely accurate historical depictions!

©Copyright - 2025 - thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

Author's note: Boy this got lengthy, still I hope you enjoy it! :) So let's dive into it, shall we?

“A heart of glass shatters, but a heart of gold melts into something newer and sturdier. Into something dangerous and menacing. It molds to a new life of cruelty, while the heart of glass is swept away, its pieces discarded and forgotten. I don't want to travel with the wind, fleet in one blink, I want to be reborn, experience freedom for the first time in my life. I want to have a heart of gold.”

Do you know the feeling of an itch that no matter how much you scratch, how incessant you drag your nails over that patch of skin, you can just never get rid of? That was motherhood, but worse.

For you, at least.

The life of a commoner was jarring, a constant battle for life, that most, no matter how hard they tried to intimidate, would never succeed in defeating. Most died young, early thirties or fourties, with nasty diseases of all kinds being the reason—and yet they always seemed so lively compared to nobility. The nobility with all of their masquerades and dramatics. They never were allowed to let the intricately crafted mask crack, even for a second, if they valued their life that is.

Perhaps that's why you had envied those mindless pigs most of your life—working away until their bones cracked and fell into themselves. That mindless devotion and that foul language they could use whenever they pleased, the sheer stupidity in believing in something higher and more valuable than the crown, was so vastly different to your own complex persona. Your life was quiet, filled with studying, tea-parties that never reached deeper than surface level of conversation and endless long nights where you would raise your gaze to the heavens above and just stare at the stars, as if the answers you desperately longed for were written in them.

You were like a man deprived of water, thirsting for something to quench your endless need for freedom. Any kind you could get your hands on, you clutched on—wether it was the question of if you maids were to dress you in blue or white or rather in violet and yellow, or something simple if you wanted to wander around in the gardens that day; you loved all these small luxuries. Even the pearls of your mother's, now hanging from your neck like heavy cobblestones on a string, felt nothing compared to the little escapades you were allowed. And the needle you were embroidering with in this old moaning manor pricking you gave you some semblance of joy, that at least in some shape or form there was something under your control.

Until even that had lost its taste—like your once most favoured dish that had reminded you of childhood in your youth, the fields, the servant's children that you would play with after repetitive lessons and so much more, one day none could comfort you anymore. As many others, you grew out of your juvenile thinking much too soon and in a way that was far too shattering of an experience.

Sweet seventeen and the marriage with the crown prince was held. You had known before, it was to be expected, you had anticipated the dreadful day when you would have to give up your freedom in exchange of legacy and reputation, yet actively knowing and actively being were two vastly different states one could experience. So as the princess you had been, you had bowed down to everyone in power; to your mother with her stern gaze and even harsher words, to your father with his cane as sharp as his gaze was, to the king of a different nation, you had only visited once in childhood who was nothing more than a distant memory at this point in time and lastly to your future husband, who would not reign yet, but still hold enough power to crush a small country with just his fist.

So you bore the stranger a child, one not out of love, but out of duty to the crown, to your family—to everyone who had invested in you as a powerful tool as the key to peace between two neighbouring kingdoms. “He’s pretty. His eyes are like mine,” were his first words upon seeing the crying infant still caked in blood with you drenched in your own sweat. The world had crumpled in that moment, only to rebuild itself a second time in your life as you remembered that nothing ever was out of love. Everything was done out of ego. At least concerning nobility and royalty. And you were royalty.

That’s when the curse had started—the deep loathing for something that didn’t deserve it.

“Mother!” you frowned, determined to keep your gaze on the embroidery in your hands.

“Mother!” another high-pitched cry and you swore a vein on your forehead was about to just pop open and deflate like a par of lungs you wanted to slice through with a scarpel.

You glanced at the door, counting the steps and sure enough it took the little demon thirty-two before bursting right in as always. “Mother! There you are— look, look mother! Misses has just taught me how to..” you tuned out after the second word, already feeling another headache bloom between your brows, subtly ushering your maid closer so that she could take care of the chaos. Ignoring the way the boy protested and cried as he was led out with the excuse that his dear mommy was tired and in need of rest.

That had been ten years ago—in fact you were just melodramatic and liked to revisit your past, thinking about how foolish you had been to ever belief love was more than a myth. Sighing you took another bite from your steak.

“Mother, have you heard? I won this year's tournament again.” the deep voice startled you.

“Oh, you have?” another bite and it would be over soon, another bite and you wouldn't have to talk any more than necessary.

“Yes mother, has father not informed you?” no, don't let your thoughts get bad, he didn't mean to mention his father.

“Mother, you and father haven't been talking much, have you now? How utterly disappointing. I had assumed that he at the very least would share my achievements with you, mother dear.” you were losing it again, because you could swear he was doing it on purpose, he was rubbing salt in your wound knowingly. No, no he wasn’t, you were just paranoid, instead why not focus on the flower motive on the egde of your plate or the rich red swirling in your cup or—

“Mother? You seem rather pale. Would you like me to call your maid?”

He isn’t doing it on purpose.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He didn't ask to be born, he was just here because he had to—as you were, as the worker ants and the pigs were, as the common folk were.

Just breathe.

“Mother—” no you couldn't just breathe.

Your fists slammed against the dinning table, causing silverwear to clink against porcelain and wine to spill. It dripped to the floor and with it your last nerve.

“Don’t you dare, Nicholas! You and I, as well as any other resident in the palace, are very much aware of your father's open infidelity—and to incessantly remind me of it, is just unacceptable! When will you grow out of your boyish theatrics and take life seriously? You should concern yourself more with your studies and yourself than my matters!” you were standing, you didn't even know when you had stood up, but now you were face to face with your son for the first time in the duration of the entire dinner—and you tasted bile. Luscious chestnut coloured hair, forest green eyes and fair skin with an oval face; he was the copy of his father, quite literally and everything in you felt deeply disturbed by it. Or perhaps it was because of the way he would stare at you, even as a baby, with this sort of hunger, this all-consuming need to take and take, without giving back, like a parasite in your guts, feeding off whatever you consumed.

“Mother, you wound me." he had the audacity to jest, smiling that bone-chilling smile. Sometimes you wondered if that really was your son and not just a demon that had slipped into his skin at birth. “I am your son, mother. I worry for you. You’ve had such a weak constitution since my childhood, I cannot help myself.” devil. You shuddered.

Beyond yourself and all responsibilities that came with being bound to the crown, you stormed off. Your maids rushed behind you but you swat them away, yelling at them to leave you be, that you just needed fresh air and throwing what other excuses you managed to come up with at them. And they were quick to listen—even though with great reluctance scattering like baby ducklings would, while the guards stationed in front of the dinning hall were watching you silently. Everyone was, constantly.

You huffed, hands gripping your gown like the talons of a bird clung to a mouse and you ran—perhaps if your mother could see you now, she would claw her way out of her grave to berate and scold you like the child you were behaving as, but you couldn’t stop your legs from moving forward, even as your feet started to ache and you felt something warm run down your shoe.

“Your Majesty?” you halted.

“What is the matter? You seem upset?” Charles. Your gaze softened, something that happened far too little. Soft brown curls with a matching chocolate brown gaze all dressed up in a relaxing blue. He was like a gift wrapped in a blue bow.

“I was just walking by. All council members were called.” he was blunt and clipped as always—comfortingly so, gazing at you in thinly veiled concern.

Before you could spout whatever irresponsible nonesense that your mind could conjure up, he had clasped a hand around your wrist, quick to check for curious eyes that would misinterpernt the rather narrow distance between you two, before pulling you both aside into an empty chamber nearby—the room not much bigger than a closet, obviously something forgotten.

You opened your mouth ready to speak but he beat you to it.

“Is it your husband again? He’s a fool. To think he can feel free of guilt when his lovely wife has to suffer because of his childishness.” you felt his hand cup your cheek and you melted, the darkness and slight chill of the room suddenly secondary, as warmth from your very insides bloomed.

“I don't know anymore, Charles,” you sighed, head against his chest. You found a steady rhythm there, something unlike your life.

“He brought her here. Here! Into the castle. He wants to make her his second queen, his second queen! That's unheard of but he's so stubborn and he won't listen. Not to me, not to his advisors—he just doesn’t listen.” there was some relief in sharing your pain, some relief that at least someone would listen to what you felt and thought.

“It's a scandal.” he admitted in a whisper, now rubbing your back in gentle circles. “To have a mistress for all the world to see and to want to elavate her status to yours. He’s crazy. You deserve better, much better.” he consoled you and reassured you, making you feel more at ease with your teenage-like outburst. You ought to pull yourself togehter, (y/n). Be quiet and strong. Don’t cause a fuss, men don’t like that. Yeah, mother, you did everything right, but father still had three bastards he brought home.

Exhausted you groaned, embracing the very chest that Charles has been offering you since the first day at the palace. Sometimes you would wonder what would’ve been if you had married Charles instead of your husband, but you never thought too long or too hard about it, because to be tuthful the prospect that you could’ve lead a happier life depressed you.

Something wet rolled down your cheek.

You pulled away.

“Thank you, Charles. You’ve always been very understanding. But I should return to my chambers. It’s late. Where were you headed to again? You should make haste.” you were quick to dismiss as usual. It was unheard of that in-laws were so close with eachother, especially when the gown you were wearing once had been your husbands gift. It was like his cruel paw extended time and place to even shackle you in place here in the furthest corners of the palace, alone with the man that you had— in your younger years at least— occasionaly thought about at night, when your husband would be working or have his occasional trysts with some courtesan.

He was quiet for a second or two, letting you spiral furhter into the dark place that had a permenant residence inside of your mind, only to startle you with a squeeze to your shoulders. “Are you certain? You still appear unwell and I would feel like a terrible brother-in-law if I just—” you didn’t let him finish.

“No, no need. I am absoloutely capable of returning by myself. Just you go.” and with that escaped before you could cry your eyes out in front his brother, even when he was the only human in the family of festering little demons, you would rather not let him catch you off guard. He was the apple Eve was tempted with only to fail the test, but you were better than that, you were a noble, not just any you were a royal, you wouldn’t fall for fate’s cruel tricks.

You rushed through the halls, your heels clicking with each step, as the night only turned darker and your thoughts only more frenzied. Finally you reached your chambers, your skittish maids, breathing out in relief, rushing towards you to check in on you and your trembling state. You waved them off, barking again to be left alone, only this time they wouldn’t. Suspiciously so.

“Why won’t you let me enter? Speak.”

“My queen, we would never think about witholding you from returning to your own chambers, but there is an issue of sorts, you see..” the oldest of the bunch spoke up, the same age as your mother would be if she was still alive and well.

With slits for eyes you glowered, now more persistent in your demand, even if it was one of your most loyal of maids, you wouldn’t be leniet enough to let them off the hook so easily. “Speak.”

“My queen it is that—”

Oh.

Staring at you so incredibly smugly, as if you couldn’t wipe the floor with her visage if you wanted to, was the twenty something mistress of your husband, of the the king, Maria.

How ironic of a name.

“Oh? If that isn’t the first queen. How delighted I am, to meet the woman the king adores as much as he adores me. And how beautiful of a woman you are! So graceful, even at your age, with a child that’s nearly old enough to build his own family! You must be proud! Certainly, you’re so lovely.” you felt your eye twitch. She was utterly shameless standing in the doorway to your chambers while dressed in nothing but a chiffony nightgown and black hair like the streaks of tint on paper. How utterly depraved and sick.

As she smiled too, you probably turned red in the face.

“I am so happy to finally meet you! I heard a lot about you—all he does is talk about you. I am glad you’re my opponent I can vie for the king’s affection with. Anyone else would’ve been bland in comparison to you.” her fingers brushed away a strand of hair in your face and it probably took all of your self-restraint not to snap and bury your fingers in her scalp to pluck away some of that inky black. “I am truly grateful.” her blue eyes were worse, piercing and clear like the streams of fresh waters—truly a horrible colour to be gifted to such snake, undeserving of such beauty.

“Why are you here? This isn’t the king’s bedroom, girl.” you were cold, slapping away her hand and trying to undermine her presence with the fact that you were older and more experienced, yet she just giggled. Was it wrong that she reminded you of your son? The both of them certainly were the same level of vile, making you feel uncomfortably unauthorative in their presence.

“Oh it isn’t? My mistake, your Majesty. But you can just call me Maria, no need to be so distant. Or you could get used to calling me Queen Maria. Pardon—is it a sensitive topic? You’re glaring at me so intensely, I am uncertain if I should fear for my life.” on second thought maybe being thrown into prison for bashing in the king’s mistress’ head against a wall didn’t sound so appaling. No, pull yourself together.

“I ask of you to move. These are my chambers. So move, now.” one more minute of this and you were sure you would end up growling like an animal, but thankfully she finally took the hint and brushed past you but not without a flying kiss your way. “See you soon, your majesty.”

At the end your maids held you back from tearing her apart like a rabid dog the moment she turned to walk away. Thankfully, they were also able to pull you into your chambers before fleeting before your outburst. Vases were flying—clothes ripped apart and you burned the single strands of black you found, above your lamp’s little flame. All while you stared up at the night sky, like you used to, asking the heavens why they had cursed you. Why a god couldn’t have let you be born as an empty-headed piglet, why you had to be able to understand language, why you just couldn’t rip anyone’s head off that treaded too close to you.

At the end of your breakdown you found your mother’s pearls scattered on the checkered tiles like the stars that mocked you from above. You pursued your lips into a smile. It was somewhat symbolic.

Mother was dead. Father too.

But you weren’t, not yet at least. So why waste it with stupid things such as deceny? You had desired for more than superficial workship of your body—you wanted real love, something to take your mind off your duties. And if the king was allowed such a thing, then you would just aquire one too.

Charles had always been friendly to you. Why not pay the favour back? After all, he was such a good brother-in-law.

The imaginary gods truly scorned you, didn't they? Because why else would you be dining with your husband, his mistress and your son. Were you truly nothing but the butt of the joke? Your presence meant nothing—all the years of hard-work, serving the crown and greater good, for what?

For Maria to wink at you and mock you in broad daylight, with even your son doing nothing but quietly watch. Father like son. How true that statement was.

Were you disappointed though? No, you didn't expect much of demons festering off others.

The eggs were cooked into gooey soft richness, just as you liked it, giving you some semblance of comfort. Today you were dressed in rich velvet purple; truly a gown for special occasions and this particular day probably was the most special out of all. It was the day you had anticipated all these upcoming weeks with nothing but an ache deep in your chest whenever you thought of it.

Today he would announce when the law would be finalized—and with its finalization the death of your dignity.

Maria would officially be the king’s second queen, not consort, not mistress—not even the occasional courtesan he liked to fuck, no, she would be of your status, when she was nothing but a count’s daughter. It was laughable really, you stabbed at the beacon on your plate as if it had committed a crime against you.

From childhood until your marriage to him, you as a royal princess had been kept endlessly busy with tutoring of all kinds; writing and reading first and foremost then state affairs, french, latin, philosophy, politics, how to properly sit and talk, embroidery and so much more that at eight you had started wishing to be born a pig, kept fed until slaughter.

“As you all know,” all heads drifted in his direction, sitting proud at the head of the mahogany table, “The law will be legalized by the end of the month and to celebrate this joyous occasion. I ask my first wife, to prepare a banquet for my love.” he probably didn't even see you as a human, only as a political ally.

“Of course, your Majesty. I would love to.” nevertheless you replied as if you had a choice in the matter anyways, flinching as soft hands snaked up your arms. “You will? That's wonderful news! I cannot share just how honoured I am that you will be planning this! Anything you make must be nothing short of astounding beauty!” was she trying to gain even more of the king’s favour? It certainly seemed to work on your lovesick husband, who only leaned back in his seat, the cushions were red—a colour worthy of a king and let his lips curl up into a tender smile, with moss greens that seemed to scarily soften up.

Had your husband ever been capable of such a look?

You couldn't remember him ever staring at you so lovingly. It was chilling to say the least. Perhaps even repulsing.

You were quick to look down at your plate again—wishing for nothing more but to peel her fingers off of you, hopefully with so much force that one of her fingers would clean-cut break into two. It wasn't a question of love nor jealousy after all; but a matter of respect, and she was downright waddling her tail in front of you in victory. As if she deserved your just title as much, if not more than you. Slut.

“Mother,” this time it was the voice of your son calling out to you, “it seems you will be occupied for the time being with the courtesan's banquet,” he sighed, “and I here I was anticipating to spend some time with you after my exams.”

Had he just—

Silence.

Even the servants could do nothing but stare at the prince wearing such a proud expression, as if what he did was the right course of action. As if he just didn't insult his father's current obsession with the occupation she had before he brought her into the castle.

Everyone knew not to mention it, not even in the passing. Just hinting at it could cost you lots yet here was the crown prince doing what he knew not to do.

Oddly enough, while electricity zapped through the air, something destructive brewing beneath the king’s icy cold gaze—you could nothing but gape in fascination at your spawn. Were you imagining it, or was he protesting against his father? If you didn't know it sny better, you would've thought he did it to defend your honour. But that was laughable.

It seemed the young prince had grown up, when you had no clue, but sometime ago probably, with the way he held his chin up high, no fear visible in his gaze all while holding his father's glare.

You would be lying if you said you weren't weirded out. Hopefully him acting out wouldn't put you in bigger trouble than you already were in. He could at least grant you such a favour.

“What—what did just leave your mouth?” the king practically spat, your husband rising a hand decked out with hefty golden rings.

“I said, father,” you internally groaned, this child was just determined to cause you misery, “Courtesan. Because that is exactly what she is. Isn't that right, Maria? Before father married you, you were nothing but a whore with your legs wide spread open to please—”

Thwack. The king loomed over his own son, like God, – if he existed – probably had over Lucifer to berate him one last time before he would've earned his fall from grace.

“Enough! One more word and I will forget myself entirely!” the threat rung through the entire dining hall, it rung so deep it seeped into your bones.

Nicholas’ cheek was left marked with imprints of fat rings that managed to slice through skin and leave one side of his face a swirl of red and slowly forming purple. He hadn't just hit his son, but he had done so, with such force that his head was moved out of your sight.

Yet he still talked; spat out words like they burned his tongue.

“What, father? Can't handle the truth—”

“Edwin! Oh dear!” Maria’s fingers only now left your arm. She was rushing to the man that was supposedly your husband, to stop him from actually killing the boy he had wanted so badly. Immediately she latched onto him, practically throwing herself at him, dotting on him, doing her best to calm his wrath and somehow it worked. While all you could do was watch in stunned silence.

Your cousin, what was her name again— ah, yes, Lilian— would’ve surely snorted out a laugh at the scene. She found everything dark and morbid to be fascinating, perhaps that's why she had married a duke that would occasionally beat her into a bloody pulp?

Getting sidetracked again, weren't you? Point is you could accept much, but this, this was crossing a thin line that needed to be kept up for the balance of all things holy to the crown. If a mistress managed to throw everything out of order, then you truly had failed all your marital duty as a partner and as a queen.

Perhaps mother had been right? But then again, father had never been the big romantic, you were sure the man had been incapable of falling in love—obviously different to the Edwin you thought you had known all those years. He seemed enamored and it was truly terrifying.

The meal ended shortly after with the King storming off and his mistress right with him. Now, you never enjoyed being affectionate with Nicholas, however even you had to admit that you should probably offer the boy some words of wisdom.

Even if you liked to think of him as a little gremlin with a copy of his father for a face, you knew he wasn't exactly the same as him. Sometimes, it was hard to admit, your son did manage to spark some motherly affection in you, as scary as it was. So sighing, you rounded the table and your gaze landed on the brunette boy.

“Come, let's get you cleaned up.” was the most affectionate mumbling you forced out from between your lips. Only to turn around almost immediately, not waiting for him to collect himself as you wandered out and away from the dining hall. There was a short burst of laughter—probably, you weren't sure, you hoped it wasn't crying. You hated seeing him cry. He was an ugly crier. Then you heard footsteps behind you and soon passing by a few of your family portraits, the irony not lost on you—your life in contrast to the perfectly crafted deception painted onto these canvases—you found yourself in your study.

“Sit.” your words were always clipped when you talked to him, weren't they? It was hard to remember.

Nevertheless you rummaged through your drawers, the subtle scent of wood mixing with the incense that you were quick to ignite.

Funny, so that's what your study looked like? It was organised and thoroughly dusted, with each book and document in different neatly arranged piles. He remembered never been allowed in here as a boy, only able to take sneak peaks at you at your desk while the door closed in behind his nanny's somber face. Now it made sense, you feared a child would ruin your precision and need for perfection. Oh, mother, is that the reason you shun me so?

You felt that unexplainable chill again, which would always travel down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. See that look in his eyes? Those soulless green orbs you swore would burn a hole into your face from how intensely he was staring at you as you sat down in front of him. That's exactly why you didn't want anything to do with him, he was just—so peculiar.

“Close your eyes.” was your next command, not being able to stand the abyss you found in your own son’s gaze. You waited while you prepared the cotton through soaking it in alcohol.

And thankfully he listened. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Mother” he spoke. “Mhm,” you hummed.

“Mother, aren't you mad at father?” you paused, inhaled, already unnerved before continuing to pat his cheek gently.

“It's not in my place to question what the king does, neither is it yours Nicholas.” a soft sigh escaped you, “You ought to behave yourself. The little stunt you pulled at dinner tonight was dangerous. He may be your father, but before all else he is the king. And you should respect him until the crown is yours. Or do you wish to ruin your future just because?”

“It wasn't just because—” you chuckled, letting your hand fall away from his cheek as he forced the words from between his teeth.

“Oh?” you used the same look your mother always gave you—a scoff and a frown combined to make the one on the recieving end feel disgustingly guilty. You shook your head at him, youth.

“The reason isn't of any importance, what is of importance however is you ascending to the throne. And you cannot do so if your father hates you so. You may be older and of pure blood, but if the new woman at his side falls pregnant with a boy and you continue to be foolish, then you can just stand and watch everything being ripped away from you.” were you getting emotional, describing your future too while trying to warn him? Maybe. You didn't realise it until your son threw himself at you, alright, maybe not literally but he embraced you, as if you were the child and he the parent.

You stilled.

When had been the last time you hugged your son? You couldn't remember. The moment was peaceful, oddly so and just for a split second you forgot of your revulsion towards that child and let him clutch onto you.

“Mother,” he breathed against your shoulder, startling you, “Mother he’s openly betraying you. While the whole nation watches. You don't deserve this mother, you deserve a better man. If I had been my father I wouldn't have—” you immediately pushed him away.

Did you mishear?

“Don't—don’t ever talk like that again!” you declared, instead of questioning it further, immediately assuming that the fault lied in your twisted mind. You must've misunderstood you must've—

Something was brewing beneath his exterior, you could tell. Something dangerous flicked in his gaze, something that you knew justified your fear towards your own spawn. Now, any minute, you swore he would burst and unleash his inner demons.

“Mother,”

“I apologise.” he smiled. You felt yourself release a breath, one you weren't aware you had been holding.

“I didn't think about my words, I am truly sorry.”

You quickly wrapped things up after that and it was not long before you send him off on his merry way. If he continued to talk about his father as if he wished for him to be only a memory and his skeleton six feet under the earth, then he would only spiral into a world of trouble and take you with him.

Besides—since when was he this rebellious? You sighed, feeling pain bloom between your brows.

Was this some sort of mockery?

To shame you continuously?

Or why for god's sake was this bitch in your chambers again?

“Your Majesty!” she chirped and you wished you could claw your eyes out and stuff them into her mouth so she would finally shut up.

“Child…”

“Maria, it's Maria, your majesty!” she huffed, then pouted, again clad in nothing but her nightgown, underwear really; silk that fell over her shoulders and reached down to her ankles.

“Besides—,” she pouted and you started to question the sanity of this woman, “You're not much older than me, your Majesty. Mhm, like an elder sister! How about I call you queen sister? Since we both will be queens!” she giggled.

Had she been dropped on her head at birth? You couldn't help but stare wordlessly, as she interlinked her arm with yours.

“Again. This is not the king’s chambers.”

“But queen sister—”

“Don't call me that.”

“But—”

“I said don't call me that!” you screamed.

Great. Now you were causing a scene in the hallway, with your maids and the guards watching. Great.

However you hadn't been prepared yet for the grand finale—suddenly she bursted into tears. Graciously of course, she was a lady, a lady with many tricks up her sleeve that is. She was crying, seemingly an endless stream, sobbing and quivering, staring up at you with big puppy-dog eyes.

If there was a god in heaven, you were certain that he hated you.

“My queen” she was still sobbing, now leaning forward so her cold lips could brush against your ear.

“You scream at me again and I’ll tell the king that you insulted me to my face.”

You gasped, this cocky little—

Yet what could you do? You knew one of her words amounted to a bar of gold to him; something to be treasured, possibly sacred. But you, he never had viewed you as such, you were the mother of his child and the queen yes—but your presence, —you knew as much as that— never has been valuable besides those two strong points. He saw you as an ally, a friend of sorts, a political fawn; someone with an intellect, but nothing more.

You didn't want to imagine his anger at even just daring to belittle what was rightfully his, that you, the queen in his little game of chess, would've mustered up courage that bordered on dangerously life-threatening.

So you sighed, with liquid anger pumping through your veins and your face flushing from the pressure of it. Your temples hurt again. Your head hurt again

You didn't register her leaving with a shit—eating grin on her face, nor the fact that one of your maid, Leslie, was half-carrying you inside your chamber, having to sit you down on your bed before feeding you your medicine in form of a brew.

It was funny, like your memory was wiped clean—as if your mind was a clean slate similar to how it had been when you were a drooling infant. Everything around you eased, the tension, the worries—what even was there to worry? You hummed, even purred in satisfaction as you drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

You hated waking up. Peace never existed beyond a deep slumber void of dreams. You hated dreams, you hated being dragged up and dressed like a doll and hated the sky. Especially the sky with its sparkling stars all mocking you, calling you as you were; defeated.

Utterly so.

Your reminisced about your beloved husband calling you to discuss something urgent with him. What could've been this urgent matter, one may ponder? Well, it was Maria.

“Have you started your preparations for the ball, yet?” his tone was colder than usual.

“No, but I am very much in—”

“Then haste. It will be held soon enough.”

You nodded politely, not wanting to aggregate his nerves further. So he waved you off and dismissed you, until he abruptly spoke up.

“And make sure that boy learns some manners.” his glare was so sharp it cut into your nape.

“Will do, husband.” you fled the room after that.

Perhaps you did not actually flee, but you certainly felt inclined to do so. Sometimes you did fantasize about escaping to a lone island, one that would resemble the paradise your nanny had always spoken so fondly of. What was her name again? You didn't remember, you couldn't, no matter how hard you tried because all you called her was Mommy—obviously only behind closed doors, away from any eyes or ears that could rat her out to your real hag of a mother.

She had been the only thing close to a mother's loving embrace which you so frequently would read about in books; fairytales and romances. An angel with crooked teeth and a hunchback, but an angel no less, with a softness to her that you never were able to replicate no matter how hard you tried. She was simply of different blood that wasn't blue nor red but gold; she wasn't like the rest of them. But you were like them, hiding behind a mask, no matter how terrible life whipped at you to reveal the truth—you wouldn't, you were trained to not give in after all, drilled from a young age.

And she had been so adamant to free you, telling you stories about juicy fruits with tastes rivalling that of honey, a sky that never darkened and greenery that never faded—if you narrowed your eyes to slits, you could imagine the royal garden spread out in front of you to be the paradise she so often spoke about.

You sighed again. Those were just childish fantasies. Something she had made up to bring you happiness, even if your shared wonder only lasted two years before she was caught being too affectionate with you and discarded.

As a chubby five-year old you had been devastated and confused, wondering why she had left you behind to fend for yourself, alone with the wolves. But as you matured, as your own son's nannies came and disappeared, you realized it had never been her fault in the first place. They had been at fault.

“Your majesty!”

Some of your days were good, tranquil even, but some—some were either destructively evil or somberly empty.

“Your majesty—” and today you wanted to be somber, away from everything. But fate didn't want this. Of course it didn't, fate despised you as you did your mother. So even if you had promised to betray fate instead and experience an adventurous tryst with the man in front of you just out of spite, you felt no desire to speak with him or anyone else, after the short but life-threatening conversation you had had with his majesty.

“Has he upset you again?”, Charles sighed, his initial enthusiasm fading, “It seems every time we converse you're miserable.”

Now that he mentioned it—he wasn't wrong. He was like some sort of saviour, someone that reminded you of your nanny so long ago and your hardened heart softened again. You didn't want to push him away, not Charles, not the man with soft-features, a tender look in his eyes, with his dashing looks and personality—not when he was only a few years younger than you. So little in fact, it wouldn't matter at your age anymore.

“Seems so.” you muttered and you couldn't hold your hand back from outstretching to pull him down besides you on your little white-painted bench placed in the shades, with another piece of embroidery in your lap. For a moment he was silent, stunned by your fingers wrapped around his wrist for all eyes to feast on—and continuing to hold it even as he sat.

“It seems you're always there for me, Charles.” was this a fever dream? Or why else would you, the queen, tempt him so, seductive as always, yet bolder than ever, calling him so intimately out here—hopefully out of the ear of onlookers to the spectacle; your maid and a few guards scattered around.

And then you even fluttered your lashes at him, so blindingly beautiful that it hurt. Tantalizing with your lips that he was certain were sweeter than sugar, and the new heart-robbing smile on those soft pillars of warmth. The slope of your nose, the apple of your cheek, everything about you was sin incarnate and he was just helpless to the devil’s calls. Just what if he leaned down and—

“I thank you.” god you teased him.

“It's my pleasure. As a devotee to the crown.” he managed to finesse and gloss over his little stammer with a bright smile and you, thankfully, let it slip.

Or at least he assumed so.

Actually you were giggling in your head like one of those young village girls, when a boy would ask for a dance—you had watched that spectacle occur one time out on the countryside for some respite after mother's passing.

What a time it had been, so beautifully peaceful with only the birds to yap away— similar to now, the only difference was that now you were holding his hand, and nothing, not even the king could prevent you from enjoying this moment to the fullest.

“Charles. How long have we known eachother?”

“Fourteen years and counting, your Majesty.” he answered, with warmth in his eyes. The day was warm—the sun blazing and at its peak, with the garden neatly trimmed, sitting beneath the proud tall that was probably older than both of you combined, the shade provided you would with protection from her rays.

“Thank you, Charles, for always consoling me in times of need.” your fingers slithered between his own, entangling your hands under lingering eyes, yet in that little moment you found yourself not caring. Life was short, so why shouldn't you be able to enjoy life to the fullest as his majesty. If it came and he would hear of this, you would accept whatever punishment, because you were sick of not being free.

Then again you felt freedom spread her wings above you with Charles by your side.

You smiled, softly, gently, tenderly even. A smile not even your son had ever earned from you—something he probably never would, no matter what he tried, because he was still that man’s son with motives behind his façade that you could never figure out. He was still the baby that terrified you with the ravenous hunger in his soul reflected in his gaze.

And that very son, was plastered against one of the castle windows, his glare bearing down on you both, if possible, it would have burned a hole through your face from the sheer intensity of it. You had always viewed your child as creepy—unsettling to be around for too long. But you had never possessed any evidence for it—you knew not to blame a seedling, something that had sprung from you, but you just couldn't stop yourself from feeling dread when meeting his eyes.

Unbeknownst to you, this silent horror was not completely irrational.

Actually it was simple survival instinct.

Especially when the heir to the kingdom craved nothing more but your motherly love and seeing you give affection to his uncle, of all people – his enemy — he couldn't help but trash your favourite vase. Actually he wasn't that different to you in that sense—he needed chaos and destruction to satisfy the inner barbarian in him.

“Mother,” he slammed his fists onto your desk. He had been snooping around your study—his favourite past time activity since he had managed to steal the second pair of keys to the room you viewed as sacred and safe. If you just knew, Mother.

“You give, Mother. To everyone but me.”

he was trying to maintain his composure, to not burst into a jealous rage from seeing you intertwined hands, the close proximity you shared—the smile plastered onto your face much more similar to that of a young maiden experiencing her first love than the queen with a heart of ice.

The moment his uncle dared to lean forward to brazenly press a kiss to your knuckles, was the moment he snapped. Destruction reigned over your study, his desire for carnage so raw, he treated craftsmanship like flesh and blood, strangling them as if they owed him an apology.

Then finally it was over.

As it was, peace settled over his silhouette, drenched in his own sweat in the stifling hot room, panting like a rabid dog.

“Mother,” you both were gone now from his view, he should haste, he knew, but he couldn't leave without these last words.

“If you won't give me your love willingly, as a mother should. Then I will take what is mine to own. I will overthrow father, be the king. You won't be able to escape, me, your son. You won't shun me no longer, mother. I won't allow it.”

Mother I will own your leash.

When you finally parted—you felt light and airy. Freedom was on the tip on your tongue, and butterflies danced around your hollowed out chest. Summer lingered on your skin, warm and sandy, reminding you of beaches you had never visited and tropical fruits that run over the back of your hand when you squeezed tad too tightly.

You hadn't felt so giddy in a while, nothing could ruin your good mood, not your husband, nor his mistress and neither your son. Cotton clouds were wrapping around you and you would be damned if you wasted time to not mock the stars back, staring up at the bright sky with a sneer. See, Mother? I will have my freedom too. I won't end like you, heartbroken by a man that never learned to love.

How foolish you were. Unassuming even. Years of living on this earth, shackled by fate and you still dared to dream.

So when the door to your study gave in and you entered to discover—

nothing amiss.

You sighed, you were being paranoid again, weren't you? How silly of you. Why would anything be out of order—children and most servants were forbid from entering. You handled delicate matters, events even; such as banquets and balls, carefully writing out invitations to selected guests, curating the invitations. Also you were responsible for all of your servants and the choices they made.

Before the old king’s unfortunate death you had been responsible with his care. He had deteriorated into a bad mental state in the last two years of his life; so much so that he couldn't recognise his son anymore. You had shared your husband's pain then, younger and naïve, a decade ago.

But you didn't, not anymore, not after so much you suffered through and with him only for him to sought out a courtesan and bend the entire law for her, risking even a coop!

You approached your sleeping quarters as always, while thinking about Maria, which granted you with a pulsing headache—in the literal sense. You should ask one of your maids, maybe Leslie, to brew you, your medicine once again.

“Maria." you greeted her dryly, the routine familiar now.

“Your Majesty!” she chirped as always and you had to control the twitch of your eye—or the twitch in your hand to slap her.

You opted to just silently stare at her, agitated by having to encounter her each night in your chambers, dressed in a nightgown you didn't want to imagine the king peeling off of her skin. She was trying to shame you, in front of your closest servants and in front of the guilt-stricken guard—that couldn't deny her request because in fear of attracting the king's anger.

“Your Majesty! I have waited and waited, just where have you been?” she was active as a child—but her eyes mirrored that of a snake, just searching for one of your weak points, so that she could torment you further until she managed to properly get rid of you.

“Maria please move. I would like to rest.”

“Then let's rest together! I am terribly tired—you know how tiring the king can be! So ravenous.” she snickered, much to the horror of your servants around you, “Oh..my apologies. Am I hurting your Majesty’s feelings?” her slanted gaze drooped, pity and amusement lingering in their depths.

Oh.

She did not—

That bitch!

“Leave!” you roared. Not towards her but to everyone around you, needing to feel her scalp beneath your fingers. You knew what you would be doing now was going to wind up ruining your just newly acquired saccharine taste of freedom, and probably destroy your life—but your anger gripped your by your shoulders and slapped you on your back as you roughly shoved her inside of your chambers.

Darkness shrouded the room in thrilling mystery of what to come—at least you thought Maria found it to be thrilling judging by her giddy following, excited to play a sick and twisted game of cat and mouse in the privacy of your chambers.

Your burst came all too soon and familiar—stripping you of any royalty, drowning out all the voices in your head trying to shackle the beast you would become when allowed. Usually you were only to do so in private, behind your doors—with only your servants to be subjected to your other face, but this time you wanted to indulge Maria. Show her heavenly grace and what it meant to be of royal descent.

You strangled her.

Everything unfolded in the blink of an eye, you couldn't stop or control yourself before tackling her causing her to stumble over your carpet in shock, crashing with into your nightshade, lamp shattering the moment it embraced the marbled floors while she embraced you as you both tumbled into your bed.

“Have the king! Have him all you want—like all the other men that you had between your legs. Warm him at cold nights! I urge you, please do.” hissing you leaned down to continue. “But know that you will never be able to be loved as much by the court, by the people, by everyone else. You won't survive this for too long. Even if I am beheaded after this.” you snarled while noting that she was indeed oddly calm beneath your palms. You were uncertain. Maybe it was the sheer shock? Perhaps she was weaker than you had assumed?

Or, she had died.

Panic surged through you. You weren't ready to be her murderer just yet! The thought alone made you flinch as if it branded your forehead in big bold letters in crimson. As if everyone could already bear witness to your crimes.

And suddenly you stood in front of the court.

Fingers pointed at you, screeching out blurts of sentences you couldn't make out, while you were dragged away by your own son, his grip on your hair so tight that you swore your scalp would peel off any minute now.

Kicked to kneel in front of the king, you begged and pleaded but mercy was foreign to the man that robbed you of your youth, and that you robbed of love and his sword swung high and far before—

You convulsed, gagging only at the thought, letting loose of her neck instantly, falling off of her onto the silken covers.

“I am sorry—” you mumbled, scrambling away from her, stubbornly looking away from the assumed corpse.

You were about to flee, kicking away the covers, dazed by the turn of events, trying to claw yourself back to your feet.

Run, Run, Run. It chanted inside of your head, and you surely would’ve managed to do so, if Maria’s fingers didn't clasp around your arm like a python’s jaw.

“Where are you going, your Majesty? We just started didn't we.” you shrieked, her hoarse voice genuinely startling.

Slowly you turned around to face the woman, with wide-eyed panic still clear on your face. “Let go of me!”

“Why? So you can take flight? Escape? Your majesty, even if you run, Edwin’s underlings will still catch you.” she was grinning, a feverish rush on her cheeks, mania clear and deep in her icy blue stare. “There's no one to run to, your Majesty. No where to hide. Embrace it. You're a monster. Old and greedy, craving things that no longer are yours.”

Was the bed coming closer? Or were you being pushed down? Because soon enough you laid on your bed, another headache, so potent it nearly blinded you with its pain—left you at the mercy of her cruel words.

“The king doesn't love you. He never has. Never will.” she muttered, with purple blooming on her throat like blossoming tulips, “You suffer for naught, your Majesty. Why do you worry for someone with such little regard of your person?” it was a bitter pill to swallow the truth in her words—and even if you wished to protest, you couldn't.

You were tongue-tied from the agony, with suddenly lead instead of bones, only further sinking into the open arms of your bedding.

“You're a fool, your Majesty.” a laugh ripped free from her throat. “For ever agreeing to be alone with me, don't you fear what I could be? Don't you fear my hands on your cheeks? Don't you fear the lust for blood in my gaze?” her voice like a melody, like a drug to aid to your wounds—it worked better than the mix of herbs you usually downed to find relief.

“Will you kill me?” you asked, only to earn another boisterous laugh that felt like a whip on your soul accompanied with slanted eyes that slithered over your form.

“No, far worse,” she paused, gaze smoldering.

“I will love you and you will love me.”

Pause.

You gawked. What was she saying?

“What?” you spat, puzzled.

She was completely deprived of sisterly love, or so it seemed. This was bizarre, downright weird—had she gone mad? Now you feared whatever her sick mind conjured next.

Something morphed and shifted until a smile so daunting, that if it weren't for the pulsing agony between your brows, you would've slapped it off her face and gladly so, while simultaneously increasingly feeling as if you were trapped in the coils of a snake.

“Edwin doesn't see you, as I do, your Majesty. He cannot see the madness in you, as I can. The insanity in your eyes, the very same one I crave to have. He doesn't love you, he doesn't. Not like I do.” your brows scrunched up, puzzled, she truly spoke like a madwoman.

Maria only chuckled. Her gaze narrowed in on your lips, in a way that twisted your stomach in discomfort; the way a man leers at a woman he desires. What foolishness! She couldn't possibly mean such an atrocity! It was never heard of a woman with a woman—

And as if to prove you wrong, tear your worldview apart, she leaned down with heavy paws pressing onto your shoulders. Your corset seemed tighter. The air or the lack of it was stifling. She wouldn't, right?

Fate truly had never been kind to you—and now it proved itself to be only more cruel as her lips crashed onto yours.

She was feverish with soft lips and scraping teeth, her tongue poked and prodded as if she tried to hollow out the warm cavern of your mouth. Her scent lingered in your nose so strongly it made your eyes water—lavender mixed with something you failed to recognise as she smashed her mouth against yours over and over again, until you were convinced that she was trying to strangle you with the wet muscle in her mouth instead of her hands.

The moment she let go off your figure, as stiff as a board , she was smirking deviously, as if she won a prize in a competition. As if the prize was you.

“I promise—” she leaned down, languidly slow, as if she had all the time in the world with no concern for the ravenous chaos she had just unleashed inside of you, “that even after Edwin’s reign, you will stay queen by my side.”

A bone-chilling cold kiss pressed to your damp temple.

“Goodnight, my queen.”

Sleep was not kind enough to visit you that night or the night after even though Maria had abruptly stopped with her nightly visits after that faithful encounter—still, your head was a buzzing beehive of thoughts. You were overwhelmed and at a loss for words at the strangeness of it all. For her to kiss you and demand—No, you refused to ponder about it further.

Nevertheless as if fate wished to humiliate you further —the stars in the sky hiding behind the light of the sun at daytime mocking you — your son was glued to you for the past half an hour or so, even had send all your servants away and no matter how much you tried to pry him off he would have an excuse prepared smoothly evading all your accusations. It was creepy. Has he sensed something? He never was so persistent.

Nevertheless you still couldn't fathom why she had did, what she had done.

Even days later, it just didn't make sense. What benefit could she reap from forcing her mouth onto yours and behaving like a man? You shuddered just at the thought, everything about this situation was odd, vile, repulsing and something else. Something you wished to keep buried deep in you and left unexplored.

“Mother, look! It's a swan with ducklings.” he pointed out the window, at this very moment behaving much more closer in age to a child than to a man. “Yes, Nicholas. How grand.” you muttered dryly, eyes kept steady on the embroidery in your lamp while indulging him slightly, after countless failed attempts and of hushing him away, you had tired and the pounding headache that wouldn't relent didn't make you any more awake.

“Swans mate for life. Do you believe this one is mated?” your brow twitched in frustration, eyes kept steadily on your needle, going in-and-out of the tight fabric.

“I do not concern myself with such matters, perhaps you also shouldn't.” you muttered abrasively, watching the motive of a purple tulip come to life, something about it eerily similar.

“I believe that it was mated. Then rid itself of its mate. It knows it doesn't need one. Just look mother— all the cygnets that follow without her mate in sight. They all seem so happy. Especially the mother swan, the way she—” red obscured your vision.

Something warm and human dripped down your hand. You didn't move, didn't even breathe, all you did was stare at the needle sticking out of your hand.

“Mother?—” a gasp, “Mother!” his footsteps were overwhelmingly loud, even louder than his ramblings that were grating on your nerves.

“Oh Mother.” the condescending attribute of his tone was sharp and rung in your ears. “What have you done? Your beautiful skin,” he was mumbling again. God, when would this child stop mumbling beneath his breath! And his eyes full of fake pity concealing something much darker made you just want to pluck the needle from your hand and ram it into your throat, perhaps then the scornful look on your mother's face would finally stop haunting you every living moment.

“Mother, you're upset again, aren't you? You're always upset.” Nicholas face fell as if genuinely distraught, taking your wounded hand in his, prodding at the damage you caused. “Father doesn't know how to care for you, he is mean and brutish. To scold you for informing him that you can't possibly prepare the banquet because you're unwell and getting mad at you. He’s audacious, a fool. He doesn't deserve you—no one deserves you Mother. No one but me.”

You yelped as he pressed down onto the needle, causing further damage to your hand—the pain unbearably uncomfortable. For days your head was a dizzy spur of thoughts, paranoid and refusing to meet Charles and now, you couldn't even be properly be enraged about your son's foolishness. At least the mind-numbing headache of yours lessened thanks to the one in your hand.

Suddenly he was much closer, eyes a combination of bright and hopeful and sick. There was something manic about his gaze too, something that made you swallow thickly, alarm you once more to not stare at the demon dressed in your son's human’s shell.

“Mother, I will be a fair king. I will be good. And I will take care of you in a way, no man or husband can. So just endure it for a while longer, I know you carry all this pain with you—and all of it is the reason why you can't love me fully. But if father, his whore and everyone else that upsets you dies—then you will be free. Then you will be free to love me how much you want. We can finally be happy mother.”

You were about to puke. Was this what you had allowed to grow? Over all the years, no matter how much you detested spending time with the little copy of Edwin, you had made sure he only had the best nannies, a great governess and tutors at hand. All for him to spew out such nonsense.

But you had known. Known since the day he was born, that Nicholas was not sane. And right now it both angered and chilled you to see your worst fears manifest in flesh and blood.

“Get lost. Out of my eyes.” you hissed, bathed in cold sweat. You had to get up and out. Needed to flee before you were given the moment to acknowledge that you were raising such cruelness beneath the facade of a noble. Perhaps what amplified your dread was that he—the look of insanity in his eyes, the hatred, yet longing mixing into a destructive love— and you weren't so different after all.

That you both craved motherly affection so intensely you both had spiralled, into different lows, but spiralled nonetheless.

“Mother—you don't mean that.” he smiled. Yet not calm anymore. He wouldn't hide it no longer. You deserved to know that he forgave you, that he saw your pain and ache and that he would ease it for you. Just let him destroy the world only to rebuild it in your name, so that you could finally love him.

“No.” you breathed. He didn't relent, clutching your hand as if it was sacred.

“No! Let go!” you shoved him away this time, crying out in pain, as the needle’s head now pierced through your palm. You were trembling. The creatures lurking in the shadows would now find you. Freedom was a dream, happiness equally but at least you used to have peace, at least you used to have Charles, but this new reality of yours, with your son as the same maniac you were in your youth, would destroy it all. He will take from you, as he always had.

Your anger boiled over.

It was a mistake—he was the heir for god's sake, no matter how foul his mouth had gotten!

Nothing changed the fact that it was done though.

You slapped him right across the face, as his father had done, startling him into a stunned moment of silence. He was as if frozen, shocked that the verbal abuse you inflicted on him would actually one day turn physical. For a moment everything halted, the particles of dust in the air, the chirping of the birds, the soft footsteps echoing around the castle and only shock remained.

Then he smiled.

“Mother—”

And you fled.

You scrambled to your feet, rushing out of the room in such a hurry, you still held your embroidery in your hand while out in the hallway, running pathetically slowly. This wasn't your son. Even after years you still refused the truth, you didn't ask for this! Fate was cruel, but it couldn't be this—not this! You were a queen now, your mother would've been proud, the same mother you had thrown off the balcony.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, sick to the stomach. No, not now! You couldn't cry now, not when duty and responsibility always came before being and feeling and living and— Before you even realized you plucked the needle from the back of your hand, throwing the embroidery against one of the oil paintings hanging nearby, hoping your blood could lay curses and if it actually could,

You hoped to curse this entire castle.

Everything should’ve changed after her death! You should've been free, should’ve lived a better life than her—but you were following into her footsteps, the same miserable marriage only used as a pawn, with the same excuse for a husband caring even little for his heir. You hated it, hated it so much you could burst!

“Your Majesty?”

“Charles,” you muttered, lip between your teeth. You groaned, stumbling forward, dressed in red—the colour which had adored your mother as she had laid lifelessly on the ground. Life was funny indeed wasn't it?

The man has been your angel for so many years, once more spread his wings embracing you in all his glory, letting your red taint him with the evil your mother, you and your son bore. It was in your blood, in your very DNA, you were bred to be a demon—perhaps that's why your son's eyes had always send a chill down your spine, not because he possessed the same potent green of his father, but he held the same wickedness in it. The one you recognised.

“By god!—”

And speak of the devil and he rushed towards you, immediately growling at his uncle that held you in his clutches. Yet before he could step further forward, the doors to his father's study opened, the room one of the largest and proudest and with its opening the king stepped out with Maria as always glued to his side.

All of them and the servants—all were staring at you, while you couldn't help but let your tears flow; your pounding headache, the blinding lights and the blurry edges in your vision everything you could focus on, all were maddening.

You were dying weren't you? This was probably the divine judgment for all your sins. Perhaps the stars were right to scorn and mock you; you were indeed pitiful, a creature born out of neglect and the same abuse you instilled on others now.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the king demanded as proud as ever, before the world was replaced by a void and swallowed you whole and the chaotic cries around you dimmed, until your own stopped.

Until you were no more.

Hopefully this time you would be reborn as a bird with fully fleshed-out wings.

[ratsreading]

There's this thing in the Murderbot Diaries that keeps snagging in my mind, and it's that both Murderbot and ART were made. Made for a purpose.

Murderbot, of course, was manufactured to be an enslaved Security Unit, not even considered a person, and we all know and have been shown just how horrific that is. Murderbot's manufacturers are evil (as far as it is possible to be so), and while Murderbot seemingly (hopefully) likes being alive and would like to remain so, I've no doubt it would agree no more SecUnits should be made.

But ART, along with its fellow ships of the same line like Holism, were also made for a purpose. To be ships, to do the work they do. The Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland seem like good people with good intentions, and I get the sense those ships essentially choose what work they do, at least to a large extent (try forcing ART to do Holism's work and I'm sure you'll have a grand old time). And their manufacturers know they are persons and treat them accordingly. But they were still built to be ships. But that doesn't mean the process of building those ships and growing and raising those persons who are ships was smooth and troublefree.

How long did it take them to figure out you needed to raise them in family environments? What happened to the ship who made them realise that? What happens when the first ship of its kind that is a person doesn't want to be a ship for you? (As the equivalent of a teenage rebellion, or permanently? You don't know, at least not at first). Was there ever a point were someone (even if just one person vastly outvoted) argued this was a failed experiment and they should just pull the plug?

How do you, a young ship with your own mind, the first of your kind, handle the expectations of those who made you? Do you settle comfortably into your assigned role, or does it chafe and restrain you? Do you rebel and explore other options? (And if you do, how do your makers and owners, who yes, know you are a person but also have never had to face that before, because you are the first of your kind, handle that?). If they are dissapointed in you, or want different things than you want, how do you handle that? If you were raised without a family, treated like a colleague but not loved, how do you handle the emptiness and loneliness? Where do you look to fill that space? What behaviours do you adopt to protect yourself from the hurt?

Even the most well-meaning parents can give their children issues. I cannot imagine some of these ships don't have a number of their own complexes and hurts. It is not a comfortable thought to think of the people of PSUMNT this way, but I cannot help wondering.

[rimatsu]

I feel like the mood among the bucktommies has changed once again, it was more hopeful and now it seems like it's more in the phases between bargaining and acceptance, as if a reconciliation was already out of the realm of great possibilities.

I don't know if this is just because of the renewal, which I find kind of absurd since the renewal was already a sure thing, or if the last episode + the lack of any mention of Tommy after 811, made people less convinced that the show will deliver something narratively satisfying. I don't know, I personally end up being affected by these waves of reality/negativity and my expectations have also lowered again.

What do you think? Has anything changed in your expectations for a reconciliation? Do you have any hopeful words to share?

i'll be honest, i don't understand how doom and gloom can still persist given everything we know about upcoming episodes. i've said it before and i'll say it again: the 806 press debacle (wrong buzzer noise) made the bucktommy troops entirely too cynical. there's being cautious, and then there's being unhelpfully pessimistic. as per previous tags: please be serious 😭😭😭

nothing that we’re seeing unfold on screen (and off-screen for that matter when it comes to leaks) points toward closure — quite the opposite, actually. and the simplest explanation is usually the correct one: if it feels like the third act of a romcom, it probably is one.

alright, this is going to be long, and redundant, so please bear with me as i try to convince stubborn doubters that a reconciliation is in fact very, very likely.

first things first... tommy is officially an outlier in buck's romantic history. let's review the facts, shall we?

in order of narrative importance:

- ali was arguably the most underdeveloped LI of this list. dating her was a decision made in an effort not to regress to past behaviors and she brought buck to his loft. ultimately she couldn't handle the risks of the job and broke up with him in the s2 finale. ali got one mention post-breakup

- natalia was the supposed happily-ever-after partner the show paired buck with under the threat of cancellation. she was the extreme opposite of ali and had a morbid fascination for buck's brush with death, something that was initially refreshing before becoming off-putting. their breakup happened offscreen in between seasons 6-7 and she got one expository mention

- taylor was his longest relationship and the most fleshed out, at least in term of screentime, their story spanning seasons with casual hookups in s2, a friendship marked by romantic tension in s4, and finally a committed relationship in s5. the first fracture was caused by buck's infidelity and more importantly the lies and overcompensation brought on by guilt, but the reason they split was ultimately because of fundamental differences in morals/work ethics/ambitions. his experience with taylor was formative because it taught buck not to give up on the whole relationship at the first sign of trouble (a valuable lesson he seemingly forgot since then but i digress…) she got one tv cameo post breakup (indirect mention)

- abby was the person who opened buck's eyes to his true desire (emotional closeness and romantic intimacy) but they had vastly different attitudes toward their relationship: she was the first big love of buck's life, but as much as she cared for him, maybe even loved him, he was mostly a distraction from the chaos of her life, and she seemingly had realistic expectations about their future together. their 'breakup' is a case of unusual circumstances. buck was hung up on her for a good chunk of s2, but they didn't technically end things in the previous finale. buck wholeheartedly believed she'd return to him after a few months and abby never dissuaded that notion. but once he realized she wouldn't, buck promptly moved on: first by pursuing taylor, and then ali. abby only got mentioned again in s3 to foreshadow her guest appearance for closure purposes. i'll compare and contrast her reintroduction to tommy's later on.

- and then we have mr. self-sabotage himself, tommy kinard, who unlocked the wonders of bisexuality laying dormant in buck (and unleashed his #Spoiled Brat tendencies). the first distinction from previous LIs is that their breakup wasn't written as definitive or unfixable. allow me to quote myself like a pompous asshole because i can't be bothered to rephrase the same sentiment (i'll be doing a lot of copy/pasting, actually... i did warn you against redundancy): they didn't part way because of irreconciliable differences or because passion/attraction fizzled out or because they envisioned different futures. if they wanted that door closed, tommy could’ve simply said he was uninterested in pursuing longterm commitment with buck, that they’re not compatible in the long run. there: a clean, uncomplicated break. instead, we were told that tommy desperately wants to be the person buck settles down with, except he’s convinced buck is propelled by the excitement of novelty, that he suspects buck is latching onto him for the wrong reasons, that he can’t allow himself to merge their home life together in fear that he’ll never recover once buck wants out. the implication here being tommy was in love with buck already, or at least halfway there. for his part, buck came to the realization that he wanted a future with tommy and immediately decided to pursue it because that's just the type of man he is: never one to do things by half-measures, seeing no value in waiting once his mind is made up. so there was no conflicting desire there. they wanted the same thing: permanence with each other, but fear and insecurity derailed the whole thing. let's call 806 Miscommunication 1.0. the second notable distinction? there has been a grand total of 4 tommy name drops post-confessions when we usually only get the one before buck moves on to greener pastures. hell, buck was having such a hard time with the breakup he developed a coping mechanism in order to deal with it. the baking was comically excessive and lasted 5 whole episodes. buck considers the breakup to be the beginning of his life unravelling — he implied that being with tommy was life as it should be, even... yeah, there's no precedent for this behavior. we've never seen him stuck on an ex to this extent before. tommy is starting to earn his most transformative relationship title beyond the obvious queer awakening aspect of it all, isn't he? now these repeated mentions weren't necessary (and unnecessary will be a word i use liberally moving forward), especially the one we got after a 4 months hiatus. we know why the writers included them now: they were keeping the thread alive for buck & tommy's reunion in 811. that's something the most optimistic of us kept pointing out despite those disheartening "exit interviews" — the breakup was too abrupt and open-ended, and the tommy mentions too frequent and pointed, for 806 to be the end of their story. 

speaking of 811, let's dissect that episode and establish why holy mother of god alone is a strong indicator of an upcoming makeup. because my god, did it do the opposite of presaging closure...

time to compare and contrast with abby! when she reappeared, both her and buck had moved on. yes, there was still some lingering affection, and he was single and had plenty of unaswered questions, but he wasn't haunted by them or abby anymore, and she was happily engaged to another man. i repeat: they both had moved on. getting back together was never an option introduced by 318. abby came back for one thing: firmly close that chapter of buck's life and heal whatever scars he still carried because of her. that isn't the case for the bucktommy Bare Mattress Fuckfest of 2025.

first of all, a hook-up? really? unnecessary. if the only goal was to shoehorn in the buddie question (as some people naively claim), then that could've happened at the bar. hell, tommy didn't have to be brought back for it at all: maddie could've floated the idea by herself when buck kept showing up at her doorstep looking as pathetic as a wet dog. it sure would've saved production some money! and if the showrunner was going for closure (he wasn't), having buck sleep with tommy was counterproductive. it only served to highlight desire and sexual chemistry between them (something that was only ever vaguely implied in s7-8a). why emphasize an aspect of mlm relationships that was missing from the og show until now? (also, remember when the doom-and-gloomists were convinced buck's queerness would be buried, never to be mentioned again, after the hiatus? only for him to initiate gay sex on national tv? it was an understandable concern considering the current fate of DEI programs, but catastrophizing caused unwarranted stress and grievances. let's maybe give the show a modicum of grace until proven otherwise?)

more importantly, 811 established that tommy regretted the breakup. that's something we could infer from the bubbling in 807, but there's a world of difference between considering contact a week post-breakup and still actively pining for buck 3-4 months after they ended things. tommy drove by the loft just the other day. recently. he hasn't moved on — is more affected by the breakup than buck himself, even. that's... you guessed it, completely unnecessary (and frankly cruel) if closure is the destination ahead. but it can't possibly be, because you know what else 811 nearly established? a reconciliation. tommy asked for a second chance, and buck was receptive to the suggestion before Insecurity and Foot-in-Mouthism derailed the plans.

instead of letting their romance naturally fade into the background after the hiatus, the writers purposefully reignited that flame. they crafted a scenario meant to prolong uncertainty about bucktommy's future together instead of closing that door forever. even without the contagion spoilers confirming that tommy will be back for the two-parter, the audience expects another conversation between the two exes. there were too many things left unsaid after that aborted kitchen argument. buck owe tommy an apology and a clarification, and he has yet to reveal that he missed tommy as well during their time apart — the viewers know that to be true but tommy was left with no reciprocation after admitting he fought constant urges to call. worse, he was left heartbroken after being told their night together meant nothing. sorry if i sound like a broken record, but that was unnecessary: there's no point in introducing conflict and Miscommunication 2.0 if they have no payoff.

as for the jealousy over eddie reveal... as many have pointed out, narrowing down tommy's insecurities is actually a good sign. the fears he spoke of in 806 were more formless and abstract, harder to assuage. jealousy over one specific person is easier to confront and work through as a couple (and it can be fodder for more drama if the writers don't sweep the whole thing under the rug). though i'll say that i'm inclined to believe tommy when he claims he was mostly joking — as in i don't think eddie was the root cause of the breakup. 811 doesn't retcon 806, only adds an appendix. tommy questioning the nature of buck's feelings for eddie is part of a larger picture (and a larger issue).

now i keep parotting the word unnecessary because 911 does not exist in a vacuum. every writing and acting choice is intentional and must serve a purpose. the hookup could've ended amicably but it didn't. tommy could've agreed with buck when he said their drunken romp didn't have to change a thing but he didn't. buck didn't have to sniffle and look miserable when he admitted that loneliness was no reason to pursue a relationship. in fact the whole episode is peppered with parallels and callbacks. buck and tommy wearing their breakup outfits as if they've been suspended in time since november is deliberate. the fact that the first night buck ever spent in his new place was with tommy in his bed was also deliberate. and this isn't my bucktommy-addled brain reading too much into a scene. slamming each other into walls while a song about never finding home plays in the background is no coincidence. quoting myself like a pompous asshole again: tommy was the necessary catalyst for buck to make peace with eddie's departure and start viewing the house as his own. he says verbatim "[sharing a bed with tommy] was the first night i was actually able to sleep in that place" — once again tommy is linked to comfort and safety and the beginning of a new journey. tommy started the unpacking process for him with that coffeemaker. buck is baking (an activity that was established as a visual indicator of pining for tommy) while he firmly shuts down the notion that he might harbor buried feelings for his straight-heterosexual-notinterestinmen-notanoption best friend. he expresses frustration and anger at the idea that tommy seemingly spent their entire relationship worrying about another man. later when maddie (the audience/buddie stand-in) assumes he's talking about calling eddie, buck corrects her and reasserts that tommy is the person he's thinking about. that was the throwback to 704. it's not about eddie.

for a brief moment in that kitchen, buck and tommy slipped back into domesticity. tommy waking up at the asscrack of dawn to buy groceries and prepare a veritable feast isn't meaningless either (at least i hope it isn't): it's a callback to masks — tommy the caretaker dotting on buck. i want to believe that scene was intentionally designed to contrast buck's dynamics with tommy compared to his relationships with the rest of the cast: the baker being fed, the eternal giver being the recipient of care. buck is loved but he's no one's priority. everyone he knows (with the exception of ravi who wants nothing to do with him lmao) has a spouse and/or children who naturally take precedence over him, but he could be tommy's priority.

it's also worth noting that tommy's "i can't move in with you" morphed into "i'm not ready to move in yet." could it be... foreshadowing i sense? third time's the charm is shaping up to be bucktommy's operating principle.

alright, enough yapping about 811. let's move on to spoilers territory. i'll try to keep speculations to a minimum but they're inevitable so take everything with a grain of salt.

tommy's unique skills set (tim's words) will be featured in the two-parter. his status as a previous member of the 118 was also emphasized. he'll readily assist his old firehouse in a time of crisis agsin (the rule of three strikes once more). contagion is described as a season opening/finale worthy emergency. 814-815 will be a large scale spectacle and is sure to be memorable given bobby's alleged death.

again, involving tommy in the two-parter is unnecessary. if a pilot is needed, background character #34 could do the job. i won't bring up the "it's way too much effort and money for closure" argument because we know for a fact that 815 isn't the end of the bucktommy storyline. tommy is featured in at least another episode, and a major one at that. i beg all debby downers out there to exercise reason: why on earth would they bring back buck's ex not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES (and counting) post-breakup if it's not for a reconciliation? a makeup is the only thing that makes narrative sense.

bts pictures/videos place both tommy and buck on the rooftop helipad during daylight and in the coliseum at nightfall, surrounded by heavy military and fbi presence. i think it's safe to assume they'll be stuck together in a helicopter for a few hours. forced proximity is a classic romcom trope for a reason: if there's ever a time to hash out their issues, it's midair with nowhere to run.

now let's focus on buck for a second. he followed maddie's advice: learning to be alone, to be content on his own so he doesn't spiral again the next time he's broken up with or a friend moves away. and content buck seemingly is, comfortable in his home and in his skin. it's a breakthrough: when he interacts with tommy again, loneliness will no longer be a factor influencing his desire to reconnect. buck has gained some measure of clarity since 811.

and reuniting under these less than ideal circumstances? pretty promising actually. tommy's loyalty and his willingness to help the 118 are two characteristics that captured buck's attention in the first place. it's an opportunity to recreate the initial spark, with the added knowledge of the man hiding behind the confident façade.

as for the presumed 816 leaks... tommy is part of bobby's honor guards. that tells me he plays a crucial role in 815, and if you ask me, there are only three reasonable options to explore:

1. buck and tommy makeup during the two parter. they're officially a couple again by the time the credits roll

2. what i think is more likely to happen: they start to reconcile in 815. they have a frank conversation and the groundwork for a reconciliation is laid down when buck asks for a saturday date but a proper makeup is put on standby as soon as the ripper knocks on bobby's door. they're left to navigate grief in this weird in between-state, but the desire to give it another try has been expressed free from the influences of loneliness or grief

3. they reconcile in the finale. tommy offers support as a 'friend' and buck leans on him until bobby inevitably rises from the dead ("i'm not lonely, and i'm not mourning, and i still want you")

i'm optimistic but not delusional: a love confession in the two-parter is way too ambitious and i'm not holding my breath for it. i don't think buck is quite there yet. his feelings for tommy are pretty... nebulous. he saw a future there, one he wanted to cement, and he sure looked and acted in love, but he never said it. hell, he had to be talked through realizing he was serious about tommy. in contrast, he readily defined his feelings for ex-girlfriends (he loved abby and taylor and told us as much) and for eddie (he knows he's not in love with the guy). i find buck's limited introspection when it comes to tommy endlessly fascinating... but that's a conversation for another day.

i'm losing steam so let's wrap this up. i wasn't thrilled by the s9 renewal but that's only bc 911 is an objectively mediocre show with a godawful fandom and i'll be held hostage around these hellish parts for at least another year. i don't see why the renewal would automatically mean bad news for bucktommy. the point of wanting them back together is to see them explore the joys and challenges of a committed relationship. another season is a prerequisite. oliver said buck is maturing: he's entering a new, more settled phase of his life, and i can't imagine the return of the hamster wheel at this point. if anything, i expect buck to reach new relationship milestones next season.

anyway...... i'm not claiming it's a 100% guarantee, let's start celebrating now (let us not forget the black mold infestation plaguing the writers' room) but logic dictates that a reconciliation is underway. so, long story short... yes, i am genuinely very optimistic about our chances <3

[zazaiafe2]

I really like the approach your blog takes towards shifting in this community full of "Just assume" "Just decide that you're in your DR" yada yada. Although that does work, and the law of assumption sure is real, I do believe in it. But its application (keyword: Application) to things like shifting is something I have no idea how to do and I'm sure I am not the only one who has this issue, especially if the DRs are very "different" from our CR (fictional DRs most of the time fall under this category) Our ego does indeed play a HUGE role in what our awareness experiences through the physical plane. The "Assume you're in your DR" does work but it then also has many other supporting factors for those it does work and I realized that by reading your posts. Its okay if it does NOT work for some or is really hard to follow through with lets just be honest rn instead of blaming people for "not persisting" or some other crap 😭😭😭 Because straight up using LOA, esp for a place you haven't even felt a breeze of, aren't even completely sure is real??? Can be really wonky.

I thank you for making posts that give ACTUAL STRUCTURE to shift.. that, simply using the LOA logic lacks. And I love how you do state that it is not a process but rather like an instant flick of a switch.

Honestly, I relate to this so much. I used to believe much more strongly in the law of assumption, but the more research I do and the deeper I go into shifting, the less I fully trust it as a universal explanation. I do think it's a tool, and for some people it works great, but assuming it's a one-size-fits-all rule is extremely misleading.

If we take the law of assumption seriously, then we also have to recognize that people have vastly different abilities to assume. I have a highly rational mind and tend to resist anything that feels irrational or unproven. For me to accept something as true, I often need either an explanation or a heavily altered state of consciousness (ASC) where my mind allows it.

Even when I practice hypnosis , I see very clearly how differently people respond to suggestion and belief implantation. For some, one session is enough to accept a belief. For others, it might take dozens of sessions,and still, some struggle. The mind's critical factor doesn't work identically for everyone.

If I still fully believed in LOA, I'd probably say it's been extremely oversimplified, and that some advice can even be harmful. For example, telling someone who's feeling frustrated to "persist" with no nuance can easily backfire and feed into a frustration loop, especially for neurodivergent people or people who cognitively analyze their emotions deeply. The problem is that a lot of LOA advice assumes everyone processes things like belief, assumption, and persistence in the same linear way.

Obviously, for someone who has shifted often, assuming "shifting is real and natural" will be a much easier belief to hold than for someone who's never consciously shifted before. Their awarness already has experiential confirmation. For someone without that, it's a different challenge.

Also, I 100% agree with you that shifting isn't really a process, it's instantaneous at the moment it happens. The "process" is the preparation beforehand. I don’t believe at all in the "3D lag" concept; not only is there no proof for it, but almost everyone who shifts describes it as immediate once it occurs. I think a lot of these "lag" beliefs are more like coping mechanisms or ways to comfort oneself when it's taking longer than expected.

As someone who practices hypnosis, I can confidently say: assumptions and belief implantation are way more unstable and nuanced than people realize. Teaching people that assumption alone is enough, without considering individual differences, does more harm than good for a lot of shifters.

I honestly had a lot to say on this, but to sum it up: I fully agree with your take, and i think it's a part of the spiritual meritocracy and individualistic tendancies.

[pedroscurls]

training partners (pt. 3)

summary: you continue to spend more time with hugh, realizing just how different your lives are and while it scares you, hugh does a great job at reassuring you. pairing: hugh jackman x fem!reader warnings: implied age gap (hugh is 55, reader is in late 20s-early 30s), reader has some description (hair, outfit), angst - mentions of a past toxic relationship (gaslighting) reader thinks too much and has insecurities, suggestive smut (brief oral - f receiving), no use of y/n. word count: 3.9k a/n: ok, so this relationship is moving fast but let's be honest, i feel like hugh would definitely know a good thing when he sees it lol. this is purely fictional! i mean no disrespect to hugh jackman (it's the only way i can live out my fantasies of this man lol). prev part. - next part.

You wake up the sounds of Hugh’s quiet snores. You still can’t believe you spent the night. One of his arms is draped over your waist and you’re very aware of the lack of clothing between the both of you. True to his word, Hugh devoured you last night. His tongue, his lips, his fingers– the man knew exactly what he was doing. You were hesitant at first, seeing him between your legs, mouth inches away from where you needed him the most. He could sense your nervousness and had gently placed a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. 

It was such a simple act, but it provided all the reassurance you needed. Hugh was the first ever person to go down on you and you fear that he’s ruined it for you. If this didn’t work out, you’re sure that there won’t ever be another man to do it like him.

You’re lying on your back, arm resting over his. He looks so peaceful, so unbothered by the responsibilities and realities of the world. His snores even provide a level of comfort that you know can lull you back to sleep. It had only been a week since meeting him and while you certainly didn’t plan for any of this to happen, you can’t imagine it being any different. 

You liked Hugh. A lot, and it scared you. Not because you didn’t think you weren’t ready to get into another relationship, but because your worlds were just vastly different. 

But you remember what he said yesterday and it brings a smile to your lips.

“I don’t want this to be casual.”

You turn slightly to face him, watching as he moves with you, lying on his back instead as his arm drops from your waist. You lie on your side, bringing your fingertips to gently run across his chest. He’s still snoring, but you can’t help but notice the marks you left on his body. The scratch marks on his arms and you’re sure there are more on his back. 

This doesn’t feel real. It’s like you’re in some kind of dream and you’re afraid to wake up, not wanting this to end. Yesterday had been one of the best days you’ve had in a very long time and you had Hugh to thank. Not only was the sex amazing, but the conversations and laughter you both shared was just as great. 

You know you shouldn’t be comparing Hugh to your ex-boyfriend, but you can’t help but reflect on just how different they both were. Whenever you were talking, Hugh always made sure to keep his attention fully on you, eyes staring into yours, hand holding yours or resting on your back. With Hugh, you felt seen. You felt heard. You felt like your voice mattered. 

With your ex-boyfriend, you always felt like you were bothersome. He had always been very short with you, always on his phone, and very disinterested in what you had to say. Towards the end of your relationship with him, you had learned to keep quiet, learned to keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself. It wasn’t until the relationship ended that you realized just how much your ex-boyfriend gaslit you and your emotions. 

But with Hugh… You felt validated. You had to wonder if it had to do with the age difference. Your ex-boyfriend was just a year older than you; with Hugh being much older, you couldn’t help but think about all of the life experiences he must have gone through to get to where he is now. 

With Hugh, you feel so much more grounded. 

Wanting to surprise him with breakfast, you slowly climb out of bed and pull on your panties. You carefully tiptoe into his closet, making sure not to make too much noise. You pull on one of Hugh’s white button down shirts and slip it on, buttoning just a few buttons to at least cover yourself up. 

Then, you leave his bedroom and make your way to his kitchen. You don’t know if this is overstepping any boundaries, but you wanted to do something nice for him, especially after yesterday. 

You’re taken aback by the view of the city again. Hugh was right, watching the sunset last night was worth staying. His kitchen is so much larger than yours and you’re not sure where he keeps his pots and pans, so you open the cupboards to try and find them. When you do, you grab one large pan and place it on top of his stove and then open his fridge. You see a carton of eggs and a bag of spinach that you take and place on the counter. You remember that Hugh’s on a strict diet, so what’s healthier than an egg and spinach omelet? 

You also see his coffee machine in the corner and your eyes light up in excitement. Having been a barista all throughout your college years, you knew your way around a good coffee machine. 

It takes you about twenty minutes to finish cooking and making coffee. You’re about to set the table when you hear footsteps round the corner. You look up at him to see that he’s completely shirtless, but that he has put on a pair of sweatpants that hangs low at his hips. His hair is slightly disheveled and he’s yawning, but when his eyes meet yours, there’s a large grin that forms on his lips.

“Did you make me breakfast?” he calls out, walking over to you. 

“And coffee,” you point out. “I hope you don’t mind,” you say nervously. “I wanted to do something for you since yesterday was just such an amazing day and–”

Hugh interrupts you and cups your cheeks in his large hands, bending down to press his lips against yours softly. “I don’t mind at all, love.” Then, he pulls back enough to look down at what you’re wearing and he bites his lower lip. “And I certainly don’t mind this at all.” 

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks as you move to rest your hands on his broad chest. “I couldn’t find my shirt, so…”

“You could’ve also just walked around naked,” Hugh winks. “That would have been just as an amazing sight as this.”

You roll your eyes playfully and pull away from him, but he takes your wrist and pulls you back into his arms. 

“Wait,” he says quietly. 

“Hm?” 

“Good morning,” Hugh smiles, kissing your forehead. “Yesterday and last night was… It was wonderful.” 

“It was the best day,” you say softly, leaning into him. “One of the best I’ve had in a while.” 

“I can get used to having you here,” Hugh admits. “Is that– Am I moving too fast here?” 

You shake your head and run your hands to his chest and arms, gently squeezing his biceps as you bite your lower lip. “No, I just–” you sigh. “What if you get tired of me?” 

“I won’t,” Hugh reassures you. 

“But what if–” you shake your head, trying to force the negative thoughts out. You realize it’s lingering in the back of your mind. “You’re you and I’m me.” 

Hugh’s hands move to your hips, gently squeezing them. “He really hurt you, didn’t he?” Hugh asks quietly. 

“Hugh…” 

“I’m not him, baby.” 

“I know you aren’t.”

“Good because I know a good thing when I see it,” Hugh affirms. 

You bite your lower lip and look deeply into his eyes, feeling your heart swell at his words and at the sight of him. You can tell how serious he is, how his gaze doesn’t falter. “I like being here. With you,” you admit. “And I’m not just saying that because the sex is amazing.”

“But that’s one of the reasons, isn’t it?” Hugh winks, letting out a quiet chuckle. “You know, I haven’t slept that good in a very long time. Something about having you next to me brought me a lot of comfort.”

“You have a way of words, don’t you?” You smile, leaning up to gently peck his lips. 

Hugh laughs quietly and pulls away from you to walk over to the plate of food. “I just tell the truth, baby.” 

You roll your eyes and sit on the stool, looking up at him as he takes a bite of the egg and spinach omelet you created for him. He lets out a quiet groan of approval and looks in your direction, grinning. 

“So, you can cook too?” 

“And make coffee,” you wink. 

Hugh arches a brow and takes a sip of his americano, brows raising upwards. “Wow. Yeah, I need you around here like… All the time. Can we arrange that, you think?” 

“Hmm,” you look up in thought, resting an elbow on the island. “I will need some closet space, a corner on your bathroom counter–”

Hugh lets out a laugh and sets his fork down to walk towards you, turning your body on the stool until your back is resting against the counter and his hands rest at either side of you, caging you in. He bends down so that you’re at eye level with him, a smirk lining his lips. 

“Whatever you want, baby, you’re gonna get.” He leans in, brushing his lips against yours. 

You move to wrap around arms lazily around his shoulders and stare into his eyes, running your fingers through his hair. “You should finish your breakfast. You’re bulking up for Wolverine, so you need your calories.” 

“I also need some cardio too,” Hugh grins. “Wanna join in on the session?” 

You bite your lower lip in anticipation and nod slowly. “Meet you upstairs?” 

Hugh shakes his head and moves his hand to your hips, lifting you off the stool with ease and placing you on the edge of the counter. “No, baby, gonna need you to wait right here for me.” 

“Like a good girl?” you ask, bringing your hands to play with the buttons 

Hugh grins and nods, continuing to eat as he stares at you,eyes dropping to see your legs cross over one another. Then, he reaches out and taps your knee. “Leave ‘em open for me.” 

You nod and then spread your legs for him, looking up at him in excitement.

Hugh’s eyes narrow and he takes the last bite of his omelet. He sets the plate in the sink and then walks to stand between your legs, reaching up to undo the button on the shirt you’re wearing. Once it opens, he clears his throat and moves his hands to push the shirt off your shoulders, exposing your chest to him. 

“Gonna have an early morning dessert, if ya don’t mind, baby.” Hugh smirks, hooking his fingers into your panties and sliding it down your legs. “Been thinking about this since last night. Tastes so good,” he growls. 

Then, Hugh dips down between your legs and you feel eyes roll in the back of your head once his tongue darts out to taste you. 

—

It’s been a full week since you spent the night and Hugh craves more and more of having you in his home with him. It’s been a very long time since he’s felt like this and he’s known to fall hard and fall fast, but he’s being careful this time around. He doesn’t want to push you if you aren’t ready, but he can’t help the way you make him laugh and smile, how he feels more at calm with you by his side, and how excited he gets whenever he falls asleep with you in his arms because he knows he’ll wake up with you by his side. 

Hugh knows that he’s going to get busier as the months pass, knowing that for the next year, he’s going to be focused on preparing to come back as Logan. While it should deter him from continuing to see you and committing himself to a relationship, it surprises him that it doesn’t. He isn’t the type of person to take things for granted and he always went after what he wanted, and you– Well, you have been such a nice surprise and he can’t even think about the possibility of letting you go. 

He thinks back to the last time you were here, teasing him about how you would need closet space and an area in his bathroom for your things. You might have been joking, but Hugh takes it seriously. He’s already given you more than enough space in his closet, walking inside to see the vacant space along the wall. He stands there, arms crossed over his chest, as he imagines your things here with his. 

Hugh’s mind drifts when he hears his phone ring. He looks down at it and sees your contact name; he always smiles at it: Swole-mate 💪

“Hi, baby,” Hugh answers immediately. He can’t ignore the way his heart rate speeds up, his stomach doing flips in excitement just to get a chance to hear your voice. “You almost here?” 

“Yeah, just a few minutes out,” he hears you say. “Are you sure spending the weekend is okay?” 

Hugh leaves his closet and begins descending the stairs to greet you. “If I had it my way, you’d be here for more than just the weekend.”

With the silence that comes from you, Hugh just knows that your mind has drifted and so when you pull into his driveway, he hangs up the phone and waits until you park to approach you. Once you climb out of your car, your eyes meet his and Hugh smiles, walking towards you. 

“Your mind just doesn’t shut off, does it?” Hugh says, taking your hand and gently pulling you to him. “What’s goin’ on in that beautiful head of yours, baby?” 

“Nothing,” you sigh, resting your cheek against his chest as your arms come up to wrap around him. You feel safe with him, but you know that you both need to have a serious conversation about where this will go. He had mentioned to you that his schedule was going to get busier and you wanted to know where you fit in with all of that before you allow yourself to fall in deeper. 

Hugh brings a hand to rub your back, placing a gentle kiss at the crown of your head. “I don’t believe ya,” he says. “Let me grab your things and we can head inside and talk?” 

You nod and release your hold on him, watching him walk towards your trunk to grab your duffle bag filled with clothes and toiletries to last for the rest of the weekend. Once he shuts your trunk, Hugh reaches out and takes your hand in his, leading you inside his home and up the stairs to his bedroom. 

You’ve been thinking so much since the last time you were here, trying your best to stay in the moment and not expect too much, but when Hugh mentioned his schedule for the next few months, you started to pull away. You didn’t want to put your all into this if it wasn’t going to go anywhere. Hugh sits at the edge of his bed and looks up at you, head tilting to the side. 

You’re pacing back and forth in front of him and he reaches out for your hand to pull you to stand between his legs. 

“Hey,” he says softly. 

You don’t look at him, letting out a quiet sigh.

“Baby,” Hugh says again. “Look at me.”

You clear your throat and turn your attention to him. There are tears stinging your eyes and you aren’t even sure why you’re getting so emotional, but there is a bit of fear knowing that this may be the last weekend you would spend with him. 

“Talk to me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s goin’ on in your mind.” 

“You’re going to be busier,” you point out, biting the inside of your cheek. “And I don’t want to hold you back. I know we literally just met two weeks ago, but I’m okay with ending things the way they are now. It’s been more than amazing to spend all this time with you and–”

“Ending this?” Hugh interrupts, confusion written all over his face as his brows furrow together. “Do you not want this?” 

“No, I do!” you sigh, looking down at your hands that are currently holding onto his. “I just– I don’t want you to have to worry about me while you’re away shooting and you’re going to just be so busy. I know what you do for a living and it’s to be expected, but I just feel like you’d worry while you’re away and I don’t–” you let out a shaky breath and shake your head. “Am I even making sense?” 

Hugh sighs. “You are making sense,” he reassures, bringing your hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on the back of it. “But I guess I just don’t understand. You won’t be holding me back.”

“Hugh,” you close your eyes for a moment and release his hands to wrap your arms around his shoulders. “I like you a lot and it scares me,” you admit. “It scares me because I don’t know how I fit into all of this. Into your life.”

“Really?” Hugh asks. “Because I can see it so clearly.” 

“What?”

“I can see how you fit into my life so clearly,” Hugh repeats. “And you’re not tied to a job here. You travel for work too and I may or may have not talked about you to Ryan and Shawn…” he admits quietly. “Anyway, I know it’s scary because this scares me too, but I can’t…” he shakes his head, looking up at you as his hands move to rest on your hips. “I can’t even fathom letting you go and I don’t want to either.”

“I’ve given my all before in a relationship and in the end, it only hurt me…” you reply with a shaky voice. 

“I know,” he sighs, eyes softening as he slowly stands up. Your hands drop from his shoulders to his waist as Hugh’s hands cup the base of your neck, keeping his eyes solely focused on yours. “And I can’t promise that everything will always be okay, but I can promise you that I’d always put you first. No matter what. Whatever this is between us,” Hugh continues, his thumbs brushing against the corners of your eyes as he feels a couple of tears trickle. “I want to believe that it’ll work out.” 

“We’ve only known each other for two weeks,” you whisper. “I’m way in over my head. You must think I’m crazy.” 

“Like I said… You have a lot of love to give,” Hugh whispers, gently pecking your lips. “And I’d be a lucky man to be on the receiving end of your love one day.” 

You bite your lower lip and wrap your arms around him tighter, moving to rest your forehead against the crook of his neck as his hands drop from the base of your neck to rest on your lower back. Hugh can feel the weight lift itself off your shoulders as you relax into him. He peppers kisses along your cheek and tightens his hold on you. 

“Feeling better?” Hugh whispers into your ear.

You nod against him. “Yeah, thank you, Hugh.”

“All I ask is that you talk to me, baby, okay?” He asks, pulling back to look down at you. “Whatever is bothering you, I don’t want you to hold it in. I’m here to listen.” 

“God, you really are perfect, aren’t you?” you laugh quietly, pecking his lips. 

Hugh smiles to himself. He realizes that he hates seeing you upset and when he hears your laugh and sees the smile on your face, he feels proud, accomplished. “I’m not perfect.” 

“I’d say otherwise,” you smile, looking deeply into his eyes. “I’m not used to talking about what’s bothering me or my feelings, but I’m learning.”

“This will always be a safe space, okay?” Hugh tells you. “You’re safe with me.”

You hug him tightly, burying your face into him as you let out a sigh of relief. You feel his arms tighten around you and it brings you so much comfort. Being here with him, in his arms, brings you comfort. You feel him fall back onto his mattress, taking you with him as you curl against his side, arm draped over his abdomen as his arm hooks around your shoulders. 

“So, you told Ryan and Shawn about me?” you ask, looking up at him. “As in the Ryan Reynolds and the Shawn Levy?” 

Hugh laughs. “Do you describe all people like that?”

“Only celebrities,” you correct. 

Hugh looks down at you and shakes his head, a smile lining his lips. “I did, is that okay? I know we never talked about who can know and who can’t…”

“It’s okay, Hugh,” you reassure him, kissing his chest. 

“I’d tell the whole world, if I could,” he says honestly. “But whenever you’re ready, baby.” 

You nod, shutting your eyes as you rest against him. “Thank you,” you whisper. “For not pressuring me. For going at my pace. I know it must not be easy, but you have no idea how much it means to me.” 

Hugh hooks a finger under your chin, eyes scanning your features as he bites his lower lip. Your eyes remain closed as he brushes his thumb lightly along your jawline. “I’d wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”

“Yeah,” you smile, turning your head to kiss the pad of his thumb. “You’re perfect.”

Hugh laughs to himself and then holds you tighter into his side. “So, I also told Ryan and Shawn you were a photographer and they may want to meet you to discuss a few things.”

“About my work or about us?” you open your eyes at that, looking up at him.

“About your work.”

“But I’m an engagement photographer, and last I checked, they’re both already married.” 

Hugh smiles. “Well, I also showed them your other work…”

“Oh, but those weren’t really serious… They were just for fun. Landscapes, street photography.” 

“They were just as good, baby.” He tells you. “And it’s possible,” he grins. “Or rather, they will be asking if you’d be interested in being our on-set photographer, taking pictures behind the scenes.”

Your eyes widen slightly, looking into his eyes. “That would mean I’d be there with you.”

Hugh nods slowly, the grin remaining on his lips. “Exactly, you’d be there with me on set of Deadpool & Wolverine. You sure you won’t get tired of me?” Hugh asks.

You shake your head and move to straddle his waist, resting your forearms down on either side of his head on the bed as you feel his hands move to your hips. 

“Isn’t that a question that I ask?” you tease, nose brushing against his. 

“It’s a valid question.” 

“No, I won’t get tired of you, Hugh. How can I?” you whisper, brushing your lips across his own lightly. “I mean, I think you’ve ruined other men for me.” 

Hugh growls and wraps an arm around your waist, rolling you over onto your back as he settles himself between your legs. “Good,” he says huskily, rolling his hips against yours. “Because you’re mine now.”

---

taglist (if links don't work, i'm sorry!): @corvusmorte - @dragonqueen89 - @whimsiwitchy - @kellyxo1 - @wolviehugh - @moonxknightx - @sullyselena - @angelofthorr - @spectorrrhgf - @needz1nk - @fandomxo00 - @godlypresley - @kythefangirl25 - @callsignyourmom

[annalacerda17]

Lan Wangji is a greatly misunderstood character in this fandom. I think it's partly because the fandom tends to misinterpret Wei Wuxian's influence on him, which has to do with how Lan Wangji's attitude towards rules changed after the time skip. In my opinion, some fans interpret this to mean that before the time skip Lan Wangji had prioritized the rules over doing the right thing, and that he changed because of Wei Wuxian. This is untrue.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have always had very similar moral compasses. However, they grew up in very different environments, and have always had vastly different social status. To me, this is why, when faced with the sects' bigotry pre-timeskip, they reacted very differently despite agreeing as to which side was in the right.

Lan Wangji grew up in the Lan Sect, a place where the rules are highly valued and enforced, and under the care of Lan Qiren who, despite his flaws, was a very reliable parental figure to his two nephews as they grew up. Moreover, the Lan sect is the one place where the rules seem to be enforced impartially most of the time (I'm not going to account for the Madam Lan's situation, because the novel never gives us a clear answer as to what exactly happened in the past).

Having grown up in such an environment, with such an identity, it makes perfect sense for a teenager Lan Wangji to believe that most, if not all problems, can be solved through the system. It would make no sense if, upon learning about what had happened to the Wen remnants, Lan Wangji's reaction had been to abandon everything and go live in the burial mounds with Wei Wuxian (and let's not forget that Lan Wangji did not actually learn the truth about the Wen Remnants at the same time that Wei Wuxian did, he had to sneak around to be able to see Wei Wuxian in person and find out the more accurate information this way). On top of everything else, his sect -his family- was actively restraining him.

So, Lan Wangji's reaction was to verbally defend Wei Wuxian and to use his reputation and political weight (which was not that much considering he wasn't a sect leader and his sect had still been rebuilding at that point) to try to sway the public sentiment in the right direction.

And at one point, it seemed doable. When Wei Wuxian was invited to Jin Ling's 100 day celebration, that seemed to be a sign that the sects might be willing to compromise. Even Wei Wuxian thought so, despite not trusting them completely.

Then, it turned out to be a trap

All of the events that happened from this point forward showed Lan Wangji that he couldn't trust the system. Outside of the Lan sect, the rules didn't matter, only power and status did. The system was skewed in favor of those in power, regardless of who was right. And that was a lesson Lan Wangji had to learn the hard way. Moreover, Lan Wangji was forced to face the fact that when the sect's interests were put in the balance, even the Lan Sect didn't stand on the side of good. While they didn't necessarily support corruption openly, they did deliberately avoid investigating anything properly. They chose to believe the information provided by the Jin sect -their sponsor- despite Lan Wangji's attempts to tell them the truth. It also exposed the Lan sect's hypocrisy, because they, too, judged Wei Wuxian based on his cultivation and his social status, which led Lan Wangji to understand that the rules couldn't possibly account for the complexities of real life - this why he refused to "repent" even as he was being whipped bloody by his sect.

So it wasn't Wei Wuxian's influence that taught Lan Wangji to stop relying on the rules, it was the experience of trying so hard to do what was right, having followed all the rules, only to be betrayed by the system he had trusted. That's why after the time skip he no longer relied on the rules. He respected the rules when possible, but he didn't take them as seriously as before.

Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, grew up very differently. His parents had been rogue cultivators - people who lived freely without being restrained by sect rules. When they died, he became a beggar at a young age, and while this experience didn't break him, it did teach him to be self-reliant. Later, he became a disciple of the Jiang sect, where the Madam was a lunatic who was obsessed with his mother and targeted him everywhere. Wei Wuxian was also placed as a companion and retainer to Jiang Cheng, who was a piece of work even as a child and became progressively worse as the story went on. By the time Wei Wuxian rescued the Wen Remnants, Jiang Cheng had grown to be a cowardly, stupid, jealous asshole. That's to say, the authority figure in the sect he had been a part of was utterly unreliable - had been unreliable under Jiang Fengmian, but became even more unreliable under Jiang Cheng.

Having grown up in such an environment, Wei Wuxian had always known that the rules apply differently to people of different social status, regardless of right or wrong. Even so, Wei Wuxian did express his point verbally at the Jin sect's banquet, only to have it dismissed by that loser Jin Zixun and his corrupt uncle Jin Guangshan, solely based on Wei Wuxian's lower social status. Therefore, Wei Wuxian chose to take action directly, because he already knew there would be no way he could get the right thing done by following the rules. He was right about that.

This doesn't mean Wei Wuxian is morally superior to Lan Wangji. They were both teenagers dealing with a problem that was much bigger than themselves, in a situation where the odds were stacked firmly against them. They both did the best they could in the only way they knew how.

Later on both of them felt that there were things they could have done differently, but that's because they had matured and gained more experience. Their moral compass did not change.

[xinyuehui]

I couldn't put on a finger on why the whole tiktok migration to xhs left a sour taste in me until I got annoyed at recent subtle sinophobic comments towards Love and Deepspace left in the tags. (It's a Chinese game that has a global/English server)

Which had me thinking and seeking out if other people felt the same way. The Americans found a new platform, the Chinese on the platform are welcoming and attempts to speak to the Americans in English. Cool, what is left? The third group of people out here that aren't Americans or Chinese in China, it's us Chinese diaspora that live outside of China (in particular the west). We learnt English, forced to erase everything Chinese about ourselves to fit in here fit in there but never fully get accepted into any community. Online spaces are no better, we get all sorts of hate even though we are all communicating in English. One comment that I read on tumblr here a while back that really struck me was op posted something regrading Chinese culture and some white person dismissed op for having a Chinese url so they must not speak English to speak on a Chinese topic.

Americans barging themselves into other people's spaces seemingly with no effort is the most white privilege behaviour ever. Some of them don't bother learning the language, the culture, or social etiquettes. To call it 'refugees' in this current climate is lowkey insensitive even as a joke. Some are just outright racist saying they are there to colonise the app. The offhanded uninformed political jokes are also on thin ice. If this was reversed and a massive group of Chinese people suddenly joins instagram/twitter/tumblr, starts posting in Chinese, the comment sections will not be as 'haha funny' and 'wholesome' as the ones on xhs.

White people posting selfies on the app is harvesting thousands of likes and compliments is the prime example of white privilege, they don't have to work hard to get far, boosting their egos further more. How am I supposed to feel even when I share something on here of my culture either get no recognition or sinophobic comments?

There's a sense of helplessness when I see my people pandering to the white, similar to when Chinese diaspora/Chinese in China on the discussion of cultural appropriation. The experiences the two groups have are vastly different. I don't blame them for this. China, for the most part, is still a very closed society, a handful of them probably never left the country, interacted with a white person or had any prejudice against them for being Chinese. To them, it's just an amusing conversation or two without much thought. At the end of the day when the Americans leave the app, it'll be another fever dream. But for us, we still have to go to work with these privileged white people, come home from work to what I thought was a Chinese safe space to find that insufferable co-worker is on xhs going 'hello China [google translate some nonsense]'.

That said, I suppose for me who is able to post this on tumblr is a somewhat privilege move. For the people in China, it is an avenue to interact with Americans on a large scale without having to use a vpn. The welcoming atmosphere gives me peace knowing that to be respectful is still in our core. For the Americans, whether they are on the app out of spite without thinking of the consequences or to learn about China with an open mind, only time will tell if they will remain on xhs after the fad dies out.

[iwillbringyouruin]

Visions Magazine with Tobias Forge on the idea behind Rite Here Rite Now, the importance of soundtracks in general and how he distinguishes between himself and his characters (Visions Magazine issue nr. 377, 08/2024)

Full translation of the included interview by me below the cut - buckle up, this is a long post! There are no spoilers for RHRN in this.

Markus Hockenbrink: Tobias, have you ever watched the movie Metallica: Though The Never?

Tobias Forge: Yes, once, when it had just come out. The topic Metallica came up when we were taking care of the funding for [RHRN]. Every larger production company – and I have to emphasise here that this was before Taylor Swift’s The Eras Tour and her extremely successful movie about it – voiced a lot of concern back then whether anybody would still be interested in concert movies. I had to explain time and again that my movie wouldn’t be a typical concert movie, to which I was asked several times: “Oh, so something like Through The Never?” I had to deny that again. We tell a story in our movie most of our fans are already familiar with. So it’s not an entirely new concept, which is already the first distinction from Through The Never. If you only consider that there is a concert part and a feature film part, then those two movies are probably similar. But that also applies to La La Land.

M. Hockenbrink: You describe your movie as a combination of Kiss’ Alive II, Ralph Bakshi cartoons and silent film horror. Is that a kind of childhood dream that comes true there?

T. Forge: Definitely. For as long as I’ve been interested in music, I’ve also been interested in film and television. Working in film could have also been a career option for me, but I always got the rather annoying impression that one would have to go to film school to really find a place in that field. School was never my strong suit, I see myself more as a autodidact in that regard. That I had the opportunity to work on/contribute to my own movie as a sorcerer’s apprentice of sorts is a real privilege. That is a dream come true but it is also something I can picture more of in the future. Next time maybe without the band.

M. Hockenbrink: Can you remember a specific moment in your life when you realised that you were especially drawn to topics that are slightly morbid and unsettling?

T. Forge: I think that due to my family I came in contact with vastly different kinds of pop culture from a very young age. In more traditional families with more conservative parents and siblings of similar ages, you only really start with your respective journey to find yourself in your teens. Then there are often restrictions that are meant to distract from those darker influences. My parents on the other hand are very liberal and my brother was 13 years older than me. There were never limits or censorship for me. My childhood didn’t go by without rules entirely, but I was always allowed to watch or listen to what my brother was also watching or listening to. That way I was exposed to all kinds of teenage culture from the beginning. Sure, I also liked Pippi Longstocking and He-Man. But that was always combined with the French arthouse films my mother liked to watch or the horror flicks my brother was into. I can’t recall a particularly striking horror film experience, but I still remember the first time it dawned on me that movies don’t just exist, they’re made.

M. Hockenbrink: How do you mean?

T. Forge: My father worked as a documentary maker in television. His job was to connect the video track and the sound track in a fitting way for different film production. I saw Jaws on television with him as a small child. It’s important to note that my father is not somebody who can just quietly enjoy films but somebody who likes to butt in. Thanks to him I already had a kind of epiphany during the introduction. He said: “Look closely! There is nothing to see in this underwater scenery except the algae. Technically completely harmless. But it only takes the ominous music to turn the whole scene into pure horror already!” And I thought: Wow! That’s true! Later in the movie you only have to hear that music and it immediately puts you on edge, even when there’s nobody in the water right now. They don’t even have to show the shark anymore. I found it fascinating that the [viewer’s] senses/perception could be manipulated like that. Ever since, I’ve been viewing films with different eyes. I can still allow myself to dive into the story but at the same time I see the practical aspect to film-making.

M. Hockenbrink: I had a similar feeling during the introduction of Shining: technically a cozy road trip in the mountains, but a pure nightmare with the music.

T. Forge: I’m with you on that. Shining is one of the best movies of all time. And funnily enough, only the intro sequence was actually shot in nature. All the other scenes, even if they were outside, were filmed in the studio. Exactly that kind of craftsmanship is what I find inspiring.

M. Hockenbrink: With that in mind, what makes a good soundtrack in your opinion?

T. Forge: We already talked about Jaws, but I can think of Eyes Wide Shut as another example. There is that short piano theme that comes up again and again, incredibly effective. A good soundtrack needs to deliver something that you don’t have to be able to see to perceive its existence. Sure, there are no monsters in Eyes Wide Shut, aside from the main character’s jealousy as an internal monster maybe. But just like the music in Jaws, the theme from Eyes Wide Shut symbolises something that doesn’t have to be shown. The sound is enough. That is also a commonly used effect in adventure and love movies. You just put in a short vignette to describe the love between two characters. In Star Wars, Luke Skywalker also has his own theme, that is used every time when things get emotional and you’re supposed to feel that hope. You’ve got to pay attention to that. Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th also has a personal theme to recognise him by. Every time you hear it you immediately know “Oh shit, he’s nearby!”

M. Hockenbrink: What about soundtracks that are made up of songs?

T. Forge: With that, I’m especially thinking of Silence of the Lambs. In the scene where Buffalo Bill dresses up as a woman and dances around his basement, a song called Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus is playing. I have no idea how the artist felt about that since the song is now so irrevocably connected to that awful scene, that you can’t listen to it anymore without thinking of it.

M. Hockenbrink: Do you feel like soundtrack work is more appreciated now than it used to be?

T. Forge: I think that it’s definitely gained importance over the last 40 years. The right song on the right soundtrack can be incredibly powerful. Just think of Stranger Things. Obviously, Metallica and Kate Bush already had successful careers before, but what happened with Master of Puppets and Running Up That Hill following the series was something else entirely. The songs were associated so strongly with the narrative, that way more people listened to them than before. Of course I’m a strong advocate for live music but I also realised that nothing is as strong as the connection of visuals and music. That is still the most powerful way to appeal to a deeper emotion through the association.

M. Hockenbrink: More or less a shortcut to the subconscious.

T. Forge: Exactly. But you can’t be cynical about that either. If I was an A&R person at a big label, I would probably also say: “You just have to find a spot for one of your songs on a popular soundtrack, then you’ll have made it!” That’s really how it is. But when you view it from an artistic perspective, when you want to reach people a certain way or bring across a certain message or a certain feeling, the combination of visuals and sound can’t be topped.

M. Hockenbrink: It especially lends itself to an immersive experience, as seems to be in the foreground of [RHRN]. An album by Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden ends at some point, then you’re gone from that metal world again. With Ghost, however, you get the feeling that the illusion just keeps on going, across several media. Did you plan the Ghost mythology like this from the start?

T. Forge: In part. When I started with the band, I only wanted to make a standalone album. The concept was supposed to be interesting and practical, but I wasn’t planning for Ghost to be a huge thing. The style I pictured has its own limits in my opinion. The band was supposed to function a certain way and appeal to a certain target audience. The concert was supposed to be a theatrical performance in the literal sense. Ghost were never supposed to perform in a normal rock club nor go on tour. I wanted more of a kind of Vaudeville show in a proper plushy theatre. The band was supposed to be as anonymous as the actors that stand on stage and play, say, Faust. The idea behind this was: Those who don’t know who the people are on stage are more ready to follow the story. Then we would perform three days back-to-back in select cities. Berlin, Amsterdam, London. Just like Diamanda Galás who can more likely be found at a culture festival than in a rock shack. But things turned out differently in the end, and I had to kiss my original ideas goodbye again, so to speak.

M. Hockenbrink: Why?

T. Forge: After the success of our debut album, it became clear to me that more conventional concerts were going to be demanded of us and that I could only really say yes or no. This problem became worse after our shift to a bigger label. It became clear that my vision of telling stories clashed with the live sector and requirements for success more and more. At a certain point anonymity doesn’t work anymore and I had to make peace with that in the end.  I originally didn’t even want to do interviews but that’s obviously tricky when you want to sell records. The question that I constantly ask myself since is how I can do those things best in the Ghost way without denying the original Vaudeville spirit.

M. Hockenbrink: In his autobiography Golf Monster, Alice Cooper talks about himself in third person a lot when he is talking about his character. Are you feeling similarly at this point?

T. Forge: At least I can definitely see where he’s coming from. There is a difference between the person Vincent Furnier and the character Alice Cooper. I believe that he was on the verge of completely transforming into Alice Cooper at one point – to the point where one has to decide where they want to live or die. In the end he decided to remain Vincent Furnier and only become Alice Cooper for work, on stage. So far I’ve been fortunate to combine the two pretty well, but had I started Ghost ten years earlier in my life, it would have probably affected me similarly to how Alice Cooper did with Vincent Furnier in his time. But with my humble experience as an actor I have to say: every character you play becomes a part of you to a certain extent. You have to find certain qualities – good or bad – within yourself to bring such a character to life. I think that most actors only play one or two roles throughout their life that they then end up being known for. The different characters that I’ve portrayed on stage are not only very similar but actually also a part of me. Fortunately a part of me that I don’t want to deal with all day long.

M. Hockenbrink: Too cynical and antisocial?

T. Forge: Cardinal Copia or Cardi, as I like to call him, is not an all-around cool person, but that makes him so fun to play for me. He is half Freddie Mercury and half Jacques Clouseau. Kind of clumsy, kind of silly, kind of stupid. The kind of guy who trips over his own feet but catches himself elegantly. That’s also me in a way, but not just. And I think that’s easier to embody than a daredevil hero character who can rival anyone and gets all the ladies. When somebody plays only those characters their whole life, it will probably really go to their head. Especially when there are drugs involved on top of that.

M. Hockenbrink: With all that fondness of doom that can be found with Ghost, that universe also has something humorous about it, benign even. It that an intentionally included contradiction?

T. Forge: Yes, and it is also very important to me that it comes across like that. For me that also has something to do with the evolution of metal. Originally it was mostly a phenomenon connected to the youth, nowadays the musicians and their fans are close to retiring. That brings a certain maturity. Even the Norwegian black metal musicians who were super pissed and extreme 30 years ago and were only made of hate and aggression are well-adjusted people now. Bearded fathers and grandfathers with a pleasant view on life that make others laugh. I see a certain duality there. Everything that has something to do with goth, with metal, with horror, appears dark, dismal and hostile at first. But in reality, that can all be extremely life-affirming and a source of great joy for many people. So pretty much the opposite.

M. Hockenbrink: Speaking of horror: could you imagine making a real feature film some day?

T. Forge: Yes, I would love that. I’m well aware that it’s not going to be easy to make what I’m picturing a reality, just because I’ve done directing once with [RHRN] now. The creative liberty I got to enjoy there also was due to the fact that I funded the movie myself. So nobody was meddling with it. That is likely completely different when you work on behalf of a big studio, because we are talking about different sums here. If I only go off my dreams, I would name two points of reference. One is Shining, the other Bram Stoker’s Dracula by Francis Ford Coppola. I would like to make a movie that’s only shot in a studio, with elaborate sets, matte painting and all that. No outside shots, no special effects, no green screen. And no actors who only gets to see what they were actually doing after the fact. Proper old-school. The way movies are actually meant to look.

[erriga]

THE QUARANTINE QUERY

(tl dr I didn't vibe with the demo for some silly and not so silly reasons)

Welcome to my special post where I will try to explain my personal problems with Quarantine and the general creative and narrative direction the next game seems to be heading towards. I decided to write a longer text instead of a couple of bullet points, because one does not simply write a thesis about a game just to later complain about it in a sarcastically laconic tone.

Things this essay is going to be:

my opinion/critique

an analysis

a reflection upon my feelings about the series in general

Things this essay is not going to be:

an angry rant about the new game in the spirit of they changed it so now it sucks

an attempt to prove that old pathologic = smart and new pathologic = stupid

Ok, with the disclaimers out of the way, let's get into it, and by it I mean levels of pretentious nerdiness unknown to many.

I wrote down four statements that describe my general feelings about the demo. They will serve as a frame of reference for what my critique will fundamentally touch upon instead of trying to fit every possible complaint I might have in a disjointed fashion. Here they are:

I feel like Quarantine expects me to:

Consider Dankovsky to be a specific Character in a specific Story

Believe Dankovsky has an internal world that can be mechanically represented in the ludo-narrative

Find said internal world to be compelling enough to let it filter the whole experience of the game

(presumably) emotionally connect with Dankovsky due to all of the above

If all this sounds confusing - good! Keep reading, it's going to get even better.

So, is Daniil a character?

Yes, of course he is. But what does it mean in the context of the original game compared to Pathologic 2 and now Quarantine?

Over the years I've come across vastly different opinions about the quality of character writing in the original Pathologic. I am not including complaints about the English translations or other technical aspects, just the most basic tendency of how the game portrays its characters. Most people I've seen who have passionately engaged with the game (including me) tend to describe the original game's characterizations as nuanced, complex and strangely realistic despite their rather theatrical tendencies. But I've also heard others say the exact opposite. That the characters don't feel like real people at all, their personalities are incoherent and fall flat due to a lack of consistency, and that every single one of them, from an old man to a literal toddler, falls back on the same pseudo-philosophical cadence, which while attempting to make them seem deeper ends up dehumanizing them even further. And even though those two opinions seem to be contradictory, I think that they are both the exact same reason why the writing of the original game captivates me so much. Because it doesn't really matter.

I wrote my thesis about the brechtian influences in Classic. One of the most characteristic aspects of the Epic Theatre is the attempt to remove illusions typical to traditional theatre, among which is the illusion of a character's psychology. I believe that you can absolutely argue that the characters in patho 1 were designed to behave like Brecht's characters - lacking internal psychology, mainly serving as mouthpieces for political and philosophical arguments, more so types than individuals. But here's the catch - I believe it's actually impossible to create a character completely immune to identification, because we as humans love to project our silly little emotions on pretty much anything, including animals and inanimate objects. Compared to those cases, Gorkhon's gallery of strange individuals is a painfully human display. So it's no wonder that many of us did indeed relate to those weirdos, just like nothing can possibly stop an audience member from identifying with Mother Courage or Galileo in Brecht's play. But the fact still remains that none of those characters were designed with this kind of simple emotional identification in mind and thus the attachment we may feel to them is more of a byproduct than the main goal. Taking a character who was meant to be analytically pondered and instead adopting them as a breathing human being is in that case, almost an act of rebellion. It's like saying, this is mine now.

Coming back to Daniil, this lack of clarity of how much he was written with this sort of characterization in mind is the main reason why I found him so compelling, he always kept me asking: is this part of Daniil as a coherent whole or is it just a philosophical stance which I should ponder at this moment or is it the writer's attempt at predicting what the player (presumably a straight male player) may want to say through this character? Does Daniil say "wow" because that's how he speaks, or is it just an oversight? Am I supposed to treat optional dialogue as things he would say or just things that are sometimes said in his world? The point is I DON'T KNOW and I love that I don't know that! It gives me so many posibilities! To me Daniil's character isn't so much about what he exactly says or does, but rather the internal logic that guides him. And I am the one who can choose its exact mechanism. He is mine.

Meanwhile, I feel like Quarantine wants me to treat Dankovsky like I would treat most other characters in traditional/popular media. Here are his personality traits. He is intelligent, he says so himself, and that lady over there also said it and he knows science and formulas and speaks Latin. Here are his thoughts. He has a memory about this thing. He feels guilty about that. I suddenly have a whole army of simple sentences that are meant to help me umderstand Daniil in this new iteration. Not so much a puzzle but a construction manual. And I'm not saying that this way of storytelling is fundamentally bad just because I can parody it as simpler than it really is. I want to engage with the new game's writing on it's own terms but so far I haven't done that mostly due to the giant dankovsky shaped object blocking the view.

Speaking of-

THE BACHELOR-CENTRIC MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE

This demo is so much about Dankovsky that it almost makes me embarrassed in his name. And honestly, I'm surprised I feel that way, considering how much I usually enjoy stories where a character's perception shapes the narrative to a great extent. I love symbolic dream sequences, guilt-driven visions and unreliable narrators. But the way Daniil's perception of himself and his surroundings doesn't really feel like a service to him as a character, but rather a narrative shorthand to spoonfeed me, the player, the most relevant information. The way Daniil's thoughts appear around objects is realistic to the extent that yes, human thoughts can be often rather simple and disjointed but there are moments where I think this mental streamlining is detrimental to his characterization and rubs him of nuance. The worst culprits of that are (IN MY OPINION):

Him calling Eva a ray of sunshine

The part where he references the fact that he and Artemy always fight about whose methods are better

Any time Daniil or someone around him refers to him as especially intelligent

Mr Little's Special Tutorial Perspective or Please Daniil Explain This To Me Once Again

None of those ideas are fundamentally bad, not at all. I'm curious to see his relationship with Eva develop, I want to see him interact with Artemy more like they did in the original, I can see some great ironic potential in the constant hyping up of Daniil's intellect and yeah, I hope Yakov is revealed to be some secret government agent or something. But I'm annoyed that I feel like I can predict all of this from just a couple of lines in the demo. I want to be confused and unsure of my own judgement. I want to be proven wrong, surprised, and ashamed of my own surface level analysis. And that can still very much happen, perhaps even in the comments on this very post or once the full games comes out. But right now I feel rather pessimistic.

I don't have a good segue for this part so now let's talk mechanics.

PRESS B TO EAT A CIGARRETE

The new mechanics try to break away from the body-first focus of the original game and the way Pathologic 2 expanded on those ideas even further. This time it's all about the mind, baby. Which - again - on itself isn't a bad idea. If this game was just 2 with different dialogues it would be very hard to justify its existence as a stand-alone product that needed to somehow be funded over those last 6 years. But the result to me feels more like novelty for novelty's sake. Not everything of course - the diagnosis part of the gameplay is definitely its most well-designed aspect, and there is a consistent logic behind it. Where Artemy saw systems, Daniils sees individual parts, where Artemy had to rely on luck, Daniil controls all the variables etc etc. The same, however, cannot be said about some of the other new mechanics.

Managing Daniil's mental state doesn't feel that much different than making sure Artemy drinks enough water and I personally think it's a wasted opportunity. I'm not going to insert myself into the discussion about whether the game's use of terms associated with bipolar disorder is accurate/tasteful because other people with relevant experiences have already voiced their opinions about that and will hopefully continue to do so in the future. My point is - regardless of what exact mental condition or more general function of the human psyche the game is trying to convey, it does so in a manner so simplistic that it doesn't encourage me as a player to connect with it on a deeper level. Apathy is blue because it's sad, Mania means, well, mania so it's red. Once again, I have only experienced a small portion of the game's final system so I might be in for a surprise and perhaps I will get to see Daniil experience something... purple?

Also adding to my previous point about switching perspectives - I think this mechanic will be an absolute gut punch in the final game. I hope it's something akin to the original meeting with the Powers That Be, especially with the way multiple characters can "jump" into one conversation at any moment. This will surely be utilized for some mind-fuckery and I can't wait to see it. I think this is also the one aspect of the demo that gives me the most hope as far as my beloved emotional confusion is concerned. Because what is the switching of perspectives supposed to indicate really? Are we supposed to filter it once again through Daniil's perspective because of the framing device of him recollecting the events? So nothing we learn by getting the insight into other characters' thoughts can be taken at face value because that's just how Daniil sees them? Are those other/new characters even real or just exist in Daniil's psyche? Does it have something to do with the time travel blahblah? Or are we not playing as Daniil at all but some other entity entirely? That's the main question I hope I don't get a clear answer to but rather contradicting paths to follow. But despite that optimistic outlook I still need to get into the final aspect that made it difficult for me to engage with the new game on its own terms, and instead deciding to take its dead corpse apart.

I CARE TOO MUCH BUT NOT ENOUGH

I just can't get over the fact how much this game wants me to identify with Daniil or at the very least find him cool. Cool as in how modern characters are often cool. Wet cats, chaotic bastards, jerks with hearts of gold and vaguely homoerotic energy with other male characters. And I'm not saying this as an insult, narrative trends are a thing, I find many of those archetypes to be endearing more often than not, but my problem is that it still only serves Dankovsky as our center of the world. By flanderizing him and making him fit into a more recognizable character archetype we lose the feeling of him being always at odds with the world around him, the way he used to be conflicted over every single thing in the original game. This new world is too suited for him to be a hero of his story, a tragic hero but a hero nonetheless, while in my opinion what made him uniquely tragic in classic was precisely the fact that he wasn't anyone's hero.

I know this constant comparison to patho classic can get tiring, so let me use another point of reference which is also the reason why I am even writing this post in the first place - The Marble Nest. I love the marble nest. I find its narrative structure to be expertly crafted, emotional beats placed in just the right places and godd i still cry over the fact that they put his soul into a nutshell. And the funny thing is that TMN does share a lot of similarities with the new demo. It's a Daniil-centric story with a framing device that encourages us to look at the entire experience as Daniil's impression of the reality around him. It's a short and rather simple experience with a strong central theme. So why do I feel so emotional when Daniil talks to the death in that game but feel pretty much nothing when he talk about dying in Quarantine? Maybe because The Marble Nest is still steeped so deeply in the theatre influences which I hold dear to my heart while Quarantine moves away from them and maybe towards another medium entirely. Theatre never pretends to be reality and it's artificiality is always front and center. Film meanwhile often has the tendency to try to replicate reality or even try to be reality itself. In one of those cases I feel like an active audience member and in the other like a passive voyeur of some vision of reality. Or to put it simply, in one case I am afraid of Death and in the other, I am watching someone act out being afraid of death. That is a highly personal preference though and I'm genuinely happy to see that many people do indeed relate to this portrayal of Daniil, especially when it comes to how his mental problems are displayed front and center. And that's amazing! I want to see all the fan input that comes out of it and I hope the final game delivers on everything they hope for. But for me? I think I might need to take a back seat, at least for now. Watch the scene from afar, perhaps get a fuller picture. Because I want to care and understand and know and feel. I really do. But sometimes it's not possible and that's also good.

So, if you've read this overwritten mess to the end, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart and encourage you to voice your opinion. Art doesn't exist without discussion so let's discuss!

POST-SCRIPTUM - ON THE NATURE OF MAKING GOOD THINGS IN YOUR PAST

One last thing I wanted to add which feels highly relevant to the my critique is the question of what to do when someone says they liked your old work better? I like to think of myself as an artist and I think that many of us do, even without getting into how according to Beuys everyone is an artist. So you make a thing, some people like, perhaps many people do. So you keep making things, you grow with them, change, realize your old ideas were often childish or naive which you can only do through gaining experience. So you make new things, often drastically different from the ones you made before. And someone says "I liked the old stuff better". And they don't say it as an insult, even though it may sometimes feel like it. Because you cannot recreate whatever you did in your past. And you want to grow. Does that mean that you got worse instead? That you peaked in your past and it's all downhill from here? Of course not. You know that. I know that. I hope every artist knows that. And yet it still hurts. It hurts to be perceived as a line graph when in reality you are a recursive function.

----

all images made by me, the ones with yellow background are from a shitpost animatic, the white one was a joke I made after hearing the famous"sherlock mind palace fruit ninja" pitch, and the last one is me in my Daniil cosplay. Goodnight Bikini Bottom

[meanbossart]

What horror games have you played/wanted to play? Also have you tried any rpg maker horrors?

I actually don't play that many horror games, I don't think? Between you and me most of them are... Kind of garbagee. But I like when really weird things are taken dead seriously, which most video games don't succeed at. But in the rare time they DO, it usually falls into the "horror" genre at least loosely. I'm just going to list my favorites:

PS: I'm really showing how insufferable I am with these summaries, sorry!

The Outlast series: the most Tasteful tasteless gory-shit-fest of a horror series I've ever seen. I don't like shock for the sake of shock, and Outlast somehow manages to always make it for the sake of SOMETHING. The original game+DLC is a buttload of fun, and if you pull back one layer it also poses some interesting and difficult questions about the place and treatment of the criminally inclined in society. Pull yet another layer back and you find a fascinating subversion of the expected role men are supposed to inhabit in horror games. The second game is a vastly different, and profoundly emotional experience, opinions on it vary for reasons I find very understandable, but I personally really like it.

Fear & Hunger: I guess this answers your question about RPG horror games! Unfortunately, this is the only one I ever played that I liked, but REALLY like it, I have a tattoo of the circle of perfection on the back of my hand, even, lol (I already had other hand tats, don't freak out). I just really like the absurdity of the story and all of the lore that the developer has cooked up for it, and the way it all matters but also kind of doesn't. I think its an insane feat to have achieved the atmosphere he did with the limited tools he has, not to mention the massive amount of respect I have for any creator that simultaneously wears their influences on their sleeves while displaying massive creativity and originality.

Pathologic: This game kind of speaks for itself honestly. Its just brutal, creative, infuriating, I could go on - It's probably the most immersive experience I've ever had in a game. If you've never played it before I would suggest buying Pathologic 2 (don't worry about it) and playing it completely blind. Forget about "winning", forget even about succeeding, just go about it as if you were in the protagonist's shoes and see where you leads you.

Scorn: Without a doubt in my top 5 games of all time and I don't care that that is an insane take. This game is everything I want from interactive stories - entirely intuitive, doesn't spoonfeed you a single grain of its lore or pushes its story on you, it just puts the pieces in your hands and its up to you to feel it on instinct. This 5 hour game with no dialogue, no text, not even any named characters to speak of had me crying at its ending and I didn't even know whether I was sad or overjoyed. I fucking LOVE scorn.

Honorable mention:

The Space Between by Christoph Frey (not to be confused with The Space INbetween.): Is a short, 30 minute experience about intimacy presented through a horror lens. I really don't want to say anything else about it, but I played it like 5 years ago and I still hold it near and dear to my heart. It's a master's guide to storytelling through semiotics and exemplary in it's... Emotionally charged visuals? Like, I had never before seen a story make sentiment into and external, tangible thing quite like this one does, like turning sound into an object or something. Amazing little indie game.

[hiyokosha]

What is Wrong With Kuon Based Off 17 Episodes and My Delusions : A Brief Essay

I started writing this as a joke and it got out of hand, so if the tone of the first half is kind of weird that's why. Anyways, here's my unfiltered unedited rant.

First thing that one needs to establish is the difference between Hisamitsu and Kuon; usually ‘Hisamitsu is dead’ could be understood as a metaphor instead of being taken literally. However, in Gozyuger, someone being ‘dead’ is a very important thing and also has the vital importance to Tegajune and her experiments, so in my opinion it is a comment that should not be ignored. We have established in the show so far that one, Hisamitsu is the one that entered the No. 1 World with Hoeru; Two, Hoeru is very much similar to Hisamitsu; And three, Hisamitsu is dead, and Kuon likes it to stay that way. 

To understand the importance of the comment, perhaps we can start with the name. ‘Tono Hisamitsu’ means ‘Far Field Lasting Light’. Kuon is a play on that name, and while written in Katakana, in the context of the Kanji it represents it means ‘Far Lasting’’. There’s a distinct sense of Hisamitsu being contorted and abandoning the ‘light’, which is quite fitting. However, despite the insistence that Hisamitsu is dead, Kuon still seems to be obsessive over Hisamistu’s brother, and he still addresses Hisamitsu as himself, despite saying that everything about Hisamitsu irritates him. There’s several possibilities about why he made this name change. Popular theories includes that he’s an AI like the rest of the Bridans(So his name and feelings are distorted because an AI cannot understand Hisamitsu’s complicated emotions), that he is ‘half dead’(like the experiments the queen is conducting), and also just his experience in the No One World screwed him up enough to make him feel disgust or anger over the type of person Hisamitsu was(very likely!).

Hisamitsu has not been shown a lot on screen, but we know that he was vastly different from Kuon. Coming from Kuon’s mouth about how Hoeru reminds him of Hisamitsu, it seems that Hisamitsu was genuinely a very kind-hearted person, much unlike Kuon. Hoeru stated that Hisamitsu would never berate him like Kuon had done, and grabbed Hoeru’s shoulder and shielded him when they were running from No Ones. Even just the fact that Hisamistu cared enough about Hoeru to be playing with him in the forest despite an 8 years age gap speaks a lot to how tight the brothers’ were. We know even though Hoeru’s kind of naive in some situations, he’s a good judge of character. Despite being affected by Kuon’s words in ep8, he didn’t join him in ep9, as he realised that Kuon is no longer the caring Hisamitsu. I think it’s also interesting that Hoeru thought Hisamitsu was dead because of something he had done. I feel like that incident, whatever it is, is probably the most deciding factor for Kuon’s obsession with Hoeru. 

There’s something fundamentally different about Kuon and Hisamitsu that the No One World distorted in a way it had not done to Hoeru. Personally, I think it might be that despite his speech in ep8 about no need for a dream, he clearly still wants something. From his obsession over Hoeru to whatever he’s plotting with saving Hoeru’s ring, he is perhaps the single character in the show who has shown the most ‘want’, just that the audience isn’t sure of what he wants. By contrast, Hoeru is someone who is truly dreamless. He survives and maybe experiences what he had lost in his childhood, but there’s nothing pushing him to truly live and ‘want’ like the others. So he survived the No One world with his sanity intact. On the other hand, Hisamitsu could not truly abandon his wish for whatever reason, so the No One World changed him. 

I also say that he clearly has a wish because of one of the most informationally dense lines from ep9 - “You will not escape this fight, Hoeru. I(ore) will destroy you, and then you will destroy me(boku)” (俺がお前を壊してやる！そしてお前が僕を壊す....) It is basically a confirmation that Kuon does ‘want’ something, even if that something seems to be mutual destruction of some sorts. But is it really mutual destruction? Despite the weight that line holds, the most interesting part is also the one most easily lost in translation. Kuon swapped his pronoun in this sentence, from ore to boku. Japanese pronouns are something that is quite complicated to get into, and a person often uses different pronouns in different situations. But stripping it of the social complexities, basically boku is something that is considered to be quite youthful and soft, while ore is the most most often used by adults and teens around friends and families. While it could be an adrenalin thing(and Kuon is said to lose control when he does get high on adrenaline), it should be noted that his emotions got more intense towards the end of the sentence, where he reverts to boku, even going so far as laughing maniacally. I feel like the line is written purposefully enough to be considered a plot hint. It should be noted that Kuon usually uses ‘boku’, and only ‘ore’ in some situations. 

Now we need to go back to Hisamitsu again. I feel like the key to this sentence is ‘what pronoun Hisamitsu uses’, and figure out what each pronoun represents in Kuon’s psyche. I could not track all the situations where he used ‘ore’, so I might have missed some that overturned my hypothesis completely. When it comes to the brothers’ line ‘You are my prey’, Hoeru uses ‘ore’ and Kuon uses ‘boku’, with one exception - when Hoeru was checking Kuon’s identity in ep8. Kuon, stating their childhood catchphrase, used ‘ore’. As the context clue implies that this line was actually Hisamitsu’s invention, it seems more likely than not that ‘ore’ is actually what Hisamitsu had used around Hoeru instead of ‘boku’, as Kuon now does. His other case of ‘ore’ that I can be sure of is ‘You have never beaten me in anything, Hoeru’, which seems to support that ‘ore’ is used when referring to his time as Hisamitsu. However, that assumption does make everything much more complicated. Why would Hisamitsu want to destroy Hoeru? Why would Kuon want Hoeru to destroy him? To be fully honest I do not have a good answer or even a guess to this question, and all I can offer on this topic is a surface level analysis of what he had said. It has been noted in an interview it was stated Kuon, and perhaps Hisamitsu, is someone who holds hatred for a lot of things, despite the appearance of love. So it is perfectly possible that Hisamitsu could have disliked Hoeru in his heart, but just never showed it. The truth of the pronoun switch could just be Hisamitsu/Kuon’s struggle between hate and love. His devotion to what seems to be numerous murder attempts against Hoeru and the strange action of protecting his ring Tegasword could serve as evidence to this theory. 

Speaking of love. In my opinion, the defining trait of Kuon’s character is the complete imbalance of love and control. I think it’s interesting how he is written as an extremely abusive, manipulative, and almost comically evil egomaniac, so much so that even his fellow generals call him out on multiple occasions, but his love for Hoeru feels just as real as his insanity. I think there’s no doubt that Kuon loves Hoeru, the true question here is how much of that is out of the wish for control. One of the most creepy things about Kuon is his seeming inability to realise that Hoeru is his own person. To some extent, he idolises Hoeru. “An angel that descended from heaven, my hope, my love, my doll’, is, in every way, an extremely strange comment to make about a grown 20 years old man. I think Kuon holds a view of Hoeru so detached from reality that he cannot see that his brother had grown up and into his own person. He sees Hoeru only as his baby brother that he had lost once. He sees young Hoeru, and even Hisamitsu, but he cannot see the current Hoeru in front of him. Because it doesn’t fit into his idea of Hoeru, so it is not real. Love, to Kuon, is control, and control is love. He loves Hoeru, and he wants to control every aspect of Hoeru, so that Hoeru is still the idol that he loves. Hoeru cannot have bad friends, so I will kill them to make sure he is not influenced by the wrong people. Hoeru should listen to me, because I know what’s best for him. 

I think ‘Let’s get married, Hoeru’ is a very intentionally written and good line because of this fact. It’s established in behind the scenes that this was a sentence said by Kuon when he was letting the rush of battle get to him, and something that Hoeru couldn’t hear. It isn’t a declaration of love said to anyone- but a deeply ingrained want for control mistaken as love. Tegajune and Kuon reflect each other in this battle. They both mistake control as love. There's a very distinct lack of love in the ‘wedding’ between Tegasword and Tegajune. Tegajune wants to marry Tegasword for her wish to remake the world, not because she truly loves him, and she mistakes that want for control as love. And while I believe that Kuon does love Hoeru to some extent, I feel that what this line truly wants to convey is the very opposite of what is said - that Kuon doesn’t understand what love is. It’s a twisted imitation of love. A wedding proposal should be romantic and loving - but the portrayal of that line is the exact opposite. His proposal was crazed, one-sided, and hurting Hoeru. Whether out of insanity or just a fundamentally twisted view on the world, to Kuon, love = control. I think in some ways, this is much more frightening than if Kuon just hates Hoeru or wants to hurt him, because he can’t even recognise that what he is doing is the worst for Hoeru.

I think that whatever is wrong with Kuon - it truly depends on what happened on ‘that day’ his promise to the Queen. There’s three clues as to what happened. One, the wound on his back. It clearly has something to do with Hoeru, as we were shown him taking off his shirt to check the state of that would while talking about Hoeru. It should be noted that this scar is clearly not from Hoeru’s attack, as he only landed once when there’s a x shaped cut, his clothing is not ripped, and that the scar is still growing and reaches the top of his shoulder by the end of the shot. There’s something corrupting him and actively causing him pain, and I theorise that this wound is in some ways, what caused the brothers to separate. Two, whatever happened on that day, the Queen saved him and gave him power, and in exchange he promised his life to the Queen. Which makes his comment about destroying each other even more confusing because that means he can’t let his life be taken by Hoeru out of his own will, which means that the ‘destroying’ probably means something other than killing, but that’s a mystery for another day. Three, Garyudo is something different from Gozyugers. He can use the Queen’s power to transform, but he is not Tegajune’s pilot in the way the Gozyugers are. Garyudo’s full title is Ring Hunter Garyudo - meaning that this is a form designed specifically to hunt rings instead of being Tegajune’s chosen one. In some sense he’s more like the universe warriors. The prerequisite for the wedding is all the rings and the Tegajune’s destined pilot - the best No One. Despite doing his job and defeating Tegasword, Kuon is not the pilot Tegajune is looking for. Which is curious because DarkWolfDecalibur50 is made for him and that Tegajune has a form called Bride Blade… But they could just not show her form in the show I guess. It’s an interesting dynamic, as Hoeru’s Tgeasword’s special little guy even out of the Gozyugers, but Kuon can’t even pilot Tgeajune… However, I feel like Tegajune does care about Kuon somewhat, saying that she knew he’d ask to be her pilot, and then even allowing him, despite knowing it could screw up the ceremony. Perhaps she also sees him as one of her children, despite being born human?

There’s also a few details that I wonder about, but couldn’t fit anywhere, so I will just throw them all into this paragraph. Having strangle coloured hair/eye colour is a clear indication that one is not human(see:The Bridans and Rikuo’s grey eye case). Kuon isn’t as extreme as his fellow generals, but there’s a clear streak of white in his hair. Maybe hinting at him being AI generated in some ways like the others? His eye also glows yellow when transforming while Gozyugers’ eyes stay the same but it’s probably a stylistic choice of some sort. The scar eroding his eye and showing up on Garyudo is creepy though. Likely also a stylistic choice but the implication that Garyudo is also a biological henshin inside the armour… 

Anyways, this rant of an essay is almost over. I am not quite sure what the takeaway is, but I have been having a lot of thoughts about this guy, and want to get it all out. I typed almost all of this in one sitting, so once again, while I tried to keep some notes, take everything I said with a grain of salt. Feel free to correct me on anything I got wrong and give your own opinion. I am very curious where Akiko is taking him. She is one of my favourite writers so I am quite intrigued. The Decade Novel she wrote was far from flawless, but still absolutely one of my favourite toku media. Thank you for reading, it was quite fun writing this.

[asktheritochampion]

yoooo revaliiii waddup. Happy pride my dude

ummm but speaking of pride, I’m thinking of coming out to my family next week. My mom first because I feel like she’d get me most.

I’ve been scared to for as long as I’ve known I was bisexual. Which has been like, four years. I’ve just never gotten to telling my family yet because they’re religious (albeit not strictly, but either way).

I have literally zero way to support myself if they reject me/cut me off, even though the chances of them doing so are highly unlikely. I’m just scared. What if it harms my relationships? I just don’t wanna loose what I already have.

sorry for dumping that all on you, but you’ve probably come out to Teba and Saki and others. I just don’t know how I’m gonna look myself in the mirror if they say I’m something unholy or unworthy of love. Which, again, probably won’t happen, but the threat of it is keeping me from saying anything. My family is everything to me and if I lose that, I might lose myself

best regards and happy pride, master revali!

'Coming out' as bisexual isn't something Rito typically need to do, in fact most would consider bisexual to be the norm amongst our people. Even back in my day before the Calamity, it was rather traditional for male warriors to bed one another the night before important battles for good luck and prosparity, and most women had relations with other women around the village while their husbands were away on missions for weeks at a time. Many Rito life bond with others of their own gender identity - I beleive Nekk and Huck who run the Braizen Beak armour shop in town are pair bonded.

However; I can understand that in Hylian culture it's rather a taboo thing - and I am not without experience in hiding...other aspects of my quer experience from those around me for the purpose of safety.

Your desire to express yourself and to be accepted by loved ones is rather normal, however I would advise against making any decisions until you are certain of the security of your position. Safety comes first, unfortunately

Perhaps you could broach the topic first in an unsupecting manor. Bring up in conversation that you have a friend or colleague who has an interest in multiple genders to guage their reaction. Ensure that you yourself present the topic in a positive manor - people often mimic the emotions of those around them, and if you seem alright with the concept then they are more likely to react in a positive way too.

If they do respond in a neutral or positive manor, perhaps continue the conversation by querying if they know or have met any other queer people. You may find yourself suprised that despite one's religious beleifs, they've lived full lives you undoubtably know little about - which could include brief questioning of their own sexuality or periods of friendship with others who live vastly different lifestyles.

Perhaps even bluntly query that if you or one of your sibblings had questions about their sexuality, would your primary caregivers still support you? It's not giving them any immediate indication to react poorly, but should give you a confidence in whether or not this is a safe discussion for you to have.

Rest assured, whether or not your blood relations respect or support your life choices; there is a rich community of queer individuals all over the world - accessable to you easily from home through your household purah pad. Even if you feel unable to safely confide in your parental figures, there are plenty of individuals out in the world who will always have your back, and as you grow and someday become able to leave home, you shall be able to find your own chosen family who shall accept you for all of you.

[blueskittlesart]

It was my understanding that BOTW Link found the Master Sword at a very young age, and Mipha notes how it changed him from a carefree child to stoic soldier

we don’t know exactly when he found it, so i actually don’t consider that detail an AOC timeline difference! you’re right that it’s implied that he was much younger than the average soldier, but exactly HOW young is unclear. creating a champion suggests he was somewhere around 12, but there’s no game source for that so it’s technically non-canon, and given that he was likely around 15 or 16 at the beginning of aoc, he’s also very young to be a soldier in that timeline. most other soldiers we see are implied to be adults, or eighteen at the very least, so even as a young teenager link would have still been at least 3 or 4 years younger than everyone else in the royal guard, which i would argue is still a significant enough age gap for him to be considered a kid. as for mipha’s comments, i think it’s important to note that 1. being a zora, she is experiencing time on a vastly different scale than link (and she has very little experience with hylians outside of link pre-calamity) so natural hylian aging would likely seem incredibly dramatic to her, and 2. we don’t actually know how much time passed between her encounter with him as a child and their first meeting as champions. we can speculate somewhat based on their respective ages, but mipha is very much an unreliable narrator when it comes to hylian aging and timescales. so tldr that wasn’t TECNHICALLY a change between the botw and aoc timelines because aoc does actually fall within the theoretical parameters we have for the botw pre-calamity timeline. because it’s so vague there’s a ton of wiggle room, and i personally prefer a link who found the sword a little younger than what aoc portrays, but yeah :)