#Context: none of them were subjected to it live

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

# with trafalgar water d. law.

it was said that those trapped inside his sphere were then nothing but a helpless patient on his operating table. law made sure you, too, would experience it.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day three. medical play. glove kink. smut (mdni)! fingering (reader!receiving). freaky law. use of devil-fruit. double penetration. afab!reader.

WC: 2.5k

it was an agreement that the captain of a crew was the most valuable asset. law had matured into such a position with natural ease — powerful and intelligent; responsible and menacing — yet, his most arduous and important role relied neither on his battle skills nor on his plans. law was crucial to the lives of crew due to his extensive anatomical knowledge and the devil-fruit whose power could heal whatever ill. he was reliable, organized, logical. shame had no place within the walls of the infirmary, for law cared not for the cause of the disease or the placement of a pimple — instead, he all but strived to get rid of it.

the gratefulness and cheerful compliments thereafter were fuel to his ego, the confirmation that he had fulfilled his duties as a captain. law drew pleasure from the fact that he was one to execute a role unique amidst his crew. he had taught them concepts of medicine and surgery — to have a set of aiding hands, at least — but none of those with whom he shared the submarine were fit to nurse themselves to health. that diligent performance, more often than not, brought him a greater sense of power than the one granted by victorious battles.

it was an achievement; a task; his father’s legacy. law treated his patients with utmost professionalism, the character of their shared dynamic long forgotten if one had to be examined. it was a neutral space; undiscriminating. his ethics were thorough, his examination was immaculate. the mere thought of law losing focus during such instances was inconceivable. that was, of course, until you were the subject whose back pressed against the examination table.

the prelude itself had been virtuous. your limbs were sore during the aftermath of an arduous battle, minuscules cuts adorning your skin due to the offensive character of your opponent. law had insisted on treating you, regardless of how minor were the gashes. the memories were a vivid talon that had claimed his mind: your knee pressed against your chest as he stretched your muscles; the perspective from being atop your figure; your mellow breaths of relief whenever his fingers succeeded in undoing a tense knot. law had grown hot, then, forced to hasteness for the sudden tightness of his pants would be sure to denounce the perverted thoughts.

the second time was one of prolonged misery. a mosquito bite from a foreign island had left you bedridden; feverish. a frailer state of mind and manners, hazed by the consequences of a higher temperature. from soothing massages to the press of ice-cold thermal bags — your comfort became his most favored goal. the pain, however, proved to be overbearing, and the product of such given relieves came in the form of multiple moans. a press of his hand had you sighing; the cool, metal touch of his stethoscope against your burning skin made you beg for longer contact. whenever law dared to place a damp towel above your forehead, you’d lean into his touch and plead for him to stay.

yet, the occurrence that snapped the strained thread of his mind had been during a routine checkup. your mouth was open wide; law had a thin, small, wooden-stick on your tongue, striving to check on the health of your throat. he teased your gag-reflex, a gloved thumb pressed against your lower lip. law had lost his senses at the sight of your tears, the wild rise-and-fall of your chest, a context much too similar to that of a blowjob. the examination was cut short, and law had spent an entire hour in the shower right thereafter, fisting his cock; chasing a fleeting orgasm that had refused him, for your touch was its demand.

the infirmary shifted into a somewhat sinful ambience. the metal table was but a surface on which you could be ravaged. the stethoscope an instrument he could use to listen to the pace of your heartbeat, its increase gradual to his thrusts on your pussy. and the gloves. rubber moistened with your cum and spit; the act of stretching it near you, for it would then strike at the growing-sensible flesh. law wanted to witness the middle in which pain and pleasure converged — and you had been the chosen subject.

fleeting touches; warm breath hovering above your earlobe; the caress of your leg, under the table, with the point of his shoe. the guaranteeing of your restlessness coated in faux aloofness. when the teasing, at last, conquered its desired effect, law had the infirmary far more than prepared to receive your storm. his nape had burned under your gaze throughout the later hours of the afternoon, and when law stepped inside the maddening room, he was well-aware that you would be soon to follow.

he hid amidst the shadows, reveling in your confused-etched expression as you walked through the infirmary’s door. when you reached the center, law locked it, the force of its shutting enough to produce a loud, startling noise; echoing through the metal hallways of the submarine. you jumped, glancing at his frame placed by the door. law’s eyes drowned in the sight of you, thoughts swirling to the fantasies whose realization was of absurd importance.

“is something wrong, captain?” you inquired, arms crossed.

law’s steps were slow; calculated. he approached you as though a leopard surrounding its prey. you grew wary, retreating without forethought until your hip-bone collided with the examination table.

“how are you feeling tonight?” law grinned at the sight of your confusion, the increasing nervousness all but exciting him further.

the sound of his palms slamming on metal had you shrieking, yet law did not seem apologetic. he all but devoured your trapped figure, cursing the chaste knitting of the jumpsuit — though the sight of his crew’s symbol above your chest sent him a jolt of uncontrollable possessiveness.

“i’m fine,” you stuttered, clearing your throat and clinging to the fabric of your garment. “better than ever.”

“is that so?” law mused, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. his fingers were but a hook on your chin; curled and unyielding. “you’re a bit pale, wouldn’t you agree?”

“captain, i don’t—”

“doctor,” he corrected through rough intonation, forcing the angle of your face to match his own.

“doctor,” you echoed. while the grunt of lust at the sound had been contained, the same could not be said about his member — a gradual erection, borderline painful.

he sighed in faux disappointment, allowing his hand to wander; to hover above your chest. “you leave me no choice but to examine you.”

you were left out of words, mouth agape as your mind struggled to wrap itself around that turn of events.

“sit. you know the drill,” he commanded, and once you had done as such, law turned on his back, striding towards the locked drawer whose contents were the ones adjusted to fulfill the standards of what he meant on doing. his movements were languid, patient. at the absence of sound on your part, law tsked, angling his head so as to glare at you. “strip.”

your spontaneous gasp of bewilderment had a smirk etching on his face. “captain, i— what?”

“doctor. and i don’t plan on repeating myself,” he scolded, fishing the stethoscope from its previous spot. “i taught you the proper way to listen to one’s heartbeat. forgot it already?”

“oh,” you breathed out sheepishly, tugging down the zipper of your jumpsuit. law at last understood the root of your hesitation, for you wore nothing but a bra underneath. his mouth dried up, and he dared not readjust his gaze. “i thought, well, nothing. it was silly.”

“no, please, enlighten me,” he requested, positioning the stethoscope around his neck.

the growth of tension escaped past your pores as though a leaking faucet. “just, with the touches and the glances, i figured you were in search of another thing entirely.”

“and what would that be?”

your movements ceased midway, the upper half of the jumpsuit a dangling fabric at your sides. you hid your face from his glance, though his focus remained on the inviting sight of your cleavage.

“you know—”

“i do not,” law detached his figure from its previous support spot on the table’s edge, languid steps guiding him to you. “and a decent patient does not keep secrets from their doctor.”

you were caged, forced to lean back as law angled himself forward. the sudden exchange of energy, due to the temperature divergence between your spine and the metal, made you hiss. your back arched out of instinct; your chest pressed against his own as a consequence. mere inches separated his face from yours, his breath fluttering your eyelashes. your pupils dilated when law tossed his blue coat aside, the half-unbuttoned shirt he wore doing nothing to shelter his bare abdomen and chest from your lustful eyes.

you gulped; wild rise-and-fall of chest. “sex.”

he hummed, putting on the stethoscope’s ear pieces. its chest piece teased the warmth of your skin, movements too erratic to catch the proper pace of your heartbeat. “i can’t hear you, say it louder.”

you were aghast, stuttering as he smirked with malice. sentences sounded muffled; chaotic breathing hindering the performance of the tool. law placed the stethoscope aside, feigning dissatisfaction.

“it seems i’ll have to scan it closer on,” he stated, a twist of his wrist enough to teleport your heart to the palm of his hand.

it was a beating wonder; a rampant pace. the source of your life secured in between his teasing fingers. clutching it would have you howling in pain, stabbing it would reap your soul; an unfathomable, despising, thought. when it came to the negative consequences to a severe act of violence committed to one’s heart, law was well-versed. the soothing touches, however, were unprecedented territory — for now.

law drew your heart closer to his mouth, ever-so-tender. he blew a careful gust of air over the delicate flesh, and the kiss thereafter tore a devastating moan from your lips. droplets of sweat bubbled from your pores; your pupils buried the tone of your irises; your limbs all but trembled. law failed to contain a groan, losing balance at the blood flowing through his aching cock. he was desperate to witness that reaction yet again.

“take it all off,” he instructed, voice coming out strained due to the effort to keep himself from crumbling.

he laid your entire body on the examination table, struggling to ignore your whimpers as the fabric slid down your legs. law sliced the rubber gloves, discarding the pieces meant for the palms.

“room,” law detached his fingers, guiding them to the glove holes; covering them in rubber. he returned to you, breath catching at the sight of your body, bare and trembling, a marvel bestowed upon him. “the doctor will see you now.”

“please, doctor,” you mewled. “heal me.”

without further ado, granted the privilege of his devil-fruit, law guided his floating fingers to your cunt. a gloved thumb teased your clit through circular movements, two fingers parting your folds. he was aghast at the amount of lubrification caused by the mere press of his lips on your heart. law shoved his middle-finger into your cunt, coating the rubber with your essence. a loud whimper had his cock aching, and law grew worried, much too selfish to share your sounds with the external environment.

“silent,” he rasped, latching his lips to your heart, leaving a trail of kisses on the flesh. your back arched, a muted moan tearing through your throat.

he witnessed the squirming of your body; the violent trembling of your legs. his ring finger accompanied his middle one, scissoring your cunt as his thumb maintained a stable eight-pattern on your clit. law’s warm tongue teased your heart, and the shout of pleasure whose sound the barrier had silenced was his latest straw. law undid it, shoving his index and minor finger into your mouth.

“suck it,” law commanded, having your spit coat the rubber. his mouth dried, a wet patch visible on the fabric of his pants.

the swirling of your tongue around his fingers had his cock twitching, yet law had no hands available to unbutton the belt. he clicked his tongue, and the fingers inside your holes had switched, activating his devil-fruit regardless of the detachment.

“shambles,” his pants and underwear teleported to a meaningless spot.

law detached his cock and removed the pair of fingers from your cunt, for the particular warmth and wetness were meant to be claimed by his cum.

“doctor,” you babbled, voice muffled by his fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks as he applied pressure to the entrance of your ass. “it’s too—ngh much.”

“you’re still sick,” he cooed, teasing your folds with the tip of his member. “and i must treat it. can we proceed with it?”

you nodded, gagging when he shoved his fingers deeper — unrestrained by the confines of his tendons.

“speak,” he insisted, neglecting your inability to produce proper words.

“yes,” you cried out, sending vibrations through his fingers.

“yes what?” law snapped, teasing your entrance with the tip of his middle-finger.

“yes, doctor,” you coaxed in sheer desperation, trembling with need.

law hummed with satisfaction, careful during the insertion on your butthole. the rubber had enough of your essence to serve as a form of lubricant, yet he wished not for you to feel pain. his tongue licked strips on your heart, and your throat produced but an orchestra of boisterous moans, half its sound muffled. a never-ending pace of kisses to your wildly beating heart served as decent distraction, and when law slid his middle and ring fingers into your ass, you barely ever felt it.

your high was a powerful force, drowning his floating cock in your cum. law trembled, rutting his hips out of instinct, the movement itself useless as his member was no longer attached to his body. law marveled at the sight of you, covered in sweat and spit; squirting all over the examination table. he was drawn closer as though a senseless sailor to a siren’s aria, lost in your contorting features, the pleasure written all over.

your eyes met his, wet with past tears. “can i treat you, still?”

law feared that he had crossed a line, far gone in his bliss to remind himself that, although there were no limits to what he was willing to give you, the same could not be said about how much you were capable of receiving.

yet, after a minute, your breathing stabilized and your cheeks briefly hollowed, tongue swirling around his fingers. he removed them, if only to facilitate your speaking.

your voice was meek; hoarse. “treat me ‘til the end, doctor.”

he groaned when your lips parted, head weakly moving to accommodate his fingers. law’s member started to stretch you out, making itself at home within the walls of your cunt. you trembled, sensitive, and law moaned as his cock was coated with the essence from the previous squirting. he paid attention to your expression, fingers scissoring inside your butthole as he matched the pace with that established by his cock.

law caressed your heart, busying his mouth with the press of soothing kisses on your face. he shoved his cock past what was humanly possible, brushing the tip on your cervix; returning it to your entrance and ramming it inside yet again. your moans were the most entrancing melody he had heard, and law caught himself comfortable enough to produce similar sounds.

you tightened around both his fingers and cock; cunt and ass giving in to the overbearing tides of pleasure. your voice failed you, and law had his fingers removed from your mouth in order to listen to the sound of your bliss without restraints. the veins of his members twitched; he felt the knot close to its undoing. yet, it was the bulge of his tip visible through your stomach that had his vision covered in dark spots.

his grip left your heart — out of safety — as his orgasm washed over him, converging with your cum. he rode his high, careful as to observe your face and retrieve once the stimulation became too much. you were left limp on the table, a brief vocal command of his devil-fruit returning the detached limbs to his body. he threw the damp gloves on the trash can, and helped you sit, holding your heart in order to return it to your chest.

when you kissed it — shuddering at your own touch — and observed him through your eyelashes, law, however, became more than willing to ruin the infirmary further.

— 🐈‍⬛ : dear lord this was nasty. i love kinktober.

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

Can you do a reaser g/n who is the equivalent to John wick. With Steve

♡ [TFP] STEVE/ST3V3 HCs!

anon, you asked after i said reqs were closed but i lowkey think the request is FIRE because the idea factory started going overdrive… it's kinda short though! forgive me :,,)

scenario: you're here because you get paid, a super efficent mercernary with a penchant for violence and the vehicons adore you for that, especially the one with the worst luck known to Cybertron

warnings: one sided from steve angst(?)

— He knew he wasn't supposed to, ST3V3 knew damn well he was never supposed to but how couldn't he? So what if you're a higher ranking bot and he's just an expendable clone! You technically don't have a rank though… You're just a mercenary-for-hire Megatron calls upon when everything's gone to slag. You make it clear you don't work for the tyrant and that you're only here because he has you on his payroll which all the vehicons are jealous of. But they respect it too. It makes you admirable in a way.

— And your lack of an alignment does make you a gamble for his benefactor but ST3V3 couldn't resist, even if he shouldn't. It was pathetic really, how, Pit, not even kindness but basic decency had him so utterly smitten. Only other mech was Breakdown but Breakdown was more of the pleasantries and conversation kind, you were actively saving their lives and from a trip to the medbay.

— It was the little things that really got to him. The fact that you bothered to remember the codenames of all the Vehicons you met, the way you actually tried to make sure none of them got hurt when you're one-on-one against an Autobot… And you get real violent.

— But he'd be lying if he said seeing you covered in energon wasn't ominously attractive in some strange kind of way. Maybe he's sustained too much blaster damage to his helm…

— He kinda also wants to be in the same position as those sorry Autobot troopers beneath you but in a different context.

— There's something about being treated like an actual individual that gets to him a lot. While you certainly aren’t a conversationalist, your cautiousness to make sure more Vehicons don't get terminated and the way you acknowledge their existence is sparkfelt to him. You somehow even knew who was who despite all of them looking almost alike!

— ST3V3's spark skips a beat every time you actually address him by his designation, the name he chose for himself— “Steve”. It's a bit monotone and dare he say, almost in the manner Shockwave would've said it in but even then, it gets him all giddy. Secretly of course.

— But… turns out, most of the Vehicons felt the same way about you. You are certainly a popular subject amongst them, they talk about you at least once a day. However, most of them admire only from a distance. Also, sometimes their talk about you is… less than savoury. It’s like in those movies where they go; “check out that babe over there”, cue someone whistling, “ohhh, i see that alright…”. Basically, they talk like old perverts. And they do envy ST3V3…

— Because he gets to talk to you a lot more than the rest of them. ST3V3 is known for his horrendously bad luck so you end up saving his tailpipe from more damage. Of course, you're doing this as a professional courtesy.

— They don't realize that you see them as individuals because you've never really been around drones before, you genuinely think of them as people and so, you think of them as being on the same team which is the only reason you look out for them.

— Now, ST3V3 and the other Vehicons get more reckless when they're assigned to help you out on missions you're hired for. They're endangering themselves on purpose so you could be their hero. You're like their angel. Even though you are far, far from one.

— ST3V3 still gushes thinking about that day when you held him in your servos for a brief moment when he was about to land flat onto his faceplate because of an explosion.

— At some point, you even have a chat with Megatron about how improperly trained his Vehicon troops are. Having the ball bearings to, respectfully, ask him if the Vehicons have had their combat programming curtailed. Lord Megatron could've blasted a shot right through your chassis for that one! ST3V3 is impressed by your courage. Megatron keeps you around because you're useful.

— ST3V3 is the number one culprit, he's already got terrible luck without even trying. So when you mention ST3V3 to Megatron, he's… he's confused. He has a ST3V3 in his ranks? What? Since when? Why an Earth name? And you just blink in confusion at his confusion. There's an awkward silence between the two of you. Megatron thinks you've gone off the rails by bothering to remember the names of drones. But he doesn't say that to you, judging you in silence but you can feel his judgement, heavily.

— You keep your optics peeled for ST3V3 and try to make sure he's not in a position where he's in trouble but even then, somehow, by some spark-forsaken curse or something (you're starting to believe he may actually be cursed), he still ends up in trouble! Under blaster fire, under debris, under falling Autobots. He hopes maybe someday he'll be under you instead.

— You're not an easily frustrated individual. You never really were one. So you scold ST3V3; the nicest, most polite, well-mannered and sparkfelt (his definition of sparkfelt is basic decency) way any bot as ever dared to speak to him in and he swore he fell even harder. The other Vehicons are seething in jealousy.

— Sometimes, ST3V3 fantasizes about being taken away to your world— wherever it is that you go in your spacecraft after you're done with what you were paid to do. Would you take him there? Primus, he hopes you do. But he knows it will never really happen.

— He gets easily distracted in a fight when you're there so his natural talent for finding trouble comes to him. But you're giving him a mouthful afterwards so… it's still a win in ST3V3’s book! He gets to be saved by you AND gets to hear you talk to him.

— You give ST3V3 a look of acknowledgement in the hallway once and he's been boastful about it to the other Vehicons since. His visor makes it hard for you to discern what he feels so you can't tell his excitement. They're all incredibly jealous.

— One time, he actually did something right for once and you applauded him. ST3V3 has had that memory engraved into his databanks and he's been clinging onto it for cycles.

— ST3V3 gets so awkward around you but you can't really blame him! You're intimidating. From your dark aura to the way you are on the field, it really makes you attractive and scary. Sometimes you crack a joke every now and then, it surprises him a bit but he laughs a bit. He's trying not to laugh out loud and look like a total idiot though‐ He doesn't want you to think he's even worse of an awkward clutz.

— You call him many things; trouble magnet, auto-bait, autobot detector (he's the first one to get shot at), adrenaline junkie, the world's worst good luck charm... many notable names. It's.. kinda funny though so he tries to not let it get to him. But the other Vehicons tease him with it too. Call him an actual pet-name and he will melt though. Something like 'sweetspark' and he's on his knees.

— He's so into you, it's not even funny at this point. ST3V3 wants you badly. So very badly. He gets extremely jealous when he sees Knockout try and shoot his shot at you, he doesn't really do anything about the jealousy he feels nor does he blame Knockout for even trying. He would too if he had a higher rank.

— He wouldn't actually try pursuing you though. ST3V3, as well as the other Vehicons know that they don't have a chance here. They're just Vehicon drones and they'll terminate as Vehicon drones… No matter how much they dream otherwise, the dark struggles of being a Vehicon are endless.

okay guys i'm still not done with OG batch of requests, ik i said i'd only be taking ten but there was an excess amount. so i did the ones that i felt i could write quickly first and moved onto the ones i feel would require more detail and my own special touch last. also pls, pls don't request when requests are closed :(( i feel inclined to write them and end up feeling bad when i don't... theres just like three more though so im good, cooling extra special for my moots :P

[danmei-confessions]

I think we should talk about Wu Zetian, China’s only female emperor, who historically has been regarded as a horrible and brutal leader.

She was born a commoner, became a concubine to one emperor, married his son and then took the role of emperor for herself when he died. She was politically adept, highly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent.

History has accused her of smothering her newly born daughter and blaming a rival for her death. She had that rivals hands and feet cut off and then had her thrown into a vat of wine in which she was left to drown. She gouged out another rivals eyes and had acid poured down her throat. She wiped out 12 entire branches of a clan. She poisoned her mother. Just how accurate these things are is up for debate, but while these things might not all be true, she certainly did have several family members killed. And she did deal with her rivals and her detractors ruthlessly. Yet none of these things would have attracted criticism if she had been a man. She was no more scandalous than any other ruler during that time period.

But! Her rule was peaceful and prosperous. She avoided wars and welcomed ambassadors from as far away as the Byzantine empire. She changed laws so common people could be chosen for roles in government for their abilities rather than their name or status. She acknowledged and acted on criticisms from her retainers. She built watchtowers along the Silk Road so merchants wouldn’t be harrowed by bandits. Her reign saw women given more freedom(the ability to divorce, hold government positions, travel, hunt and ride horses, to be recognized by scholars).

She supported Buddhism and helped the religion spread and grow through commissioning temples, monasteries, and even a statue of the Buddha said to be carved in her own likeness. In the eyes of the common people, she likely would have been an incredibly popular ruler.

She remains a controversial figure primarily because of stories about her personal actions against her rivals by male Confucian officials who were prejudiced against strong and ambitious women and while they undoubtedly exaggerated aspects of Wu’s life, there is still substantial verifiable evidence of her ruthlessness.

We should also be aware that although she allegedly held her power through murder and merciless, according to Confucian philosophy, ‘while an emperor should not be condemned for acts that would be crimes in a subject, he should be judged harshly for allowing the state to fall into anarchy’ and viewed under this lens, Wu did effectively fulfill her duties as a ruler.

So we have a leader of ancient china who had two faces, one who committed acts of vile cruelty against her family and rivals and one who gave her citizens peace and prosperity.

Through a modern lens she can be viewed as an evil woman who rose from humble beginnings and coldly and calculatingly murdered her way into arguably the most powerful position in the world. A rich woman who threw crumbs to her peasant people while she lived luxuriously. She is a deadly woman, a black widow, an evil stepmother, a kinslayer. But according to historians, “without Wu there would have been no long enduring Tang dynasty and perhaps no lasting unity of China.”

The comparison to a modern mr beast obviously doesn’t hold water, but we can certainly analyze jgy to a more comparable historical figure and argue more accurately in a historical context if jgy was a good leader as the de facto emperor as the cultivation worlds Xiāndū.

It’s easy to see the comparisons between Wu and jgy, both were undesirable and deemed unfit by society. But both were politically adept, highly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent. Both had family members murdered, perhaps sharing between them filicide. Both had a clans murdered to a man. Both are thought to have had their faces carved on religious relics for their narcissistic pleasure. Both had watchtowers built as a defense for their people. And both were torn down by the men following after them, vilified and distorted. Both forever destined to be speculated upon and misunderstood. Both of their legacy’s destroyed by rumor and falsification. It would not surprise me in the slightest if mxtx didn’t draw on Wu at least a little bit in the creation of jgy. Both Wu and jgy are culpable for some pretty heinous stuff, that can’t be denied. But like Wu, jgy also has a second face.

Moral bias and character motivation aside, his efforts to build watchtowers, his patronage of religion in the building of Guanyin temple, his fight against political corruption, his years long peaceful reign, his charity, all these things lead to the conclusion that under the rule of Confucian, he more than aptly fulfilled his role as a leader for his citizens.

And if you really want to look at Jgys leadership through a modern lens, we really don’t have to look much further than Ingersoll. “If you want to find out what a man is to the bottom, give him power.”

And really that’s part of the tragedy of his character. Because of his background he excelled when he was in a role of leadership. He was good at it.

Whether or not jgy as a literary character is a good person, is subjective and should not be used to measure his role as an effective leader.

All of that being said, jgy is my bestfriend and I love him and would I die for him.

.

[immortaledd]

Me when I mix Golden Cheese Cookie & Lord Eclipse (TSAMS)

I DIDN’T TOALLY MIX UP THE NAMES AND EDIT THIS POST NOOOOO

If he survived to see the death of his universe.

The fight is over. My enemies are no more.

But so is my kingdom.

My temples, my gold, my treasures, and my subjects. All of them.

I lost everything.

All that was gleaming, all that was mine.

My water carriers, my servants, my status and power.

all those little kids who played on my streets.

Moon. Whose failed assassinations always made me laugh.

Lunar. We had our differences. But none cared for the upcoming of my kingdom as much as you.

My Servant Sun, who died protecting my land.

They all were my possessions. My finest, most sentimental possessions.

Ramble to give some context!

You don’t gotta read this if you see ✨THE VISION!✨

Context of the image

I had a dream. A dream SO CRAZY, it brought Lord Eclipse from the DEAD. It genuinely sounds like a mix of an Alter Forming story and a Religious story. [I DO NOT HAVE D.I.D.]

One night I was getting ready to go to bed - and out of nowhere I just started heavily fixating on Lord Eclipse. I didn’t know why, but I was just extremely fascinated with his lore, details, and the possibilities of new context. That night, I went to sleep. I dreamt I was an Eclipse variation. My own Redeemed Eclipse AU [TWE], actually. I had gone dimensional hopping for the first time after being my tech allowed back.

I was at the bottom of a chasm that resembled a desert. Like I was at the bottom of the grand canyon. I walked forward, turning an awkward wall that revealed Lord Eclipse splattered on a giant rock. His back was completely destroyed and he seemed very much dead. I had froze in place for a hot second processing what I was seeing, staring at his open eyes.

Until he looked at me.

I was TERRIFIED at first, but brushed it up when I realized “THEY’RE ALIVE.” I pulled Lord off the rock and brought him back to the portal I came from. Then, I woke up.

->

After that, it felt like he was LOOMING over my shoulder at all times like any fictional character does when you’re delusional and tired enough. That day I drew my official Eclipse design (as you see in the first image) with the morse code “I’m Alive”. After that, he was gone. Like the message was delivered and I’ve been left like a weird ass spiritual medium.

WEIRD? yes. NOT REAL? absolutely. STILL POSITIVELY CRAZY AND LOWKEY REALLY FUN TO MAKE INTO LORE?? YEAAAAHHH?????

Yeah so since then I’ve been imagining him as alive and recovering off somewhere in a distant universe. This image is the idea of “What if he came back to see the aftermath?”

He’s devastated.

LOOSE QUOTE MONOLOGUE BREAKDOWN

This is where I’ll go over why I edited certain parts of the monologue

“The fight is over. My enemies are no more.”

Sun, Moon, Lunar, anyone who has ever had the chance of reviving or becoming to attack him no longer has that chance.

“My water carriers, my servants, my status and power.”

Originally ending with “my builders and architect”, this quote was altered due to the fact Eclipse built everything himself. He transformed the world to what he wanted. He also cared about his status and power WAY more with his philosophy, “it’s better to be feared than loved”.

“Moon, whose failed assassinations made me laugh.”

Moon wasn’t revived much, but whenever he did, it was only to amuse Eclipse and give him a sense of action. Eclipse does enjoy the revolutions that spawn over the centuries, but when it gets quiet for too long, his conscious starts to set in and he tries to distract himself with violence. Thus, he revives Moon, lets him roam, and waits for Moon to attempt to kill him. The sense of thrill rekindles Eclipse’s passion to live and the society’s passion to throw Eclipse off his throne. It never works, but it’s the only thing that makes Eclipse happy anymore.

Which, by the way, Eclipse’s world isn’t completely desolate like Lord Lunar’s world is. Eclipse has thousands of cities and generations of people who still roam. He’s much like a Greek God but is physically interactable. Everyone is under his direct watch. He is often fought back against for tyranny and violence. But the other half of the world praises him like the God he is. He can’t live without both aspects.

“Lunar, we had our differences. But nobody cared for the upcoming of my kingdom as much as you.”

Lunar was the reason he achieved getting the Star, despite betraying him. Lunar was one of the first he killed when it came to family, but he never shook off the sudden regret that came with it. He hates remembering the excitement in Lunar’s eyes when Eclipse finally made his world…and then the terror when Lunar realized he would not be a part of it.

“My servant Sun, who died protecting my land.”

Sun was killed by Dark Sun canonically to “put him out of his misery”.

“They were all my possessions. My finest, most sentimental possessions.”

Originally “treasures, my finest, most precious treasures”. He doesn’t treasure them, they’re still something he “owns” (in a sense). He doesn’t believe they’re precious, but they were something he didn’t realize how important they all were until he realized he couldn’t just bring them back to play with again. Suddenly, objects became people.

[iamnmbr3]

Draco's Motivations in the Book 7 Room of Requirement Confrontation

I just reread the Fiendfyre sequence and based on a close reading Draco's motivations and actions are a lot more complex and sympathetic than I remembered. Not to mention, once again, here there be drarry.

First, the context:

After the incident at Malfoy Manor, we know from Harry's psychic connection to Voldemort and from the Carrows' overheard discussion that Voldemort's wrath was exceptionally terrible. The Malfoy family became virtual prisoners in their own homes for months and were subjected to especially brutal (even by Voldemort's standards) torture that was also likely quite protracted. Lucius has visible marks on him months later - which, given what we know about magic in that world, really speaks to the level of what has been going on. While he probably got the worst of it, it's certain that none of his family members escaped unscathed. After their other failings they have at this point probably permanently fallen out of favor and have nothing but a (likely short) life of misery to look forward to.

Draco bears a lot of responsibility for this state of affairs since it was he who chose not to identify Harry. This likely adds to his sense of conflict as his conscience tells him one thing and everything he has ever been taught tells him something else. He presumably feels responsible for the suffering his family (we know from book 6 that he does genuinely care about them) has to endure.

Not to mention that he himself is suffering along with them. It would be unsurprising therefore if he felt tempted to "rectify" his earlier moment of what he probably perceived as weakness and made a last ditch attempt to save his parents' (and his own) lives and prestige. While Harry has been taught that love and mercy are noble and valuable impulses, Draco has not. In his world love and mercy are called weakness.

Quite possibly as he suffered and faced death alongside his family, part of him must have felt ashamed of the impulses that led to his choices when Harry was a prisoner at the Manor. Everything he has been taught tells him that Voldemort's victory is inevitable and that his moment of shameful weakness has accomplished nothing except to fail his own family and condemn them (and himself) to a likely short life filled with suffering.

At most what we see in the Room of Requirement is a replay of what we saw on the Astronomy Tower - where Draco is deeply conflicted and when confronted with the reality of violence in support of Voldemort cannot go through with it even under tremendous pressure and even though his failure to carry out these acts of violence will inflict danger and suffering on himself and his loved ones.

But, is that even what actually happens? In my opinion, the answer is "no."

The scene in question:

If we actually look at the text it's not even clear that's what's going on at all. Draco's motives are ambiguous at best here. The scene starts when Harry is stretching out his hand to take the diadem. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle come up behind him and he is completely unaware of them. Draco then announces their presence, alerting Harry that he is being watched. He could've very easy simply stunned Harry or attempted to put the Imperius Curse on him (or killed him) while his back was turned. But he didn't do any of those things. Instead he talks, thereby ruining the element of surprise.

And that's not typical of Draco at all when he actually wants to attack Harry. He's never beaten Harry in a face-to-face confrontation. (In fact, the last time he tried - in 6th year - he almost ended up dead.) The two times he has managed to incapacitate Harry - when he petrified him on the train in 6th year and when he hid and caught Harry for Umbridge with a tripping jinx in 5th year - he did so by using the element of surprise to his advantage.

Given that Draco knows that Harry is a very formidable opponent (AND that Harry's friends are nearby) if he truly simply wanted to capture or kill him, announcing his presence is the last thing he would ever do. Then he says "That's my wand you're holding." He still doesn't cast any spells - not even to try to disarm Harry. He also doesn't say he wants to hand him over to Voldemort. He doesn't even tell Harry to drop his own wand, attempt to take him prisoner, or even threaten him.

It is Crabbe, not Draco who says "We're gonna be rewarded...We decided to bring you to 'im." Draco doesn't say anything about his own intentions other than that he wants his wand back - and we certainly know that even in 6th year he didn't trust Crabbe and Goyle, much less now, and thus is unlikely to speak openly in front of them. 

At this point Ron comes to investigate and Crabbe tries to use magic to cause a mountain of debris to fall on Ron and crush him. Harry counters the spell and Draco then grabs Crabbe's arm when he tries to repeat the spell. He gives as his justification the need to avoid the diadem being crushed but since we know he doesn't trust Crabbe it's likely this isn't truthful. Especially since Voldemort has not said anything about wanting the diadem (and even if it wasn't a Horcrux it likely wouldn't be damaged in any case).

Crabbe points out this very thing and Draco argues with him at which point Crabbe says "Who cares what you think? I don't take your orders no more, Draco. You an' your dad are finished." So arguably he was not even including Draco in the "We" he imagined would be rewarded. Crabbe then tries to use Crucio on Harry.

Draco then again intervenes and tries to stop him. 

"STOP" Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, his voice echoing through the enormous room. "The Dark Lord wants him alive--"  

He doesn't even just say it. He shouts. We rarely see Draco shout. He is someone who generally keeps his deeper emotions hidden - it's why he's so naturally gifted at Occlumency to the point that he is powerful enough at a young age to lie to both Snape and Voldemort.

What he says here doesn't really even make sense because Goyle isn't even trying to kill Harry; he's just trying to hurt him. However Draco is so distressed by this that he actually starts yelling, something we NEVER see him do at ANY other point in the book. "The Dark Lord wants him alive" is also exactly what Snape says to Bellatrix as they flee in book 6, and we know that Snape's real intent was to protect Harry with a believable excuse. It's the only thing Draco could reasonably say in that moment as a justification. 

Crabbe (rather sensibly) points out that 1) he didn't even try to kill Harry and 2) Voldemort ultimately wants Harry dead so it probably doesn't matter that much. This makes perfect sense. And yet Draco is inordinately concerned with preventing harm to Harry & Co rather than with taking any action to capture or even disarm any of them.

Clearly he did not expect to lose control of Crabbe and Goyle like this and as a result is now losing control of the situation (and himself). (Unlike Harry, Draco is more of a planner and is not as good at reacting in the moment.) Also the possibility that Harry could be killed seems to drive him nearly to the point of hysteria - rather like how Ron reacted to Hermione being in mortal peril at the Manor. This is not just a general aversion to killing. This is something more. He finds the idea of Harry dying truly unbearable. (I don't need my ships to be canon; this one just happens to be.)

At this point they start fighting and Draco loses Narcissa's wand. Wandless, he STILL tries to intervene. Crabbe and Goyle are both aiming their wands at Harry and Draco once again starts yelling -  "Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!" and is obviously in significant distress and is not at all happy with what is going on. 

After that the Fiendfyre gets loose and the rest of the scene goes down without much dialogue.

At NO POINT does Draco 1) actually say he wants to hand Harry to Voldemort OR  2) attempt to attack Harry or Ron or Hermione at all OR 3) use his Dark Mark to call Voldemort OR 4) tell anyone he's seen Harry after they get out of the Room of Requirement - even in a later scene when he's been cornered by a Death Eater who is considering killing him he doesn't reveal this information even though that probably would've proven his loyalty or at the very least distracted the Death Eater.

Conclusions about Draco's motivations:

So, where does that leave us? What went down there and what was Draco trying to do?

We really have 3 options.

Option 1: Draco tried to hand Harry over to Voldemort in order to save himself and his family, got cold feet and couldn't really go through with it, and then lost control of the situation due to Crabbe and Goyle's changing loyalties. 

Verdict: Possible but unlikely given the remarkably bad job he does of it and how inconsistent his approach is with his usual MO. Even if we assume his heart wasn't in it you'd think he'd at least have got as far as disarming Harry before announcing his presence. Especially since Harry almost killed him last time they fought (and Draco probably doesn't know Harry didn't know what the Sectum Sempra curse would do.)

And if his heart WAS in it then then this makes even less sense since he not only didn't attack Harry while his back was turned but also didn't call Voldemort or even inform anyone that he'd seen Harry. 

Option 2:  Draco wanted to get himself captured in a way that looked convincing so that he could take the chance Dumbledore offered in 6th year, only it went quite badly wrong.

Verdict: This would be an interesting possibility but I think it's also unlikely as it's simply too risky. He doesn't know Harry was there on the astronomy tower or that Harry would make the same offer. His family would also likely be murdered if Voldemort realized this had happened.  

Option 3: Draco wanted to cut a deal in order to improve his family's situation without actually handing Harry over - perhaps he hoped for some kind of exchange where he could get his wand back and bring Voldemort the diadem as some kind of consolation prize - but overestimated his control over his cronies and lost control of the situation. 

Verdict: I actually think this works best given his behavior during the scene. He initiates a conversation because he wants information about what and where the diadem is (and what value it would have to Voldemort) and because he wants to make some offer along the lines of 'give me my wand and the diadem and we'll let you go.' This could get him what he wants and help his family without actually harming anyone.

Also it hedges his bets a bit because if Harry wins he will owe Draco. The problem of course is that Crabbe and Goyle aren't happy to just take orders anymore and have their own goals. At that point, instead of caving and going along with what Crabbe and Goyle want to do instead, Draco actually tries to intervene, albeit in a way that doesn't actually expose him as questioning Voldemort.  

Draco made his choice at the Manor. If he wanted to hand Harry over he would have. But he couldn't. He cares about him too much. But he also feels tremendous guilt and fear over the price he and his family are still paying for that decision. This is his attempt to try to fix things - to try to find a middle ground between the conflicting imperatives that are tearing him apart. The reality though, as he shortly discovers, is that there is no middle ground. And when he sees that, once again he chooses Harry.

[direwolfrules]

I get that this is kinda over shadowed by the, well, everything going on in the book, but why is no one talking about how District 12 was a fucking Company Town. The miners were paid in scrip. Scrip was only supposed to be redeemable in the Capitol Store, but luckily some of the merchants in town would accept it as an alternative form of payment.

Keep in mind I’m American so my knowledge of the subject is very USA history centered, if anyone with knowledge of similar systems in other nations wants to jump in I encourage it.

For those who aren’t aware, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, companies would build entire communities, Company Towns, to house their workers. In the United States this often happened in remote areas where resource extraction jobs such as mining and logging/lumber milling were occurring. These towns would often be the only place to live for miles near these work sites, so even in the locations where it wasn’t required by the company that owned the site for their employees to live in the company town, many had no choice but to do so.

Most company towns were exploitative. You HAD to live in the company town most times, and in many cases the company would charge you rent. Then comes the Company Stores and scrip. The company owned and ran the store in town. So you needed to buy your groceries and toiletries and basic articles for living from the company. Thing was, they’d charge an excessive mark up for these products. So your pay would never quite be enough to afford everything you were buying, leaving you forced to put in on credit. Leaving you in debt to the company. But say you were in a company town just close enough to another community that you’d be able to make the trek to buy stuff from their shops. Surely, in that case, you’d be able to avoid the debt to the company that employs you? This is where scrip comes in. Scrip was an alternative type of currency that was only really good in the company town that issued it. Miners and loggers would be paid in scrip instead of actual money, and the exchange rate was practically worthless. Even if that neighboring community existed, the likelihood it would have a shop that would accept pieces of paper that were only useful as tinder outside of a company town were slim to none.

Company towns were designed to keep workers in debt to the company, and therefore trapped in their employment with the company. They were often lacking in what we would today consider to be basic municipal services, were full of poverty and lacking conditions, and the general awfulness of the practice and environment was one of the factors that lead to the unionization of mine workers.

Which leads me to a bit of Appalachian Coal Mining specific history and another few things I don’t see people talking about in the books. For around a decade in the 1910s-1920s the West Virginia coal wars, also known as the mine wars, raged as part of the dispute between unionizing miners and the mining companies/their union busting mercenaries/the U.S. government. The history is too long for this post, but I encourage everyone to at least read the Wikipedia article. Anyway, the Coal Wars culminated in the Battle of Blair Mountain. During the Battle of Blair Mountain, which was the largest labor uprising in US history and the largest armed uprising since the American Civil War, about 10,000 miners rose up against the companies and corrupt sheriff’s department that were literally murdering murdering them on courthouse steps for unionizing. The companies and the US Army had bomber planes drop gas and explosive bombs left over from WWI on them.

Anyway, I find it incredibly interesting with this historical context that one of Haymitch’s friends is named Blair. Whether or not Blair Mountain is still known as Blair Mountain during the series is unknown, the only in universe reference we have to what placed used to be named is when Katniss mentions District 12 is in what used to be known as Appalachia. It’s just interesting to me, that a name so tied to Appalachian coal miners rebelling against exploitative companies and corrupt law enforcement, lived on.

I also want to point out that while the miners were bombed and routed at Blair Mountain, though it was technically a win for the companies-government coalition, even though it led to lower numbers of UMW members for the next few years, the fight continued on. And in the 1930s the union won most of what the miners had been fighting for. Something something, District 12 parallel.

Anyway, I leave you with some music to listen to:

[rodmantrinitysoccer]

JOE BURROW, HIS WOMEN AND PARASOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS

Since the beginning of 2024, Joe Burrow's love life has been a topic of discussion on social media, after all because he is one of the most talented quarterbacks in the NFL and one of the sexiest athletes today. The fascination with the personal lives of public figures has always existed in society, so of course Burrow's love life would be the subject of debate among people, however, since he was linked to Olivia Ponton, and months later, due to the fateful robbery at the quarterback's house in which rumors that they were having some kind of relationship were confirmed, all limits of common sense were exceeded and this has a lot to do with the parasocial relationships that we build with some public figure.

Here on Tumblr, Instagram, Reddit, Tik Tok and other social media, there are MANY profiles claiming to know people close to Joe or women he has dated, people saying they live in Cincinnati and that they know behind the scenes of their relationship and life, in addition to telling stories that seem similar to Wattpad fanfics. Social media has intensified the level of neediness of people, who, when they see other people posting their "perfect" and "happy" lives, create an emotional bond with those people and their routines and create mental narratives about a life that they believe is ideal for them to be happy. Often, these influencers take advantage of their followers' illusion to manipulate contexts.

Regarding Joe Burrow and the women in his life, the reality is: No, you don't know these people, you're not their friend, you don't know what's going on in their lives and minds, you're just a needy person who has confused the wiring with reality and who tries to force other people to believe the narrative you created for your own benefit and to feel good about yourself.

To those who frequently post about his ex-girlfriend under the pretext that they are "fans" and "love" her: No, you don't love her and you don't know her, you just used her to affirm your own imaginary narratives. We normal people will hardly have access to Joe Burrow one day, so you took advantage of the fact that his ex is a person with a normal life and looks similar to normal women and started living your personal fantasies through her, believing that it would be possible for a normal woman to date a great athlete. However, since real life is not like fanfics, the "perfect relationship" in your vision ended and you still can't accept it to this day because you don't agree with the narrative that you created, because since she is no longer with him, the chances of you ever dating him ended up decreasing.

But some time later, Olivia Ponton enters the scene, a woman who fits the beauty standard considered ideal by society and who wins the heart of the current NFL sex symbol. Since none of you identify with her life, you reach the lowest point of the internet with misogynistic attacks and the spread of fake news, just because she doesn't fit the narrative you created. Ponton has only been in the business for a short time, so it's easier to dump your frustrations about your mediocre life on her, but I'm sure that if he were dating an A-list celebrity, there would be the same hatred and misogyny. However, I believe you would think about it first because the risk of a lawsuit would be huge, and you don't have the courage to mess with big people, do you?

And another thing: according to the 2023 census, Cincinnati's population was approximately 311,097 inhabitants, and I wonder: How is it possible for 311,097 people to know so many details about a single person's personal life? A high-level athlete who must only frequent high society places, how do so many ordinary people know so much about him and people close to his inner circle? Reality: many of you who spread fake news live in other cities and even in other countries and make up stories to fit your narratives.

Seek urgent therapy, because this obsession and parasocial interaction only makes your mind sick.

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

Okay, my one and only major complaint about Bad Batch is that I don't think they handled Tech's death properly (I still don't think they should have killed him off at all, but here we are; and even if they intend(ed) to leave things open-ended to maybe bring him back later, the titular characters in the show wouldn't have known that); and with all the reasons I've seen floating out there as to WHY Tech's death was handled the way it was and why the characters reacted the way they did (or didn't), I just want to explain why none of the "reasons" cut it for me. If you're satisfied with how Tech was handled in season 3, I am genuinely happy for you (and lowkey jealous, ngl 😉). I've just been thinking about this a lot and need to spell it out!

Reason #1: "Why do we need to see more of the characters mourning? What we got was enough. We don't need a 2 hour episode that's all about the characters grieving." (Yes, someone actually used "2 hours" in their argument.)

Let's recap what we got: 1) A scene where Echo looks sadly at the Marauder's pilot seat, Wrecker actually sheds some tears (bless him), Omega's in denial, and Hunter tells Omega they're going to retire on Pabu because Tech is gone... followed up almost immediately by the villain dropping off broken goggles as the only proof that Tech was ever on Eriadu; 2) a scene where the audience is shown Tech's goggles but Hunter doesn't interact with them- instead, he looks at Lula, proving that his driving motivation is recovering Omega (which is fine when taken from the perspective that he can't do anything about Tech, whereas he can do something for Omega; but that perspective is ultimately just headcanon because the show never reiterates or follows up on this); 3) Wrecker alluding to Tech (not by name) to try to convince Hunter to be more cautious; 4) Omega name-dropping Tech (wait, does Crosshair even know what happened?... yay for context clues, I guess); 5) Echo name-dropping Tech in relation to data decryption with the team looking down sadly for 5 seconds (I timed it) before Crosshair changes the subject; 6) Phee name-dropping Tech in relation to her not knowing what m-count is; 7) Crosshair referring to Tech's information on Ventress; 8) Omega leaving Tech's goggles in the Archeum with none of her brothers around (hot take: it kinda bothers me that the goggles are given the same treatment as Lula, I totally understand the context/deeper meaning of Omega leaving her childhood behind by leaving Lula, but we're talking about the one relic they have of their fallen and irreplaceable brother being given the same emotional weight as a doll); 9) Phee referring to Tech having a discussion with her about Crosshair while Tech's goggles are in the background (and, noticeably, Crosshair doesn't react at all and just changes the subject back to needing a ship); 10) Crosshair says the squad died with Tech, Wrecker says Tech understood the risks, and that's that.

So, what we got was enough to establish that the characters were sad in the immediate aftermath of Tech's death, that some of them may have stayed sad about it all through season 3, and that the show didn't completely forget that Tech had been a main character at one point.

What we DON'T get is any real reference to what Tech meant to the family as an individual and a brother, any real indication of how the loss of Tech (distinct from the mission to save Omega) influences his family's actions or the story's overall narrative, any actual acknowledgement in the show of Tech's sacrifice having any meaning or the family moving past grief to express any form of gratitude for Tech's presence and influence on their lives, any reference to Tech having a true impact on 4 of his 5 siblings (Omega is the closest we get to witnessing Tech's continued influence on any of his siblings and even seeing that involves squinting/head tilts at times)... in other words, we get a few minutes of sadness, but never any catharsis. We see they miss him, but never does this truly inform the narrative or their decisions in season 3, AND it's left frustratingly vague where the characters are in the grieving process (more on that later).

Besides, no one (that I have come across, at least) was ever asking for a 2 hour episode. At most, Kanan got a 22-minute "eulogy" episode, and most of us aren't even asking for that. I'd have been at least minimally satisfied with a "Mayday moment" for Tech - and that scene lasted a grand total of 20 seconds. What would have been more satisfying would have been the show taking all those superficial name drops and converting at least a few of them into meaningful mentions indicating what Tech means to his brothers and/or how he continues to have an influence on his family and/or how his sacrifice is a motivating factor for them.

Reason #2: "There was no time."

Leaving aside the fact that there was apparently plenty of time and opportunity to make Tech (among others) a red herring...

Let's assume that the showrunners were not only told they only had 1 season left to wrap everything up, but were given highly specific time allotments for each episode to where they weren't allowed to add any scenes (I highly doubt this is what happened, but we're rolling with the "no time" thing here). You know what you do in that scenario when you're talking about something like following up on a main character's death that clearly has left your entire fanbase in an uproar? You MAKE time: you trim down the action scenes, you make the characters walk a little bit faster, you decide whether an extended scene of Echo giving Omega a crossbow that is never going to show up again is actually worth saving (I actually like the scene, by the way; just giving an example), you cut out a few of the extremely vague lines of dialogue Fennec and Asajj indulge in. What you DON'T do is kill off a beloved main character and then rely on convenient time lapses/time skips to just brush over all the fallout apart from a few name drops that do nothing to establish just how important said character was to the other characters in the show.

What's more, they could have EASILY included some true closure with ANY of the Tech name-drops/scenes that were already in the show. Have Hunter look at Tech's goggles before looking beyond them at Lula in 3.02. Have the brothers be present with Omega when she decides to leave Tech's goggles in the Archeum in 3.11. Have any of the brothers say one meaningful line about Tech while they're otherwise silently basking in the sunshine in the end scene on Pabu in 3.15!

Reason #3: "They're soldiers."

Of all the reasons given for why Tech's death was mishandled, I dislike this one the most. What does CF99 being soldiers have to do with the aftermath of Tech's death being reduced to perfunctory allusions? (If you want to get into the argument that soldiers in general have to figure out a way to "move on" and The Clone Wars didn't really spend any time on the clones processing losses after battles, let me just say I don't care for how this topic is covered in The Clone Wars either, and Bad Batch was a golden opportunity for the Star Wars franchise to move past this unfortunate trope.) Fallen soldiers in real life get memorials/funerals too, even if it's months after the battle. Fallen soldiers are honored and remembered by their families and those closest to them. If the show is trying to push the stereotype that soldiers move on from tragic deaths of comrades by being "stoic" and holding it all in and never talking about it, I strongly disagree with the perpetuation of this stereotype; and if the characters as soldiers actually DID grieve Tech in a healthy way, why didn't the show depict it?

Reason #4: "Star Wars writers don't know how to write meaningful scenes/payoff regarding death and characters dealing with death/loss."

The Bad Batch writers proved time and again how brilliant they are at writing emotional storylines with maximum payoff. Case in point: Mayday. Enough said (I'm writing too much on this general topic as it is).

Reason #5: "They got over it."

Maybe I'm reading things wrong, but a rather drastic change in behavior for one character (going from cautious and weighing all risks, to reckless and jumping headfirst into situations without proper backup), and another character including Tech's death as just one reason why he "deserves" to go on a suicide mission, does not read to me as the characters "getting over it." It reads to me as "avoidance behavior" and "continued internal conflict." (Granted, Hunter's more reckless behavior in season 3 likely had as much to do with the Omega situation as it did Tech's death, but the point still stands. And if the point DOESN'T still stand, then I've got even MORE issues with how this plotline was handled, so we'll just keep assuming it does.)

Furthermore, if the characters had truly "gotten over it," there shouldn't have been any hesitation or issue with them discussing and honoring Tech in meaningful ways.

Reason #6: "They DIDN'T get over it."

Right, and we ended the show that way, with no clear resolution to them actually coming to terms with Tech's death and honoring his memory. Great.

Reason #7: "Whatever. It's good Tech stayed dead. Tech's sacrifice meant something."

... Did it? Did it really? I mean, I know I say quite frequently that Tech's sacrifice is what made the happy ending possible for the others (because that's the only thought that got me through a rewatch of season 3). But the show, the narrative itself, certainly doesn't act like it really meant anything. Hunter says in the season 2 finale that they "weren't going to waste Tech's sacrifice" because they were going to retire on Pabu... and that discussion promptly gets forgotten and never brought up again, not even when the squad is trying to stay off the Empire's radar in season 3 after Omega returns. Never is there any discussion that "not wasting Tech's sacrifice" by hiding on Pabu to make sure no one else dies (a very understandable reaction, of course) also goes against the very mission Tech pushed for in the first place: rescuing Crosshair. Never do we hear Omega tell Crosshair, "Tech didn't give up on you, I'm not giving up on you, that's why you ARE going to escape with me." Never is there any talk about "Tech wanted us to live and stay together, so that is what we are going to do." Never is there any acknowledgement at the end of the show that they are all going to live in peace on Pabu because Tech made sure they could live.

The last half of season 4 of Rebels is full of references to Kanan's sacrifice actually meaning something and having direct tangible consequences not only for the family but for Lothal and the Rebellion. For one thing, the show itself literally spells out that the mission to shut down the Imperial factories on Lothal was actually a success because all the fuel reserves were destroyed - Kanan had died, but the mission had succeeded and directly led to the success of the bigger mission to completely free Lothal, and while this is very poor consolation for the loss of Kanan, at least the show openly acknowledged it. Kanan and his influence is also openly credited for Ezra foiling Palpatine's plans with the Jedi Temple and the WBW, Ezra learning to let go and again disrupting Palpatine's plans in the finale, and doing what was needed to ensure Lothal was fully freed.

Imagine how different Rebels would be if Kanan's death had been treated like Tech's: no mention that his role on the mission had any impact whatsoever. No reference to Ezra or any other member of the Ghost crew living up to what Kanan had taught them all - or, at best, there's a perfunctory reference in the epilogue that Ezra decided to keep using the Force the way Kanan had taught him to. No depiction of Ezra or Hera or Sabine or Zeb accepting Kanan's death and letting go of the pain while holding on to the memories. Nothing to show that any of the Ghost crew members act in memory of Kanan or that he is a motivating influence on them. No indication that Kanan's sacrifice drives Ezra to decide to follow up on their initial success with the factories and ultimately completely drive the Empire from Lothal.

Rebels just wouldn't be nearly as fulfilling.

Now, imagine if Tech's death had been treated like Kanan's, and maybe it will become more clear why I have a REALLY hard time agreeing with the argument that the show itself actually depicted Tech's death as "meaning something."

[hqbaby]

twenty-four — get it now

fuck ur instincts — suna x reader & atsumu x reader

you and suna are just fooling around—so why does he care so much when you start falling in love with someone else?

previous — masterlist — next

word count. 2.1k content. swearing, big feelings, not much rly?

You wouldn’t say you’ve ever been a violent person. Sure, there were the occasional punches you threw at Oikawa and the slap wars with Yachi and that one time you and Yukie decided to box each other in the gym… but those times don’t count. They’re your friends and you only fight them because you love them.

The point is that you’ve never wanted to punch a stranger. Not until now at least.

It’s the weekend after midterms and you and a few of your friends have managed to pool some money together (mostly Sakusa) to rent a villa near the beach. Granted, it’s basically winter and none of you have any intentions of swimming, but you’re all usually caught up with training in the spring and summer so this is your only real chance to do this.

So here you are, gathered with your friends in the living room over mountains of food, talking over some reality dating show… meeting Suna’s girlfriend.

“This is Ayame,” he tells the group, his arm around her waist. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Everyone is stunned. And rightfully so. They all know that Suna and the word “girlfriend” just don’t mix. At least, they’ve never seen it happen before. They never thought they would.

It’s your boyfriend who speaks up first.

“Well I’ll be damned!” he says, smiling widely. Like he’s just won a prize. “Yer the girl he’s been seein’ for a while now, aren’t ya?”

The girl blushes a little at that, offering a soft smile.

She’s pretty. You’ll give her that. And, honestly, in any other context, you would actually want to get to know her, to be her friend.

Maybe if Suna’s arm wasn’t around her waist—holding her the same way he used to hold you—you wouldn’t feel the urge to tackle her. Right now, you’re about ready to jump up from the couch and grab her hair.

“It’s so nice to meet you all,” she says, tamping your violent intentions. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing your weekend together.”

Atsumu speaks again. “We don’t mind at all! We’d love to have our Sunarin’s girlfriend with us.”

Suna glares at him. “Whatever,” he says, picking up her bags and leading her to the stairs. “I’m gonna help her get settled.”

The two of them walk up to the second floor and, when everyone hears the door upstairs open and close, the room erupts into chaos.

“Who the fuck was that?” Aran.

“That man’s a mystery!” Hinata.

“I wonder what’s wrong with her.” Osamu.

“Did she take off her shoes?” Sakusa.

“She has a pretty smile!” Bokuto.

“Did we all see the same thing?” Kita.

"Okay, I think she took off her shoes." Sakusa.

“I think it’s great!” Atsumu.

You glance over at your boyfriend sitting beside you, brows furrowed as you catch his beaming smile and bright eyes. “You think it’s great?”

He turns to you and nods. “I mean, he finally has someone. That’s cool, right?”

There’s an edge to his tone that you’ve only picked up on now. What is it?

“Right,” you say, smiling awkwardly. “It is—it’s good for him.”

The truth is that Atsumu hasn’t brought up your relationship with Suna since you first talked about it. You have a feeling he’s been avoiding the subject entirely. You haven’t been too keen on discussing it either so you just never mentioned it.

You don’t know how he actually feels about the whole thing. And, if you’re being honest, you’re a little scared to find out.

The boys eventually head down the basement to mess with the pool table while you, Kaori, and Yachi grab a bottle of wine and play a game of Monopoly. You’re all cheating and the rules are entirely lost on account of you constantly distracting each other with new topics to talk about, but you’re having fun.

Until you’re not.

“Hey,” Suna greets the three of you—well, it’s more like he greets Yachi and Kaori with how much he’s avoiding your eyes, but it’s the thought that counts. His girlfriend is right behind him. “Where are the guys?”

“Basement. They’ve been waiting for you,” Kaori answers, she rolls the dice and waves at the girl behind him. “You wanna join us?”

Your eyes flick over to Kaori’s across the coffee table, but all she does is give you a look like “What are we supposed to do? Ignore her?” and you know she’s right. You can't be rude.

You look up at the girlfriend and smile. “Yeah, join us!” you say cheerily. “The boys are lame anyway.”

She starts at your sudden attention but hides it well. She’s clearly had some practice. “Oh, sure,” she says. “Thank you.”

Suna makes a face like he’s about to say something but decides against it. With a short nod and a quick glance at you, he says he’ll see you all later and walks out of the room.

“So who’s winning?” the girlfriend asks, sitting down on the carpet at the empty side of the table—beside you.

“Oh, no one really,” you tell her. “We’ve mostly been talking.”

She smiles. “I get that,” she says. “I can’t even watch movies with my friends anymore. We just talk over them.”

“We do too!” Yachi says, rolling the dice and taking her turn. “Y/N’s the worst of us though.”

You stick your tongue out at her. “Says the person that talked through Barbie.”

“I had to pee and no one was catching me up!”

You and Kaori laugh, taking your turns at the game.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” you tell the girl as you pay Yachi.

“Oh!” she says. “It’s Ayame.”

You nod at her, smiling so sweetly you almost make yourself sick. “I’m Y/N,” you say before looking over at your friends, “and that’s Kaori and Yachi.”

“It’s so nice to meet you all.”

Highly doubt that.

“What’s your major?” Yachi asks. “Shoot, Kao, I rolled the die under the couch.”

“I’m an econ major,” Ayame says, laughing a little as Kaori struggles to grab the die. “Need help?”

Kaori shakes her head, pulling her arm from under the couch and holding the die up for all to see. “Tada!” she says before turning her attention back to Ayame. “Why econ?”

The girl shrugs. “Parents.”

“Same.” Kaori sighs. “They made me go into marketing.”

“I’m in marketing too,” Yachi says. “That’s how Kaori and I met.”

Ayame nods before turning to look at you. “Y/N, you’re taking chem, right?”

You focus on the board in front of you, keeping your eyes away from her when you answer. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

She giggles and you can’t help but feel your blood boil at the sound. It just sounds so light and airy and sweet, no one should be able to laugh that way. “Everyone kinda knows you,” she says. “You’re the campus dream girl.”

“Ah,” you say, letting out a chuckle. You sound so fake. “Right.”

The four of you continue exchanging the regular pleasantries. Where are you from? What highschool did you go to? How were your midterms?

The more she talks, the more you start to hate Ayame even more... because there's absolutely nothing wrong with her. She’s so perfect it makes you wish you could just spontaneously combust.

“So you and Suna, huh?” Kaori eventually says. “That’s interesting.”

You narrow your eyes at her slightly, hoping Ayame doesn’t catch on. “Yeah, we were all wondering about that, Kao.”

The girl seems oblivious to your tone. Or at least she doesn’t care enough to react to it. “Oh, well, you know,” she says, placing her hands on the carpet behind her and leaning back. “He’s not exactly the commitment type.”

Yachi nods. “Yeah, we wouldn't necessarily peg him as that.”

You clear your throat. “So how did you guys get together?” you ask, trying to sound as natural as possible.

Ayame seems to shrink a little at that. You wonder why. “We were kinda seeing each other casually for a while,” she explains. “About two weeks ago, we decided to make it official.”

Kaori stills, having the same realization as you. “Two weeks?”

“Yup. Before midterms season.”

Two weeks ago, you had just gotten home from your trip visiting family. Two weeks ago, Suna told Atsumu something about what happened between the two of you. Two weeks ago, you came clean to your boyfriend about what had happened. 

For two whole weeks you’ve been wondering what Suna told him.

For two whole weeks, he’s been with this girl. This girl who looks too good, too kind, too sweet to deserve anything less than the best. The complete opposite of you, the complete opposite of Suna, the complete opposite of what anyone deserves.

You don’t even realize you’re standing up until Kaori asks if you’re okay.

“Yeah, I am,” you reassure her, trying your best to keep the smile from slipping off your face. “I just need some air. I’ll be right back.”

You slip out of the room, putting on a stray sweater from a nearby couch, and stepping out into the backyard of the rental. You sit on one of the benches outside, the whole place dark save for a few lampposts and the stars in the night sky.

You find your phone in your pocket and tap the top name in your contacts, trying to catch your breath.

“Hello?” the voice on the other line says. “Y/N? Is everything okay?”

You’re scared that you'll end up choking on nothing. “Tooru,” you say quietly, a strangling sensation gripping your throat. “I-he—well, it’s… bad. I don’t feel good.”

“What? Are you okay? Did something happen?”

The panic in his voice snaps you out of your haze.

“No! Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you tell him. “Sorry. I just didn’t know who to call.”

You hear him breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of your words. “Okay,” he says, clearly still concerned, “but what’s wrong?”

You let out a sob. You didn’t know you were crying.

“He has a girlfriend,” you say, crouching and putting your head in your hands. You don’t even try to wipe your tears, they’d just keep coming anyway. “And she’s pretty and sweet and completely innocent in all this and… I should’ve seen it coming.”

You don’t even need to say his name for Oikawa to know who you’re talking about. 

He sucks through his teeth, worried about you and a little disappointed that you’re having this conversation in the first place. He knew you were still being weird about Suna, but he figured that being Atsumu had changed things for you. He should’ve known things wouldn't change that much that soon.

“That sucks,” he says eventually. “I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

You shake your head, holding the phone to your ear. “I’m being stupid.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I already have Atsumu. This is so fucking dumb.”

“Stop it.”

“I honestly don’t know what I expected. It’s not like he cared about me—”

His voice is hard on the other line. “No,” he says firmly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

You take a deep breath, sucking in the salty air drifting from the ocean. “Sorry, Tooru,” you tell him. “I’m okay. Just a sucky moment. Sorry.”

You hang up before he can even say another word. You just sit there on the bench, staring at the beach as the waves overtake the shore, the chill winds that come with the end of fall surrounding you.

“Y/N?”

Fuck.

“Ayame, hey,” you say, wiping your eyes as best as you can. “Is everything good?”

She nods, closing the door to the house behind her. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” she tells you. The girl steps closer, cautiously taking a seat on the bench a good distance away from you. “Are you good?”

“Oh, yeah, never been better,” you say, waving it off. “Allergies.”

She nods. “Right.”

You pick at your nails anxiously, unable to say anything else. There’s just something about having her sit beside you that sets your lungs ablaze. You’re burning from inside out and you can’t say it’s a good feeling.

“You should talk to him.”

Your head bolts up at that, staring at Ayame with a confused look. “What do you mean?”

The expression on her face could be anything. Pity? Worry? Concern? Jealousy? You can’t tell. All you know is she probably feels bad about something.

“Suna,” she says, the name rolling off her tongue like a knife to the heart. “You should talk to him. He might have some things to say to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ayame reaches out and places a hand on top of yours. She smiles. “I think I get it now.”

You frown. Why is she touching you? And why aren’t you pulling away? “Get what?”

“Talk to him,” she says, squeezing your hand. She gets up and heads for the door. “Just… listen to what he has to say.”

She steps inside the house and closes the door behind her, leaving you gaping in confusion in her wake.

What would he have to say?

notes. now everyone say THANK YOU AYAME also!! we are kinda entering the end zone 🫣 idk how to feel abt that yet but YEAH HERE WE ARE

[dont-f-with-moogles]

My Home For All Seasons

(Merry Christmas, Levihans! Here's my contribution to this year's Levihan Secret Santa 2024! @levihanweek for Nautilidaes on Instagram. Thanks so much to @alemanriq for organising!)

My Home For All Seasons Characters: Levi x Hange Word Count: 1446 words

A sky of granite loomed overhead. Temperatures had fallen below freezing; the heavens could no more threaten snow than promise the relief of sunshine. Instead, pavements glistened with ice, much to the delight of Shingeki middle schoolers who skated their way through the frost-glazed gates. Others stepped gingerly, whilst some of the more unruly boys slid onto their backsides, laughing with raucous embarrassment.

Levi Ackerman, the janitor, rounded the corner of the school building. He was rubbing his gloved hands together partly to relieve the numbness in his fingers, partly with the distaste of having just handled a large bag of refuse. His disgust, however, was short-lived; Levi’s brow furrowed further as his eyes fell on an unexpected and inexplicable scene in front of him.

“Oi -”

Hange Zoe, the chemistry teacher, was engaged in a heated discussion with a cab driver. The man was leaning out of his car window, gesturing emphatically at a grey and white donkey which stood behind them. A leather rein ran from the science teacher’s hand to a loose cord around the animal’s neck.

“Levi!” Hange’s labcoat whirled about their knees as they turned to him. “Tell this mean, old driver that I’ll pay him triple rate if he just lowers the seats in the back. That’s all he has to do to make enough room!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Levi raised his hands. “Context, Hange. Let’s start from the beginning. Now, what’s with the ass?”

“Excuse me?” Hange looked affronted. Levi snapped off a yellow rubber glove and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The ass. The donkey.” Levi indicated the animal who had his hooves rooted firmly to the icy ground. “Our equine friend right here.”

“Right, right!” Hange scratched the back of their neck, their grip on the rein slackening. The donkey, who had been pulling in the opposite direction, stumbled. He reared his long, white-tipped nose with a grunt of protest. The cab driver waved off Hange with a few choice words; his rear wheel screeched and smoked against the ice as he pulled away sharply.

“None of you seem to understand!” Hange cried, outraged, “this donkey has been subjected to the most horrendous conditions! Forced to participate in the school’s nativity production, he’s been standing beside a manger in the freezing cold all afternoon while grubby-handed fourth graders have manhandled him.”

Levi stared as the animal’s black-tipped ears shivered. 

Trembling, Hange continued. “And once the school returns him to the mobile petting zoo it’ll be another nativity tomorrow, then a kid’s party, then a day of donkey rides at the amusement park… it’s a schedule straight out of hell.”

They stroked their knuckles slowly, fondly down the animal’s soft nose.

“...and I just can’t do that to old Moppel.”

“Moppel?”

With a mournful whinny, the donkey reared his head. Flecks of white stood out against his begrimed flanks. The creature’s dark, almond-shaped eyes were blinded with sadness; a watery grey film seemed to coat them, while grit clumped in the corners. Suddenly, a gust of arctic air ruffled his fur, forcing his aching lids closed. 

“He just looks so… lonely.” Hange’s voice caught.

“Look…” Levi tore his gaze away, gesturing with an ungloved hand. “Let’s be realistic. Say we don’t return him. Where else is Moppel going to go? He can’t come home with you.”

“I know that!”

“Besides which, donkeys are notoriously difficult to train,” Levi continued, “they’re stubborn, noisy and they eat everything.”

“Actually Levi, they’re deeply misunderstood creatures!” Hange contradicted him with a declaratory finger, “you would be a little stubborn too if your handlers were cruel, forcing you to entertain children all day and then locking you in a cage all night! Donkeys are not only intelligent but also have excellent memory retention.”

Levi surveyed the animal doubtfully as it closed its large teeth around the white collar of Hange’s labcoat. 

“You’d know more than me…” Levi conceded, “...even so, the petting zoo will want him back. The guy’s gonna charge the school if we don’t return him.”

Hange traced the donkey’s soft fur. The animal pressed its long nose gently into Hange’s open palm. 

“I wasn’t going to keep him for myself, you know, ” they spoke in a small voice, “my friend Moblit knows someone who runs a wildlife sanctuary not far from here…”

“Hange.”

Moppel lifted his head again, brushing lightly against Hange’s forehead. The scientist closed their eyes, savouring the delicate tickle of grey fur against their cool brow.

“...I know,” they relented, “I know. It’s just… difficult to see him go back to a place like that.”

Hange’s hand slackened over the rein; Levi lifted it from their grasp. Wary of the newcomer, Moppel took one begrudging hoof forward.

“I’m sorry…” The science teacher was contemplating the empty sky. “It’s just… the holidays are hard, you know?”

Levi inclined his head. Without words, the two of them communicated the private pain of their separate burdens.

“You know, some of the site staff are going out for Christmas drinks tonight,” Levi offered, holding Moppel’s rein aloft whilst the creature pawed at the ice, “...come with us.”

Hange returned his invitation with a forced smile.

“That’s okay. I’m not really in the mood to celebrate. Christmas… it’s not my season, you know?” 

Hange raised their hand in parting then, thinking better of it, let their arm drop by their side. They did not look at the donkey as they turned around. 

“Come on…” Levi coaxed as he slowly led Moppel away.

…

Hands stowed within the pockets of their black parka jacket, Hange passed through a plain-walled hallway. Apartment doors were adorned with huge, satin ribbons and embellished wreaths. Some bore doormats with festive slogans; Deck the Walls! and Silent Night, Holy Night. All is Calm, No Titans in Sight.

Levi’s message had been more of an insistence than a casual invitation. And, if Hange was honest with themself, they had been only too relieved to leave the quiet confines of their own rooms. No decorations marked their front door. No Christmas tree stood in their sitting room. There was no bunting trailing Hange’s bookshelves; no lights brightened their apartment windows. A pile of unopened cards cluttered their desk. To Hange, Christmas was simply another day on the calendar.

Stopping before a silver wreath, Hange rapped their knuckles smartly. The door opened by a fraction, revealing Levi’s tight-lipped smile. As he backed into his narrow hallway, Hange recognised the meagre light spilling from his small kitchen and the dark shape of a Christmas tree in the lounge beyond. Its silver baubles trembled. Hange took another step, astounded to find that the rest of Levi’s sitting room was filled with donkey. There stood Moppel, sedately chewing one of the lower branches of Levi’s tree.

Hange’s mouth fell open. 

“You saved him!”

With a short cry they flung themself upon the creature’s soft neck, pressing their face into his grey fur. Hange breathed in his animal scent; earth and straw and cold air. They ran their fingers over his long nose, cradling his head lovingly against their own. 

Levi watched the reunion with folded arms, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Guess you were right, Hange. He is a smart ass.” A husky little laugh escaped him. “Turns out there’s plenty we still have to learn about donkeys.”

He lowered his arms.

“Besides, that mobile petting zoo is suspicious as fuck. I borrowed the school minibus to take Moppel back and… let’s just say my eyes were opened. Animals crammed inside tiny cages… The yard was filthy…”

“Huh…” Hange reflected, “so, is that why…?”

They straightened, stood, to look at the reindeer who was bucking its head up and down slowly, snorting. A beard of white fur lined his chin and front; his antlers rose in beautiful, sculpted arcs.

“That’s Elgelhein,” Levi told them. “...he looked cold.”

Hange’s laughter warmed the air. “Wow, Levi! Looks like you’ve got your own zoo now!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “They aren’t permanent housemates. You see, I thought we could go check out your friend’s wildlife sanctuary tomorrow…”

The breath was knocked from him as Hange threw their arms around Levi’s neck. He uttered a hoarse gasp as he felt the press of their lips against his flushed skin. 

“You’re one stubborn ass yourself!”

Levi was about to retort when Hange’s breath curled in his ear.

“...but you’re the one who always understands me.” They kissed his neck again. “The only one. Thank you, Levi.”

His hand lay entangled in their hair as he pulled them closer, savouring the feeling of their body in his arms.

“Merry Christmas, Hange…”

[jeannereames]

I was wondering if it’s possible that many romantic/friendly relationships with women (whether involving Philip or Alexander) were not recorded in our sources because they were not politically significant. Could it be that both had such relationships that we are simply unaware of? The erasure of women in history is a recurring issue, and I wonder if this is why we tend to think that women were completely excluded from the social life of the time, and that relationships between male companions were considered more worthy of mention by earlier sources. Sorry for the long question!

Women in the Life of Philip and Alexander (and other ancient Greek men)

This is an excellent question, and one that shows good attention to how our ancient sources work. The short answer to your question is, “Absolutely,” and “Almost certainly.” Several scholars of women’s (Greek) history have noted that women traditionally would have operated at home (their sphere) and thus, out of the public eye. But we’d all be fools if we didn’t assume mothers and wives and sisters and even daughters didn’t have an impact on men.

However patriarchal a society, and however terrible the oppression of the women in it, the simple truth (imo) is that more men are decent human beings than not. It’s just that the ones who aren’t suck all the air out of the room. That’s hardly to say systemic oppression is “okay” because some men, maybe even the majority of them, don’t beat their wives even when they’re legally allowed to. Yet I think it’s still an important point to make, because it allows women in history to get out from under the “victim” label.*

One of the points I make in my history classes is that there’s a huge difference between women’s legal rights and female AGENCY. So, deeply patriarchal societies such as ancient Athens and Macedon can produce an Aspasia and an Olympias. Or Han China can produce a Lü Zhi. But for each one of them who land in our history books (even if villainized by the male historians), a hundred more quietly manage their families from the shadows. (Below: funeral stele of Theano, c. 400 BCE; while reading multi-figured grave stele is not an exact science, she's probably the deceased figure, and her husband (Ktesilaos) made it for her, although it could possibly be for them both.)

So, the longer answer is that the presence of such women in the lives of public men depends (as always) on context. E.g., what venues allowed women to be present (to influence men), and which did not. Ergo, we must ask where the women are, and are allowed to be, in order to get a grasp of which women would be doing the influencing. In Greek (and Macedonian) politics “at home,” women are everywhere, albeit they may not be permitted to speak in PUBLIC spaces. Or at least, their public-facing actions are limited, usually to acts of eurgetism, which in turn is limited to elite women (with money). (Eurgetism = public donations.) But these women may have a great deal of influence at home.

Aristophanes’s play, Lysistrata, gets at this in a humorous way. The women go on a sex strike until their husbands agree to end the (Peloponnesian) war. It doesn’t work because the women wind up wanting sex just as much as the men, so they can’t keep their own resolve. It’s funny in an upside-down way not only for the raunchy subject matter, but because Aristophanes does give women a lot more agency—and foibles—than they’re often allowed in literature. The very fact the women have trouble sticking to their decisions echoes their husband’s inability to get out of a war that’s destroying them. Even though Aristophanes was conservative politically (we think), it’s a surprisingly sympathetic (to women) play. And it makes me suspect that he had a strong woman at home. He did have three sons (all later Middle Comedy authors although none in their dad’s class), so he obviously had a wife.

Women had their own means of influencing events around them, which weren’t always visible. Yet their capacity for influence depended on the willingness of their men to listen.

In venues more purely male space, such as warfare, the presence, and influence, of women would have been curtailed. Yes, there were certainly women in a military camp, but many fewer, and they were mostly in low positions: slaves and prostitutes, not wives and mothers and sisters. Men who might respect their mothers were conditioned not to respect or listen to slaves, even if they didn’t abuse them—and assuming they could even understand them. Most would have been prisoners of war who didn’t necessarily speak the language of their captors.

Furthermore, the brutality of war leads to bifurcation in mental space, and Greek men were already conditioned even at home, never mind on campaign, to assign women to one of two categories: protected/“our”/family women, and unprotected/slave/prostitute women. Just as we, as a species, tend to create “pet” animals and “food” animals, and are unwilling to eat animals we regard as pets, may even spend thousands of dollars on their care and cry bitterly at their loss. War only exaggerated a pre-existing tendency.

Ergo, it’s not that ancient Greek and Macedonian men couldn’t regard women as romantic partners and even friends, but whether female candidates for that position were available where they are. Particularly if where they are is on campaign.

Beth Carney has a chapter on women in warfare in the new Brill's Companion to the Campaigns of Philip II and Alexander the Great, if you can lay hands on it. :-)

On that note, I’ll say watch what I do going forward in Dancing with the Lion, and how I handle figures such as Kampaspe, Kleopatra, Barsine, and Sisygambus (et al.). Or for that matter, how especially Kampaspe and Kleopatra function in Dancing, particularly with regard to Hephaistion.

--------------

* And some women can be just as cruel. When we assume all women are innocent victims, we also fail to recognize female agency, which can include cruelty. We must act for fairness because it’s fair, not because of pity, or because the ones oppressed “deserve” salvation.

[tovibeornottovibe]

Notes on the Night Court

a/n: I wrote this from Merrin's perspective, but it has only very brief mentions of her relationship with Azriel. Honestly, I just wanted to solidify Merrin's voice in my head. Her opinions are not necessarily mine, of course. This is an in-universe critique of Rhysand's policies towards the Hewn City, and I am aware that is a super niche subject lmao. You could probably file this under Inner-Circle bashing, but it's not really, and it's not anti-Rhysand either. uh, enjoy this little weird thing I wrote because I like world building [1.7k words]

warnings: none, I think?

Prefer to read on Ao3?

Supplementary: On the Hewn City

A note from the editor:

In this short essay, a prominent member of the Inner Circle of the Night Court—who identifies herself as the wife of the Spymaster and Shadowsinger, Azriel—describes her discomfort at the treatment of the people in the Hewn City. Though little is known about her, it is generally accepted that she hailed from the Winter Court and lived in Velaris during Amarantha’s rule. She was a prolific writer, though many of her works are only mentioned in others'. Very few of the originals still exist. Certain names of people and places have been censored and/or obscured (such as the exact district of the Hewn City she refers to, which has since been suggested to be Codeoen) by the editor-in-chief of The Hebdomadaire, an independently financed journal in Velaris which was known for being provocative. It was published a month before the High Lord’s historic meeting with the Court of Nightmares’ nobility. 

On the Hewn City

Presumably, reader, you have never been to the Hewn City, under that mountain which did so inspire Amarantha and causes such distress to its citizens. I’m afraid we must acknowledge that it exists in its current form because our High Lord handed control of it over to the worst members of the previous High Lord’s council and maintains the Steward’s loyalty by violence and threat. Sporadic visits remind them that they are beneath those of us who live in the Court of Dreams and they should be thankful that the High Lord has granted them even that stale and repugnant air of the City etc. etc.

Perhaps we could reason that they deserve their place. They are all wretched and Velaris is too good for them, that sort of thing. I seriously doubt anyone would say something like that about the High Lord’s cousin, Morrigan, or any of the newborn children who have no choice but to grow up perceivably cruel like their parents did.

For a time, I lived in the Hewn City with a friend, before she brought me to Velaris, and there I was a teacher in one of the poorest and least noble areas of the Court—having not a mark to my name myself. I primarily taught literacy to children no older than eleven, though there were times when I was employed to care for those older than that in a more private context. There was very little money in the district and as such both my wages and prices for food were low; we should note that I did not buy anything but food. I never spent money on clothes or drink. No one was flush enough with cash to do so, and those who did walk the streets in something other than slightly tatty corduroy either had it taken off them or were dismissed as criminals who gained the money selling out their neighbours to the High Lord’s Spymaster.

Azriel, who I of course know and treasure the company of now, was the subject of children’s fears and nightmares. I found it a rather callous way to get them to behave, and never used stories of him dragging children from their beds and taking them to the dungeons below our feet as a way to discipline them. In fact, the children I worked with were nothing but pleasant. They had their issues, usually stemming from poverty-induced hunger, difficult family situations as a result of the lack of employment and/or protections for those who were lucky enough to have jobs, and were brash enough that any governess in Velaris would dismiss them as delinquents. They generally did not understand that I was an immigrant. As far as they were aware, I grew up just like them. At first, their parents had a tendency to distrust me for it, but why wouldn’t they? Their community was and is so insular and so exploited that they have a general distrust for anyone, let alone someone they were trusting to care for their children.

During the day, though the meaning of that word has somewhat been lost in the Hewn City, the adults in this district were often looking for work as cleaners or domestic servants of the wealthier fae who lived near the Royal Palace—which I visited only once. If they were in work, it was likely they were part of the crews which were digging out new room for residents, lower into the mountain as specified by the Steward (and High Lord, presumably). It is horrible, rough work which clogs the lungs and damages muscles because they are not given enough breaks. I went down with the workers once and was privileged enough to be able to swear it off for the rest of my life. Most of us who live in Velaris would not survive much more than a week on the dig sites, but they do it everyday and have been for decades now. Sometimes, they would fall in with the criminals who steal petty jewellery from homes in the noble areas, or else take jobs to beat on debtors, because the dig sites and noble homes are always oversubscribed for workers.

Prostitution, which I mention because we are predisposed to assume that this is the main mode of females making money in places like the Hewn City, was not such a big business in the area I lived in. Most females are married very young and their husbands are possessive enough that they forbid it. Female liberation movements have not made their way down into the Hewn City. Everyone is more concerned with putting food on the table and I dared not try to introduce them to it either. The idea has a certain superiority-complex to it which made me uncomfortable. I’m of the opinion that, soon enough, there will be some kind of grassroots organising of people, workers, females, perhaps just of the poor, who will start to withdraw their work and lobby for better conditions. Having met the High Lord, even as the brother of my husband, I am not convinced he would be susceptible to their demands. We have argued about the Hewn City rather tirelessly.

When contemporaries have some article about the Hewn City published in a journal which is only read by people who already share whatever tedious opinion they have, they tend to have this air of superiority to them. For example, Mr. [____] wrote only last week in the [____] about the conditions in the Hewn City, decrying the lack of sunlight, the hunger, the poverty and so on with the tone of a particularly insufferable priestess preaching chastity to young girls at school. Why he found it fit to condescend people he has never met, and will not read what he writes, I do not know. He also spends a disproportionate amount of time comparing courtesans in Velaris with ‘whores’ in the Hewn City (and he uses different names for them because he is, presumably, deeply uncomfortable with admitting that they do the same job for the same people. The word ‘whore’ is, of course, heavily loaded in Velaris in any case). One has to wonder how much time he spends in pleasure halls.

Fundamentally, fae like Mr. [____], and perhaps you count yourself as one of them, don’t understand the Hewn City. Propaganda, for that is what articles like his are, whether he intends it or not, is designed so you don’t think about whether it is right that the Hewn City exists in its current capacity, or at all. Before Velaris was revealed to the world, you might have been able to justify it. The walls of Velaris had not been breached in five-thousand years and everyone—rightly—chalked this up to the reputation the Night Court maintained as a brutal place, even worse than that of Amarantha and her disciples Under the Mountain. It was a foreign policy which protected Velaris at the expense of the Hewn City, and it worked. Now, there is no conceivable reason that we continue to treat them as though we are still employing this policy.

Who are we fooling? I’m not naïve to the fact that the Inner Circle do bad things for the right reasons, and I am in favour of that. Is how the people of the Hewn City live for the right reasons? Do they deserve the poverty and the hunger that Mr. [____] so publicly despises with no consideration for why these conditions exist at all? Should we doom the children I taught to a life where they have to choose between equally and unfathomably evil work by virtue of where they were born and nothing else? When you can put faces to nameless people you say deserve their plights, you would find it difficult to say the kinds of things that Mr. [____] does.

And to those who would lay blame at the Steward, or perhaps the nobles who pay their servants so little, I would ask you: who put them there? Who actively refuses to regulate or introduce labour laws? Why should they pay any more than what is required of them to avoid charges of slavery—and I would argue that the hours they work are akin to it—when they have no concept of work anyway? 

Charging my brother-in-law with negligence is a serious accusation, and one I am not sure I am brave enough to make. I would, however, urge him, as I have done in person and as I am forced now to do in writing, to go to the other half of his court, and go not as a High Lord, but as the male I know him to be. As a brother, a father, and a husband. If this does not change his mind on certain policies of his, I would find myself struggling to reconcile the version of him that I have met and the male who allows his people to suffer abominably without reason. 

[eowynstwin]

I've come to the last thing I'd like to talk about, and unlike the rest it's something I've already made progress working through. I want to try keep this subject brief, because 1) it's taken a LOT out of me to get through all this and 2) even so, it's helped, and I'm ready to move on. I just don't want to leave anything important to me unaddressed.

So, I mentioned that when I returned to this blog, it felt like everyone had moved on from the Myka issue. I didn't see the same kind of support when I came back as I did when I left—and maybe it seems presumptive of me, but I had been expecting it. There was precedent, after all.

And I'll be honest—it took pretty much all the wind out of my sails. It kind of felt like it didn't matter if I was here or not—like, outside of the Myka issue, I hadn't actually made enough of an impression on anyone, with my own work or my support for others', for them to really care if I came back. Which, considering how many people were there for me when I left, I believed I had. That belief felt pretty misplaced after that. And to put it mildly, that did not feel good.

At the same time—and I've already talked about this in the past, so I don't want to retread old ground too much—I noticed a drop in engagement with the new work I posted. I understand now that that involved a lot of factors—my long absence, the change in my url, general fandom trends—but because it happened around the same time as my return, it compounded that feeling of my irrelevance.

So as I’ve been writing this whole time, and posting, I’ve lived with this undercurrent of god I hope this is good enough for them to care about me again. I felt like I had never actually been good enough for anyone to think of me outside of the Myka incident. I couldn't enjoy my own work without thinking none of this was ever good enough. I got to the point where I couldn't enjoy other people's work without thinking everyone likes them, but they don't like me.

Now, obviously this is unhealthy. It's also patently untrue, as demonstrated by the support I and my work have been given in the months following my return.

A part of me kind of cringes to discuss this at all, because it feels unfair to the people who've offered that support—I don't want anyone to feel like I haven't appreciated it, because I have. But I lay all this out to lead to the conclusion I've come to, which I want to share, because it feels like the gateway into finally leaving Myka, and all of these things I've been feeling, behind for good.

I've talked to friends since then, gotten context, and I've evaluated my tenure as a whole in this community in effort to understand.

The thing at the core of this issue is that my confidence was shaken. Both by the incident itself, and everything that followed it.

While it was happening, I was under a microscope, and found inadequate. I couldn't talk about it, because that would only make things worse for me. When I came back, I felt like I was still under the microscope, and I still couldn't talk about it—and in addition, it seemed like I had earn my place here again.

Feeling like that has made it really, really hard to enjoy being here. But I know that feeling isn't entirely rational. And if I don't want to feel that way anymore, I have to let myself say the things I need to say and make the things I want to make, and I have to let myself enjoy doing it.

I want to be here. Despite everything, I still belong here, even if I don't feel like I do. I've been so afraid to talk about Myka all this time, really, because I didn't think any of you wanted to hear about it. I thought it would drive you away.

But I've talked about it now. And you've all listened. So that means I'm allowed feel confident about everything else.

Thank you.

[scarhalo]

Thoughts on the Enrichment Applicability Assessment

TMAGP EP 9 SPOILERS AHEAD

UPDATE: The TMAGP notion board on my pinned post has now been updated for ep. 9! Go check it out :) OOOOH BOY now this is exciting stuff. So the Magnus Institue, or whoever was routing through their files (this could be a whole other tangent...starkwall anyone?) was running artifact studies... and we have very little information about it. As of yet, this is what we know about the classifications of the cursed dice from this episode:

"Viability as subject – none Viability as agent – low Viability as catalyst – medium."

Recommend referral to Catalytics for Enrichment Applicability Assessment.

Here is my running theory...

Alchemical theory of artifact classification A subject is pretty straight forward, it is the base material on which alchemical operations are performed. Agent and catalyst, however, stood out to me specifically for being similar chemical terms, with one key difference. A catalyst is always an agent but not all agents are catalysts. An agent is a substance/compound that facilitates a chemical reaction. A catalyst is a substance/compound that increases the rate of a reaction, and is not typically consumed in said reaction. This leads me to believe these artifacts were being studied for the purpose of being used as ritualistic vessels or weapons. An agent could aid in a ritual, but does not have the power to efficiently carry one out. A catalyst on the other hand could very well be the key player in a ritual.

In the context of the dice, it would make sense for them not to be a subject. They seem to be conducting and changing the world around them, not so much acting as a vessel (for example, I believe the web table in TMA used to bind the NotThem would be a pretty good subject, as it actively had actions performed unto it rather than it interacting with the world). Furthermore, the dice would work as an agent, as they can take a supportive role. But due to them being, you know... unpredictable, it would be difficult for them to take a facilitation role. A catalyst however, is much more likely since the dice are event initiators.

Now onto the catalytic enrichment applicability assessment Enrichment studies are done on living beings, in which the researchers hypothesize adding something will change the subjects behavior. What could they possibly add to change the behavior of the dice? I believe they are (were, when they had them) actively feeding the dice. ANYWAYS; currently wondering where the dice are. Now that we know these studies were happening, where did the artifacts go when the place burnt down? They must have been taken and relocated or scattered. Maybe the OIAR has them...

[is-she-suffering]

QUEEN ADREENA VS DAVID CRONENBERG'S CRASH

In December 2002 Queenadreena provided a live soundtrack to David Cronenberg’s movie adaptation of J.G. Ballard's novel „Crash”.

The one-night-only event was hosted in the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London on December 13th. The band was joined by ex Daisy Chainsaw bassist Richard Adams.

The band couldn’t pick a more fitting movie – „Crash” is a movie based on a J.G. Ballard’s novel of the same name, considered by many to be quite controversial due of its disturbing subject. It tells the story of individuals taking sexual pleasure from watching and participating in car accidents.

Katie Jane Garside: "I like standing on a knife edge in order to force the envelope and get something interesting happen. It's no coincidence that we were chosen to do 'Crash', what with the voyeuristic nature of car accidents. We'll put a bomb under it and see what happens."

A song called "Roadkill" was debuted onstage that night, never to be played live again. The song tells a story of a young girl killed in a motorway accident. "Roadkill" hasn’t found its way to any of Queen Adreena’s albums, but a 4-track demo was later released on Katie Jane's solo album Lullabies in Glass Wilderness.

Unfortunately, there’s no audio or video of this show available. A short review taken from Kerrang! Magazine (the band got 4/5 rating):

Classic Cronenberg film gets new art-punk soundtrack. THE PAIRING of David Cronenberg's 1998 film 'Crash' and ex-Daisy Chainsaw led avant-garde noise conjurers Queen Adreena was never going to be easy on the eyes or ears. For those of you who haven't seen it, 'Crash' is a film about a group of deranged individuals who derive sexual pleasure from car crashes. And for those who haven't seen them, Queen Adreena are an art-rock band with an equally worrying deviant streak. As the credits roll and the band assume their positions in front of the screen, Crispin Gray picks the moody, sombre melody of 'Kitty Collar Tight' from his guitar as singer Katie Jane Garside starts to weave her magic across the stage. Garside's compelling stage presence and beautiful, ethereal vocal style perfectly offsets the unhinged sexual nature of the film. Placing their music within the context of the movie leaves the audience dazed and confused as the final credits roll. Tonight more so than ever, Queen Adreena truly assault our senses. More power to them.

Another review:

QUEEN ADREENA VS DAVID CRONENBERG'S CRASH

ICA, London - December 2002

No one is quite sure what to expect tonight. Will Queen Adreena play for the entire duration of Cronenberg's controversial movie (which lasts twice as long as their normal set) or just during the 'highlights'?

The night begins amusingly with thirty minutes of vintage black and white Road Safety public information films. These provided some laughs, as various members of the supposedly ignorant public nonchalantly strolled out in front of rapidly moving vehicles, before being berated by a fussy old narrator.

Onto the main event: the band amble onto the stage as the movie begins, and a new slow song spills out over the opening credits. And there's a new bassist too! The after-show rumour seemed to confirm that the man with the bass was none other than Richard Adams, their ex-Daisy Chainsaw band mate. It seems I had been watching three-quarters DC and didn't even know it!

Back to the movie: subtitles are kept on throughout; the soundtrack is on, but only audible when the band stop playing. Some songs are slightly extended to keep the pacing accurate. The superb Pretty Like Drugs comes early on; one more song then the music ends so we can watch a dialogue scene. This sets the pattern for the night: we get a string of three or four songs over the driving and screwing, and then the music pauses for dialogue scenes. Curiously, we are allowed to view James Spader humping Rosanna Arquette's leg-wound in all it's original glory. The second batch of songs climaxes with the James Dean car-crash recreation, which means that the onscreen audience are clapping at the same time as we are.

So, does the noisy music work well with Cronenberg's copulation and carnage? Well, to be honest, standing right in front of the band, I keep tending to forget that a film is even playing. But when I do glance at it, I am reminded that „Crash” has far more nudity than I remembered. Shit, I hope Tesco's develop my snapshots with no problems.

Queen Adreena never give a bad show, and this is no exception. Very interesting to see them in a non-moshing environment too. And after that it's time to return home to the Heathrow area, where J. G. Ballard set the 180 original „Crash” novel. All this on the day Barry Norman, with thirty years of movie reviewing experience, said live on TV that Cronenberg's „Shivers” is "the worst movie of all time" (whatta tosser - Ed). God knows what he would have made of tonight's extraordinary event at the ICA... JASON PYKE

[simplemorgue]

𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭

Evan Peters X Fem! Reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs.

Note: Personality of the characters in this scenario are totally fictional and developed by the author.

Context: You're a writer trying to decipher your muse.

The traumas, the inert solitude spreading inside him, were evident but only noticed when one wanted to see them. And he denied it, incessantly, trying to cover this need to feel with something or someone. Weed, bourbon, Dunhill, vapes, Budweiser, scotch, sometimes cocaine. He had other addictions too: self-sabotage and sex. For now, it was all fine. The void hadn’t been triggered yet because all these distractions kept him numb. But what about when they were no longer enough? When they stopped working?

Addictions are like games. There are levels where you need something more, something stronger. You’re not satisfied until you destroy yourself, until you don’t have the strength to chase anything anymore. And then, desolate, you die without the comfort of the very thing that once made you flee from the responsibilities of being alive.

Evan was my tortured artist. Ever since I moved into this apartment—which felt more like a furnished dumpster—in New York City to write my book (a book I didn’t even know the subject of yet), I found out that the actor lived across the street, two stores to the left. His building was more refined, nothing too fancy, but compared to my home, it looked like a presidential suite in a five-star hotel.

I hadn’t published anything yet. I wasn’t a respected writer, nor did I have a wealthy family with a name that carried weight. Just an idiot with dreams and hopes bigger than my sanity. Coming here wasn’t an impulse. The City of Dreams had been a plan for a long time. But no amount of planning could cover the absurd costs of living here. So the dumpster was my best option. Working as a text analyst, correcting grammar and coherence mistakes, earning just enough for rent and three meals a day, and trying to write the next best-seller of the year.

Evan was my tortured artist. I had tried talking to him in the early days when I found out we were practically neighbors. He was an artist. He could be my muse.

He probably hated me for it. But he tried to be polite. Poor man.

I followed him for exactly thirty-four days. Not consecutively. And, of course, not in a creepy way—more like a detective returning to the crime scene over and over again to solve a case. On the thirty-fifth day I knocked on his door, I was almost certain he wanted to commit a felony with me.

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're being inconvenient?" he asked, his voice lazy, slumped in the armchair of his living room.

"I know I am."

He looked at me for a moment, tired, wearing a slightly stained black hoodie, loose dark jeans, and bare feet.

"Then why the fuck do you keep following me? This is getting annoying as hell." He leaned forward, a little firmer now. "I could call the cops."

"I'm not a stalker." I glanced around, resting my hands on my thighs. "I don’t want to steal your hairbrush and sell it on eBay. I just want to understand you."

"Fuck that. I don’t want you to understand me." He sighed, rubbing his face. "My privacy is threatened all the time. I don’t need another lunatic chasing me down to expose me."

"Are you comparing me to a paparazzi?"

"You’re worse than one."

I let out a low laugh. "That one hurt."

"Then what do you want? Why do you want to understand me?" — He covered his mouth with his hand, watching me with irritation.

"Because I want to write something meaningful... And knowing why someone like you seems unhappy is a good start to—"

"Unhappy? Who told you that?" — He dropped his hand, crossing his arms.

"Are you happy?"

"I’m not unhappy."

"But are you happy?"

Silence. He looked at me like I had just poked at an old, crusted-over wound. Then, with a heavy sigh, he leaned back in the armchair.

"That’s none of your business. You're pissing me the fuck off. I'm trying really hard not to hate you."

"You won’t hate me. I’m the only person who keeps coming back to keep you company."

"I don’t want your company."

I sighed, leaning back into the couch.

"I’m not your muse. I don’t want to be your muse. Go find some other bastard for this sick experiment of yours." — He spat the words, sharp.

"You are a tortured artist." — I say something that was obvious to me.

Evan let out a dry, almost ironic laugh.

"You are my torture."

I probably was. After all, someone who forces you to dig into something you don’t want to face is, without a doubt, a kind of torture. He was my tortured artist. Full of desires, temptations, addictions, success, and immaculate sadness.

And me? I was a failure. Living in a dumpster. Reading and correcting other people’s texts while struggling to birth my own. Far from home, far from any certainty.

So was I, a tortured artist.