#Guile Sharp

[thedarktowerdames]

Art Credit Guile Sharp

[spawn-universe]

Spawnuary Covers

Covers by Franck Uzan

Covers by George Todorovski

Cover by Guile Sharp

Cover by Jake Goodman

Cover by James Harris

Cover by Jethro Morales

Cover by Jonathan Lau

Cover by Manú Silva

Cover by Mark Marvida

Cover by Michal Ivan

Cover by Ryan G. Browne

Cover by Samal World-McNealy

[jedivoodoochile]

Skeletor.

Art by Guile Sharp.

[femmefataleart]

VANYA THE LOST WARRIOR by Guile Sharpe

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 6

Check out part 1 here. AO3

John texted memes. Something about that surprised you. He presented as such a straight-laced demeanor that the silly text images added a layer of intrigue to the man who already took such care not to share more the bare minimum.

He sent his commentary about his ‘muppets’ as he called the men under his command. The image of a man in suspenders, a tie, and a coffee mug in one hand with the text “If they could just not…” followed by any number of pictures of Jim Hensen’s muppets. It always prompts you to ask for the cleansed version of their nonsense. John had confirmed that the men who had come in asking about him were the men under his command. They were still under orders to leave you and your shop alone. When he mentioned that in the first week of texting you were surprised.

>I can hold my own in my shop John, release them to come by for fixes on anything you haven’t already stolen from their bags.

When he didn’t reply within a few hours you followed it up with.

>Your Scotsman seemed pretty excited about getting a family kilt fixed. Let them come by John. I don’t scare easy.

Halfway across the world, John squints at his phone in the darkness of the safe house he and Johnny are waiting for exfil in.

“What did you say to my girl Soap?” Price questions in the quiet.

Soap jerks from his nodding-off sleep in the corner where he had settled down.

“What’s up boss,” he asks sleepily.

He turned his phone to show Johnny the message from you.

“What did you do to my girl?”

Soap squinted through the brightness blasting his eyes.

“Dinne do nothing Cap. Alls I asked about was a kilt repair. Me granddad’s kilt was given to me when he passed, I want to get it fixed up is all.”

Soap lacked the guile to ever pull off being an undercover agent. John turned the phone back to himself, frowning.

“Fine. You can go visit her. Spread the word, but if I hear any of you gave her a bit of grief?” He let the warning linger unspoken behind his words.

“Got it. Can I go back to sleep now?”

John harrumphs and pulls out a cigar, lighting it up as he contemplates how to reply to you.

<:Rolling eye emoji: Fine, but you let me know if they give you any trouble.

>You reply with a gif of someone giving a salute with the text aye aye captain below it.

Physically rolling his eyes this time John settles in to watch the sky and think of you.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

Christmas had to be the most peaceful one you had ever experienced. Laughing with your aunts and eye contact across the table with your cousins when someone said something wild before taking a sip had never been the norm. Every Christmas season meant spending time with your Mum’s family and her resentful sniffs when Pop would inform you of the times when his sisters might be passing through so you could see them. You think Mum hated that you had real conversations with the other side of your family. Everything on her side sat stilted in past hostiles and clothed in niceness for the sake of Gran who still watched with a sharp eye.

You hadn’t expected any gifts but the highlight had to be the scarf from your favorite cousin. It sat light and delicate on your neck. When you said goodbye to everyone and headed up to the spare room your Nana had set up for you. Settling onto the bed you fired off a text to John.

<Merry Christmas! Did you have a good holiday?

>Decent.

>Merry Christmas.

Attached was a photo of John with what looked like egg nog in his mustache with an arm around a man and woman who also had white streaks along their upper lips. Standing so close together you can see they share the same eye-crinkling smile.

<Aww! You look so cute with your egg-nog mustache! Did someone spike it before cups were passed around?

>But of course, can’t discuss childhood stories without a healthy glug of whiskey. Added enough of a kick that even the scary stories were told with a laugh.

>How has yours gone? You mentioned you would be with extended family up north this year.

<It’s been a blast. Best Christmas I can remember for a long time. I am spending the night with my Nana before driving home tomorrow.

<You have any fun plans between now and New Years?

>Other than deep cleaning the mold from my fridge?

You laugh out loud in the empty room. He probably wasn’t kidding. John had mentioned that he can be called for a job at a moment’s notice and sometimes it leaves him with some nasty surprises when he eventually got home.

<Yes you silly man, other than that.

Those dots went on and off for a long time. When the message finally comes through you are disappointed.

>Nothing crazy, mostly catching up on my shows.

<What like The Golden Bachelor?

You can imagine him fighting down a smile as he contemplates a reply. He isn’t that much older than you, but the way he mothers his men has them calling him ‘Old Man’. John complains about it but always with love.

>The muppets would like to you if you would like to join them for New Years.

>I told them I had plans with you but they insisted and are watching for your response.

Smirking you fired off one last response before starting your bedtime routine.

<Should I wear jeans or a pretty dress?

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

Stepping from the cab you wave your thanks and turn to the building. John is standing at the glass door, waiting for you to get close enough that he can welcome you in. You smile at him, excited for his reaction to your dress. It is mostly visible through the undone buttons of your long coat. You had made it yourself, hands cramping late into the night with the number of times you have had to pleat the skirt to sit exactly right. Ironing the piece flat each time you wanted to pleat it slightly differently had been deeply frustrating work.

The black dress wrapped around, sending one tie through the side piece to stretch across your back and meet the other tie to create a bow. The long sleeves and v of the crossing front gave you an excuse to pull out your push-up bra and put the girls on display. You had chosen a long skirt. Reflective swirls of gold shined in the light from your skirt. It brushed the top of your shoes each time you took a step. Jewelry you kept simple; gold hoops and a single pendant on a long chain. Some light eye makeup and a lip stain are all you did for your face today. You would forget to wipe it off when you got home and refused to deal with the breakouts that overnight in your makeup would provide. Thankfully your hair cooperated and sat neatly in a sleek bun.

Looking John over as you approach you are pleased to see him in a suit. The juxtaposition of his winter beanie will never not make you smile. You hadn’t seen this one from him in all his times of coming by. You would tease him about the belt he needed to keep them up later. Perfect you could poke and prod at him tonight to confirm that you had the right size for his Christmas present. It sat in the back of your shop, waiting for his next visit to confirm the dark blue suit would contrast beautifully with his eyes. Double vested with a double vent, because something about that cute bum being covered just so gave you butterflies. The pants should cling to his thighs barely and give him a nice long silhouette

John took you in from top to bottom and back up again. You thought him unaffected until he took your hand as he opened the door and pulled you directly into a hug. Hugging him fired off a spring-loaded batch of emotions. Between the subtle smell of his cologne and the heat of his hands searing through the back of your coat, you’ve never wanted a New Years kiss more than now.

God. You had to say something. Fuck it all. You opened your mouth to say anything really but John beat you to it.

“You look stunning tonight,” he pulls back, hands still settled on your spine. He looks from your hair to your cleavage and back, a warm smile growing on his face.

“Thanks, you look pretty spiffy yourself,” tugging on the lapels of his jacket you continue, “But this doesn’t fit quite right, and was that a belt I saw? How could you keep something like this from me, John?”

His smile got impossibly wider. Joy spread through you like the first drink of a warm liquor.

“I wondered if you would notice. Gaz mentioned to wear a suit and when I went digging through my closet this was all I could find.”

John released you from the hug, one hand sliding from your back and down your arm to catch your hand. He holds it all the way up the elevator. When the elevator deposits you on the 26th floor you let John lead. Number 2607 he opens without hesitation.

All his muppets are present, some even have dates. Kyle stood at the island, cutting cheese for the board. The woman who you assumed to be Kyle’s girlfriend floated around the room. Charms weaved into her braids and a sleek body con dress matched her beautiful smile as she offered you and John both a drink. You were surprised to see that Gary was a blond. His choice of date made much more sense than his hair color and makes you smile. Sharing a look with John he nodded once; Gary had a thing for goth women. Johnny and Simon sat at a table, deep in discussion. Neither had a date to be seen.

“Simon doesn’t surprise me but why doesn’t Johnny have a date?” You turn to question John, wary of letting your voice travel in the open space.

John takes a sip of his drink, “They would have a date if either of them would buck up and ask the other.”

Your eyes widened as you snapped your gaze back to the men.

“You would not make a good agent,” he chuckled. “Johnny come hold this for me.”

Johnny pops up and out of his chair without question, closing the distance to take the drink John is holding out. John then takes your drink and passes it off to Johnny as well. Shivers assault your body as John’s rough fingers slide the coat from your shoulder and move away to hang it up.

“Miss Seamstress!” Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your cheek as he passes your drink back. “It is good to see you. How is your shop going?”

“Good, almost too good. If my space were any bigger I would bring on another seamstress full time. As it stands I might still hire someone to help with the simpler tasks.”

“What counts as a simpler task in a shop like yours?” Johnny cants his head to one side.

“Mostly ironing, unstitching simpler items, phone calls, running the register, things like that.” John appears at your side, a finger catching your pinky. You curl it tight to acknowledge his presence.

Movement over Johnny’s shoulder shows Simon and Kyle both heading toward you for a greeting. Kyle gives you a kiss much like Johnny did and Simon nods. When Gary sees everyone is saying hello he abandons his date for a rib-crushing hug since both your hands are busy.

The night flows on, laughter and food flowing more freely than the drinks do. You end up chatting with Kyle’s and Gary’s girlfriends about Pilates and how funny it would be to see the men try. They jump from history to space to fashion and beyond. Midnight sees Gary and Kyle kissing their girlfriends. Johnny and Simon stare at each other’s feet in abject longing and John places a kiss on the back of your hand, much to your chagrin.

As John had nursed his single drink all night he drove you home after one, passing through a sobriety checkpoint with ease. The conversation never stopped flowing with John, teasing and jokes kept your spirits lifted until you arrived at your flat. He walked you to your door, hand firmly in yours.

His thumb brushed against your knuckles as you stared up into his eyes, hoping, praying for a kiss.

“Thank you for coming. I left your gift at home since I didn’t want you to have to lug it about. When can I bring it by?”

“You’re gift is at the shop, so tomorrow maybe? About noon?”

“That would work fine. I had a lot of fun tonight and I know my guys like you.”

“They are important to you, it makes sense you would want someone in your life to get along with them.”

“And do you,” he paused here, eyes searching your face, “What to be part of my life?”

Desperately. More than anything. Fuck yes.

None of those words passed your lips. All you could do is nod.

With his free hand, John cradles your face, pressing his lips to yours.

It had to be the best first kiss you ever had because you can’t remember a damn second of it. When you finally blink John is halfway down the hall and turning back to see if you are okay since you haven’t moved.

Sending him a sheepish smile and a nod you fight with your key to get your lock open and fling yourself inside. Once the door finds its home you squeal as quietly as you can and happy dance like a dork.

Part 5 | Part 7

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

[yanderenightmare]

Mahito discovering all the carnal urges he has for you

Mahito

TW: NSFW, yandere, noncon

fem reader

He likes alleyways. 

So private, so intimate, so many different people to pick and choose from. 

It’s where he finds you.

You’re just on your way home – late at night and just a teensy bit tipsy – at least enough not to care about why taking the shortcut through the dark alley is a bad idea, despite being all alone. 

It’s your mistake.

Mahito thought little of you at first – you were another dumb drunken whore to nab. He never got tired of listening to stupid girls like you squeal and scream, so you seemed as good as any when teetering between the brick buildings in your pink pumps.

You’re tied to his wall by your hands a few hours later – club dress in a pool on the floor alongside your kitten heels.

Sure enough, you begged for your life like all humans do with tears and cheers and silly prayers. Calling him mister, as though polite manners would earn you his favor. But he was no stranger to your feminine guiles and wasn’t sweet on them either. 

Yet… there was something about the way you shivered that just seemed different from all his previous victims.

Or maybe he’d just evolved – grown up, as humans like to say – into something that craved to play a little differently.

Either way, he didn’t bother giving it too much thought. All he knew and all he cared to focus on was how delicious you looked hanging there – sweat pilling on your smooth skin, running over slopes and crevices down your body in pretty sparkles. 

He was more attentive to it now than he’d been with the others. Licking his teeth at the sight of you and how your chest reacted to the air, becoming perky in the cold. 

Granted, you were just as dinky as any human in his eyes, but something in his gut possessed him into being gentle when he began touching you – as if in reverence – as if something about you was just too potentially gratifying to waste.

It was the thing between your thighs he gravitated to first. Feeling it with his fingers for the first time and realizing what a tender spot on the body it was.

His dual-colored eyes peeled in curiosity, keenly studying you and how you sucked in a sharp shuddering breath and twisted your soft thighs around his hand, where touching you made you pour out a whole other string of pleas, one more whiney after the other, shaking your head as though to try and make it all go away – or... to deny how he was making you feel.

It made him chuckle, feeling you get warm and wet on his digits.

And ever since then, he’s always laughing when threatening you. Making you feel fun-size – like a playful little pet project he gets to figure out. His smile all crooked when dragging his fingers over your soft flesh, playfully teasing you with how easy it would be to twist your pretty body into an ugly fleshy puppet if you don’t listen and do what he wants.

It keeps you sweet for him – eager to please – hurriedly working your hands up and down his shaft while kneeling before him. His fingers holding your face, digging deep into the chub of your cheeks, keeping you looking up at him. 

You’re too perfect to alter – too cute – all perky tits and plump lips and big doe eyes pleading for your life with his dusty pink cockhead keeping warm on your tongue.

[juicetrump2]

uncle thomas has always been a duplicitous fraud

It appears he’s been directing Trump’s legal defense from behind the scenes.

😡🤬

[reedsllve]

Sindarin words for fanfic writers

I used parf edhellen and a few other websites all listed at the bottom!

Includes: greetings & goodbyes/ questions/ commands/ terms of endermeant/ compliments/ insults/ family titles/ clothing/ body parts/ years & months/ numbers

Greetings/ goodbyes

Well met - Mae Govannan

Greetings - suilaid

My heart sings to see you. - Guren linna chen cened.

My pleasure to meet you. - Glassen na chen govaded.

Hail - Ai

Welcome - Nathla/Nathlo

A star shines upon/on the hour of our meeting - Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn

You are welcome here - Gi nathlam hí

Farewell. - Navaer.

I hope you have a good journey. - Harthon gerich lend vaer.

I hope useful winds will speed you on. – Harthon huil vaer chen horthatha.

Fair winds! - Suil vain!

I hope you will have kind seas. - Harthon gerithach aeair vilui.

I hope you will have a good hunt. - Harthon gerich rui vaer.

I hope the leaves of your tree of life will not wither. - Harthon i laiss en-Galadh e-Guil chîn ú-belithar.

I hope you will have green paths and a breeze behind your body. - Harthon gerithach raid gelin ar chwest adel thraw chîn.

I hope you will have paths green and golden. - Harthon gerithach raid gelin ar velthin.

Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until our reunion. - Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vîn.

I hope you will have sweet waters and joyous laughter until our next meeting. - Harthon gerithach nîn velui ar lalaith veren na-lû govaded vîn.

I hope you will have sweet dreams tonight. - Harthon gerithach elei velui nef fuin hen.

I hope to see you there. - Ennas harthon chen cened.

I hope to see you at this time. - Harthon chen cened na lû hen.

Questions

Do you speak elvish? - Pedig/Pedil edhellen?

Where are we? - Mi van me?

What are you doing? - Man ceril?

What did you do? - Man agorel?

When? - Na van?

Which one? - Man pen?

With what? - A van?

Who is leading? - Man tôg

Why? - Am man?

Why? (For what purpose?) - Am man theled?

Why not? - Avo garo am man theled?

Commands

Be gone - Ego

Run - nor-

Halt - Daro

Let’s go - Gwaem

Come near the fire - Tolo anin naur

Come with me - Tolo ar nin

Come, join us - Tolo, govano ven

Release me - Leithio nin

Save me - Edraith enni

Don’t be afraid - Av-'osto

Terms of endermeant

My sweet heart - Guren vell

My love - Meleth nîn, mil nîn, melethen, or milen.

My friend - Mellon nîn or Mellonen

My friends - Mellyn nîn or Mellynen

My Lord - Brannon nîn or Brannonen

My Lady - Brennil nîn or Brennilen

Foe of my foe - Coth o chothen

Friend of my friend - Mellon o mellonen

Little father (dwarf) - Adar dithen

Bearded one (dwarf) - masc. Fangon fem. Fangil

Mighty one - masc. Belegon fem. Belegil

Valiant one - masc. Gornon fem. Gornil

Ancient one - masc. Iauron fem. Iauril

Wise one - masc. Saelon fem. Saelil

Loyal one - masc. Sadron fem. Sadril

My champion - masc. Thalion nîn or Thalionen fem. Thaliel nîn or Thalielen

My beloved - masc. Melethron nîn or Melethronen fem. Melethril nîn or Melethrilen

Love of my life - Meleth e-Guilen

Lovely one - masc. Miluir fem. Miluis

Compliments (literal translations)

It is my joy to see you. - Glassen na chen cenin.

You did well. - Mae carnen

You have a heart like a lion. - Gerich ‘ûr sui raw.

You are a mighty and brave warrior. - Ech maethor veleg ar gornen. (Gornen constructed from the noun gorn “valour”)

You are an archer skilled and sharp-eyed. - Ech pengor vaen ar maecheneb. (Pengor in feminine form is Pengel)

You are as beautiful as a rainbow. - Ech vain sui ninniach.

Your radiance shines like the moon. - ‘Law chîn síla sui Ithil.

Your love glitters in your eyes. - Veleth chîn thilia mi chinech.

Your radiant eyes conquered my heart. - Chin gelair chîn orthernir guren.

Your beauty took my breath away. - Thîr vain chîn darn thulen.

Insults

Your head is empty. - Dhôl chîn nâ cofn or Dhôl chîn nâ lost.

Cowardly dog! - Hû ú-gaun!

Go kiss an orc! - Mítho orch!

I hate you! - Chen ú-vilin!

Listen to my laughter! - Lasto al lalaith nîn!

Much wind pours from your mouth. - Súlon 'wanna nîf chîn.

Son of snakes! - Lýgion!

You disgust me! - Chen fuion!

You’re ugly and your mother dresses you. - Thiach uanui ar naneth chîn chen hamma.

You are stupid. - Ech uchand.

Orc lover! - Orvelethron! Or feminine orvelethril!

You are hideous! - Thiach uanui!

Family titles

Father - Adar

Mother - Naneth/Emel

Parent - odhril

Child - hên

Daughter - sell

Son - ion/iond

Sister - Nîth/ Neth/ Nethel

Sister in law - bethres

Brother - Hanar

Brother in law - bethren

Sibling - hest

Half-brother - perhanar

Half-sister - pernîth/ perneth/ pernethel

Half-sibling - perhest

Pair of twins - Gwanûn

Grandmother - mam

Grandfather - dâd

Kin - rennas

Kinsman - gwanur

Family - nothlir/ nothrim/ nos

Clothing (I couldn’t find much for these)

Jewel - mîr

Jewellery - mîrith

Ring - corf

Necklace - sigil

Ringlet - laus/ loch

Crown - rî

To crown/ coronate - rìnada

Boot - saeb

Shoe - habad

Clothes - hammad

Body parts (also couldn’t find much for these)

Hair - findë

Face - thîr

Eyes - hen

Lips - pemp

Nose - nem

Body- Rhond

Years/Months/days

The month of January - Narwain

The month of February - nínui

The month of March - gwaeron

The month of April - gwirith

The month of may - lothron

The month of June - nórui

The month of July - cerveth

The month of august - urui

The month of September - ivanneth

The month of October - narbeleth

The month of November - hithui

The month of December - girithron

First age - mein andrann

Second age - edwen andrann

Third age - nail/nelui/neil andrann

Monday - orithil

Tuesday - orgaladh/orgaladhad

Wednesday - ormenel

Thursday - oraeron

Friday - orbelain

Saturday - orgilion

Sunday - oranor

Numbers

“There were two different number systems in use in Middle Earth; the duodecimal system (base 12) and the decimal system that we use today. Interestingly Tolkien tells us that although "in Common Eldarin the multiples of three, especially six and twelve, were considered especially important" the decimal system developed first - "and eventually beside the decimal numeration a complete duodecimal system was devised for calculations".

Although he goes on to say that "the special words for 12 (dozen), 18 and 144 (gross) were in general use" we don't have any record of what that special number for 18 might have been in any language. Tolkien further noted that "for general purposes the numeral names were decimal in origin". This is why the numbers for 20, 30 and so on mean 'two tens', 'three tens'.”

The numbers 13-19 are reconstructed from Quenya.

1 - min

2 - tâd

3 - neledh

4 - canad

5 - leben

6 - eneg

7 - odo/odog

8 - tolodh/toloth

9 - neder

10 - cae/caen/pae-

11 - Minib

12 - Ýneg

13 - Neleb

14 - Canab

15 - Leben

16 - Eneph

17 - Odoph

18 - Toloph

19 - Nederph

These then, are the deduced numbers 20 - 90 using Tolkien's later material. I suggest that these are for Sindarin as spoken by the Elves, and the original forms as written in the King's Letter are Gondorian Sindarin

20 - Taphaen

30 - Nelphaen

40 - Cambaen

50 - Lephaen

60 - Enephaen

70 - Odophaen

80 - Tolophaen

90 - Nederphaen

100 - Haran

Numbers like 33, 67, 82 etc. can be formed like this Nelphaen a neledh = Thirty and three (33) or Neledh a nelphaen = Three and thirty

Enephaen a odog = Sixty and seven (67) or Odog a enephaen = Seven and sixty

Tolophaen a dâd = Eighty and two (82) or Tâd a dolophaen = Two and eighty

For any number after 12 you just need to put -ui on the end to form the ordinal, e.g. nederphaenui = 90th

1st - Minui

2nd - Tadui

3rd - Nelui

4th - Canthui

5th- Lefnui

6th - Enchui

7th - Othui

8th - Tollui

9th - Nedrui

10th - Paenui

11th - Minibui

12th - Ýnegui

[jadeshifting]

— THE HOGWARTS LIBRARY ( AND CREEPING INTO THE RESTRICTED SECTION )

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the library at Hogwarts isn’t just a room with books—it’s a labyrinth of enchanted shelves, shadowy corners, and straight-up chaos hidden in an elaborate Dewey Decimal disguise. it’s got that faint scent of parchment and polished wood, with a hint of ink that never quite fades

the organization system? a Ravenclaw’s fever dream, where books shelve themselves according to moods or relevance, and the enchantments sometimes switch them around just for kicks. find the Charms section in row five today? tomorrow, it might be two aisles over and under a Protection Charm

the librarian, Madam Pince, is a force of nature—like if a hawk wore bifocals and had a no-nonsense streak a mile wide. cross her, and she’ll hit you with a glare so sharp it feels like a spell (and at least two weeks of detention)

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

study groups camp out at the long, candlelit tables, hunched over ancient tomes and half-eaten chocolate frogs. popular picks include “Hogwarts: A History” (to win arguments), “1,001 Potions You’ll Probably Fail to Brew”, and “Unfogging the Future” (mostly to mock Trelawney, though some end up finding it quite riveting). don’t underestimate the less flashy areas—hidden in those dusty archives are one-of-a-kind works, like diaries from the founders and spellbooks that physically hum with power

though, for the more prone to trouble and the less interested in academic integrity, you may find yourself more intrigued by what’s below it all…

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

THE RESTRICTED SECTION

now, the Restricted Section? that’s not a library. that’s a test of nerve, guile, and how much you really want that illegal knowledge. to get in the front door, you either need a signed note (good luck with that) or a serious streak of rebellion. sneaking past Madam Pince? you better bribe Peeves to not rat you out, dodge the patrolling enchanted quills, and avoid the whispering books that tattletale louder than Filch after curfew

★⋆. ࿐࿔ once inside, it’s like stepping into another world. the FIRST LEVEL is dark and moody, with books chained to their shelves—literal restricted access. they’ll hiss at you or snap their covers shut if you’re not worthy—but it doesn’t stop at books. tucked between the stacks, there are pensieve memories, cursed artifacts, and spell components so volatile they’re kept under stasis spells

★⋆. ࿐࿔ moving deeper down, there are staircases (moving, of course) leading to levels few students even know about. the SECOND LEVEL? all about lost history, with maps that redraw themselves, diaries written in blood, and enchanted scrolls that show what could have been if certain spells hadn’t been cast. the THIRD LEVEL? forbidden magics—runes glowing faintly in the dark, ancient wands that whisper when you pass, and spellbooks so intense they emit heat

★⋆. ࿐࿔ the BOTTOM LEVELS? rumor has it they’re practically alive. entire rooms shift and expand like the castle itself, and the air smells of aged magic and danger. there’s talk of unspeakable artifacts: the blueprint of Hogwarts itself, spells to erase memories entirely, and magical experiments left unfinished. if you’re down here, it’s not for homework—it’s because you’re playing with fire, and you know it

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the Hogwarts library is a breeding ground for wild rumors and absolute madcap tales. if you stay in tune with the grapevine, there’s more drama hidden in those stacks than there is in all of the common rooms combined. whispers float about students concocting elaborate heists to breach the Restricted Section, some involving invisibility cloaks, Polyjuice-fueled disguises, or straight-up bribes to Peeves (pro tip: he accepts dungbombs and chaos as payment)

A (NOT-SO) GREAT HEIST

one infamous story is about Barnaby Crasswell, a Hufflepuff of all people, who tried sneaking in by levitating a decoy version of himself in the main library while he slipped into the Restricted Section cloaked under a Disillusionment Charm. he didn’t account for one crucial detail—his floating double started violently spinning like a top and caused such a scene Madam Pince nearly blew a gasket. he landed a week of detention scrubbing potion stains out of cauldrons, and his real punishment? a lifetime ban on borrowing books from Hogwarts

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the rumors about what students go looking for? next level. there’s talk of a fifth-year Ravenclaw attempting to track down spells for time travel, thinking he could use it to ace his OWLs by reliving test days (spoiler: he didn’t, but he did live in detention for a month). then there was that Gryffindor who supposedly went digging for a potion to resurrect dead pets after her pygmy puff tragically bit it during a Transfiguration mishap (RIP Buttons). and we’d better not forget about the Slytherin duo who searched for the literal recipe for eternal youth—

then there’s the lore about what’s actually down there. people swear they’ve seen enchanted blueprints of the castle’s hidden passageways, including a map of a supposed 15th dungeon where secret experiments were conducted. others claim there’s a book full of Unforgivable Curses even darker than the standard three, or a locked journal from Salazar Slytherin himself detailing spells that could rewrite magical lineage, and whispers that there’s a potion hidden down there, created centuries ago, that lets you see the face of your true love—but drinking it comes at a price so wild, no one who’s found it has dared

who knows whether any of it’s true? no one—but now that we’ve gotten past what you could find down there, let’s talk about how you could find it…

THE SLYTHERIN’S GUIDE TO BREAKING INTO THE RESTRICTED SECTION: A MASTERCLASS IN CHAOS AND CUNNING

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

— KNOW YOUR TIMING.

timing is everything, babe. the library’s busiest hours? hard pass. aim for the twilight zone—late evening, when most students are snoozing or panicking about half-done essays. Madam Pince might be stalking the shelves like a hawk, but even she has limits, usually around curfew. keep it sleek and under-the-radar

— THE DECOY DANCE.

step one: deploy a Grade-A distraction. have someone (Pansy’s a pro at this) fake a “library emergency”—think exaggerated fainting spells, loud arguments over nonexistent overdue books, or a rogue enchanted quill causing a scene in the Herbology aisle. while the librarian’s losing her marbles over the chaos, you need to be making moves

— GEAR UP.

no one with any success in troublemaking relies on luck alone. you’ll need…

— an invisibility cloak (if someone’s got connections)

— a silencing charm (those creaky floorboards show no mercy)

— Dungbombs or Portable Swamps (for emergency exits)

— a teensy-tiny Lumos charm (nothing screams “i’m up to no good” like tripping over your own robes in the dark)

— GETTING PAST THE GATE.

the Restricted Section is guarded by enchanted chains tighter than a Gringotts vault. you’ve got two main options:

OPTION A … classic Alohomora. works on a good day, but those chains sometimes have extra spells layered in, so be ready to improvise

OPTION B … the Librarian’s Key, if you wanna be really sure. pro tip? Millicent once swiped it by “accidentally” returning a borrowed book laced with a mild Sticking Charm

— NOW THAT YOU’RE INSIDE.

congratulations on getting this far—now stick close to the shadows; those shelves have been known to move

watch out for enchanted books that scream bloody murder when touched (i swear one almost gave me a heart attack)

know your exit plan before you even grab your prize. fire exits aren’t just for Muggles

— GRAB-AND-GO ETIQUETTE.

don’t be greedy. the golden rule? one book at a time. more than that, and you’ll trip some seriously aggressive enchantments. and for Merlin’s sake, do not open the books in there. half of them are hexed, and you don’t want to spend the next week croaking like a toad AND in detention

— THE GETAWAY.

once you’ve snagged your prize, act like nothing happened. the Restricted Section is a no-go for most students, but if you’re caught on the way out? a well-placed lie about being on an urgent Potions errand (“Slughorn sent me!”) could be the thing that saves your ass

— COVER YOUR TRACKS.

any evidence that points to your daring escapade? destroy it. burn the notes, wipe the fingerprints, and for the love of Salazar, don’t blab about it to any Gryffindors

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

SOME FINAL NOTES . this method isn’t some ridiculous (Gryffindor) stunt—no theatrics, no martyrdom, just slick strategy and sharper instincts. with these tips, you’ll be in and out without a trace, leaving everyone wondering how the hell you pulled it off. just pure excellence, darling

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[nihongoseito]

vocab for going to bed at 10 pm on a friday (jst)

nouns:

身（み）バレ = being doxxed

零れ（こぼれ）話（ばなし） = tidbit, sidebar, digression

地獄耳（じごくみみ） = sharp ears

薬品（やくひん） = medicine, chemicals

器具（きぐ） = tool, instrument, utensil

実務（じつむ） = practical business, business affairs

悪知恵（わるぢえ） = cunning, guile

悪意（あくい） = ill will, spite

損得勘定（そんとくかんじょう） = profit-and-loss arithmetic, mercenary point of view

打算（ださん） = self-interest, calculation

隔離（かくり） = isolation, quarantine

道楽（どうらく） = pastime, hobby

境目（さかいめ） = borderline, boundary

経過（けいか） = passage, elapsing (of time); progress, course (of events)

処方せん（しょほうせん） = prescription

接触感染（せっしょくかんせん） = infection through contact

ひた隠し（かくし） = desperate cover-up, hiding at all costs

出頭（しゅっとう） = turning oneself in, surrender (e.g., to police)

八方（はっぽう）塞がり（ふさがり） = blocked in every direction, cornered

親孝行（おやこうこう） = filial piety

余談（よだん） = digression

verbs:

負う（おう） = to be injured, incur (wound, damage)

つつく = to poke, nudge; to pick at (e.g., food); to peck at (e.g., someone’s faults)

委ねる（ゆだねる） = to entrust to; to leave to abandon oneself to (e.g., pleasure); to yield to (e.g., anger)

塞がる（ふさがる） = to be closed, healed (e.g., wound)

感染る／伝染る（うつる） = to be infected, contagious

突き放す（つきはなす） = to push away; to keep away from, abandon; to act coldly

弔う（とむらう） = to mourn for, grieve; to hold a funeral for

引き継ぐ（ひきつぐ） = to take over

生き（いき）ながらえる = to live long, survive

拒む（こばむ） = to refuse, decline; to prevent (from doing), deny (access)

尖る（とがる） = to be pointed, sharp; to be sour, touchy

はぐれる = to stray from, lose sight of (one’s companions)

adjectives:

理不尽（りふじん）な = unreasonable, outrageous, absurd

執拗（しつよう）な = persistent, tenacious, relentless

非現実的（ひげんじつてき）な = unrealistic

世渡り（よわたり）上手（じょうず）な = having worldly wisdom, cosmopolitan

邪悪（じゃあく）な = evil, wicked

有能（ゆうのう）な = able, capable, competent

心細い（こころぼそい） = hopeless, forlorn, discouraging

うやむやな = hazy, vague, undecided

興味本位（きょうみほんい）な = just out of curiosity; sensational

かなわない = unbearable; beyond one’s power

愛情深い（あいじょうぶかい） = loving, devoted

もどかしい = irritating, frustrating, feeling impatient

expressions:

無駄口（むだぐち）を叩く（たたく） = to chatter pointlessly, waste one’s breath

面倒（めんどう）を見る（みる） = to care for/look after someone

路頭（ろとう）に迷う（まよう） = to be down and out, rendered homeless

裏（うら）がある = to have an ulterior motive; to have a catch

天秤（てんびん）にかける = to compare and contrast, weigh (options); to try and have it both ways

[nosferatini]

The Season of Nightingales 🕊️ [PODFIC] - Chapter 8

Fancy a bit o’ Body Swappin’?

The Season of Nightingales

A post S2 plot-with-fluff, in which Aziraphale and Crowley explore ineffable affection while trying to save the world amidst unexpected friends, a guileful Metatron, and a Heavenly floor full of the Blessed Dead.

Rated: T | Playlist length: 4h 17 minutes

🎧Listen Here!

Chapter 8 - The Nightingale

“Alright,” said Aziraphale. “Ready when you are.” Crowley’s hand was warm—while Aziraphale was like ice melting in the demon’s palm. This time, they wrapped their other hands over the grip. Four hands speeding the body swap with the intensity of their grasp. When Aziraphale felt himself released by his own hands, he looked into his blue eyes and smiled.  “Be careful, darling.” Crowley’s voice felt sharp and guttural in his throat. “I sound so weird saying the word darling . Please don’t do it again.”

🎧Listen to Chapter 8 Here!

Chapters post every Wednesday—but if you can’t wait, find the finished fic HERE!

Enormous thanks to @paperclipninja for this incredible theme music! (Follow Clip on SoundCloud and AO3!)

Massive hugs to @daneecastle for this masterpiece of a cover! (Support Danee on Patreon | Kofi | Insta!)

Undying love and devotion to my beta listeners, @firstvisittoearth @tansyogg and u/Glittering_Rock1665 from @goodomensafterdark !!

[dudeimjustagirll]

The Second Thing I Thought Of

Ao3 Link :p

some light angst bc I just rewatched Under the Red Hood and it was sooooooo good

It didn’t happen all at once.

Grief never did. It leaked in slowly, soaked your skin in memories, settled behind your ribs–beside your heart, like a tumor.

You didn’t get the call. You got the absence of it. An empty inbox. A silent line. And then Alfred—steady, composed Alfred—whose voice cracked just enough to tell you everything.

Jason was gone.

You were nineteen. He was eighteen. One year apart, but soul-matched in defiance. You were the one he called when Bruce said no. The one who knew how that felt—how the word stuck in your throat, how it made you reckless.

And this time, it wasn’t just any defiance. It was personal.

He’d gotten a lead about his mother. A sliver of a chance. He said he didn’t expect her to be perfect, or kind, or even good. He just needed to know. He loved Bruce and Alfred—God, he adored them, even when he couldn’t say it. He’d do anything for Dick, would defend him in one breath and punch him in the next. But there was still this part of him—a bleeding edge, something unresolved—that needed answers. Needed to understand why his life started the way it did. Why she left. Why he never got to know her.

Bruce had said no. He said it was a setup, too dangerous, too uncertain. He told Jason to wait.

And Jason told you.

You knew how it burned. The waiting. The powerlessness. You looked into his eyes—so full of longing, so impossibly young—and you said, "Then go. Find her."

You didn’t know that would be the last time you’d feel his heartbeat.

You didn’t know it would get him killed.

The first week after… you couldn’t bring yourself to eat much. Or do much else, honestly.

The news was like a weight dropped onto your chest, and no matter how many days passed, you couldn’t seem to breathe around it. People tried to help. Friends. Classmates. Your parents. Professors. They offered food, company, soft words. You snapped at them. Bit down on kindness with grief-sharpened teeth. You weren’t angry at them. You were just… sad. Bone-deep, marrow-rotting sad.

And losing a partner wasn’t the same as losing a parent, or a sibling, or a friend.

It was worse, in its own, horrifying way. Because you’d chosen him. You’d loved him in quiet, deliberate ways—chosen him in the moments between chaos. And now he was gone, and nothing felt real.

You stopped responding to messages. Missed classes. Let your coursework rot in the back of your bag. The university noticed. Your grades slipped. You didn’t care.

Your parents did.

They got you into therapy. At first, you refused. The thought of sitting in a room with a stranger and sharing the pain was unbearable. You didn’t want to speak it into the air and make it more real than it already was.

You went, anyway. After a particularly stern talking to from your mother, telling you that this couldn’t go on any longer. You needed good grades to get into your graduate program, after all.

You hated it. The first few sessions were a quiet, seething hell. For weeks, you sat in silence. Arms crossed so tightly your shoulders ached. Head low so you wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes—not the therapist’s, not your own in the reflection of her glasses. Every question she asked felt like a scalpel. Too sharp. Too close. Like she was trying to peel you open and name all the pieces inside.

You weren’t ready for that. You weren’t ready to say his name out loud. Not in that room. Not in any room.

When she asked you what happened, you clenched your jaw until it hurt. When she offered you tissues, you didn’t take them. When she said it was okay to be angry, you stared at the floor like you could burn a hole through it.

You were angry. Furious, even—but not at him. Never at him.

You were angry at yourself. For saying, "Go." For meaning it. For being the one person who should’ve known better—should’ve stopped him—and instead handed him the push he needed to fall headfirst into his grave.

The guilt festered like a wound that wouldn’t close. And you thought, if you spoke it aloud, it would make it real. Concrete. Unforgivable.

But something shifted one afternoon.

You had shown up, out of obligation more than hope, and sat in the same chair you always did. Cold fingers gripping your sleeves, nerves frayed like wires. Your therapist didn’t ask anything that day. She just sat there. Quiet. Patient. Breathing softly across from you.

And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like space.

And you cried.

Ugly, open sobs that collapsed your shoulders and twisted your mouth and shook your whole body like a tree in a storm. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic. It was raw and wrenching and real.

You told her everything.

The guilt. The choice. The way you had told him to go. How you had said it like a gift, like liberation—when it had been a death sentence. How it felt like your hands were dipped in blood every time you looked at them. How the memory clung to you, cold and sticky and alive.

You told her how some mornings you woke up with his name on your lips, like he’d just walked out the door. How some nights you still reached across the bed for a shape that wasn’t there.

You told her how grief had gutted you. How it still did.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct you. Didn’t say it wasn’t your fault.

She just listened.

And somehow, that was enough.

It wasn’t a fix. It wasn’t even relief.

But it was the first time you didn’t feel like you were drowning alone.

And that was enough, for a start.

Healing wasn’t linear.

Some days, you thought you were okay. Then you'd hear a laugh like his in the grocery store, or catch the scent of his cologne in a crowd, and you’d feel like you were drowning all over again.

Once, it was a hoodie in the back of your closet. One he’d stolen from you and stretched out. You found it while looking for something else and sat on the floor for an hour, hugging it to your chest, sobbing like he’d just died yesterday.

But slowly—painfully—you got better.

The guilt that plagued you started to ebb. Bit by bit by bit.

Initially, his death felt like the worst thing in the world every single day. It was the first thought when you opened your eyes, the last one when you closed them.

After a year and a half, it was the second thing.

Eventually, the third.

You never forgot him.

He was kind. He was caring. He was a smart-mouthed, soft-hearted boy who brought you chaos and comfort in equal measure.

You still kept the polaroid from when he invited you to his senior prom. He was in the nicest suit he owned, grinning like he’d won the lottery just having you there.

Your ringtone for a few people was still set to his favorite song. Something fast and loud and stupid. It made you smile, even when it hurt.

You got back on your feet. Slowly, yes—but surely. The days stretched out longer. The sun felt a little warmer. You made friends in your program. You started laughing again.

After two and a half years, you thought—maybe—it was time to start dating again.

It didn’t go well.

The people were kind, mostly. But they weren’t him. They didn’t make your heart kick sideways when they looked at you. They didn’t know how to make you laugh from your stomach, or hold your wrist gently when you were anxious.

No one ever lasted.

You told yourself that was fine.

You were twenty one. You had time.

The world kept turning, and you had started turning with it—no longer stubbornly looking back, no longer clinging to memories like they could bring him to you again.

You made space for new dreams, kept your head down, worked hard in your classes.

There were good days. Warm ones. Quiet mornings where you caught yourself smiling without guilt. Sometimes you even imagined what your future might look like. A life built with patience. A life where the ache dulled to something you could carry without breaking.

And then you saw him.

It was late. Your shift had run over, and your body ached with the familiar burn of overwork—muscles sore, eyelids heavy, brain fogged with too many patients and too little rest. You were walking home in scrubs, the fabric clinging to your skin from the misty rain that had started to fall, keys laced between your fingers, humming a song you couldn’t name. Just another night. Just another tired breath, another stretch of cracked sidewalk beneath your shoes.

And then your breath caught mid-step.

There—across the street, beneath the flicker of a dying streetlamp—he stood.

Black jacket. Broad shoulders. That crooked stance, casual and coiled at the same time, like he was daring the world to try him. You knew that stance. Had leaned against it. Had run your hands over the leather and rested your head against those shoulders more times than you could count.

Your brain stalled. Refused to compute. For a second, you truly thought you were hallucinating. Sleep-deprived. Stress-delirious. It rewound. Glitched. Tried to place a logical explanation where one didn’t exist. A stranger. A ghost. A trick of the light.

But then he looked up.

And you saw those eyes.

Green. Startling. Too sharp to be kind, too soft to be cruel. Eyes that held memories you hadn’t let yourself touch in years.

You knew them.

Your heart plunged into your stomach, heavy and sick, like a weight dropped from a great height. Your pulse roared in your ears, blood rushing so loudly you could barely hear the distant sounds of the city anymore. Everything around you narrowed—blurred—until it was just him and the cold slap of the wind on your face.

You stepped off the curb without thinking. Barely noticed the screech of tires somewhere behind you. You crossed the street like gravity had tilted, and he was the only thing holding you to the earth.

Closer. Closer.

Every step felt like walking through water, thick and slow and disbelieving. Your fingers were trembling. Your breath refused to come steady. The air between you crackled like static.

You stopped inches away.

"Jason?" you breathed, voice breaking over the name like it was made of glass.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you all over again. Like maybe he’d been standing under that streetlamp for a while, unsure if he’d actually come close.

You reached out.

You touched him.

His jaw was bruised. His knuckles bloodied. But it was him. His pulse was real beneath your fingers.

So you hit him.

Your fist cracked against his chest. Once. Twice. You weren’t even sure what for. For the years. For the silence. For the fact that you had buried him and here he was, alive and looking at you like he was the one who’d been left behind.

"You died," you choked, tears spilling fast. "You died. I buried you, Jason—"

He didn’t block you. Didn’t flinch. Just let you rage. Let you crumble.

"You said you'd just talk to her. You said you’d be fine. You promised me you’d be careful . "

He swallowed hard, the motion in his throat tight. "I thought I would be."

You hit him again, open-handed this time, and then your fingers curled in his jacket like you might fall apart if you let go. Confusion crashed over you in waves—grief, fury, disbelief, all tangled up in the shape of him standing there like no time had passed.

"I don’t understand," you whispered, eyes wild. "How are you here? Why didn’t you tell me?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like he wanted to, like the words were there and too dangerous to say. Like maybe he didn’t know how to start.

"Because I didn’t know if I was still him," he said at last. Quiet. Almost ashamed. "Didn’t know if I’d be someone you could still love."

Your knees buckled before the sob even escaped. But his arms caught you. Without hesitation. Like they remembered how.

You clung to him. Rain soaking through both your clothes. Heart pounding against his. Mind screaming that this couldn’t be real. That things didn’t just go back to the way they were.

They couldn’t. You wouldn’t let them.

But for now, you stayed right there.

Held by the ghost you had never stopped loving.

Held by the boy who had died and come back something else entirely.

And you didn't know what would come next.

Only that he was here.

And he was holding you just like he always had.

The months that followed felt like liminal space. Like you’d stepped sideways out of time.

Jason was back—but not really. The edges of him were sharper. The light behind his eyes dimmer. He flinched more, spoke less, and smiled like it cost him something. There were nights he would show up with blood on his hands and dirt under his fingernails, jaw clenched like he was holding back the end of the world. And you never asked where he'd been. You never asked why he looked at himself like he wasn’t sure he belonged in his own skin.

But he came to you. When the blood ran too hot, when the mission pushed too far, when he had nowhere else to go—he came.

You never stopped letting him in.

Tonight, the air was too still.

Gotham had a sound to it—constant, low, alive. Sirens, traffic, the hum of neon, that far-off sound of chaos you’d grown used to. It was a city that never slept, and you’d learned to fall asleep to its noise like a lullaby.

But tonight, the silence crept in thick and unnatural, curling around your apartment like fog. Even the ticking clock on your wall felt loud. You didn’t need a phone call. You didn’t need a text. Your bones just knew.

Jason was bleeding again.

You didn’t turn on the light outside of the door. You never did, not when it was him. Just the hallway lamp, casting a warm gold glow across the hardwood floor. The med kit was already open on the kitchen counter, supplies laid out with the same careful precision you used in your practice—alcohol wipes, gauze, antiseptic. A towel, already damp with warm water.

You didn’t pace. Didn’t wring your hands or flick glances at the door. That wasn’t how you waited for Jason.

You just sat. Steady. A quiet presence in the dark.

You remembered the first time he showed up at your door post-resurrection, soaked in rain and blood and guilt. You hadn’t spoken. Just guided him to the bathroom, sat him on the edge of the tub, and cleaned him up. He watched you like he expected you to vanish any second, like kindness was a language he no longer understood.

And tonight was no different.

The door opened just past midnight. No knock. He never knocked. He let himself in, quiet like a shadow, the hinges creaking softly as he pushed the door closed behind him.

You looked up from the armrest of the couch.

His shirt was torn. There was blood down one sleeve and a cut across his cheekbone. His eyes were unreadable, but they landed on you like he was half-relieved, half-terrified you’d finally stopped waiting.

You didn’t say anything.

Just nodded once. The smallest gesture.

He crossed the room slowly. Every step was a confession.

And when he stood in front of you, not quite meeting your eyes, you reached for him.

Not to pull. Not to fix.

Just to touch. Just to let him know you were still here.

He exhaled like it hurt.

Like being seen hurt.

And then, with a tremble so faint it might’ve been imagined, Jason Todd sat down beside you and let you take his hand.

You didn’t ask him to talk.

You just started cleaning the blood from his knuckles.

The silence wasn’t empty.

It was everything he didn’t know how to say.

Because if there was one thing he had never known how to handle, it was someone waiting for him like he was worth the wait.

You worked gently, dabbing antiseptic over scraped skin. The towel turned pink in your hands. His fingers twitched once beneath your touch and he let out a hiss.

“Too rough?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No. Just... not used to it yet.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you will be. Eventually.”

Jason was quiet again. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but his hand never pulled from yours.

“I didn’t come back right,” he said, finally. Voice low. Raw. “You loved Jason Todd. He’s gone.”

Your chest went tight. The sting behind your eyes was immediate and sharp. You set the cloth down slowly. 

No. He couldn’t just waltz into your place whenever he felt like it and say he wasn’t the man you loved.

“That’s not fair.”

His brows twitched, but he didn’t look up. “It’s true.”

“No,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble building in your throat. “It’s not.”

He scoffed, bitter and low. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”

“I know exactly who you are,” you said, louder now, sharper. “Don’t you dare sit there and act like I’m some idiot who’s in love with a memory. I’ve seen you. I’ve held you. I’ve listened to you scream in your sleep and still woken up next to you in the morning.”

Jason flinched—just a little—but his hands were clenched now, tension bunching through his shoulders.

“You think I want this?” he bit out. “I was eighteen. I wanted answers, not a goddamn coffin. I shouldn’t have gone. You told me to go—”

“I know , Jason!” Your voice cracked. “Do you think I don’t know? I’ve lived with that every single day for years. You think I didn’t rip myself apart wondering if it was my fault you died?”

Silence pulsed between you. Thick. Heavy.

His eyes finally met yours—and there it was. The weight. The pain. The shame.

“I loved you,” he whispered. “So much it scared me.”

Your throat burned. “Then why are you trying to make me hate you?”

“Because it’s easier,” he said. “Because if you hate me, you’ll let go. You’ll move on. And maybe I won’t have to look at you and remember what it felt like to have a life.”

Your breath caught.

“You think I’m here because I want the old you back?” you asked, softer now. “ There is no old you. I’m here because it’s still you. Even when you think you're too far gone for anyone to ever care about you again.”

Jason blinked hard. You saw the tears, even if he didn’t let them fall.

“I still remember the way you looked at me,” you continued. “Like I was the best thing in the world. And now you look at me like I’m going to vanish. Like you’re not allowed to need me anymore.”

His shoulders dropped slightly. “You don’t know how much I still love you.”

You did.

You always did.

So you reached out, brushing the hair back from his brow with gentle fingers. His skin was warm beneath your touch—real. Present. Still here.

You leaned in close, cleaning the last of the blood from his jawline. He didn't flinch this time.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, quietly. “Even when you try to make me.”

He let out a shaky breath, the words catching in his throat.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled, lips pressed to his hair. “I love you. So, so much. ”

“Horrible,” he rasped. “Useless, rotten work.”

You kissed the crown of his head. Closed your eyes.

“Not to me.”

[professional-spectator]

Hey there, it's IDK! I usually stick to writing in the third person, but I thought I'd try something a little different this time. If you want to imagine yourself as the reader, go right ahead! Though, fair warning, I've never been the best at those kinds of stories, haha.

I'm a huge Cyno fan and proudly main him in the game, so of course, he's going to be a part of this story!

Okay, here's the little disclaimer and a heads-up: I don't own Hoyoverse, Genshin Impact, or anything related to them.

And a big thank you to @arn9tails for letting me use their Genshin size difference AU as the basis for this fanfic. The idea that Teyvat isn't scaled to Earth but is actually much, much larger really fascinated me—it's a pretty scary thought, isn't it? I also really liked the idea that people from Earth aren't resistant to it, which is what sparked this whole thing.

Also, just a quick heads-up: this story touches on some serious and sensitive subjects. It's inspired by SAGAU (Self-Aware Genshin Impact Alternative Universe), isekai themes, different isekai worlds, creation myths, and fanfiction in general.

Alright, let's dive into chapter 4 and see what adventures await our dear Oc! Sadly our last chapter....

Chapter 4 - The Marketplace

I watched, anticipation bubbling in my chest, as Cyno prepared his disguise. When he finally emerged, the transformation was uncanny. He could have passed for a seasoned Eremite. A flicker of admiration sparked within me if I were a different situation, I might have been swooning.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my arms crossed, a knot of worry tightening in my stomach. Lottie and Jamie… where were they? Had they been brought to? Were they, like me, simply trying to survive? I had a sinking feeling I would find out soon enough.

Cyno's voice, grave and unwavering, cut through my thoughts. "You're not going to like this, Mao…"

"With words like that… you're right," I muttered, my gaze fixed on his. He held out something that made my blood run cold a collar, complete with a jingling bell.

"No," I said, the word a sharp, instinctive rejection.

"It's necessary for this investigation, Mao… We're going somewhere where you might need to… act like a pet, or an animal…" Cyno's bluntness stung. "I need to scope this place out. I need your assistance, and your cooperation, Mao."

"No! This whole week, these days, these hours… I don't even know how long it's been… it's all been so degrading!" I shouted, my voice echoing slightly in the space between us. Being so small, so powerless, only amplified my frustration.

"I will not wear a collar!" I hissed, stubbornly crossing my arms.

But, despite my defiance, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. Cyno's expression was so earnest, so utterly devoid of guile, that a wave of reluctant pity washed over me. How could I refuse him when he looked so… lost?

"Okay, fine…" I snatched the collar from his hand, my fingers curling around the cold leather. "I hate this. I hate this and everything it stands for."

The journey back was mostly spent safely in Cyno's pocket. I could sense when he paused, engaging in hushed conversations, presumably using the password gleaned from the scholar. Then, he carefully extracted me, settling me on his shoulder before descending a narrow, winding staircase.

"Where are we?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Under the Grand Bazaar..." he replied, a hint of uncertainty coloring his tone. It was a new place to him as well; an area not present in the game.

Nothing could have prepared us for the sight that unfolded before our eyes. It was reminiscent of the Grand Bazaar above, yet bathed in a dim, muted light, casting long, eerie shadows.

Here, a clandestine market thrived, filled with vendors peddling contraband. Goods from faraway lands were on display: saurians from Natlan, Bake-danuki from Inazuma. But it was the sight of miniature humans, earthlings like myself, trapped in cages that truly chilled me. They resembled those I had seen in the crate, their eyes vacant and strangely serene, a state that hinted at something deeply amiss. Was this the "nonverbal" state Cyno had alluded to earlier?

One whimpered softly, like a lost dog, while another pathetically begged for treats. A wave of nausea washed over me. Why were they behaving this way? I remained silent, but I'm sure the horror and disgust I felt were plain on my face.

Balanced precariously on Cyno's shoulders, I murmured, "What's wrong with them?" My question was a fragile whisper, barely audible. Cyno maintained his unwavering pace, a silent protector guiding us through the dangerous terrain. He walked for what seemed like an age, carefully considering his response, ensuring his words wouldn't attract unwanted attention.

At last, he spoke, his tone somber and low. "That's simply their nature now. It's why many scholars consider them indistinguishable from animals. But you... you're different. I refuse to accept that you're abnormal. Something occurred to your people upon their arrival here... it robbed them of their humanity, reducing them to the level of a cat or dog..."

The injustice of his statement threatened to explode within me, a furious eruption of denial. However, I suppressed the scream that fought to escape my throat, forcing myself to remain quiet. We continued deeper into the heart of the chaos, and with each step, the scene became more disturbing. We came across what appeared to be a food court, a frenzied center of brightly lit stalls and deafening noise. Earthlings were dancing wildly, their movements erratic and unnatural. It was a horrifying sight, reminiscent of that unsettling scene from Disney's Pinocchio, where he dances on stage, a puppet manipulated by unseen forces. Then, I spotted her. Lottie—no, Jamie with her.

Her eyes were blank, lacking the intelligence and individuality I knew so well. She was wearing a gaudy outfit resembling a ballet costume, a grotesque parody of grace and artistry.

"Oh my God..." I gasped, my hand instinctively covering my mouth to stifle the rising wave of horror. The sound, however faint, was enough to attract attention. A head turned in my direction, its eyes glazed and vacant. Cyno, ever watchful, remained concealed in the shadows, a silent guardian in a world consumed by madness.

"Sorry... that's my friend Lottie..." I managed to stammer, the words laden with sorrow and disbelief.

Cyno's reply was a simple, "I see." From my perch atop his broad shoulder, I risked a glance around, the swirling chaos of the desert encampment a dizzying sight.

"I need to speak with her..." The words tumbled out, laced with a desperate urgency. "She'll recognize me, won't she? We've been best friends since high school..." The last part trailed off, a silent acknowledgment that the concept of "high school" would be utterly foreign to him.

Hope, fragile yet persistent, fluttered within me. "I'm sure if she sees me, she'll return to normal..."

"Please, let me try..." I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper. Cyno sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken reservations.

"I will try to get you close enough," he conceded, his voice a low rumble. A surge of determination coursed through me. "I'm coming, Lottie," I vowed silently, the promise echoing in the chambers of my heart.

Lottie is, and always will be, my best friend. Our story began during our freshman year of high school. There was no grand introduction, no orchestrated meeting. I was just a somewhat intelligent, mostly geeky kid, and Lottie, with her beautiful hair, was, unfortunately, also on the geeky side. Our paths converged in the hallowed halls of the school library during lunch, where we both sought refuge in the vibrant pages of comic books and manga. Initially, silence reigned between us. Not a single word was exchanged. Then, my stomach betrayed me with a loud rumble, and Lottie, in an act of unexpected kindness, offered to share half of her sandwich. It was a simple gesture, but from that moment on, we were inseparable, bound together as best friends.

Now, my current reality was grim, a stark contrast to the comforting memories of my friendship with Lottie. I was trapped inside my favorite video game, a predicament made infinitely worse by the fact that I was doll-sized. Cyno, a character from the game, held me in his arms. I clung to his forearm, desperately trying not to fall as he walked toward a seated man. Cyno was surprisingly good at acting; his voice was completely different, a nuance I didn't recall from the game. He sat down with a man who was also dressed in the garb of an Eremite.

"Hmmm, what an adorable miniature you have there," the Eremite said, immediately reaching out to pat my head as if I were some kind of animal. I think I played my part well, maintaining my silence, though I'm sure my face conveyed my true thoughts.

"Are you looking for a companion for it?"

Cyno seemed taken aback by the question.

"A companion?" Cyno asked, his voice laced with surprise.

"Yes, it's a good thing they only have one at a time..." the Eremite continued, talking about me as if I were a dog. Was there some sort of puppy mill, but for humans? Cyno, perhaps sensing my discomfort, set me down as he continued his conversation with the man. I seized the opportunity, slipping away to embark on my own quest: to find Lottie.

I moved like a shadow, a tiny spy navigating a treacherous landscape of towering tables, looming chairs, and a sea of oblivious people. My heart hammered against my ribs with each furtive step, until finally, I reached the stage. There it was: the pen. Inside, they were kept, the earthlings. But it wasn't the enclosure itself that sent a shiver down my spine; it was their eyes. Vacant, empty, devoid of any spark.

"Lottie..." I whispered, my voice barely audible above a whisper. Lottie was there, her gaze fixed on some unseen point, her eyes mirroring the same unsettling emptiness as the others.

"Lottie," I repeated, my hand trembling as I reached through the bars, desperate to make a connection. My fingers closed around her arm. She didn't speak, didn't acknowledge me with a word or a glance. Instead, her gaze flickered towards something behind me: the large cube of sugar. Understanding dawned, cold and sharp. I snapped off a piece from the pen's bar, and she snatched it from my hand with a desperate eagerness that chilled me to the bone. In that moment, I felt like I was trapped in that haunting scene from Planet of the Apes, the one where Commander Taylor finds Dodge, only to discover he'd been lobotomized, his humanity stolen.

"Lottie, it's me...." The words caught in my throat. I couldn't even remember my real name, not anymore. But Lottie didn't respond, her vacant eyes offering no flicker of recognition, no hint of the person I once knew.

Traumatized, I stumbled back towards Cyno. Whether he noticed my distress or not, he didn't comment, but he did scoop me up into his arms. Enfolded there, I felt acutely aware of my own smallness, a fragile thing amidst something vast and terrible. I remained silent, clinging to him as we finally left that bizarre, suffocating place behind.

"Mao, are you okay?" Cyno asked, his voice cutting through the fog in my mind, once we'd put some distance between ourselves and the underground market.

"No, I'm not, no..." I exclaimed, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"This is crazy... what the hell did I just witness..." I muttered, more to myself than to him, the images still flashing behind my eyelids.

His voice, when he responded, was grave, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through me. "Crime of the underworld..."

Exhaustion clung to my face as I stared at him, the weight of sleepless nights pressing down. Was he truly serious? Did the man ever think about anything beyond the relentless pursuit of justice? I watched him, a chilling certainty creeping into my mind: he was contemplating it. He was actually considering deploying what amounted to a Matra SWAT team to shut down this illicit underground market. The thought hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

His voice, laced with a gentle curiosity, cut through my swirling thoughts. "Were you able to reach your friend?" he inquired, his embrace still a comforting anchor as I clung to his forearm.

"No..." The word escaped me, a whisper haunted by the memory of Lottie's vacant stare. "It's as if she's lost all sense of her humanity."

A flicker of understanding, tinged with concern, softened his usually stern features. He simply said, "I understand." Back in what I assumed were his personal quarters, he asked me to wait while he assembled a team to dismantle the market. Left alone in the quiet of his room, I found myself drawn to the window, my gaze lost in the distance. My mind, a whirlwind of anxieties, conjured images of my parents, my friends, and the uncertain path that lay before me. I couldn't help but recall a time when I yearned for the world of Genshin to be real, a fantastical escape. Now, it was more real than life itself, a stark and unsettling reality.

Sleep overtook me swiftly, the exact moment of surrender lost within the recesses of my thoughts. I didn't even register Cyno's arrival back. The persistent Sumeru sun, however, was far more insistent, its rays slicing through the window and pulling me back to wakefulness.

"Mao, you're awake..." Cyno's voice, a deep murmur, cut through the mental haze. A wave of mortification washed over me as I realized I was drooling – an embarrassing side effect of sleep I'd hoped to avoid. My only desire was to disappear from this humiliating situation.

"I'm awake..." I mumbled, surreptitiously wiping away the trace of my slumber. I must have looked awful. How long had it been since I'd been thrown into this larger-than-life version of Teyvat? Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I finally managed to focus on Cyno.

"What is it?" I asked, suppressing a yawn.

The morning routine complete, I was met with a breakfast spread fit for a king – a surprising contrast to Cyno's usual stoicism. With a full stomach and a sigh, we embarked on our journey once more. Cyno, true to form, remained a man of few words, and before I knew it, I was hoisted onto his shoulder, feeling rather like a disgruntled parrot.

"Hey!" I finally exclaimed, the novelty of this mode of transport wearing thin. "Where are we going, anyway? I told you I don't appreciate being manhandled–"

My complaints were cut short by another one of his infuriating head pats. I swatted his enormous finger away, earning a low chuckle from the General Mahamatra.

"To see Lord Kusanali," he stated, his voice unusually grave. "I've been telling her everything... and she expressed a desire to meet you."

The weight of his words crashed down on me. He looked so serious, so… official. I wanted to strangle him, to curse the sheer scale of this world and my place within it. Meeting any kind of ruler, a deity no less, was a monumental event, a terrifying prospect I hadn't signed up for.

The Sanctuary of Surasthana. Even back when this was just a game, I'd always loved exploring its hidden corners. Now, it was the stage for my meeting with Nahida, who sat perched upon Cyno's broad shoulder.

She reminded me of the Childlike Empress from "The NeverEnding Story," a figure of immense power cloaked in innocence. A strange mix of excitement and dread churned within me.

"Lord Kusanali, this is Mao..." Cyno's voice, usually so stern, held a hint of formality as he presented me. Of course, I recognized her. Nahida's features were unforgettable: fair skin that seemed to glow, delicately pointed ears, large, intelligent green eyes, and white hair tipped with the vibrant green of Dendro.

"Your Highness, or Queen..." I stammered, feeling like a complete idiot for not knowing the proper form of address. My tongue felt thick and clumsy.

"Hmm, how interesting, you're different?" she observed, her gaze intense. Before I could process her words, Cyno gently set me down on some sort of intricate console.

"May I take a look?" the childlike goddess asked, her voice soft but laced with an undeniable authority. Before I could answer, a wave of energy washed over me, and darkness claimed my consciousness.

When I finally awoke, a sound pierced through the fog in my mind. Crying. Nahida was weeping, her small frame shaking with each sob.

"It's my fault..." she repeated, over and over, her voice thick with anguish. Cyno, standing stiffly beside her, clearly wasn't equipped to handle such raw emotion. And I, well, I've always hated seeing children cry.

"Look, sweetie, it's not your fault..." I managed to say, my voice still thick with sleep and a lingering disorientation.

Nahida's youthful gaze met mine. "Yes it is" she replied, her voice carrying the weight of her ancient responsibility.

"After the Traveler and I faced the corruption together, I put safeguards in place, measures to shield Irminsul from future problems. My intention was to prevent external forces, beings not native to Teyvat, from tainting it with forbidden knowledge. Never did I imagine," she confessed, a hint of regret in her tone, "that those precautions would extend to you… to your people."

I had always suspected Irminsul was akin to a vast, intricate computer. The game's lore painted Nahida's consciousness as inextricably linked to it, the very source of Dendro's power. It wasn't a stretch to see her as a programmer, safeguarding the world's very code.

The realization struck me like a physical blow. "So, if I'm understanding this correctly…" I began, my voice barely a whisper, "the reason people from Earth, myself included, are acting…like animals is is because you're inadvertently using Irminsul to block the spread of forbidden knowledge?" The implications were terrifying.

Nahida's voice, though calm, carried the weight of a grim reality. "It rids them of the forbidden knowledge that's leaking," she explained, her gaze distant, "essentially reverting them to a primal state."

My heart clenched. The humans, these earthlings, like myself, had been hauled here against their will. And now? They were being rebooted, their minds wiped clean, their very essence stripped away.

A wave of fury washed over me, choking the air from my lungs. "Can you fix it?!" I screamed, the question ripped from my throat, far louder than I intended.

Nahida nodded, her expression confirming what felt like an eternity—three weeks, to be exact. Scholars from every corner of the Akademiya were lending their expertise, a flurry of activity that both reassured and frustrated me. Frankly, it astonished me that it had taken them this long to pinpoint the flaw in the earthing process. Then again, I mused, most of them had been blissfully unaware of Nahida's five-century-long confinement, a secret only Alhaitham had pierced through during the archon quest.

Lottie and James were safe, for now, a fragile comfort in the grand scheme of things. Cyno, ever the unwavering General Mahamatra, had finally apprehended Dori. Yet, even with these victories, a shadow lingered. The demand for "mini-Humans," or earthlings, persisted throughout Teyvat, a chilling reminder that this nightmare could easily repeat itself.

"Ready to go home, Mao?" Cyno's voice cut through my thoughts. I was perched on his shoulder, a tiny parrot seeking solace in his presence.

"Yes...more than anything..." I replied, the longing for Earth a physical ache. I yearned to leave this chapter behind, to erase the horrors I had witnessed. Nahida had explained that the return journey would involve a portal, a gateway that would gently erase our memories of Teyvat, if we even retained them. Lottie and Jamie, poor things, were still trapped in that vacant, unresponsive state.

I wished I could have shared a deeper connection with Cyno, a heartfelt goodbye that truly conveyed my gratitude. He was, without a doubt, a good person, someone I genuinely respected.

"Thanks for everything..." I managed, the words feeling inadequate. The idealized image I once held of him had faded, replaced by a more grounded appreciation.

"You're welcome, Mao," he replied, his large hand gently patting my head. I sighed, a wave of frustration washing over me. I desperately wanted to tell him my real name, to leave him with a piece of my true self, but the memory remained elusive, lost in the chaos of my experiences.

The moment to leave arrived, and I didn't dare glance back, hoping that oblivion would claim the memories. Two months had passed since Lottie, James, I, and a handful of others vanished from the anime convention. Then, as abruptly as it began, we reappeared outside the mall. They were… themselves again.

The news spread like wildfire, yet a collective amnesia seemed to grip everyone regarding our whereabouts during that time. Everyone except me. I remained silent. How could I possibly articulate the truth? How could I explain that we had been abducted, essentially sold as pets to giants in a world ripped straight from a popular video game? Perhaps the most crucial thing was that everyone had returned to their normal lives.

I write this now, a record of my account, my experience. Despite the sheer terror of it all, I refuse to let the memories fade. A voice calls out, my dad asking if I'd like to join them for a movie.

"Sure..." I replied.

I closed my laptop, the screen fading to black. I still play Genshin Impact, but most of my merchandise has been packed away, relegated to a box in the attic. However, a Cyno plushie remains on my desk, a constant reminder to appreciate the life I have now. It's not perfect, and there's no magic, but I don't need that anymore. I've had enough adventure to last a lifetime.

As I descended the stairs, I found only my parents on the couch, bathed in the soft glow of the television. It was then that I noticed it – the water pitcher on the coffee table. The water within vibrated, tiny ripples dancing across its surface.

The end?????

[timekeepers-memoir]

He doesn’t remember when it started anymore. His mother must’ve raised him better than that, but the tides of war struck him like a riptide and carried whatever broken shards of his morals far, far away into the soul of the ocean. Where his grandmother wept, he presumed.

After all, he didn’t get all these scars from happy accidents.

No, he got them from wars. Only one. The only he’d ever fight in his life, he assured himself, but a brutal one nonetheless. He remembers stepping down from the ship onto the sands of the bay and hearing people, generals and not, chant his name. ‘Neoptolemus,’ they shouted, ‘son of Achilles.’ It was all a hazy blur. Next thing he knew, he was thrusted into a pandemonium of children’s cries for help, sounds of metal clashing against eachother, young widows adorned with black scarfs, and the rotting smell of corpses in the sunlight.

Before he knew it, all he knew were the sounds of screams and the sharp sting of pain and the curl of his fingers around his spear.

They had talked about the man before, the many-turning, twisting man, full of cunning and guile, a patron to another over cups of ale, of his heroic journey back to Ithaca. He had known about Odysseus before his journey, and he’d state that the king was nothing more than a crow grasping at the bars of its prison until the steel breaks. The man knew how to survive, and no matter how petty it was, Neo had to admit, it was effective.

What he didn’t expect though, was his son to be nothing like him.No, Telemachus wasn’t a tired, battle-hardened general like Odysseus. He was more like a child chasing dreams with a wooden sword. Worse, even. Neo considered him weak, and to be completely honest, his lover’s pettiness was like no other. He himself had retained many, many things from his father. Tele, on the other hand, did not get anything from his father, except the passionate, undying devotion.

And Tele showed it on more than one occasion.

Like this time.

──── ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ────

“Neo? What’s the matter, my love?”

Neo jerked from his spot, snapping his head towards the direction of the sound, “Wha-”

Telemachus was staring at him, that was the first thing he noticed. A frown present on those lips, ── not a good look on his bunny, Neo noted ── shaking his head ever-so-slightly in disappointment. “Have you been mumbling to yourself again? About those scars?”

“Oh come on, Tele, I’m just…” he sighed, knowing he won’t be able to just go ‘shut up’ this time, an easy copout he exploited whenever his lover pointed out his destructive behaviors, “...yeah. Maybe a little.”

Tele’s eyes softened tremendously. It’s almost absurd how much those eyes can change in such a short time. His lover walked closer to him, slowly sitting down, finger quietly gliding along the length of the railing. Neo himself had his arm lazily placed on the railing, head nuzzled comfortably in the inside of his elbow. Tele propped his arm on the marble, head situated on his hand, glancing worriedly at his lover.

“...Your worth isn’t determined by your scars, Neo,” his lover quietly muttered, gently carding a hand through his ginger locks.

“It might as well be,” he scoffed, hitting Tele’s hand away. The other prince quietly hissed, before looking at Neo, deeply hurt, “because after all I’ll still be the son of Achilles. My worth will forever depend on his reputation. Like the moon, stealing light from the sun to shine.”

“Neo, it isn’t like that,” Tele forced himself to breathe, gently taking his lover’s flaccid hand in his, tracing over the back of dark skin with delicate touch, “at least in my heart, you’ll always be someone different, you’ll always be unique. You’ll always be my star, alright?”

Neo found himself smiling.

“...Thanks, Tele,” he leaned forward, arms wrapping around his lover, head neatly snuggled in his bunny’s shoulder. They fit together like two puzzle pieces, one battle-worn and sanded down, and one perfectly pristine, but they were a perfect match nonetheless.

@lemonade-tree7 i take your prompt and i present to you: Neo insecure about his scars because they remind him that he'll never be enough

[gorogues]

By Guile Sharp.

[tyrantisterror]

Wife Goals: Ryoko Hakubi

Welcome back, fuckers. Last time on this cry for help poorly disguised as, like, personal essays I guess, I talked entirely too much about Hexadecimal from Reboot. Well, today I'm gonna talk about another homicidal lunatic featured on Toonami and why I love her despite because of her many faults. Let's discuss Ryoko Hakubi from Tenchi Muyo and its various spinoffs!

I kid, there will be no discussion. This is the monologue of a deranged individual and nothing more.

Once you learn about Journey to the West, you'll realize just HOW MUCH of culture has been shaped by it. Like, taking anime as an example, there are... SO MANY characters based on the Monkey King from Journey to the West, a free-spirited ne'er do well who nevertheless proves to be an invaluable ally to the heroes, to the point where many readers of the story point out that he kind of takes focus away from the rest of the cast because he's just so cool and charismatic.

Do you like Dragon Ball Z? Well, did you know one of the names for the Monkey King is SON GOKU? Hmm, and Goku's a big, free-spirited warrior with a MONKEY TAIL and an EXTENDING ROD who beats the shit out of demons and monsters, just like Monkey King! Or hey, what about that free-spirited and indomitable protagonist of One Piece, the one who wants to be King of the Pirates and rebel against authority at every turn? What's his name? Oh, that's right, MONKEY D. Luffy. He's everywhere, man. Dig deep enough and I guarantee at least ONE of your favorite characters is connected to The Monkey King. Just like Kevin Bacon.

I bring all this up because Tenchi Muyo looked at Monkey King for inspiration and, in a moment of divinely ordained horniness, asked the question, "Cool, cool, but what if Monkey King was also a hot babe who loved you?"

The answer to that question is Ryoko Hakubi, ancient demon, space pirate, and weird clone-daughter of a primordial goddess.

I've mentioned this before, but Tenchi Muyo's first episode is perhaps the best Meet Cute of all time. Our protagonist, Tenchi, decides to enter an old shrine his father and grandfather repeatedly warned him not to fuck with, in part because rumor has it that a supremely powerful and wicked demon was trapped inside. Sure enough, he finds a coffin, inside which is a horrifying mummy that springs to life as soon as Tenchi looks upon it. Tenchi runs away to school, only for the monster he awoke to find him there after class lets out.

And while that monster is now a very attractive woman with a mane of silver-blue hair and sharp, yellow eyes, she proves to be every bit as terrifying as her first impression would imply, chasing Tenchi through the halls like a slasher villain while throwing out fireballs like Freeza and at one point just manifesting a lightsaber without a handle through sheer force of will. Luckily, she also proves to be something of a dumbass, falling for some of the easiest tricks in the book (including a "oh look at that!" gag), because Tenchi Muyo is a romantic comedy first and foremost.

Through guile, pluck, and a bit of dumb luck, Tenchi manages to steal one of the gems that gives Ryoko her power, defeating her and allowing him to escape scott-free - at least, until she shows up in his bedroom with a very different angle to conquer him.

...she wants to seduce him, in case I'm not clear.

While the show briefly has Ryoko play it like she just wants her power back, it becomes clear very fast that her infatuation with Tenchi is actually genuine, especially once the rivals for that affection that the series is so famous for arrive (Tenchi Muyo is one of the first "harem comedies" in anime, after all). And it's not really hard to see why - Tenchi, unlike most protagonists of these sorts of stories, is a pretty likable guy. He's humble, compassionate, forgiving, casually funny without meaning to be, surprisingly resourceful and cunning when shit hits the fan, loyal to a fault, and despite what some may say, he's willing to stand up for himself when he needs to.

It's that last part, I think, that is the reason Ryoko falls for him. Tenchi stood up to her, and continues to stand up to her when she lets her worst self show. Despite being a normal human (or at least seeming to be when the show starts), Tenchi will stand up for what's right, even if he has to challenge an ancient demon space pirate with just a mop.

Ryoko herself is primarily defined by her selfishness. Like the Monkey King, she is a hedonist who lives for her own pleasure and acts on whatever whim pops into her head without any regard for how it might affect others. She is rude, crass, violent (but mostly in a slapstick way - this is a COMEDY, remember), and impulsive, a character who acts first and thinks way later if ever at all. If she doesn't start the conflict of an episode, then she'll damn sure make sure it escalates to hilarious extremes.

In pursuing her selfish aims, Ryoko throws every other character she encounters off-balance, whether they're normal humans, space police, alien princesses, or ancient primordial goddesses posing as mad scientists. When Ryoko wants something, no one knows what to expect, only that it will be incredibly chaotic and bizarre. This makes her selfishness fun rather than frustrating - it's a flaw that leads to wacky antics and silliness, and so becomes endearing.

But what really makes Ryoko compelling is that this trait also extends to herself - namely, her pursuit of Tenchi throws Ryoko off balance. There's one episode where Tenchi has to babysit a young relative, and Ryoko, in her continual quest to prove herself as the best of Tenchi's many romantic options, decides that she will take better care of the baby to prove what a great wife she'll be. The problem, of course, is that Ryoko has never taken care of anyone in her life. Her first attempt to show off is to get the baby some food. She looks in the kitchen, finds the powdered formula for the baby's milk, and just fills the baby bottle with powder.

And whether or not you find that amusing (I can understand groaning at the "ohoho this woman doesn't intuitively know how to be a mom like all women should" implications this joke can have), it results in an interesting character moment for her. Because Ryoko wanted to do this right, she wanted to be good at taking care of this kid, and yeah she wanted it for a selfish reason, but dammit now she's realizing how bad she is at nurturing and that hurts her - not just because it won't impress Tenchi, but because nurturing people is something Tenchi is good at, and she loves him because of that. How can she deserve Tenchi's love if she can't care for him the way he cares for her and others?

Which is where Ryoko's selfishness turns from a flaw to a strength. Ryoko will do anything to get what she wants, and if what she wants is the love of a good man, she will do whatever she can to prove worthy of it. If she comes to care for the weird found-family of space alien women said man has accidentally gathered at his home, then dammit, she'll protect them too. Selfishness can become selflessness if you want the right things, and while a manic, unhinged desire to get what you want coupled with unfathomable cosmic power can make you a terrifying villain, it can make you a very endearing hero if what you want is to prove worthy of love.

(Ryoko does manage to get the formula right in the end)

Like, Tenchi Muyo was right - it would fucking rock if Monkey King was a hot lady who loved you. I wonder what other mythic and literary figures would be cool if they were hot ladies who loved you - wait, shit, that's what Fate/Zero is about isn't it.

Anyway, I saw Tenchi Muyo on Toonami when I was, like, twelve or so, which is probably TOO young to watch this series, though to be fair the Toonami version was heavily censored (you had to stay up late to see the less-censored version on Toonami's Midnight Run, and I wouldn't get a personal TV to do stuff like that until a few years later). So, like Hexadecimal, Ryoko ended up being a very formative precocious crush for me, though at least then I was old enough to understand that my fascination was very much romantic. But shit, why shouldn't I have had a crush on Ryoko? She was funny, confident, strong and willing to beat people up for the people she loves, and constantly swept people into wild and wacky adventures. Sure, she was also a selfish, violent, casually destructive wanted criminal, but, well... Hexadecimal already ensured my type is "living collection of romantic Red Flags," so it's not like that was going to stop me.

And to this day I still think Ryoko is one of the best romantic leads in any story ever, with the greatest Meet Cute of all time to boot. Yeah, she's a scumbag, but so are, like, 90% of the male leads in romances. What, we don't deserve a lovable scumbag heroine for once? A lady Han Solo? Fuck you, I love Ryoko Hakubi, we stan. WE STAN, DAMMIT!