#Hero deliberately changed his name

[herohikara-wol]

FFXIV Write 2k23 - Day 9

Fair - More Dravanian AU (takes place some time after Shed)

Hero’s siblings hadn’t all hatched at the same time.

This was normal for Dragons and Dravanians alike, when they had several eggs at once the children often hatched over time. It could take as little as a few moons or as many as a few years before the child in the egg had absorbed enough ambient aether to grow into a healthy child. Dravanians tended to have children who were born mostly man and manifested wings and scales as they grew. Dragons tended to have other dragons.

Hero had been found abandoned and adopted so young he didn’t recall anything about his birth parents, but of the seven eggs that Charibert’s mate had given him, only two hadn’t hatched by the time they found Hero. All beautiful children with a rainbow of hair colors. Some bright crimson, some pale white, some soft brown- but all eventually developed beautiful pearl white, teal and golden scales. All except for their little adopted Viera, with his dark black and blue hair and his crystal blue eyes. The only thing that made him look remotely like his sibling was his dark skin. Even then, he had freckles none of the others did.

This often meant, even though he had two younger siblings, Hero was treated as the baby of the entire family. Even the younger two were still taller than Hero, and had grown faster than him. More importantly, all seven of them had genders long before Hero knew what his body wanted to be. Three daughters, four sons, and until the summer prior- one question mark.

Which is why Hero was putting off returning to his family’s small manor as much as possible, none of his siblings have seen him since his gendering and all of them treated him like a fragile child instead of a grown adult. Despite him technically being older than most of them. He paced outside the door for the third time this bell, walking up to the knob and hesitating before leaving again and walking back out the gate and onto the street once more. “This doesn’t have to be so difficult. Not like you caused the bloody war. Ascians caused the bloody war and now half your siblings are enlisting because the whole bloody family is made of monsters with powers that feel more like direct descendants of Midgardsomr than some full blooded dragons.”

“Right? Especially your favorite brother, with flames so hot his grandfather used him to make glass panes after you broke a window learning dragonsong.” Hero flinched as he turned and let his eyes follow the sound, wondering how the fuck someone twice his size with wings longer than he was tall could possibly sneak up on him. Much less perch on top of the stone fence like a bloody gargoyle.

“I’m not in the mood for your bullshit right now, Dacien.” He hadn’t even made it in the front door and he was already getting shit from one of his siblings. “Don’t you have drills to do or a lance to take up?” That wasn’t entirely fair, technically there wasn’t a war yet. Aymeric had gone with a small honor guard to try to see what the Alliance made of Gridania’s actions. With luck, things would be resolved peacefully, it was all a misunderstanding, and there would be no problems.

“If you’d been home any time in the last year you’d know I use an axe for close quarters combat. Uncle Grinn’s been teaching me in his spare time.” The older man snorted flames and shifted his posture so he could lay lazily across the stonework instead, dozens of small crimson braids spilling down over his shoulders. Well, older was a stretch. Close as they could figure, Hero was around twenty-five summers old. Dacien was twenty five and a half.

“So Estinien shot you down then. Figures. Nidhogg’s son has all the recruits in the world to choose from. Why pick a snot-nosed ass like you?” His brother’s gold eyes flashed the way Charibert’s did when he was deciding what level of retribution to dole out, and Hero took his cue to run towards the front door just to lock his brother out.

He made it fifteen feet before being tackled to the ground.

The pair wrestled for a good while, Hero knew the rules. No wings, no hair pulling, no eye-poking, no biting, and no groin shots. Hero was smaller and lighter, this made him harder to keep pinned. Dacien controlled where they went, but Hero was slippery. Every time he thought he’d gotten his little brother into a headlock to grind a fist into the sensitive spot between his ears, Hero managed to slip out- elbowing his brother’s stomach in the process.

“What were you two thinking? Honestly! Daci. Hero gets home for the first time in moons and you decide to try to bury him in the mud in the front yard?”

“But Florie-”

“Shush.” Hero smirked as his sister raked their brother over the coals, only to turn on him almost immediately after, “and you! You spent four whole bells walking to the door and back again like some shady stalker and didn’t even have the balls to come inside on your own! You had to antagonize your bloody twin into making a fuss so someone would come save you instead of just opening a door!” Florie’s rich golden eyes and white made her look more fearsome when she was upset, even when she was feigning being gentle and passive. Florine looked the most like their dad and it showed in her eyes when she sneered. She spread her fan out and began waving it as if it would cool her temper.

“Is that a new fan, Florie?” Hero smiled innocently, trying to change the subject instead of sparking her fury even more. “It matches your scales, I like the mother of pearl with gold inlay you used for the guard, and the jade heart in the middle looks so perfect, it’s very beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” She snapped the folding fan shut and clapped her hands, “It’s my most recent piece, I’m starting to take to Goldsmithing I think. I was worried it wouldn’t be my style, but detail work is so satisfying and I love-” A drop of mud fell from Hero’s ear to the floor and it seemed to snap her out of the spell. “Oh no you don’t! I’m still mad at you Rey.”

“Hero.” He fidgeted a bit, the first thing he’d done when joining the Adventurer’s guild was to change his name. It never felt right to be named after one of the saints of Ishgard, nevermind the one the bloody church was named after. “I changed my name from Reymanaud to Hero last year when I gendered. It was a placeholder name while I figured out a real one that sounded more Vieran? Well it kinda accidentally stuck when I joined the scions so I’m Hero now.”

“You literally named yourself Hero.” He nodded quietly as she unfolded her fan again, “you- the now Warrior of Light- Scion of the Seventh Dawn- Chosen of Hydaelyn-” fuck he didn’t even know his family knew that last one, “- literally named yourself Hero before you joined an adventuring guild.”

Dacien snorted a bit and looked away when Hero shot him a dirty look. He turned back to his sister with his most charming smile in place, “well when you put it like that, it sounds a little egocentric, don’t you think? It wasn’t supposed to become my title-”

Wrong thing to say.

His sister snapped her fan shut again and whapped him with it. “What.” Smack. “Were.” Smack. “You.” Smack. “Thinking?!” Smack-smack! She stopped only to shake the mud off her fan and frown at her brother. “You. Bath. Now. We’re not done talking about you and your poor life choices!”

“Yes Florine.” He hurried away before hearing whatever punishment Dacien had to endure. Home hadn’t changed a bit, and frankly? It was nice to be back. Even if he was in trouble.

[doumadono]

Warnings: smut w/o plot, first time, creampie, unprotected p in v

A/N: during his first time with you, Bakugo is caught off guard by the expression you make

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t used to feeling uncertain, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. In fact, he hated it. Confidence was a part of him, woven into every fiber of his being, but tonight, as he hovered over you, his cock buried within the warmth and slickness of your tight pussy, his heart racing in tandem with yours, doubt had snuck in like an unwelcome visitor. Fearless and brimming with confidence, the young pro hero who could take on nearly any opponent without breaking a sweat now found himself in uncharted territory. 

Bakugo had never been this close to someone before. Sure, he'd been in countless fights, bodies colliding in the heat of battle, his skin pressed against opponents in the chaos of combat. But this? This was different  - this was intimacy on a level he'd never known. It was raw, vulnerable, and new. His heart pounded, not from adrenaline, but from the weight of the moment. It was his first time, and thankfully, it was with the person he cared for the most, the one he loved with every fiber of his being - Y/N.

You were warm and soft beneath him, your skin flushed and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as he moved against you with a mix of urgency and care. His breath was ragged, heavy, and every touch of his fingers against your skin seemed to ignite a trail of fire that left you gasping for more. His hands roamed your body, firm but gentle, as if memorizing every curve, every inch of you. 

His lips brushed your neck, tracing the delicate skin there as you arched into him, your body responding instinctively to every subtle shift in his thrusts. His name escaped your lips, breathless and soft, and the sound of it seemed to fuel him further.

Wet, sloshing sounds filled the room. You were hot down there, your pussy now a frothy heaven for Bakugo’s cock. His dick bumped and rubbed against your insides, reaching places that made you whimper and your lips tremble. 

Katsuki picked up the pace, and you grabbed his ass and hooked your heels over the back of his massive thighs. His hands, usually rough and calloused, were tentative now, roaming across your hips and thighs with an almost unfamiliar gentleness. "Is this good?" he asked, his usual gruff tone softened by a vulnerability he wasn't used to.

You could only nod, a soft moan escaping your lips as his lips found your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a way that made your entire body shiver. You were already lost in the sensation, but Bakugo was hyper-aware of everything - of how your body moved beneath him, of the rise and fall of your chest, and especially the way your face started to change as the pleasure built between you. His cock was thick, and you moaned whenever your pussy stretched further, trying desperately to accommodate him fully. 

Bakugo was cautious, almost too much so, taking his time with every touch, every caress. The weight of his inexperience pressed heavily on his shoulders. He sped up as the warm lick of your sweet pussy wet his crown, and your spongy walls hugged his reddened glans in a velvet blanket of softness. Bakugo moved faster, a little harder with every thrust.

You smiled up at him, your breath hitching slightly as his rough fingers slid over your skin. “Just like that, Katsuki, fuck me harder,” you begged, rolling head backwards, resting it on his pillow.

His sharp, crimson eyes studied you, searching for any sign of discomfort. He was fiercely protective, always wanting to do things perfectly, even if it was something as foreign to him as this. He moved with a cautious eagerness, his normally confident demeanor tempered by the weight of wanting to make sure he wasn’t hurting you while his rock-hard cock was penetrating your slick vagina.

But then it happened. As he pressed forward, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm, he noticed something - your face. 

It started to shift, contorting into something unfamiliar. Your lips parted, eyes fluttering closed as a moan escaped you, but it wasn’t the sound that made him freeze.

“Wait - wait, what’s wrong?” Katsuki suddenly stopped, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled back just slightly, the tip of his cock still in your sweet pussy, his heart thudding in his chest.

You opened your eyes, half-lidded and dazed, looking up at him with a dreamy, confused expression. “What?” you breathed, your voice thick with desire. “Why did you stop, Katsy?”

He blinked, completely thrown off by your reaction. “Your face…” His brows furrowed deeply, voice dropping lower in hesitation. “You looked like you were in pain.”

You stared at him for a moment, processing what he said. Then, much to his bewilderment, a soft chuckle escaped your lips, your head tipping back onto the pillow. “Katsuki… I wasn’t in pain,” you assured him, still smiling up at him. “I was- " You hesitated, eyes sparkling with amusement. " -just really close.”

He blinked, clearly confused. “Close to what?”

You bit your lip, a shy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Close to cumming.”

Bakugo's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. His grip on your hips loosened, and for a moment, the cocky hero was at a loss for words. “Tch!”

You laughed softly, leaning up to kiss him gently, your lips brushing against his in a way that made his heart race. “You’re doing great, Katsuki. You’re not hurting me. You’re making me feel really, really good.”

Bakugo’s face flushed a deep crimson, his mind racing as he stared at you. “I think I found your sweet spot.”

“Yeah,” you interrupted with a grin, reaching up to brush a strand of his blond hair from his forehead. “I was about to come, and you apparently hit my gspot.”

His eyes widened, mortification flickering across his face. “Shit…” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration. “I thought I hurt you or something.”

You shook your head, your hand finding his again, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No, Katsuki. You were perfect.” You couldn't help but smile softly, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “It’s my o-face.”

His brows knitted together in confusion. “What the hell is an o-face?”

You laughed softly, your fingers trailing down his arm as you explained. “It’s the face people make when they’re close to orgasm. It’s completely normal, trust me.”

Bakugo stared at you for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing as your words sunk in. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” you reassured him with a gentle kiss on his lips. “You didn’t hurt me. You’re just making me feel so good. Like I would be on cloud nine.”

His face flushed again, but this time with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “Tch! Should’ve fucking known,” he muttered, trying to play it off, but you could see the relief in his eyes.

He had never been more unsure of himself. Not in training, not in battle, and certainly not here, in this moment, with you.

That look on your face - the way your eyes had rolled back, the way your mouth hung open, the way your tongue slid out of your mouth and lolled like a slug - it stuck with him. He couldn't shake it. 

He watched it carefully this time, his sharp gaze never leaving your face as his rock-hard dick moved inside you, adapting your plush walls to his shape. The way your breath hitched, the way your body arched beneath his touch - it was the same, but something felt off. Your eyes were wider, almost unnaturally so, and your mouth hung open in a way that unnerved him. It wasn’t the same as the night before, and it sent a cold shiver down his spine.

His hands roamed across your body, fingers digging into your flesh just enough to leave a mark. He pressed his hips harder against yours, eliciting a gasp from you as his cock hit just the right spot. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest as he dipped his head down to bite gently at your neck when your pussy started convulsing all around his dick. “You’re gonna make that face again, ain’t ya?” he muttered against your skin, his voice husky with need.

You nodded, barely able to form coherent words. “Katsuki, please… don’t stop this time…”

That was all the encouragement he needed. His pace quickened, each thrust sending you closer to the edge, and this time, when your face began to contort again - your eyes rolling back, mouth falling open - he didn’t stop. He relished it. He knew now that he was the one driving you to that peak, and the thought of making you feel that good sent a surge of pride and arousal through him. “Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, watching you fall apart beneath him. “You look so hot like that, babe.”

This time, when your face contorted with pleasure, Bakugo didn’t freeze. He kept going, fueled by the knowledge that he wasn’t hurting you, but instead giving you exactly what you needed.

“Katsuki-” you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your climax ripped through you. Your body convulsed beneath him, and this time, he didn’t freeze. He kept going, riding out your orgasm as you moaned his name, your voice ragged and breathless.

How own orgasm trembled within him. The pleasure started in his thighs, buzzing up to his tight balls and into his core, then through his shaft. His knob tingled, and his cock swelled, still buried within your dripping pussy. He gasped and fucked you faster, gliding in and out of your soaking wet valley as his body began to shake. Colors and lights soared behind his clenched eyelids. 

You bucked your pussy against Bakugo, rolling your hips in a sensuous circle as you flooded your crotches with your wet, sticky cum, moaning his name on and on.

The torrent that streamed through his shaft erupted from his reddened tip in one continuous river, filling your vagina as he trembled above your sweated body, lost in the ecstasy of the moment. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m cumming…”

When you both finally came down from the high, your body trembling with aftershocks, Bakugo slowed his movements, his breathing heavy and labored. He looked down at you, his chest heaving as he smirked, clearly satisfied with the result. “Fuck. I fucking love the face you make when you’re getting off,” he growled, rubbing his nose against yours as he pulled his flaccid cock out of you, satisfied in more ways than one while watching your mixed releases, a pearly, thick liquid, spilling out of your pussy and dripping down on his sheets.

Bakugo grinned, his cocky demeanor returning in full force. “Damn, that’s so fucking hot,” he muttered before rolling to the side, pulling you into his arms. “Next time, just warn me if you’re about to make that face again. I don’t wanna freak out like an idiot.”

You smiled, snuggling closer to him. “I’ll try.

[messiahzzz]

it is a conscious choice of mystra to initially present herself as this benevolent, courteous, and merciful being. a practiced and perfected approach she knows will compel gale to follow her demands with the least amount of resistance on his part. he already refused to follow her instructions when she sent elminster to request his death — his effective father figure, gale’s self-proclaimed hero, mentor, and the one who plucked him from obscurity in the first place — so another appeal is in order.

narrator: "elminster's visit weighs heavy on your mind. his face you did not expect to see again." narrator: "when you last saw him, you were in your prime. no orb, no tadpole. a mage of growing renown, all power, pride, and potential - beloved by the goddess of magic herself. narrator: "it's one thing to have fallen from such heights, but to have elminster himself now witness your humiliation is almost unbearable." gale: [his disappointment cuts deeper even than mystra's. he was your hero.] narrator: "while most know of elminster the legend, few know him as you have. he plucked you from obscurity. offered you his guidance. his faith. and most recently, his pity."

yet it is curious how quickly she changes her tune once gale doesn’t readily agree to her demand to return the crown of karsus to her, no questions asked. or even dares to impugn, or criticize her reasoning for leaving him to die.

gale: "a great ask indeed. you've given me much to think on - as you always did." mystra: "so be it. follow the needles of your own wisdom. we shall see how truly it leads you."

gale: "because i disobeyed you. you punished me for it." mystra: "how so? you think i should have cured you? erased the consequences of your actions?"

gale: "you break up with me, cut me off from the weave, leave me to die, and that's all you have to say? 'you look well'?" mystra: "i did not come here to suffer a mortal's admonitions. certainly not yours."

gale: "you were threatened. you realised you couldn't control me." mystra: "you were many things to me, but never a threat. and never a saviour." nodecontext: sharper, almost a warning - don't entertain such thoughts, gale. you won't like where they lead.

gale: "i don't know. i need time to think." mystra: "so be it. follow the needle of your own wisdom. we shall see how truly it leads you."

particularly interesting to note is how she uses his surname as a tool to chastise and taunt him. only referring to him as "gale dekarios" in the context of him displeasing her, when he doesn't readily obey, whether he simply wavers (needing time to think) or outright declines her instructions. she uses the very name he had actively discarded and refuses to be referred to at this point in time. a deliberate reminder of his fallible humanity, of the flaws he tried to distance himself from. she knows this.

gale: "i won't let you down again. when the absolute is vanquished, i will surrender karsus' powers to you. you have my word." mystra: "thank you. may the weave's light guide your purpose, and it's wisdom guide your hand." mystra: "the future of magic rests on your shoulders, gale of waterdeep". mystra: "i promise you - it is a burden you are strong enough to bear."

gale: "i don't need your forgiveness. the crown of karsus will be mine, and the karsite weave will obey me." mystra: "crown yourself, gale dekarios, and you will learn what it is to carry such weight upon your shoulders." mystra: "if it does not crush you, i will." nodecontext: an icy edge entering her voice - a hint of a challenge gale will face if he pursues this course. nodecontext: here we glimpse the true, unimaginable power of mystra. she's still in control of herself, but her anger should be palpable.

i have already addressed the overall topic of mystra & gale's relationship in several posts i wrote some time ago [x] [x] [x]. however, since then we have received new snippets of information with patch 5 that shed more light on the progression of their relationship as a whole. this post is intended to be an update of sorts, containing a more comprehensive list, as well as lore excerpts for added context and proof. i will split this essay into several sections for coherency — buckle in, cause this is going to be a long one!

✧ mystra's history of manipulation ✧

one of the epilogue letters revealed that elminster first sought gale out when he was about 8 years old. which according to gale's canon age being 35 (as listed on his idle champions character sheet) means that their first meeting occurred around 1465 DR. although elminster's wording suggests that this may merely be an estimate on his side.

furthermore - in the ending where gale dies in the attempt at ascension, raphael has the following to say:

raphael: "you were the spark of ambition that rekindled gale's ambitions, after mystra had so cleverly put them to rest."

insinuating that mystra did make an active effort to keep gale in line, to temper his ambition, lest his thirst for more knowledge would eventually prove bothersome for her. keeping an eye on him at all times, keeping him close, placating him, and urging him to be patient.

what distinctly stood out to me is how this also aligns with some of azuth's quotes in the temptation of elminster, while he gives advice to a then-young sage of shadowdale.

we are her treasures, lad—we are what she holds most dear, the rocks she can cling to in the storms of wild art. she needs us to be strong, far stronger than most mortals ... tempered tools for her use. being bound to us by love and linked to us to preserve her very humanity, she finds it hard to be harsh to us—to do the tempering that must be done. she began the tempering of you long ago; you are her 'pet project', if you will. [...]

"you serve mystra differently. she watches you and learns the human side of magic in all it's hues from your experiences and the doings of those you meet—foes and friends alike. yet the time has come for you to change, and grow, to serve as she'll need you to, in the centuries ahead."

and yet again, there is a reoccurring pattern in her relationship with sammaster, another of her chosen, as well:

sammaster fell to his knees and wept upon mystra's feet. they ended up spending ten days together. this made him the first chosen of mystra since the seven sisters. when he asked for the reason that mystra had chosen him, she replied that she had foreseen that one of her chosen would be killed in battle, and he would be the replacement. he left this encounter feeling as though he and mystra were in love.

mystra is no stranger to fostering feelings of boundless devotion that weren't present before. observing her potential chosen, appearing before them, promising them power. luring them into service without the knowledge of what this may entail. where other gods may instill fear, mystra instills the notion of love. practicing seduction while mirroring her chosen's humanity. intentionally portraying herself as someone sympathetic and approachable. syncing their language, highlighting mutuality, making them feel favored and seen. mystra sees no need in the act of divine separation, a display of godlike grandeur — inimitable, menacing, larger than life, towering above her chosen. instead, her manifestation is purposefully unassuming. she meets them in the form of a woman in her early 30s, conventionally attractive, palpable, and appealing to the masses — a human figure. the very embodiment, the very ideal of traditional beauty an impressionable, young wizard may have.

gale: "i can't quite describe it, the need i sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence." gale: "no sculpture or painting could ever do her justice, only the fabric that she herself is and embodies."

gale: "in her likeness, i used to read a thousand stories. she was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes."

player: “what did mystra’s attention feel like?” gale: “love. [...] perhaps it was not quite love, but you see, the wizard was but a very young man. it was most certainly love to him. [...]"

how we see her in the game is very likely the same form she chose to present to a young gale. beauty, wisdom, elegance. perceived perfection, yet humble in her divinity.

the mystra of now (1490s DR) retains some of the memories of all of her earlier selves, and the relatively young and inexperienced midnight is “in there,” but wholly subsumed. mystra could generate an avatar or seeming that might fool some mortals into thinking they were meeting midnight, but it would be an act. [x]

generating an avatar in the form of a mortal she subsumed. purporting mutuality. midnight was just another mortal added to mystra's long list of "human stock" — vessels intended to preserve her power. favored, chosen, and ultimately suppressed by the very essence of mystra herself. midnight is no equal piece of mystra, the deity, there is no conscious part of the mortal that remains. [x] the mystra that currently exists is a union of the original mystryl, as well as all the other reincarnations of her that melded into her being. fragments of their minds that linger in the weave, scraps of humanity that could perhaps aid in her knowledge and understanding to prevent further betrayals in the future.

mystra's approach has always been indirect, instead of being outright menacing and portentous. the fact that mystra isn't written like the other gods in the game doesn't mean she's more sympathetic to gale's struggles or more inclined to understand human nature. her concern will always be the preservation of her domain and her hold over the weave — to do as the gods do.

gale: "you're one to talk. how many innocents were you prepared to sacrifice if i detonated the orb?" mystra: "such eddies are unexceptional. souls arrive and depart your plane with every tide, in circumstances just and unjust." nodecontext: matter of fact, not interested in these kinds of specifics

ketheric thorm: "who decides what is right? the gods did not care for right and wrong when they dismantled my life piece by piece." ketheric thorm: "and when i tried to buy it back, it cost me everything - everything." ketheric thorm: "we are copper pieces in their belts. tokens to be traded for scraps."

it is often mentioned that mystra makes her attention known by brushing against her potential chosen. whispering to them, touching their skin, eliciting a tingling sensation. which is also how mystra chose to reveal herself to ariel manx (midnight) in 1353 DR, while she was 21 years of age.

gale mentions feeling a similar sensation if he chooses to destroy the summoning circle in balthazar's office at moonrise and thereby receives her blessing.

gale: "did you feel that?" gale: "if i wasn't surrounded on all sides by the darkness of the shadow-cursed lands, i'd think it was mystra herself brushing against my skin."

mystra isn't above using manipulations to get her way. once again evident in her instigating dornal and elué silverhand's union in the first place, as well as intentionally withholding information from dornal that she actively took possession of his wife, elué. to ensure that they would indeed produce her offspring — the seven sisters — her chosen and the vessels to house her power.

where elué had previously been reluctant to acknowledge dornal's advances, he found them suddenly returned with great fervor once mystra took possession of her body. [x]

"by the time elué was carrying her final child, she was in effect a lich - a crumbling shell kept alive only through mystra's power. dornal was shocked at her deterioration. he sought magical aid to cure his wife, and when he learned from the most powerful priest he could find that his wife was possessed by an intelligent force of great power, a sickened dornal tried to slay her. he struck off her head one moonlight night as they walked together in a wooded glade. mystra was forced to reveal herself. dornal was shattered by what he had done, and aghast at how he - and especially elué - had been used." [x]

dornal, who had been kept in the dark throughout, abandoned his lands and children after slaying his wife, traveling to the north, with the plan to seek his own death. he repeatedly tried to poison himself, yet mystra wouldn't allow him suicide and magically neutralized the lethal doses to keep him alive against his will. after his death in 797 DR, mystra turned him into another servant of hers: the watcher — one who wanders the realms, seeking out new potential chosen to this day.

which brings us to...

✧ mystra's foresight and her "death" ✧

mystra possesses a degree of foresight - she foresaw the time of troubles and her own passing at the hands of helm in 1358 DR for defying him and her attempt to converse with the overgod ao without the tablets of fate. the very reason why she sought out mortal vessels to house her power (the seven sisters) — to avoid disaster should another entity win control over her in the chaotic period of wildly fluctuating power struggles that was the time of troubles. this divine power slumbers within these individuals, which she can call upon.

in 1385 DR mystra (midnight) was struck down by cyric and shar, which brought upon the spellplague.

in 1479 DR mystra was located by elminster inside a cave in cormyr, guarding her mortal body. she survived cyric's assassination by inhabiting the body of a bear, while still able to contact her chosen. she returned to her full power in 1487 DR.

the important part, that i've often seen outright ignored or misinterpreted by fandom altogether, is that mystra wasn’t actually “dead” for over a hundred years. at least not in the way we perceive it. we can’t equate her death with our mortal understanding of it. her powers were diminished to an extreme and she was weakened, yet she was still able to communicate. it was in her power to contact her chosen and to guide them. evident by her calling for elminster through her telepathic link and directing him to recruit other chosen for her to restore her power.

the plot of baldur’s gate 3 takes place in 1492 DR. meaning gale's actual year of birth would be 1457 DR. while elminster likely sought him out around 1465 DR, when he was only 8 years old. however, i once again want to emphasize that “couldn’t have been more than 8 summers old” indicates that this may merely be an estimate on elminster's side. he could’ve possibly reached out to him even earlier than that, or perhaps later. gale was 22 year old at the time when mystra was found in her diminished state by elminster in 1479 DR.

✧ mystra's awareness✧

gale: “so, all it took to get mystra’s attention was to learn how to reforge an artifact that once destroyed her." gale: "it's obvious, when you stop to think about it."

even if you may personally be skeptical of elminster’s insertion into gale’s life at age 8 (as well as mystra's ability to contact her chosen during her death) to be enough evidence of mystra’s attention — she had to be aware of him for his talents alone since he was a mere child. there is no way around this.

player: "how could she possibly know we read a book? hasn't she got more important things to worry about?" gale: "the weave is a highly sensitive magical network threaded through all life on this plane. any shift in magical energy, no matter how small, is akin to a beacon, alerting mystra to its cause." gale: "opening a book like the annals of karsus was akin to us shooting a firework spelling 'look at us, mystra!' directly into the skies of elysium. she knows."

mystra IS the weave, as gale himself has stated several times. it is an extension of her being, threaded through all life. by touching the weave one is directly touching the goddess of magic herself. mystra is aware of any magic user, able to deepen this contact at her choosing.

shadowheart: "isn't it so, that every time you speak as you cast a spell, you're endeavouring to call upon mystra?" shadowheart: "i'm surprised she still listens to you." gale: "she has no choice - she's sworn to hear all magic users. even me." gale: "i'm sure she at least stuffs her fingers in her ears to muffle my invocations."

gale described himself as a child prodigy. a virtuoso that was able to manipulate and compose the weave at will from an early age.

gale: "magic is... my life. i've been in touch with the weave for as long as i can remember. there's nothing like it."

gale: "i'm what one might call a wizard prodigy, who from an early age could not only control the weave, but compose it, much like a musician or a poet."

gale: "such was my skill that it earned me the attention of the mother of magic herself. the lady of mysteries. the goddess mystra." gale: "she revealed herself to me and she became my teacher. in time, she became my muse, and later, even my lover."

someone who was able to perform feats way beyond the skillset of his peers. he managed to wield the blackstaff itself, accidentally facing an irritated death slaad, and lived to tell the tale. he summoned and befriended tara, as well as the magma mephit, k'ha'ssji'trach'ash. we also know from elminster that he was able to cast fireball — a 3rd level spell — at age 8.

it is indisputable that mystra must’ve taken notice of the precocious young wizard during this time, even in her diminished state. much like she had once observed midnight. she began to whisper to him, drawing back the veils, revealing herself bit by bit, urging him that he was special — chosen.

gale: "he fancied himself much more than that. he fancied himself favoured above all others. [...] mystra showed him the secrets behind the veils. the gossamer veils first, draped across the weave. the delicate veils next, draped across her body. ‘chosen one’ she whispered, as she slipped them off completely."

✧ final part: power imbalance & exerting control ✧

gale: "the weave is still here, all around us - inside of us too. as long as the goddess lives, magic is a tangible thing for those who know how to touch." gale: "i've studied magic for many years, and in as many ways i am still a more than capable wizard." gale: "it's just that i'm no longer able to perform those feats even arch wizards would marvel at." gale: " to have one hand on the pulse of divinity." gale: "you have to remember that the weave is a living thing, both the embodiment and the extension of mystra herself." gale: "she can give and she can take away. i'm afraid i'm still very much on her naughty list."

gale: "mystra commands all magic. salvation, if such a thing exists, is hers to bestow or withhold." gale: "and yet, even now, more than i fear losing my own self and soul, i fear losing my command of her art."

player: "he sounds like a very talented individual." gale: "he was. even though it was in mystra’s affections that his true power lay."

even apart from their innate different forms of existence as a mere mortal and the literal goddess of magic, mystra is in full control of gale's power at all times, able to grant and withdraw her favors at will. claiming that such a power imbalance doesn’t exist, that it doesn’t apply to their respective relationship, that it might’ve been “healthy” at one point if gale was indeed of age at the time their relationship transitioned into a sexual nature is —pardon my french— fucking insane.

this stance disregards everything we know about the gods, about mystra’s involvement with other mortals and her chosen. it disregards the level of authority she wields over any magic user. it carelessly and naively disregards the implicit difference in power. mystra is the goddess of magic, his goddess. the very object of his worship and adoration since childhood. the goddess he devoted his life, his work, and his unyielding loyalty to. it is ultimately irrelevant at what exact point their relationship underwent its final transition from muse to lover. this discussion is redundant. mystra has been a constant presence since his early childhood. his worship of her began with the practice of his first spells, even if it wasn't conscious at the time. every practitioner of magic inevitably honors mystra, regardless of their faith in her. magic is his life, in the same way that mystra is pure magic. she is in total control of the tools he wields.

✧ summary ✧

mystra possesses a degree of foresight, already knowing about the time of troubles & her subsequent passing. this being her reason to seek out mortal vessels to secure her power.

mystra feels any shift in magical energy no matter how small, immediately alerting her. gale was able to cast a third-level spell at age 8.

mystra has a history of instilling feelings of love that weren't present before and using her chosen/other mortals for her own means. (elminster, khelben, sammaster, the seven daughters, ariel manx etc.)

mystra's manifestation is a conscious choice. midnight has been wholly subsumed by her.

mystra wasn’t actually “dead” in 1479 DR, but merely diminished. she was inhabiting the body of a bear and was still able to communicate with her chosen. she directed elminster to recruit other chosen to restore her power.

elminster sought gale out around 1465 DR when he was about 8 years old, as stated in the epilogue letter.

mystra first functioned as gale’s mentor, then his muse, and later his lover.

gale’s relationship with her was indeed of a sexual nature, he has explicitly stated so several times. their intimacy wasn't restricted to incorporeal interactions either, even though they were preferred.

during the ending where gale fails to ascend raphael states during the credits that tav has “rekindled gale’s ambitions after mystra had so cleverly put them to rest”.

azuth describes mystra's chosen as "tempered tools for her use". being bound to them by love and linked to them to preserve her very humanity.

mystra's intention to shape gale into yet another loyal, devoted asset to her portfolio has been there from the very moment she chose to reveal herself, to instruct elminster to seek him out. it was a conscious decision to directly insert herself into gale’s life, sowing his conviction that he was favored above all others. singling him out among his peers, isolating him with subtle promises of his greatness, his uniqueness, and all he could yet accomplish to be under her guidance. offering him her teachings, her inspiration, and eventually her love. yet all the while tempering his perceived greed and thirst to reach for even greater heights, unless it acted in her favor. keeping him close — lest his growing ambitions should ever prove to be an outright challenge to her rule.

the groundwork has been carefully laid from the very beginning.

gale: “goodnight. and thank you for your patient understanding. [...] try not to think too poorly of me. a cat can look at a king. a wizard can look at a goddess.”

[artbyblastweave]

I think about Star Wars a lot more than I post about Star Wars, and I've had some free time recently to type up some thoughts on Episode 7 that've been swirling around in my head for a couple of years. There were a few ideas and plot beats, and moments of apparent self-examination in Episode 7 which I thought were fairly compelling, even though they ultimately paid no dividends:

First was Finn’s character concept. “Star Wars as experienced from the perspective of a Stormtrooper undergoing a crisis of faith” is a rich hook; humanizing and giving a face to what's basically the platonic implementation of the faceless mook. Unfortunately, the potency of the arc was undercut by the pre-existing textual ambiguity as to what stormtroopers actually are. Star Wars extended canon has settled on the idea that each trilogy features an entirely novel cohort of white-clad mooks, each with a fundamentally different underlying dynamic. The clones and the First-Order forces are different flavors of slave army; in contrast, the stormtroopers are more frequently portrayed in the expanded universe as military careerists, stormtrooper being a thing you work up to rather than a gig for a fresh conscript. A slave-soldier who defects is a very different character from a military careerist who defects, and they invite different analysis. There's a bait-and-switch going on here, in that Finn gestures in the direction of the familiar OT stormtroopers but can't comment on or examine them because he's actually part of a novel dynamic invented for the new movies. And there's one final nail in the coffin here, signaled by the number of times I've had to invoke the expanded universe so far. When Finn debuted, the racists were of course, legion, but I also ran into a number of people who were sincerely confused as to why they'd recast Temuera Morrison. Going off the seven films that existed at the time, it wasn't unreasonable to read the prequel trilogy as an origin story for where the OT stormtroopers came from. Going only off the nine films that exist now, it still isn't unreasonable! It's muddied from so many different directions by their failure to establish the ground rules in the mainline films before they tried to put on subversive airs about it. I am still irritated by this.

Next up is how Han Solo was written. I actually liked the tack they took with him quite a bit. Because initially, right, his role in the movie is just to be Han Solo. He's back, and he hasn't changed! He's still kicking ass and taking names, he's still the lovable scoundrel you knew and loved from your childhood- and the principle cast members react to his presence with the same reverence the film's trying to invoke in the audience, they've grown up hearing the same stories about him. Except that episode 7, at least, is also very aware of the fact that if Han Solo is still recognizably the same guy thirty years on, it indicates that things have gone totally off the rails for him. We find out that the lovable rogue routine is the result of him backsliding, his happy ending blown up by massive personal tragedy rooted in communicative failures and (implicitly) his parental shortcomings. It feels deliberately in conversation with the nostalgic impulse driving the entire film- here's your childhood hero back just as you remember, here's what that stagnation costs. And it also feels like it's in conversation with what was a fairly common strain of Han Solo Take- the idea that Ep. 6 cuts off at a very convenient point, and that Han and Leia's fly-by-night wartime relationship wouldn't survive the rigors of domesticity. Obviously, that's not the only direction you can take with the character; the old EU basically threaded the needle of keeping Han recognizable without rolling back his character development gains. But it felt like they were actually committing to a direction, a direction that was aware of the space, and not a reflexively deferential and flattering one, which at the time I appreciated! The problem, of course, is that for it to really land, you need to have a really, really strong idea of what actually went down-of what Han's specific shortcomings and failures were. And given the game of ping-pong they proceeded to play with Kylo Ren's characterization, this turned out to be. Less than doable.

Kylo Ren is the third thing about Episode 7 that I liked. His character concept is basically an extended admission by the filmmakers that there's no way to top Vader as an antagonist. Instead, they lean into the opposite direction- they make him underwhelming on purpose. Someone who's chasing Vader's legacy in the same way any post-OT Star Wars villain is going to, pursuing Vader's aesthetic and the associated power without really understanding or undergoing the convoluted web of suffering and dysfunction that produced Vader. It's framed as a genuine twist that there's nothing particularly wrong with his face under that helmet. Whatever it takes to be Vader, he doesn't have it, and he knows that he doesn't have it, and the pursuit of it drives him to greater and greater acts of cartoonish villainy. The failure to one-up Vader is offloaded to the character instead of the writers, and it was genuinely interesting to watch. For one movie. The problem, of course, is that if the entire character archetype is "Vader, but less compelling," you can't try to give the bastard Vader's exact character arc. You can't retroactively bolt on a Vader-tier tragic backstory when you spent a whole movie signaling that whatever happened to him wasn't as compelling as what happened to Vader. You can't milk his angst for two more movies when it's the kind of angst on display in "Rocking the Suburbs" by Ben Folds!

There's a level on which I feel like Moff Gideon was a semi-successful implementation of Vader-Wannabe concept; he's the same kind of middling operator courting the Vader Aesthetic for clout, but he's doing it in the context of the imperial warlord era, where there's a lot of practical power available to anyone who can paint themselves to the Imperial Remnants as a plausible successor to Vader. Hand in Hand with this obvious politicking, Gideon is loathsome, which relieves the writers of the burden of having to plausibly redeem the guy; he's doing exactly what he needs to do and there'll never be a mandate to expand him beyond what his characterization can support. Unfortunately, the calculated and cynical nature of how he's emulating Vader precludes the immaturity and hero-worship elements on display with Kylo, which is unfortunate; the sincerity on display in Kylo's pursuit of authenticity is an important part of why he worked, to the extent that he worked at all, and it'd be worth unpacking in a better trilogy. As he stands Kylo is a clever idea, and that's all he is- he lacks the scaffolding to go from merely clever to actively good.

[prettycottonmouthlamia]

I harp a lot on how I don't think the current episodic release structure for Arknights does it many favors in how it wants to tell its stories, and how it's story manifests for us, but there are some benefits to this type of long form structure, and it's moments that get better with hindsight. It's not impossible to do this in a more contained medium, as this is often a staple of the mystery genre of literature and film, but it is uncommonly employed in video games to great effect, with their contained stories often being played much more straight.

One of the benefits of releasing longer-form content is the ability to both make callbacks and to give additional details that change the meaning in earlier scenes. The most famous in Arknights, at least for me, is the scene in Wei's office in Chapter 2.

In it's original context, this is Wei Yenwu being aloof to the threat of Reunion, not even bothering to properly remember their leader's name. Once you learn though that Talulah is not just Reunion's leader but Wei Yenwu's niece, and suddenly the scene has new context. This is the scene I point to when I want to talk about how much of a slimeball Wei Yenwu is at this point in the story. This isn't him being aloof, this is Wei deliberately holding back information in order to manipulate for himself a better position. By not revealing his stakes, he wants to hold more power at the negotiation tables with Rhodes Island for Lungmen.

Of course he knows the name of the leader of Reunion, how could he not? How could he not remember letting Kaschey go and take her away, prioritizing Lungmen over the safety of his dead brother's daughter? But he's not going to show that to Rhodes Island, a bunch of strangers he intends to use in poor faith.

Now let's talk about a conversation in Chapter 10 you likely haven't thought about in quite some time!

That's right! We're here to talk about Nezzsalem's confrontation with Kal'tsit when she docks with Londinium. This is a really interesting scene that primarily serves initially to offer even more mystique to Kal'tsit and Theresa's assassination. After all, Kal'tsit and Nezzsalem knew each other, they even fought together at least once. The King of the Nachzehrer! He was there when Theresa was assassinated, and here he is now, inquiring about the death of the last pure Wendigo. None of this seems out of the question, but with some more time, it's possible to find this scene strange.

How did he know? Sure, the Nachzehrer thrives off of life and death, but they're more focused on war. The passing of lives to the Myriad Souls is the concern of the Banshees, not the Nachzehrer. Patriot is also not a Sarkaz hero, at least not directly, since he was a Patriot for Ursus, not Kazdel, and he was a supporter of Theresa at that. Given everything we know now, it's pretty unlikely that Patriot would have followed Theresis to Londinium. But it's still not completely out of the question. Babel reveals that the Military Council in its fledgling state knew about where he was.

This is a pretty small aside after Nezzsalem defeats Logos, but it managed to hit me like a brick, because the first thing I remembered was Nezzsalem confronting Kal'tsit about the death of Patriot. Patriot was not just a Wendigo to Nezzsalem, he was something of a son to him. Sure, he might not have been Nezzsalem's only student, but the Nachzehrer are not shown to be a particularly sentimental bunch pretty much ever, so the Sudaram going "Yeah. Your kid" is impactful here. Nezzsalem stands, having beaten Laqueramaline's son in combat, after Aefanyl had proven himself worthy of respect, as an old man thinking about his own son.

This reframes the conversation in Chapter 10. Nezzsalem knows Kal'tsit, it's implied he's known her for a very long time, and it's likely he's seen the different lives of Kal'tsit and likely knew of her involvement in the invasion of Kazdel a couple hundred years ago. So it's now also got that added element of the King of the Nachzehrer coming up to the landship and shaking Kal'tsit by the shoulders going "WHAT DID YOU DO". It provides new context for his anger. Kal'tsit was directly involved in the death of his foster son, just as she was directly involved previously in the destruction of Kazdel and one of the figures behind Babel.

It also adds some depth to Nezzsalem's acceptance. He died a warrior, maybe against one of the most fitting opponents upon all of Terra, and knowing that Patriot chose Kal'tsit quells that anger.

It's all neat. There's more that can be extrapolated from this, such as this providing something of an explanation for Patriot's military ability and potentially even his witchcraft, but those aren't as important or interesting to me. Chapter 14 is a story in a number of ways about the burden and threads of individuals who have lived an immensely long period of time, individuals who have found immortality in one way or another, and the ways that these lives ultimately intersect and weave with one another, and Patriot is another one of those patterns weaved through time.

[blackownersseekingsuccess]

Remembering Bayard Rustin: The Unsung Hero of the Civil Rights Movement

written by Levi Wise Kenneth Catoe Jr.

August 1, 2024 - Growing up as a Black boy in Paterson, NJ, and attending Roman and Irish Catholic Parochial schools, Black history was not very familiar to me. I grew up in a religious Southern Baptist family and participated in the church choir. In this context, Martin Luther King, Jr., was all that I knew about Black history until I became a teenage Madonna fanatic. Ironically, Madonna made me aware of Black activists and radicals such as Nina Simone, Jean-Michel Basquiat, James Baldwin, and Bayard Rustin. Bayard Rustin was an African American activist who believed in civil disobedience. Rustin felt that Black people should deliberately break unjust laws but do it non-violently to bring about change and this would play a key role in the Civil Rights movement. He also advocated for LGBTQ rights. Rustin moved to Harlem in 1937 and began studying at City College of New York. It’s interesting to note that at the time CCNY was an all-male college once regarded as ‘Jewish Harvard’ which did not accept Black men—Rustin was an unusual exception. While Rustin was at CCNY he became involved in efforts to defend and free the Scottsboro Boys, nine young black men in Alabama who were accused of raping two white women. Activism for Rustin was something that came naturally. He later became a mentor to Martin Luther King.

Rustin is one of my all-time idols. I have been enamored of him since I learned about him, so I was excited to attend an event dedicated to his life and legacy at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, “Between the Lines: Bayard Rustin, A Legacy of Protest and Politics.” The event was a conversation between Michael G. Long and Jafari Allen, who edited the book of the same name. Their exchange sparked many revelations and I left the event more aware than when I entered. I felt so much pity for the life that Rustin had to live, including the attack on his character that was rallied against him by other Black people and the distance that Martin Luther King placed between himself and Rustin out of fear of people assuming that he was also gay. I also learned that it was Coretta Scott King who introduced King to Rustin. Scott-King met Rustin during her college years as a fellow activist who practiced civil disobedience. She would ultimately introduce her husband King to civil disobedience tactics. Rustin recalled that his first time meeting King he was strapped with a handgun and that he never traveled without his gun. It was Rustin who told King that if he represented civil disobedience he would have to be willing to put away his firearm, which eventually he did. Nevertheless, this raises the question, who was King really? The “I Have A Dream” pacifist or the “Beyond Vietnam” radical? We will never truly know.

All in all what I did learn was that according to Rustin, King had no idea how to organize an event. Instead, it was Rustin who developed the blueprint for King’s early Civil Rights movement, at least until the day that King removed Rustin from his inner circle.

Nevertheless, Rustin returned to organize the March on Washington, despite everything leveled against him by Adam Clayton Powel and Roy Wilkins. Someone noted during the discussion that “it’s funny how karma works given the fact that nobody remembers Wilkins's legacy in comparison to the sudden interest in Rustin.'' If I remember correctly, the comment was made by the moderator, NYU professor Dr. Jarafi Allen, based on the fact that the venue was standing room only, or that the Hollywood lens is now fixated on Rustin’s story, with an Academy Award-nominated movie based upon his life currently in theaters. Wilkins has not received the same interest from Hollywood, perhaps indicating that he is less marketable in the mainstream. Meanwhile, Rustin’s role as an activist for the LGTBQ community is also important for newer generations. Until recently, this legacy and all that he accomplished was invisible, but he has since become a symbol of the “others” and most notably the “forgotten others”. While in his lifetime he was shunned, rallied against, and betrayed by those that he benefitted, history has allowed his legacy the final word.

[thecurlyginger]

Can't stop thinking about @an-excellent-choice's post about imperfect partner Gale because it's a facet of long-term relationships that rarely gets explored. So I wrote the following study on respect and pettiness...

Rapt Attention

SWF, ~1250 words

Leaning toward the vanity, Tav put on her earrings, using the mirror to then check her reflection as she readied for the work day. A simple life as a housewife never appealed to her, with or without her husband's steady income and their shared rewards as the Heroes of Baldur's Gate, so after settling in Waterdeep, she had accepted a retail job in a wine shop. It was simple work with little risk but high reward when a patron returned to thank her profusely for her recommendation or when she could bring an employee-discounted bottle home to share with Gale.

"I'll be preparing for tomorrow night's tasting event," she told him as she straightened her dress. "We've reserved every table!"

"Hmm, that's lovely," Gale responded distantly, and through the looking glass, Tav saw him transfixed by the lesson plan in his hands.

She tried not to take offense by his distraction, reminded that he took his own job very seriously, and strode over to the bed where he still lounged. "See you tonight?"

"Of course," he said, at last lowering the book to press a kiss to her cheek. "I love you."

"Love you too."

It had been a long day on her feet, her boss barely having done their share of the prep, and leaving Tav to procure the pairing fruits and cheeses, let alone enough boards and plates to serve them on. Her arms were sore from carrying heavy baskets of goods across the busy roads, and her calves ached from stretching to the highest shelves to pull bottles from the reserve. There was little she looked forward to more than a warm bath and putting her feet up, and she climbed the steps into their home with that prospect at the forefront of her mind.

"Hello, dearest," Gale greeted from the kitchen as she entered, the rich aroma of stewed meat wafting her way.

Tav joined him, relaxing into his open arms. "Hi." The word was more of a sigh, her tension already melting away. "Mind if I bathe before we eat?"

"Of course! Take all the time you need."

When she did rejoin him for dinner, he excitedly told her all about his day at the Academy, and she welcomed the break for her own vocal chords after hours of haggling at the market. His daily recounts were so thorough that she knew almost all of his students' names and demeanors and could follow along effortlessly, enamored by his newfound purpose in life.

"Oh! I nearly forgot! After you left, Tara paid me a visit to invite us to my mother's tomorrow night. I hope you don't mind I accepted on your behalf."

Her eyes narrowed minutely, and she chewed her bite slowly as she realized that Gale truly hadn't been listening to her at all earlier when she detailed the work event.

"We can both change after work and walk, if that's all right with you."

He appeared his usual, jovial self, and, marred by insult, Tav contemplated her response.

"Sounds like a plan," she said, putting on a smile.

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but if Gale could not hold the same regard for her job that she held for his, then he deserved to be humbled.

--

After returning from the Academy, Gale changed from his teaching robes, thankful to don something lighter for a walk in the summer evening. Dinners with Morena and Tara were somewhat regular affairs but still a lovely excuse to dress in finer clothes with Tav, and he pulled an intricately patterned shirt, curious how his wife would match him.

He waited in the study, using the time before her return home to grade papers in the light of the late afternoon sun. Distant bells rang, signaling the hour, and Gale lifted his head from his desk, suddenly concerned by Tav's absence. Had she misheard him and gone straight to his mother's home? Frowning, he stood and paced, deliberating what to do.

At last, Gale left a note in the entryway in case she had been running late to say he went ahead and to join at her convenience before walking alone. Morena greeted him warmly, though informed him that Tav was not there. Try as he might to settle, assuring himself that all was well, he could not shake the anxious thought that something was amiss. With his deepest apologies, Gale left to try and track Tav down, heading straight to the wine shop.

Usually closed by this time, as he approached, he found the entryway bustling with patrons awaiting service. What was...?

Right.

Though immediate relief rushed over him at the sight of Tav through the window, tray full of glasses as she traversed the crowd, it was followed by the frustration that she had neglected to decline dinner. When she finally met his eye, her eyebrow raised, lips pursing together, she quickly passed out the wine before joining him outside.

"I was worried about you," Gale said. "Thank the gods you're all right! I'm so relieved but only wish you had better communicated your plans to me; Mother was quite worried when I left in search of you."

Tav scoffed. "You are mistaken. You paid my event no attention and then double-booked me. I am simply attending my first obligation."

"You... purposefully..." Anger boiled in his stomach. "Are you punishing me?"

"Yes! I listen to every word of your day, but mine takes no precedence because you do not value it equitably. If you wouldn't respect me, then I figured you wouldn't miss me tonight. Now, if you'll excuse me--"

"I won't just excuse you." Gale took a step forward, reaching for her arm. They were far from finished discussing this.

"Too. Bad." She pulled back and returned to work, leaving him fuming in the street.

By the time Tav returned home, Gale had eaten with Morena, though he'd been ill company. It was impossible not to think on his wife's words and how disrespectful he had been, however spiteful she sought to be in return. When the lock clicked and she entered, Gale looked up from his place at the dining table where a small plate of cakes and tea were presented in the offchance Tav hadn't eaten. Nodding solemnly, she took the seat beside him, holding out her palm. Gale placed his hand in hers, squeezing it softly.

"I'm sorry," they said at the same time, then each laughing awkwardly.

"No, you first," Gale insisted. "And I promise, I'm all ears."

"I shouldn't have stood you up. I was upset to be sure, but after you left, I realized it was cruel to not tell you my whereabouts and cause worry."

He took in her earnest eyes, then the exhaustion that had claimed her after working for over half the day and felt the true weight of the disservice he had paid her.

"I--" His throat was tight, the desire to look away in shame almost impossible to overcome, but he owed her sincerity and would be forced to reap what he sowed. "I admit I should have given you my rapt attention when you spoke of your work. I did not inherently ignore you out of superiority but can understand how you interpreted it that way. Teaching should not take priority over you or our time together, and yet I've allowed it to do so. I will strive to do better, my love, if you will allow me. Please... tell me about your day."

And he listened intently to her forever more.

[agentmarcuspike]

frankie morales x dominatrix (+ ex!reader)

synopsis: after breaking up with you on a self sabotaging whim, frankie finds his way back into familiar arms to cope content warnings: mentions of drugs and addiction, sub!frankie, destructive and avoidant behavior, sex work, joi (jerk-off instructions), masturbation (m), degredation kink, vague descriptions of dissociation, dom's name is jessica (after my hero @hier--soir), cum, some pain and tears related to jerking off (stop if it hurts, guys!), military related trauma, very brief attempt at aftercare word count: ~ 2.7k a/n: my first frankie fic! thank you, han @swiftispunk, for proof reading af, for encouraging me to conquer my p0rn shame, and of course for writing such an inspiring sub!frankie. we love him (and u)

Frankie knew it wasn’t fair to you. He knew he’d cause you pain by ending things after twelve amazing, promising months. But compared to the inevitable pain he was doomed to bring everyone he loved and cared for, it was nothing. 

He’d been clean for a mere week when you met, and the rush you gave him had been enough to replace the rush of a high. For a while. But when the withdrawals and unrest returned, and the butterflies could no longer keep the cravings at bay, you’d held him through the tremors, wiped the cold sweat off his forehead, and at no point had you judged him for his past or his way of coping. You’d loved him. 

And you still did. 

Did he love you too? Most likely. Probably. Yes. Which was why he had done what he had. Because you deserved someone better for you. Someone without his history, his trauma, his wounds. No matter how much he loved you for tending to them, you shouldn’t have had to. And that’s why he’d left, on this gloomy Sunday evening, with no other explanation than, “I’m sorry.”

It’s also why Frankie finds himself roaming the chilly city, street lights blurry, all noises softened by a thick layer of apathy. He has no idea how long he’s been walking, no idea whether he’s tired or not. He feels like a shadow of himself, with no wants or needs, no ambition or goals. Just a body moving, constantly moving, to avoid having to think or feel. But as a bicycle quickly swooshes past him on the sidewalk, almost knocking him over, he stops in his tracks and looks around. 

He finds he’s made his way to the other side of town. The air is thicker here somehow, heavier with desperation than in the area he'd tricked himself into thinking he'd belonged in for the past couple years, amongst white picket fences and successful neighbors.

Here, the atmosphere is familiar. People seeking shelter between dumpsters, some asleep, some chasing relief in a fashion Frankie is all too acquainted with. A single buzz goes off in his head when the urge comes back to him. It would be so easy. He knows where to get it, knows how it works. Where to go, who to see, what to say. It would give him the energy to do whatever he could to keep this heartache away. 

So he sets his legs back in motion. At the end of the street, they make a conscious right, a left, and then his mind is wandering again, off in a different direction than his feet. And then his feet stop. He’s standing outside of a regal looking building. Off-white stone façade, adorned with French balconies and decorations, art deco mascarons staring down at him with empty eyes.

Two white columns frame the heavy front door he’s walked through so many, many times. Not since you, though. Frankie has not had the need to visit this place since you first locked eyes with him. 

Without a second thought, before he can change his mind, he rings the doorbell and he’s buzzed inside. With every heavy step up the marble stairs, echoing off the shiny walls, the lights in Frankie’s brain turn off one by one. As he reaches the fourth floor, he’s merely a shell of himself, a puppet on a pair of floppy strings, longing for someone to take control.

He stands still on the landing for a minute, breathing slowly, deliberately, waiting for his arm to rise and knock on its own. It doesn’t, so he orders his hand to place three quick raps on the door.

A few seconds later, a woman comes out. Her hair is tied up, haphazardly moved out of her face and neck with an elegant claw clip. The hand she’s not using to hold the door open is placed in front of her, fingers in a fist clutching the two sides of a silk robe together, careful not to expose more of herself than what’s already poking out from underneath the short covering.

“Frankie…?” she asks, brows raised in surprise. 

He gives her a nod and a weak, “Hi” in response, clearing his throat and repeating the greeting. “Jessica,” he mutters. 

The woman takes a step over the doorstep, pulling her robe tighter around herself.

“I didn’t expect you! We didn’t have an appointment today, did we?” Her voice is slightly panicked, worried she’s forgotten, her eyes darting quickly down to the non-existent watch on her wrist.

Frankie shakes his head. “No.” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, opening and closing his fidgety hands. “I just…” His voice cracks, he swallows and tries again. 

“I just need two minutes.” 

Something in his core refuses to let him look at the woman in front of him. 

He knows her well, knows she’d never judge him. She’s seen him in much more vulnerable positions than this, and yet, something about being so emotionally affected in front of her has him staring at the floor.

She leans down, bending at the waist and tilting her head to find his eyes, making him look at her. When he does, his voice is weak, but assured. He knows what he needs. “Please.”

The plea is enough. Jessica gives him a subtle nod before stepping aside and letting Frankie in. 

He automatically kicks off his shoes and parks them by the door. Straightening back up, arms fixed by his sides, he awaits further instruction.  

“Clothes off, sweetie,” Jessica commands softly. “And wait right here for me. Be right back.” She disappears from the hallway and into the living room, leaving Frankie alone to undress. He makes quick work of it, not bothering with all the buttons, careless about whether they end up inside out or not. 

He sheds his clothes like he wants to shed his skin and grow a new one. A brand new layer, thicker than the one he has, one free of marks from your bruising touch.

On autopilot, he drops to his knees on the tiled hallway floor, hands clasped behind his back, easily and comfortably slipping back into the familiar cadence of compliance. 

The hard cold surface keeps him from crashing into the floor, from falling through it, by burrowing into his knees, stone against bone. He forces all of his attention to the sensation; the dull ache in his kneecaps, the strain in his thighs. The feeling of staying in position despite the discomfort fills him with a sense of pride and control only certain things can give him. One of them is playing the part of soldier, fighting on someone else’s behalf. The other is this; surrendering completely to someone else’s needs and wishes. 

Jessica is back a quick minute later. 

“Come in, Frankie.” 

Hands on the floor for support, he rises and follows her. 

The room isn’t new to him. He’s seen it before, but only in passing, on his way to her bedroom, to the bathroom and back again. But he’s never spent time there, or had the opportunity to really see her private space. It’s a stark contrast to her cold and minimal bedroom. The space isn’t big, so the green velvet couch placed in the middle of the room instead of against a wall is a bold choice. To the left and right of the sofa sit two small side tables, the floor space covered by a massive persian rug. 

Jessica gestures to this rug as she sits, legs crossed and arm thrown casually over the back of the sofa, causing her robe to cleave at the top, showing off her clavicles. 

Frankie finds his place in the middle of the carpet. He should feel vulnerable, fully naked in a new environment. But Jessica’s mild authority, untroubled by the situation, keeps him calm. 

“You just need two minutes, you said?” 

Frankie nods. 

“Very well, then. Two minutes is what you get,” she declares. And then, demanding:

“Kneel.”

And Frankie does. One knee at a time touches the soft carpet beneath him. His hands come down to support him before he sits back on his heels, head bowed, only looking up at her through his lashes when he hears her shuffle.

From the side table to her right, she picks up a round egg shaped gadget and turns the top and bottom halves in opposite directions. For a second he thinks it’s gonna vibrate, until he hears the ticking. Jessica puts the kitchen timer back down on the side table.

“Those are your precious seconds, big boy. You better start touching yourself.”

Frankie’s hand automatically shoots down to palm himself, already half hard from excitement, but seeing his hesitant movements, she clarifies.

“Two minutes to come for me, or you’re not gonna be allowed to come in a very…,” She drags out the pause between the words, “...Very long time. Understand?”

Frankie nods. 

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is hoarse with anticipation. “I understand, ma’am.”

“Good boy.” She gives him a wink. “Now go on, make yourself come for me.”

Her command, combined with the ticking sound of time passing, has him quickly tugging at himself, eroticizing anything and everything he can see around him to get there; Jessica’s toned and shiny calves, the way a stray piece of hair has escaped her claw clip and softly caresses her cheekbone. His hand is tight around his cock as he fists himself frantically. Precum starts to gather at his tip, glistening in the soft lighting, and he smears it over his length.

Jessica spreads her legs on the couch in front of him, making Frankie groan with impatience, but she quickly places a hand in her lap, blocking his view.

“Look at you. So needy, so whiny.”

Frankie moans, not meeting her gaze, the quick pumps of his wrist making him sore and frustrated and he can feel something building, but he’s not quite there yet.

“I haven’t even undressed and you’re all worked up.” Her voice is soft and obnoxiously affectionate. “How pathetic.” 

He finally looks up at her face, his sad eyes begging for more; Frankie wants her to look at him too. Wants her to see him. But she doesn’t pay him any mind, she’s only eyeing the ticking clock. 

“One minute now,” she tsks. “It’s all the time you deserve, to be honest.”

And now she looks at him. Her gaze is sharp and domineering, but there’s something round behind it. Something in the shape of worry. It quickly disappears when she speaks again.

“You’re not worth any more of my attention,” she continues. “A disgrace, that’s what you are. Just a dirty, filthy masturbator.” 

As she shifts slightly in her seat, her robe slips off of one of her shoulders, exposing more of her skin and chest. Frankie swallows harshly at the sight. 

Mouth agape, tongue poking out to wet his lips, he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing only on the command, his one objective: come. The soft hairs of the carpet are starting to feel like knives, boring into his skin, a welcome pain were it not distracting him from the task at hand. He shifts ever so slightly from side to side, relieving his knees from the hurt in turn.

Jessica must sense his discomfort, because she purrs, 

“You’re not gonna come all over my carpet, are you?”

Frankie shakes his head frantically and begins to walk on his knees towards the shiny hardwood floor. 

“I’d have to make you clean it up,” Jessica continues.

Tears are pushing behind Frankie’s eyes as he nears release. His toes curl, and he grits his teeth, trying to block out the timer’s insistent ticks. 

“10 seconds, now,” she informs him. He squeezes his cock even harder, pumping himself with short quick strokes. Blood rushes through his ears, muffling Jessica’s voice as she counts down.

“Five, four…”

He’s outside of his body. His breath hitches.

“Three, two–”

As the room fills with the shrill of the alarm, Frankie’s cock pulses in his hand, spurting thick ropes of hot cum onto the floor. He keeps going, using his own spend as lubrication, choking his hard length until he’s shuddering, hunched over, sweaty and teary eyed. 

Frankie’s body slants forward. He steadies himself with his hands on his thighs, blinking slowly as he concentrates on catching his breath, returning his body. Jessica is patient. She waits until his chest fills and empties itself of air at a reasonable pace, and then she stands up and walks towards him. 

His head shoots up when she reaches him, but she places herself behind him, a comforting hand on each of his shoulders, and bends down to kiss his head.

“Stay,” she whispers as she gets back up and moves to leave the room, Frankie left on the floor with his thoughts and his mess. He wonders if he should clean up–even if he had managed to avoid the carpet–but he doesn’t have time to do anything before Jessica is back. She’s carrying his things, his shirt hanging over her arm as she works to turn his other clothes right side out. 

Slowly, carefully, she helps him back into what he’d been wearing when he’d arrived. One hand through the sleeve. Then the other. Stepping into his underwear, then his jeans, one leg at a time. She saves his hat for last. Before placing it over his messy head of curls, she cups his face with the palm of her hand. 

She leans in, placing a delicate kiss to his cheek, lips barely brushing his skin. Frankie blinks. Accepting softness from Jessica isn’t new to him, but the words she gives him after take him by surprise.

“I’m proud of you, Frankie.” 

Her eyes are earnest, open, genuine. He almost finds it in him to believe her, and allows himself to lean into her touch, resting his heavy head on her palm for a second shorter than he’d like to, breaking away when the darkness behind his closed eyelids makes way for pictures of you holding him, him leaning back on you. 

He quickly reassesses, telling himself this is your job, that he’s a customer, that he hadn’t even made an appointment. He should tip you at least 200%. Shaky hands dig into the pockets of his jeans, pulling out no more than two twenties. 

Swearing under his breath, Frankie starts to panic. 

“I– I didn’t…” he begins. “It was so spontaneous–”

She shushes him. “Don’t worry about it.” Her smile is heartfelt, which embarasses him even more. “I’m just glad you came.”

Frankie shakes his head. “No, I wanna pay. I mean, speaking of coming, let me at least wipe my cum off your floor.” He gestures to the sticky mess slowly coagulating on her floorboards. 

Jessica snickers.

“Do you do the dishes when you’ve eaten out too?” She raises her brows, and he chuckles, shaking his head quietly. 

“It’s all part of the service, baby. Come on, let me walk you out.”

On the doorstep, he gives Jessica a quick kiss goodbye. He thanks her again, and she thanks him back, though for what he’s not sure. Visiting? Choosing her? The company? Either way, he takes her gratitude and shoves it in his pocket with the twenties. When he reaches the lobby, passing a wall full of mailboxes, he quickly locates hers, and swiftly shoves the two bills into the mouth of it. 

Frankie’s feet start moving down the street, and his head absentmindedly follows. His skull is no less heavy, the feelings just as painful, and pictures of you still project onto the insides of his eyelids every time he blinks. But a lightness now coats his mind. A sense of victory. He resisted the easy way out. He chose to stay sober, even though he could’ve so easily gone back to his old ways of burying any unwanted feelings in torrents of snow. 

And with that feeling of achievement, of growth and gain, he realizes where his feet are taking him. The tall buildings turn into houses, the shop windows into white picket fences. In the distance he makes out the house you’ve made a home together. He prays you’ll open the door. That you’ll give him some time. He just needs two minutes.

i have a feeling tumblr is limiting my posts or something, and i don't have a taglist, so here are some absolutely no pressure tags for people i think might enjoy this/who have liked my previous fics?? let me know if i'm wrong!!

@joelsversion @joelscruff @missredherring @iamasaddie @toxicrecs @eupheme @sweetercalypso @mrsmando @lunitareads @amanitacowboy @tieronecrush @psychedelic-ink @perotovar @thetriumphantpanda @joelsgreys @undercoverpena @pedgito @wannab-urs @gasolinerainbowpuddles @thelightsandtheroses

[weatheredfailnot]

Please take these sections from EE3 on the Shadowkeeper (Cylva) because I love her so dearly

Transcript below:

A NAME SPOKEN IN WHISPERS

Around the time Ardbert and his comrades left Tomra, they stumbled upon evidence of the larger design. Threads linking together the disparate troubles of the realm. A name spoken only in whispers— the Shadowkeeper.

A singular force sowing chaos and discord throughout Norvrandt to an unknown end.

During Nyelbert's search for an energy source to replace the crystal he shattered, he began to suspect that the now-lost stone was not, in fact, a naturally occurring mineral, but rather had been deliberately placed under the mountain. Pursuing the truth of that theory led them to discover a connection to Lamunth, the gem counterfeiter whom Ardbert and Lamitt apprehended so long ago in Nabaath Areng. When they visited Lamunth's gaol cell to interrogate him, however, they found the man convulsing on the floor and frothing at the mouth. Ere the poison took his life, he managed to sputter the name of the Shadowkeeper. Further investigation revealed that this sinister figure had ordered Lamunth to secret the crystal in the mine shafts, and in return rewarded him with the illusory magicks he would employ in his forgeries.

They also came to learn that Tadric, the mastermind behind Voeburt's monstrous plague, had not worked alone. Research documents recovered from the court mage's laboratory mentioned the Shadowkeeper by name, the meticulous entries describing how the arcane lore shared by his co-conspirator had contributed to the completion of his transformation magicks.

The mining industry of Nabaath Areng threatened with demolition.

A scheme culminating in the death of Voeburt's royal heirs. The Shadowkeeper had plotted the downfall of two mighty nations, and Ardbert's band feared that Lakeland, the third of Norvrandt's major powers, would be next.

Lo and behold, a rebellion erupted in the home of the elves. The reigning king was deposed, and the Shadowkeeper, their heretofore faceless nemesis, took the throne.

The elven king, Lelfrey, was a passionate proponent of the arts- music and dance in particular- with his focus on such refined pursuits earning him equal praise and scorn. His was a peaceful rule, free of war and strife, but this passivity cost his kingdom dearly in matters of foreign diplomacy. A poor negotiator, he ceded border territories to Voeburt to avoid conflict, and signed an economic agreement with Nabaath Areng that put Lakeland at a clear disadvantage.

As these political blunders chipped away at the nation's authority, a sentiment of discontent among Lakeland's high-ranking nobility began to fester and grow. Traditionalists dreamed of a return to the golden age when all of Norvrandt lay under their control, and it was the Shadowkeeper who granted them the power to act. Rumors that this new player was the king's bastard child ran wild, and, true or not, served to unify the disgruntled nobles under a single banner. They indulged in treachery to undermine rival nations, while at home, their assassins targeted influential royalists. The scene was set for revolution.

The Shadowkeeper was attended by two dark-robed mages, by whose malevolent arts the traditionalists were empowered. One of their gifts was lupine transformation, a change which granted the recipient preternatural strength and agility. Thus bolstered by a company of these wolfman soldiers, the Shadowkeeper's faction stormed Laxan Loft and captured the royal seat for their leader. No sooner had the winning side declared a new age of glory for the elves than did they muster their forces and launch an invasion into Voeburtite lands.

Caption reads: The Shadowkeeper emerged amid blood and chaos, a formidable and enigmatic figure perpetually encased in stygian plate armor. Similarly clad in midnight raiment, the Shadowkeeper's forces inspired terror in all who witnessed their advance.

THE BATTLE OF LAXAN LOFT

The heroes were poised to continue their search for Nyelbert's replacement stone in Nabaath Areng when the silver-haired Cylva abruptly left the party. The swordswoman excused herself on the premise that she wished to reconnoiter the troubling situation in Lakeland, but in truth, she was hurrying back to don her black armor, unsheathe her blade, and lead the elven traditionalists in their rebellion. Cylva, the great deceiver, had been the Shadowkeeper all along.

She was, in truth, no bastard child of King Lelfrey-that was merely a fiction concocted by Mitron and Loghrif, her Ascian accomplices. Her true origin lay in the Thirteenth, where she had died young and powerless, an unrealized champion of the reflection-turned-void. The Ascians had found her in the moment of her demise, and it was they who brought her soul to the First to serve as a pawn in dark machinations.

Cylva was to insinuate herself into Ardbert's band, and guide them along the path to becoming Warriors of Light. That which they cast aside in their journey towards heroism, she would take into herself, growing ever stronger as a disciple of Darkness. And when all was in readiness, she would reveal herself as the villainous Shadowkeeper. By her hand would the Warriors of Light be slain, and despair sown in the hearts of the populace.

What the Ascians did not plan for was the Shadowkeeper's defeat at the hands of Ardbert's party. Cylva had steadily amassed her power, feeding on her erstwhile comrades' respective sacrifices of personal ambition, innocence, independence, and tradition. Yet despite her best efforts, Ardbert would not forsake what she sought to purloin- his caring heart.

Even in the midst of their deadly confrontation, he regarded her as a comrade in need of saving.

Thus denied her full ascension, the Shadowkeeper wavered and fell.

Swallowing their grief at the loss of a friend, the heroes turned their wrath towards the villains who had orchestrated this tragedy. The Warriors of Light now shone so brightly that even high-ranking Ascians could not stand against their incandescent fury. Even as Ardbert struck his final blow, fulgent power swelled in a cataclysmic wave, and the Flood of Light was unleashed upon the lands of the First.

Caption reads: In her bid to slay the Warriors of Light, Cylva turned her transformation magicks upon herself. Though Ardbert and his comrades did indeed struggle against this formidable lupine abomination, it was the necessity of striking down their former friend that presented the greatest challenge.

[justatalkingface]

Izuku vs Deku, Person vs Puppet

While I'm at this... I've made this point before, in that one Izuku mega-post I've made, and maybe once somewhere else? But I feel it's worth posting again outside of it, in a post just for this, if only so it's easier for people to look at this on it's own merits.

People use the name 'Deku' to refer to Izuku and I, on a personal level, dislike that. Don't get me wrong, I know why they do it, so I don't blame them (or you, theoretical random reader), but I don't like it all the same. Why?

On a fundamental level, I think of Hori making Izuku's hero name 'Deku' to be something that damages Izuku's development as a character, that it's not something done because that is what Izuku, the theoretical person would do, or something that will help him grow in some way; Izuku doesn't benefit from it all, actually.

No, the only person that really benefits is Bakugou. Here's the thing: Izuku doesn't like to be called Deku, he never did. Bakugou calls him that as an insult, deliberately, and the one time Ochako does it, based on a misunderstanding? Hurts him; he feels betrayed that his new friend is suddenly insulting him.

Of course, he's understanding when she explains why she said it, and all is forgiven afterwords, but that underlying fact is still there: Izuku does not like that name. So, why did he call himself that?

The way it's shown to us, the audience, the whole encounter with Ochaka is supposed to make him look at that insult in a new light, so Izuku calling himself that is supposed to be 'reappropriating' that name, and theoretically, that sounds great! The problem, though, is the reality of how it's presented to us:

When Ochako explains what happens, she says she thought it meant 'Dekiru', which is promptly explained to us that it means, 'You can do it!', and the way it's shown to us makes it clear that it's being given as an answer to the question Izuku has been struggling over: who am I as a hero?

The fundamentally cheerful and uplifting nature of the word, how quick and easy it is to say (as opposed to Aoyama's paragraph long abomination) and perhaps most importantly it takes that old, hateful name he's been called his old life and changes it, makes it new, encouraging, and hopeful, and has real resemblance to All Might's catch phrase, 'I am here' (as in, 'you no longer have to worry because I am here').

The setup for Izuku's name is for that, for Dekiru, the hero that says, 'You can do it!', which symbolizes the primary influence on his life shifting from Bakugou, from being belittled and looked down on, to All Might, to being enthusiastic and hopeful and encouraged; that is the reclaiming of Deku promised to us, like a new tree growing from a burnt down forest.

So... why is it Deku, then?

I'll say it again: it's because of Bakugou. It seems clear in how MHA's writing is set up that at first, Bakugou wasn't supposed to be as important and omnipresent as he ended up being, and at some point Hori shifted his plans to force him in the story, even as he was trying to keep Bakugou as Bakugou, keeping those same fundamental character traits that, realistically, he should have outgrown or have been punished for. And one of those traits?

Is calling Izuku Deku, calling him useless. The reason Izuku ultimately called himself 'Deku' has nothing to with Izuku himself, it's about Bakugou: if Izuku's hero name is Deku, and Bakugou calls him Deku? That suddenly isn't a bad thing, anymore; he's not insulting Izuku, he's just calling him by his hero name! But at the same time, it's clear by how Bakugou acts that he isn't calling Izuku by his hero name, he's just calling him by that same, belittling childhood name he always has; reality itself has just shifted to make that seem acceptable.

But if Izuku called himself Dekiru, though? Then suddenly, that shallow protection Hori afforded to him vanishes, and it's clear that Bakugou is, in fact, constantly insulting Izuku, every time they talk. It makes him look bad. And, well. Hori can't have that, so... Deku it is.

Do know what the peak irony of all this is, though? The accidental metaphor that makes it clear just how little Hori cares about Izuku, as anything beyond being a vessel to advance the story?

The meaning of Deku: it can mean a couple of things, like useless, for example, the way Bakugou uses it, but another meaning is a puppet. Hori literally stopped Izuku from calling himself Dekiru, from saying, 'I can do it!', so he could call himself a puppet instead... and all for the sake of someone else.

The symbolism on that is so strong that it hurts.

[bridgerteon]

I knew from the get go that there are 8 Bridgerton siblings (in alphabetical order) plus Violet. But one fact I realised and found it amusing is that there are also 8 Eevee evolutions (Eeveelutions) plus Eevee. So I thought, why not have each Bridgerton have an Eeveelution. (I also nicknamed each of the Eeveelutions I caught in a Pokemon game based on the Bridgertons, but I digress...)

This is my own interpretation on the Bridgertons and which Eeveelution fits them as their partner. I'm happy to hear from any Bridgerton and Pokemon fans to have their own ideas on which Pokemon suits them. 😊

So here are the Bridgerteons:

Violet - Eevee 🦊👑

Violet is the matriarch of the Bridgerton family, so obviously she gets an Eevee. She also wants to see all of her children find love and have happy marriages. She knows each of her children are different and that each couple has different experiences in love, like Eevee being adaptive in its environment.

Anthony - Jolteon⚡

Anthony is competitive, has mood swings, difficult, stubborn and protective. Jolteon is all those things. As the Viscount, he has a duty in helping his family be one of the best in the Ton. The death of his father plagued him, so he's emotionally closed off, like Jolteon's spikes on its body. Fortunately, he is loyal and would open his heart to the ones he loves and cares about. So he gets a Jolteon.

Benedict - Vaporeon 🌊

Both are chill, peaceful, go with the flow, calm and, as canon in the show, bisexual. Also, Benedict likes to hide from debutantes and their mamas, like Vaporeon likes to camouflage and melt into water. So he gets a Vaporeon. (No dirty jokes about Vaporeon, please 🙄)

Colin - Umbreon 🌙

Colin wants to be a hero, likes being needed, and spreading light and joy to his loved ones. He is vulnerable, sensitive and kind to people he is close to, while under a facade when surrounded by the Ton, like the light and dark side of the moon. He always finds Penelope during balls and at night a couple of times, like an aura connection. So definitely an Umbreon.

Daphne - Sylveon 🎀

As the eldest daughter, Daphne is poise, elegant, gentle, and has great emotional intelligence. She can also be brave (she does charge towards Anthony and Simon while they are in a duel, like fairy types charging in towards dragon types in battles), competitive and assertive. So Sylveon it is.

Eloise - Espeon 🔮

Eloise likes to read, wants to change the world as a woman, and cynical. She's also quite a detective in identifying Lady Whistledown or people's 🐂💩, but is not great in identifying what people are feeling. Also, they have the same letter. So an Espeon.

Francesca - Flareon 🔥

Francesca loves playing the piano and an introvert, so she's most likely indoors. She is brave and curious on what she wants to find herself and to find a partner who gets her. Also the same letter. So a Flareon. (It does help that Flareon will be keeping her warm during colder months in Scotland while playing the piano 😉).

Gregory - Glaceon ❄️

Gregory is cheeky, young, fun and likes to pull pranks. He likes to be part of the Bridgerton shenanigans. He wants to join with his big brothers in anything, despite being young. Also the same letter. So a Glaceon.

Hyacinth - Leafeon 🍃

Hyacinth is also cheeky and young, but also an optimistic, loves romance, freespirited and innocent. She wants to be part of the glamour, gossip and excitement within the Ton. Also her name is based on a flower. So a Leafeon.

*Note: I'm being deliberate in calling it Bridgerteons as it is a combination of Bridgerton and Eon (a suffix for all the Eeveelutions, meaning a long period of time. It suits them as it takes a long time for them to find a partner, fall in love and get married 😏).

[super-paper]

so what are your thoughts about what happened to og!afo? while og!afo was able to stop pretending right before his death, i feel like it was just... not enough? do you think his character arc is not over yet and will continue with vestige!afo? because i can't stop thinking about 368 where shigaraki's face changed to afo's pre!potato face upong seeing yoichi and how in 369 afo kept saying "not yet, not yet!" and talking as if he still has some kind of a last card up his sleeve. and that trump card was mentioned again in this chapter.

If this were the actual conclusion to AFO's arc, I wouldn't feel satisfied! But like you said, Hori has already gone out of his way to include the "trump card" line and left the actual fate of AFO's vestige deliberately ambiguous (ex: using words like "suppressed/defeated" instead of "killed" to describe vestige-for-one). Like, there's a lot that points to his arc not being finished yet, imho.

That said, I do believe AFO's "trump card" is gonna be something particularly heinous, and may involve him tipping his hand/finally revealing his involvement in the Shimura Family massacre. Like, something we have to keep in mind is that Tomura sincerely believes that he killed his family intentionally and that he """enjoyed""" killing them + enjoyed destroying his home— it’s what he considers to be his origin, and "remembering that origin" is what allowed him to take back control of his body. So in theory, all AFO has to do in order to shatter Tomura's sense of self is cast doubt on that "origin" (which in turn may create a necessity for Tomura to finally remember his *actual* origin in order to take back control of his body again).

Like, I gotta stress: AFO's villain mask/demon lord persona finally slipping off to reveal the pitiful and desperately lonely human underneath does not equal him suddenly becoming a good person, so I'm 100% expecting vestige-for-one to try and pull some truly awful bullshit at the absolute worst possible time lmfao.

----

Anyhoo, a couple more points to consider:

I know I'm beating a dead horse at this point, but once again: names are everything in mha and Hori 100% wants his readers to pay attention to what names are being used/emphasized during key scenes-- especially when it comes to names being used to separate fantasy from reality, authentic from inauthentic, and the "actor" from the "character/role."

Chapter 393 begins with the LOV discussing the meaning behind hero and villain names and encouraging Toga to pick a villain name for herself (with Toga ultimately deciding to use "Toga Himiko" written in katakana as her villain name because she ultimately just wants to be seen as herself)-- chapter 393 then ends with Ochako referring to Toga as "Himiko-chan," in a stealth rejection of Toga's stealth villain name. Bakugo resurrects and starts proudly referring to himself as "Kacchan" instead of “Great Explosion Murder God" + starts calling Izuku by his given name in total earnest. Meanwhile, Tomura stops referring to Izuku by his given name and starts referring to him as the much colder and distant "hero." Etc etc.

With this in mind, AFO still not having a name reveal-- not even during his own damn flashback/origin chapter-- is something that sticks out like a sore thumb.

This chapter was (appropriately titled) our farewell to "All For One: The Demon Lord/The Villain King/The Shameless LARPer" It's not necessarily our farewell to "*insert name here*: The Cataclysmic Mess Of A Person" yet. Yoichi and Tomura are the only ones who can properly say farewell to that side of AFO, because despite everything, they're the only ones who have some semblance of pity/"affection" for AFO as an actual human person (not as a god, or an object of worship, or a villain king, or a "role").

Death and Rebirth continues to be one of the big (and criminally underrated) themes of the series-- MHA frequently plays with the idea that part of a character's identity/alter-ego can "die" while their body lives on (or conversely, that a person's will can take on a life of its own and live on even if their body dies. which. y'know.)

All Might """dies,""" but Yagi Toshinori lives. Touya """dies""" and Dabi is born. Tenko """dies""" and is "reborn" as Shigaraki Tomura. Endeavor """dies""" during the PLW, leaving the world's ugliest crier Todoroki Enji behind. The representation of Keigo's hero identity (the fierce wings vestige) """dies""". Bakugo switches it up by dying for real, but upon resurrection, sheds his conceit and discards the "mask" he used to conceal his insecurities. Etc etc.

AFO himself has always been born (and reborn) from death. He takes his very first breaths while next to the corpse of his mother and half-dead brother. He died once, but was brought back to life by someone that society rejected and AFO ""accepted"". He has now died a second time, triggering a subtle change in Tomura that has made him even more dangerous (i.e. Tomura has started using the AFO quirk again, and more specifically, is now using the AFO quirk to whittle away at the collective "will" of OFA by stealing the vestiges one by one. This Action Will Have Consequences.jpg)

Killing AFO does not actually solve the root problems of this story, nor does it fix the longstanding problems of heroaca society (which all precede the advent of quirks and the creation of the hero/villain system)-- or rather, it might be better to say that AFO will never *truly* die as long as the world remains fundamentally unchanged. AFO is enabled by the status quo! He is allowed to keep existing and able to continuously resurrect himself over and over and over again as the ultimate villain specifically because of it.

My theory right now is that AFO will only die permanently when A) He is finally acknowledged as a human individual and given a name, and B) when Izuku finally takes Tomura's hand + Tomura is "finally taken out of the garden and back into the house," symbolizing the radical shift in the status quo that empowered (read: created) AFO in the first place.

Also worth mentioning: body!AFO and vestige!AFO are heavily implied to have some sort of "shared" awareness with each other-- we even see body!AFO flashing back to the UA cage match during his mental breakdown. This means there's a chance what body!AFO was feeling at the moment of his death might spill over to vestige!AFO, allowing for his arc to continue seamlessly from where it apparently "left off" during this chapter.

Which is good! Because this chapter has AFO finally admitting that "nothing is good" without Yoichi while also indirectly confirming that yes, the various traumas from his childhood DID in fact play a major role in his development into a villain-- AFO and Yoichi growing up in a society that ignored them is basically what fuels AFO's ridiculously self-detrimental attention seeking behaviors (like the AFOmight fight becomes retroactively hilarious when u realize AFO was trying to get as much attention out of mangling Toshi as possible and that his obsessive need to kill Toshi in front of an audience is what ultimately led to his downfall 💀It's, uh, marginally less hilarious when u also realize that he impulsively killed Yoichi bc Yochi had stopped looking at him. 😬)

Anyway....!! AFO and Yoichi are both the "source" and the representation of the main conflict in this series-- og!AFO fizzling out without any fanfare is admittedly an appropriate narrative punishment for someone who wanted to be the eternal star of the show, but it doesn't offer a proper resolution to the actual conflict of the series: the cycle of irrational fear and insecurity leading to a lack of understanding, lack of understanding leading to rejection, rejection leading to the creation of villains, villains creating more fear in civilians and leading to the necessity of heroes, which inevitably leads to even more rejection, and so on and so forth, etc etc etc. Yoichi and AFO exist at the center of this cycle, representing it in its purest form-- and Tomura is the ultimate consequence of this cycle.

Ultimately, I feel like vestige for one’s death may be….. gentler, for lack of a better word. Less focused on karmic punishment and more focused on giving Yoichi and Tomura a sense of closure. Like, it's honestly not about what AFO "deserves," but what Yoichi needs in order to finally pass on and what Tomura needs to finally detangle himself from AFO (although in the spirit of keeping it completely real, all three of them need to detangle themselves from each other lmfao💀💀💀). Neither Yoichi or Tomura have ever been granted a chance to truly grieve the loss of themselves or their families, and AFO is at the root of that as someone who is both "family" and as someone who also took everything away from them.

tl;dr Hori can eat his cake (punish AFO for his hubris by having him fight, lose, and die against versions of himself that *chose* to be better or regret how they treated their own "Yoichis"-- i.e. Toshinori, Endeavor, Bkgo) and have it too (finally resolve the ShigaBros century long conflict and the complicated feelings AFO-Yoichi-Tomura all have for each other, giving everyone the closure they desperately need) thanks to the presence of the vestige world.

I also think it'd be cool to get some sort of resolution re: the captain hero comics, since they were the "trigger" that started it all-- perhaps in the form of a dying dream sequence, where we get Yoichi and AFO as children again-- but this time Yoichi basically forces AFO to sit his ass down and finally read volume 4 of captain hero lmfao.

Like, a lot of AFO's actions/beliefs stem from his insistence that he ~already knew~ how the story was gonna end, and he built his life and plans around "rejecting" that ending-- I feel like a scenario where it turns out the ending WASN'T what he expected (like, say it was an ending where Captain Hero does defeat the Demon Lord, but ultimately chooses to save him rather than kill him-- something that mirrors Tomura's ultimate fate, rather than AFO's) would be a neat way to wrap up his and Yoichi's arcs from a metafiction perspective, since he and Yoichi both represent "different types of readers."

It would also be bittersweet, with the implication that things could have been different if AFO had just stopped being reddit pilled for five seconds and just read to the end with Yoichi in the first place-- the blueprint for an ending where the hero is no longer all alone and where the "demon lord" doesn't have to die/vanish at the end of the story was there all along, he just refused to see it.

tl;dr 2.0: AFO's ultimate punishment should involve him getting slapped in the face by tiny yoichi with his little comics over and over and over again until he develops an actual sense of media literacy.

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

Stranger Things S5 Title Theories

Alright guys, I know that we were all expecting (and hoping for) a teaser. Believe, I wish we got one as well and we've been very patient. That being said, the episode titles do offer us some information about what could happen. Let's break it down (to the best of our abilities)!

The Crawl: Based on the script tease from the Duffers, I imagine we open with Will in the Upside Down and we learn more about how he survived. I can also see the episode focusing on much of the fallout from the ending of S4 and what Hawkins post Vecna looks like. Similar to the final season of the Bad Batch from Star Wars, we could see a time skip half way through this episode, showing just how much as changed since Vecna.

The Vanishing of ******: Holly Wheeler is the top contender for the blurred out name. Whether or not it's her, I have two theories. Theory number 1 is that the missing person is taken by Vecna into the Upside Down. Vecna does tell Nancy that he will kill her family and I can see him kidnapping someone close to her in order to mess with her. My other theory is that maybe they're still testing kids in a place like the lab. This one is more of a stretch. But we don't know what Linda Hamilton's role is yet.

The Turnbow Trap: While I'm not sure about this one, I do think this will be a mostly planning and action heavy episode. The kids do like setting traps and if they can get Vecna (or any other monster) in it, then it could be considered successful. Turnbow does sound like the name of something, family or company, so the trap is definitely connected to it somehow.

Sorcerer: My first thought was a Will-centric episode because Will dressed up as a wizard when he used his DnD alias "Will the Wise." It would be nice to explore his connection to the Upside Down more, especially now that Vecna is involved. Vecna and Will never met, but they do have some similarities with the biggest one being the Mindflayer. The First Shadow reveals that Henry was influenced by the Mindflayer, turning him into the evil man we know today. Will similarly was controlled by the Mindflayer. My other theory is that this episode is about Eleven. El is dubbed at the Party's mage, which is a spellcaster. It's highly possible we could see her try and go up against Vecna again only to disastrous results. What do you guys think?

Shock Jock: A shock jock is "a disc jockey on a talk-radio show who expresses opinions in a deliberately offensive or provocative way." Throughout the photos we'v been given, there's been a recurrent theme of the kids going to a radio building (?). I definitely think that the episode could be centered around the town, similar to what happened with Jason in S4.

Escape from Camazotz: This is the episode I'm probably most excited for. There are two theories I have regarding Camazotz. Camazotz refers to a "death bat" in Maya mythology. It symbolizes sacrifice so we could see someone dying to Vecna or another monster of the upside down. However, I personally think that this is episode where Max comes back. Max is currently in a coma right now and there are speculations that her mind is stuck in Vecna's mind lair. Camazotz is the name of the planet home to the malevolent entity the IT in "A Wrinkle in Time." Now, I've only seen the movie, but from what I remember, Camazotz is a strange place with strange people. It doesn't present as this evil looking place. Throughout the story, Meg and her brother Charles Wallace try to find their lost dad, who was imprisoned on Camazotz by the IT. The IT, an incredibly manipulative being, tries to stop our heroes and make them succumb to its will. Swinging back to Stranger Things, what if we see Max escaping from Vecna's mind lair. Vecna is like the IT and his lair is Camazotz. We could see El trying to go into her mind again and pulling her to safety. Or... it could just be the heroes fighting off some bat creature from the Upside Down, but I prefer the Max theory.

The Bridge: My first thought outside a literal bridge is a bridge between worlds. Maybe the heroes try and close the gap that currently connects the Upside Down to our world. And by doing so, traps Vecna here. If he can't go back and hide in the Upside Down, then maybe the heroes have a chance at beating him.

Rightside Up: The final battle between good and evil for our heroes of Hawkins. Everything is tested and there will be casualties. However, our heroes will come out triumphant in the end, with the threat of the Upside Down being gone permanently.

Anyways, those are my thoughts. What do you think will happen? I'd love to hear your theories and ideas!

[winterballads]

🪷 The Lotus Flower in Mysterious Lotus Casebook 🪷

i. Growing Deep Roots

As noted by difeisheng, Li Xiangyi is an image more than he is a person. He’s the “symbol” and “beating heart” of the Sigu sect; “he embodies everything [the sect] stands for” and “has become one with every person he represents” in his role as a leader. As such, one might say he doesn’t exist as an individual who’s allowed the luxury of flawed, fluid humanity. Rather, he’s fixed into an object: a shield protecting those under his care, a mirror reflecting those he’s taken upon himself to be the champion for.  

While a heavy burden to carry, this identity as image is also shown to be brittle, hollow, like a hazy mirage which is more dazzling appearance than substance. Even Fang Duobing introduces Li Xiangyi to Li Lianhua by showing him a painting of his shifu — ink on a page, a person turned into a hero to be worshipped and idolated. 

Li Lianhua, over the ten years that pass after the Great Battle of the East Sea, works to plant and cultivate a new identity in the same way one might grow flowers. Li Lianhua forms deep roots and grows out of the mythical hero’s shell he’d been carrying as Li Xiangyi, thus developing an identity which is solid and grounding in contrast — an identity which involves “walk[ing] within a crowd instead of [soaring] above it.”

This shift from image to person is itself rooted in the lotus mantra (written by Buddhist Layman Pang during the Tang Dynasty) which Li Xiangyi first encounters after monk Wu Liao rescues him:

一念心清净 莲花处处开

The heart attains peace with a single thought; Lotus flowers bloom all around.

Although the exact timeline is left to interpretation, it’s implied that the lotus mantra operates as a catalyst of change for Li Xiangyi and that he changes his name to Li Lianhua after reading it. Now what is it about it that speaks to Li Xiangyi so deeply in that moment? As noted in 《 人間福報 》, the lotus mantra teaches us that a pure heart will result in an open and enlightened mind. One subtle, profound thought rife with compassion is enough for a person to glimpse Buddha in a flower, a leaf, a grain of sand or a speck of dust. In short, “if you can find peace within yourself, then you will find peace everywhere.” Perhaps Li Xiangyi, at his lowest point, finds solace in the prospect of stripping his life down to its very core and searching for purity, wisdom and peace within his troubled heart.    

By renaming himself 莲花/liánhuā lotus flower, Li Lianhua takes his destiny into his own hands; he empowers himself into reshaping his identity and laying down the foundations for the person he wants to become. Similarly to The Yin-Yang Master: Dream of Eternity which tells us that “names are the shortest spells in the world,” Li Lianhua’s new name functions as a spell which speaks a new him into existence. It’s a deliberate choice, a conscious attempt at breaking free from the suffocating shell Li Xiangyi was trapped in and become a person of his own choosing. 

The act of (re)naming notably also extends to Li Lianhua’s abode which he dubs 莲花楼 “Lotus Tower.” In addition to this significant choice of name, it’s interesting to note that Li Lianhua starts growing vegetables inside Lotus Tower when he’s left with nothing after his demise at the East Sea and is facing starvation. As such, his home is quite literally a site not only of self-sustenance and survival, but also of growth — a growth which requires hard work, patience and faith and nearly brings Li Lianhua to tears when his hopes are finally rewarded and the seeds he planted begin sprouting. The act of physically planting vegetables and learning to cook those vegetables speaks of a refreshing and grounding simplicity — of something disarmingly vulnerable and human after playing the role of a god-like figure. Li Lianhua has sweat on his brow and hope in his heart; he plants seeds, watches them grow and keeps himself alive by his own hands.

It seems it’s not only Li Lianhus’a home, but also his very person, which steadily grow into a lotus flower. Li Lianhua wears a variety of hairpins directly linked to the lotus, and the colour coding of his garments moves from the red he used to wear as Li Xiangyi to a lighter palette filled with greens and blues — colours which are more obviously linked to nature.

ii. Life Borrowed and Given Away

The lotus, both traditionally and within the drama itself, is closely connected to the theme of rebirth. On a literal level, the exotic lotus flowers of Cai Lian Manor grow directly from the corpses of the victims drowned in the pond, thus embodying life born from death. thawrecka writes in their story that Li Lianhua is “nothing but a lotus nurtured by a walking corpse, a body that doesn’t realise it should already be dead.” On a figurative level, the lotus grows in muddy water but blooms unsullied every morning, thus symbolising rising from a dark place and growing into something beautiful and colourful despite all the odds. The different stages of the lotus’ blooming can be taken to represent the beginning, middle and end of a spiritual path in Buddhism — a parallel to the theme of 趟/tāng taking a journey which underscores the drama in various ways.

Li Lianhua’s journey, more specifically, is that of a lotus being reborn. The soundtrack piece 《 一壶莲花醉 》 “A Pot of Lotus Wine” emphasises this connection in the following lines:

问一句莲花的悲喜 断一柄弃剑入青泥

I ask about the joys and sorrows of the lotus; A broken, abandoned sword is thrown into the mud.

Not only does Li Lianhua keep stressing at different points of the drama that Li Xiangyi is dead and all that is left behind is Li Lianhua; he even breaks his own sword Shaoshi at the end of the story, thereby physically reenacting a process of destruction—death—and rebirth. As Li Lianhua writes in his farewell letter: 

剑断人亡

My sword is broken, and I will be gone.

The significance of Li Lianhua’s action is further intensified here by the fact that the sword in the song is said to be thrown into 泥/ní mud, the site from which a lotus flower grows.

Considering that Shaoshi operates as a device embodying Li Lianhua’s character development throughout the drama, the fact that Li Lianhua decides to break it in the last episode should be taken as a key moment in which he chooses how his own narrative is going to end. Li Lianhua decides to kill for good the glorious image of Li Xiangyi which has become sullied with pain and regret in his heart, so that a simple, fragile peace can begin growing in its place like a lotus flower amidst the mud.

However, the tragedy of Li Lianhua’s narrative is that the rebirth he works to achieve for all these years is not his own to enjoy and never was intended to be. After the Great Battle of the East Sea, as Li Lianhua is reborn from Li Xiangyi and starts planting seeds all around him, he has already accepted that he’s nothing but a ghost, “wandering in the jianghu to close his loose ends and finally [...] vanish without a trace, not even a body left behind.” As mx-myth remarks, even the shift in his garment colours to an overwhelming amount of white as the story progresses makes it clear that he’s resigned to go and has “already started dressing for his own funeral.” 

The lotus flower symbolism permeating the narrative accentuates this bone-deep, unshakable resignation. While imprisoned by Jiao Liqiao, Li Lianhua is full of an aching, bittersweet fatalism when he recites a section of Guan Hanqing’s《 窦娥冤 》“The Injustice to Dou E”:

花有重开日 人无再少年 不须长富贵 安乐是神仙

Flowers will blossom again, But a man can never be young again. Seek not eternal wealth; You only need to be content.

Independently from the original meaning of the lines written by Guan Hanqing, the words seem to take on a sad, wistful quality when spoken with a bitter smile by Li Lianhua. In this scene, while the speaker reflects that rebirth occurs outside of themselves in flowers, they acknowledge that their own reality is one inevitably bound to end in old age and decay. Instead of looking forward to a bright future, the speaker doesn’t express any dreams nor ambitions and is only grateful that they’re alive this minute, this second, without any future prospects awaiting them. Perhaps a similar sentiment is reflected in the following lines from 《 一壶莲花醉 》 “A Pot of Lotus Wine”:

了了心事只 不负众生 而已

After settling my worries,  I just want to live up to all sentient beings.

Li Lianhua’s connection to the lotus flower, in fact, was always meant to be one of non-attachment. While Buddhism believes desire to be the root of all suffering, the lotus symbolises non-attachment due to being “rooted in mud (attachment and desire)” while “its flowers blossom on long stalks unsullied by the mud below.” This explains in part why the lotus is considered pure and noble. For Li Lianhua, this non-attachment takes on sorrowful connotations: it means that he stubbornly refuses to reap the seeds he sows and focuses his purest heart and will into ensuring those around him get to reap them instead. Non-attachment means allowing himself enough (a roof over his head, food on his plate) to survive, but rarely letting himself indulge in the precious luxuries of reciprocated love and care — of carefree joy and thirst for adventure.  

The ten years he lives after his first death at the East Sea are, for him, only borrowed time he didn’t deserve — borrowed time not dedicated to himself, but rather dedicated to others.

In many ways, Li Lianhua’s path effectively goes full-circle by the end of the narrative. When he and Di Feisheng reminisce about the moon they remember from ten years ago, they conclude that today’s moon isn’t any brighter than the one alive in their memory: rather, it remains constant, unchanged, as though the past ten years never existed as anything other than a short pause in the story, a coma, long enough for wrongs to be righted but not  for an already-dead person’s fate to be changed.

It’s interesting and particularly significant that the Styx flower (忘川花, from 忘川 “River of Forgetting” in the original Mandarin) is said throughout the drama to be the only thing capable of saving Li Lianhua’s life. In traditional Chinese culture, the Styx or River of Forgetting is part of the process of reincarnation; only by crossing it (and forgetting everything they’ve ever experienced and everyone they’ve ever loved) can a person finally reincarnate. For Li Lianhua, salvation through rebirth comes at a high cost — a price he’s evidently been ready to pay since the beginning, even if it means turning him into a ghost who must vanish from the story in order for those around him to grow and thrive further.

When Li Lianhua breaks his own sword to allow for rebirth, it’s not himself he’s saving. His sole purpose throughout his journey as Li Lianhua is to use whatever meagre strength he has left, whatever passion and drive are still alive in him, to save the world in any small ways that he can. He becomes a doctor who heals people; he looks for answers and solves mysteries to atone for the sins he thinks he has committed and rectify the mistakes he thinks he has made, so that those he has hurt can finally find peace and comfort.

The most powerful legacy Li Lianhua intends to leave behind by the end of the story has nothing to do with himself and everything to do with the people around him who he never truly admits he loves — the messy, imperfect world that’s caused him so much pain but that he nevertheless insists on saving with everything he has. 

Most strikingly, Li Lianhua chooses—whether consciously or not—to leave the life and future he’s renounced for himself to his companions Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng. The only traces he purposefully leaves behind live in them: in the Yangzhouman coursing through Fang Duobing’s body; the home, dog and recipe book he passes onto him; the worthy opponent he leaves for Di Feisheng to fight in his stead after he’s gone… 

Fang Duobing, by the end of the story, has grown into more than a disciple and a friend to Li Xiangyi/Li Lianhua: he himself has become the lotus flower bringing renewed life after Li Lianhua has left the narrative, thereby taking Li Lianhua’s legacy into a hopeful, vibrant future. As mx-myth mentions in their colour analysis, Fang Duobing notably wears bright pastel tones including a large amount of green/blue — a colour coding which emphasises Fang Duobing’s connection to spring and, by extension, new life and beginnings. “Life will always go on if there’s spring”; and so Fang Duobing’s youth, vitality and optimism can grow in the empty space left behind by Li Lianhua after he fades into the autumn of his life.

While Li Lianhua’s predominantly light colour palette might appear to align him with other characters in the drama who have left the past behind and are looking towards the future, Li Lianhua made peace long ago with the knowledge that he’s destined not to belong in that future. Just as the Lotus Sutra teaches us that “the inner determination of an individual has great transformative power” and “gives ultimate expression to the infinite potential and dignity inherent in each human life,” Li Lianhua focuses all his transformative efforts on creating a future which, despite having no place for him, will be fertile ground for the entire martial arts world to grow deep, healthy roots. In Li Lianhua’s own words:

幼芽生枝 新木长成 武林也一样 这未来如何 谁又能说得清楚呢

The young sprouts and the new trees grow. The martial arts world is the same. What does the future hold? Who can say clearly?

Should we say, then, that Li Lianhua’s story is one of sacrifice, self-renunciation and resignation — of drifting inevitably towards death as a flower carried by a stream? As he disappears on a boat and is asked where he’s going, Li Lianhua gives a response which echoes his first death at the East Sea in a way that feels entirely deliberate:

小舟从此逝， 江海寄余生

From now on I would vanish with my little boat; For the rest of my life on the sea I would float. 

How are we to understand a person being reborn simply so they can pass on that new life to others, and being convinced that their only true value lies in their death?

Perhaps, in spite of it all, we can find some small comfort in the knowledge that, no matter how sorrowful Li Lianhua’s fate, it’s at least one that he chooses — one that he has full control over, even poisoned and robbed of his life force as he is. As the lyrics of 《 一壶莲花醉 》 “A Pot of Lotus Wine” underline, “it’s just a matter of picking an ending that you like.” Perhaps that’s all that truly matters. 

wuxia-vanlifer makes an excellent point when asking: “What would be more tragic? That he never believed he was loved? Or that he did, but vanished anyway?” While I don’t have an answer to offer, there’s one thing I can say. Li Xiangyi, Li Lianhua — they live and die by love. They can’t conceive of themselves as anything other than a sacrificial tool because, for all that they pretend to be aloof and untethered, they actually love others—and the world—in a bone-deep, profound way they’ve never loved themselves. That love is not only the true driving force behind Li Lianhua’s character and the fate he chooses: it’s the beating heart of the entire drama.

“In this life, I have loved and I have been loved. That is enough.”

Shoutout to the following authors and bloggers whose brilliant words and ideas inspire me, as well as this gorgeous video 💖

ao3: @extraordinarilyextreme @thawrecka

tumblr: @difeisheng @extraordinarilyextreme @mx-myth @wuxia-vanlifer @xinyuehui

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

I Cry 2

Fandom: Harry Potter [Marauders Era]

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Sirius Black [Wolfstar]

Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Lily Evans, Original Male Character Mary MacDonald

Word Count: 3434

Rating: Teen

Summary: It's alright mate I cry too.

Tags/ Warnings: Hogwarts, Summer Challenge, Writing Challenge, Song Fic, Realising Feelings, Declarations of Love, Sexuality Struggles, Shame, Sirius is in denial, Attitudes of the Time

Notes: This is my summer writing challenge 2024. Seven fics over seven days - all will be hp based and song fics.

Summer Challenge 2024 // Song Inspo

‘Who shags someone in someone else’s bed?’

Remus didn’t bother turning around. He didn’t need to because he could picture the expression on Sirius’ face without looking, the way he’d barged into his room and slammed the door behind him without bothering to knock, signalling the mood he was in. Instead he kept pulling his pyjamas from his rickety old chest of drawers as he replied, ‘let me guess, James and Lily?’

When he turned Sirius was sitting on his bed, arms splayed behind him as he propped himself up, his pink lips drawn in the pout Remus had expected though it unclenched as he said, ‘I was just about to get into bed but no! He’s getting his leg over in a room that’s not even his!’

‘Weren’t you saying last week you wanted a godchild?’ Remus countered, hiding his eye rolling at the dramatic tone his friend used by busying himself with changing his t-shirt, ‘I thought you were all for this wedded bliss lark.’

‘I am when it’s at their own house,’ Sirius grumbled, ‘not shagging in someone else’s bed.’

‘Didn’t you and Mary once-’ Remus started to counter but he was cut off.

‘Yeah well that was ages ago. School kid stuff and besides you know Mary, all you have to do is look at her and she’s got her knickers around her ankles,’ Sirius said scathingly. It was a cheap shot, namely because she wasn’t around to let him get away with saying such a thing, but it wasn’t exactly warranted. Not when one could argue the man in question had a reputation just as questionable. Maybe that was why they’d been such a match, a volatile one sure, but a match nevertheless. Well up until recently, their on and off again dynamic seeming permanently off.

That was probably why he didn’t bother saying anything. Standing up for Mary would no doubt cause an argument between him and the long-haired boy and seeing as he was mid-cycle and had just been forced to endure a birthday party he hadn’t requested he was too tired to get into it. Instead, he shrugged off his jeans and pulled his pyjama pants on quickly allowing Sirius to ponder in silence.

Except he took his silence for what it was, deliberate avoidance, and feeling ignored he said, ‘I just wanted to go to bed. Not even like I can kip on the couch because Pete’s sprawled out on it.’

‘You can sleep in here if you want. Double bed and that,’ Remus said, hoping it would stem the flow of self-pity. His bed was calling him, the bags under his eyes feeling heavier the longer he was forced to interact, even with Sirius.

‘Aw Moony my hero,’ Sirius said, rising from his lolling position and looking up at his friend with a beaming smile.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know I’m an angel,’ Remus said rolling his eyes, ‘it’s nothing to do with how cranky you are hungover, even without a night on the floor. Now get changed, will you?’

As Remus climbed into bed, yanking the duvet out from under Sirius, he leapt up moving quickly to get changed. He didn’t bother with clothes; his own pyjamas would be in his room which was occupied and trying to find something of Remus’ would require too much brain power and so he merely stripped out of his shirt and pants and climbed into bed beside his friend.

‘Hmm,’ Sirius said as he leant against the headboard, turned towards his friend who was sitting up, the book that had been on his bedside table now in hand, the pages illuminated by the lamp beside him, which was now the only light on, a flick of his wand sorting an ambient backdrop as Sirius had clambered into bed.

‘What?’ Remus asked, trying to hold in a sigh.

‘Thought you were tired,’ Sirius said simply.

‘I am,’ Remus said. In truth he was. He had been tired all week but it was less to do with genuine weariness and rather social exhaustion. A night in with his friends didn’t elicit the same level of fatigue that chit-chatting with mild acquaintances did. In fact if it was anyone other than Sirius in his bed he probably would’ve doused the lights and laid there in silence.

‘So why are you reading then?’ Sirius challenged.

‘To wind down,’ Remus said, trying to focus his eyes on the page instead of on the way Sirius’ grey gaze was burning into his face.

‘Oh yeah,’ Sirius said, ‘I’ve heard Bowie does the same thing. Forget coke and hookers, get me a book and a cup of tea for the tour bus.’

‘Very funny,’ Remus grumbled, ‘you’re a pillock you know that?’

‘Might have been said,’ Sirius said, resting back against the headboard with a smile on his face.

‘Well if you’d rather coke and hookers feel free to go and find them but in my room it’s books and brews,’ Remus said finally, sinking down and pulling the duvet up towards him so that his book was nestled in view without him having to hold it.

He could feel Sirius was longing to make some quippy response but the way he’d angled himself had made it seem as though their conversation was over and so he sunk down too. Remus tried to focus on his book. He just had a few more pages until the end of the chapter and then he could settle down and go to sleep. But he could feel Sirius awake beside him, practically hear his mind whirring away as he thought about something. He thought it might be some more teasing or perhaps something about Mary or even reignited irritation about James and Lily but it wasn’t that at all.

‘Suppose it’s easy for you to judge,’ Sirius sighed after an interlude of silence. Remus could have probably gotten away with pretending as though he hadn't heard him, the slumber he was working towards close by but instead he took the bait and pushed sleep away as he answered, ‘what?’

‘The shagging thing,’ Sirius said simply, ‘I mean out of the four of us you have the moral high ground I suppose. What with you being…’

‘Being what?’ Remus said, fully aware he was biting the bait Sirius was laying down though he couldn’t stop himself. By now he’d pushed up, forcing Sirius further onto the other side of the bed as he looked down at him with irritation.

‘Well sexless,’ Sirius shrugged.

‘I am not sexless!’ Remus protested.

‘Oh don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ Sirius said dismissively, rolling his eyes as Remus threw his book onto the duvet irately, ‘you know what I mean…you’re just very secretive when it comes to sex. I mean I’ve never met anyone you’ve shagged.’

‘Well excuse me for not going into graphic detail about every encounter I’ve ever had but I doubt me talking about how big some lad's cock is would go down very well would it?’ Remus snapped, ‘in fact I think Pete’s head would explode.’

With that it went quiet. Sirius seemed stunned into silence and Remus immediately started to feel embarrassment flooding through him so much so he was happy he was wearing a t-shirt as he was sure the splotchy red his chest would be turning would only mortify him further. He didn’t look at his friend, instead he turned his attention to his book though the words didn’t make any sense.

Sirius shifted, turning towards him as he cleared his throat and though Remus didn’t look at him as he wanted him to he spoke anyway, a mumbled, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t upset me,’ Remus protested, ‘it’s just…it’s just not the same for me that’s all.’

‘Why not?’ Sirius asked.

‘Because it’s not,’ Remus replied but when Sirius didn’t speak he chanced a glance and found the boy watching him curiously. In fact it was quite reminiscent of the way Padfoot looked at him, the only thing missing a tilted head to make him truly the picture of a big shaggy dog. Remus sighed.

‘It’s just different okay?’ Remus said, feeling simultaneously uncomfortable and yet obligated to explain, ‘everyone’s fine with it until you start actually talking about it. Talking about it means they have to think about it and that makes them uncomfortable which makes me uncomfortable. And it’s hard to explain to the person I’m trying to get off with that being with them in front of people makes me uncomfortable without sounding like they're the problem.’

‘Yeah but you don’t feel like that around us right?’ Sirius asked. When Remus dropped his gaze Sirius fell quiet for a moment until he said, ‘you don't have to feel uncomfortable around us. We don’t care…not even Pete.’

‘Yeah well doesn’t really matter,’ Remus said dismissively, ‘it’s not like I’ve got anyone worth being uncomfortable for recently.’

Once more they fell silent, the pair of them staring anywhere but the other as the words marinated in the air. Again it was Sirius to break the silence whether because he had far more alcohol swirling around his blood stream or because it was his nature not to let something drop Remus didn’t know.

‘Moony,’ he said after a moment.

‘Yeah?’ Remus asked, wishing he’d just gotten into bed and gone to sleep.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he asked, his tone genuinely curious. Remus knew he could say no, that if he was truly firm with him he would respect his boundaries and let whatever curiosity go. But he didn’t have the heart to and agreed, ‘yeah.’

‘How did you know?’ Sirius asked quietly. At that Remus finally looked at him, he was watching the other boy, his face sympathetic and kind as he noted Remus’ surprise, ‘that I was gay?’

‘Yeah,’ Sirius said, ‘if you never…’

‘I have,’ Remus said, already feeling his defensiveness mounting.

‘But you’ve never had a boyfriend right?’ he said tactfully trying to assure him he wasn’t being accusatory but rather logical.

‘S’pose not,’ Remus said, able to see how one might meet that conclusion. After all, how was he to know, other than one drunken declaration that he was gay at a quidditch after party, Remus rarely talked about his sexuality. He never spoke about his crushes or partners the way his friends did. He didn’t know why, his friends accepted him for who he was, but to do so felt like he was giving them a chance to find fault. Logically he knew that would never happen, they’d accepted him being a bloody werewolf for merlin’s sake, but he was already of the minority. He didn’t feel like highlighting that fact further.

‘Then again have you met men? I’d rather take my chances being single,’ Remus joked, trying his best to lighten the mood but Sirius seemed deep in thought. He didn’t even offer him that signature Sirius black smirk merely asking instead, ‘so how did you know?’

‘I didn’t just decide one day if that’s what you mean,’ Remus said though his tone must've come out sharper than intended as Sirius’ eyes flashed with panic and he sat up and shifted awkwardly.

‘Never mind it’s none of my business,’ he muttered, moving away from him.

For a moment Remus thought he was going to say goodnight, roll over and feign sleep even though the light was still on and he never slept in anything but utter darkness. But Remus suddenly felt the urge not to let him. In fact he was starting to feel that this was less about Remus than either of them had thought.

‘I didn’t know,’ Remus said, staring at the wall opposite them so that when his head inevitably snapped up he wouldn’t feel him staring back at him, ‘I know some people know but I didn’t…well not unless you count getting a rod on over Ziggy Stardust but other than that,’ he joked and when he risked a glance at the other boy he was met with a small smile which spurred his story telling on, ‘I just well…the way you all seemed mad about girls I just didn’t get it. I mean they’re nice and I’m friends with plenty but I just didn’t have any interest in them. Then one day Elliot Vane kissed me and it click-’

‘Elliot Vane!?’ Sirius gasped.

‘Yeah,’ Remus said, ‘at a party in fifth year.’

‘Wow,’ Sirius breathed, ‘I didn’t know he was.’

‘I don’t think he is. I mean he might be but to be honest I think he was just really hammered,’ Remus said, resting back against the headboard as he reminisced about the raven haired sculpted Romeo he’d shared his first kiss with. They’d never really spoken about it after, just an acknowledging nod the next day that signalled to Remus it was a done thing but it had been nice all the same.

‘Still it made me realise maybe there was a reason I didn’t feel like that for girls,’ Remus said, ‘then there was this lad at home in the summer and we sorta became a thing and well it all made sense then I guess.’

Sirius looked as though he was deep in thought and Remus sat and watched him. It was like watching himself in a way, all those years ago when he’d thought himself sick about the ideas he’d been having. After all, didn't everyone find Ziggy Stardust attractive? Didn’t the boys speak of the girls with at least some hint of annoyance, the way he felt?  

‘It doesn’t have to mean anything you know,’ he whispered after a minute, guilty grey eyes meeting his a second later, ‘if Elliot had kissed me and I didn’t feel anything then it would’ve just been a kiss.’

‘I know that,’ Sirius said quietly, ‘but what if one kiss changes everything…I know it didn’t change you but it made you realise who you were right?’

‘Yeah I guess,’ Remus said, ‘and I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t have a nightmare trying to figure it out on my own. My heart felt right but my head not so much. And I'm sure I'm not the first person to cry over their sexuality.’

‘What if you tried it but it wasn’t what you expected. What if you didn’t like it at all?’ Sirius asked. His voice was small and quiet but the pair had sunken lower on the pillows so that there wasn’t much of a gap between them anymore and Remus could hear him clear as day.

‘Try something else?’ Remus suggested with a half-hearted smile, ‘like I said it’s not a big deal. I mean what was it that bloke said, the one we learned about in muggle studies, the physicist-’

‘Einstein?’ Sirius asked, his brow furrowed, unable to see what his friend was on about.

‘Yeah him, didn’t he say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?’ Remus asked, continuing as Sirius’ brow furrowed further, ‘so wouldn’t that be like me sleeping with every girl I come into contact with and hoping it would make me fancy them?’

‘But it’s the same thing isn’t it?’ Sirius asked, ‘pursuing someone in the hopes they’ll turn you into something you're not is the same as pursuing someone you might have no interest in just because you’re a bit confused.’

‘Look it’s a complicated thing I won’t deny it,’ Remus said, ‘but doing something because you don’t want to be yourself and doing something because you’re not sure who you are are two different things. And chances are no one’s going to be angry at you for trying to figure it out.’

‘That’s the thing. I don’t know what I want,’ Sirius said sadly.

‘That’s not a crime,’ Remus replied sympathetically. 

‘Feels like it is,’ Sirius said grimly, ‘because what if I don’t like it? If I’m not-’

‘Pads that’s okay,’ Remus said, placing his hand over the top of his friends in the hopes of comforting him. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, by nature he wasn’t very touchy feely but under the confines of the duvet it was the only pieces of flesh available to him. Sirius looked at it and Remus looked at him, the way his Adam's apple bobbed under pale skin as he swallowed thickly, whatever he wanted to say next, seemingly hard to move from his throat.

‘But what if I don’t want to kiss boys,’ he said quietly, ‘what if…what if I just want to kiss you?’

‘Me?’ Remus said, the disbelief in his voice immediately attracting startled grey eyes upwards.

‘Yeah,’ Sirius whispered, trying to stay firm in his utterances even though his heart had been hammering ten to the dozen since the moment Remus had placed his hand over his.

‘Why me?’ Remus asked.

‘Why not you?’ Sirius asked.

‘Well I’m just-’ he was going to protest. List all of his faults, the things that anyone would see as a reason for them not being together. Put aside the fact Sirius wasn’t entirely sure he swung Remus’ way, the fact that they were friends, best friends, might have implications. Not to mention Remus was far too gangly, moody, scar ridden, irritable, and whatever other fault he could muster to mind. Sirius was none of those things. He was suave and confident. He commanded a room even when he didn’t want to. He made Remus feel warm just by looking at him. Not to mention he was incredibly handsome, debonair and oh my god did Remus have a crush on his best friend?

A crush that started to grow rapidly as Sirius shook his head and said, ‘don’t. Don’t do that, you always put yourself down like that.’

‘I don’t,’ Remus protested.

‘You bloody do,’ Sirius replied.

‘Well I just am-’

‘No you’re not,’ Sirius said firmly, locking his fingers around Remus’ as he looked him firmly in the eye, ‘you’re Moony and I don’t know I guess I always thought you were my best mate but I don’t know…because you’re different to me than James is...maybe it’s since we moved in here and it’s just the two of us…but it feels different… like we’re more than mates…’

He was watching him now, his thumb tracing circles over the back of Remus’ pale hand, his voice shaky as he added, ‘for me at least.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Remus said because he did. He guessed he had never thought about Sirius that way because he was well Sirius. His best friend, the one that understood him no matter what. Of course they had their issues, they bickered like an old married couple so much so there had been concern that moving in together would last all of five minutes but it was never serious. They worked well together, they understood one another. The more Remus thought about it the more he felt as though it was glaringly obvious how much he cared for the boy. And Sirius was right, it wasn’t a care he extended to James or Peter. He wondered if he had been born a girl that this would've been easier to navigate. But it wasn’t.

And Sirius clearly thought as much as he said, ‘but what if it’s not? What if I’m not…y'know and it’s just some random thought? What if I do just like girls-’

‘Sirius,’ Remus said, unable to stop his heart from squeezing at the thought of it.

‘What if I ruin everything for no reason?’ Sirius whispered, ‘I can't do that to you. You're Moony.’

‘Padfoot,’ Remus said firmly. Sirius fell quiet, before uttering a worried, ‘yeah?’

‘It doesn’t have to mean anything,’ Remus said, though he wasn’t sure how it couldn’t. Because it was easy not to want Sirius when he didn’t think there was a chance he could have him. It was easy to acknowledge how handsome he was when it was just a thought he had on a whim. Who knew what a taste of something real would do to him.

‘But it could mean everything,’ Sirius said.

‘Yeah it could,’ Remus agreed.

Their heads were touching now, their breath intermingling, Sirius’ a mixture of beer and fags and Remus’ minty from brushing his teeth. Neither of them cared as they watched one another. Slowly Sirius moved his hand until it was ghosting along Remus’ neck, his pulse throbbing under pale scarred flesh.

‘Moony?’ Sirius whispered.

‘Yeah?’ Remus asked thickly.

‘Can I kiss you?’

‘Yeah.’

[ponder-the-orb]

Wash Me Clean

Pairing: Fem Tav/Gale, (named draconic sorcerer Tav)

Tags: 18+, river bathing, smut (self pleasure), Act 1, tiefling party, sexual tension

Summary:

There’s another breath against her skin, a longer one. “You might just be the death of me, Ciri.”

A titter bubbles in her throat. “Maybe. Maybe not. So tell me then Gale. If you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

He considers her question for a second before removing his fingers from her arm. Her disappointment quickly dissolves into a gasp as he places them on the back of her neck instead. He caresses the short hair there before moving slowly, deliberately, over her shoulder, down her spine and to the dip of her waist. It’s feather light, but she feels sensation everywhere until her desire finally settles, warm as a blush, between her legs.

He leans forward. “If I could? Everything.” He cups her hip, stroking his thumb back and forth until all her thoughts begin to melt into a pink fog.

Word count: 3.2K

Read on AO3 or below

It had taken Ciri a while to find somewhere quiet.

She can still hear the revelries of the party as a hum on the breeze, the tieflings and her companions alike still very much making merry around the campfire. The goblin leaders disbanded, of course she’d agreed to let them have one evening to forget the perils of the road ahead and let the ghosts of those they’d lost hang less heavily over their heads.

She cannot complain. Not really. For a time, it had been pleasant to watch everyone, their smiles lost in their cups as they danced under the fat happy moon. She’s had her fill though. She’d slipped out when no one was watching and walked with quiet deliberate steps along the riverbank until the water was wide and the only light were her sparks and a handful of stars scattered above. And when she was sure she was alone, she’d stripped, walked into the river and channelled her fire until the shallow water was a more bearable temperature. 

She isn’t sure how long she’s been kneeling here, not enough to be missed she assumes, and certainly not enough for her feelings to float away along with the goblin blood and grime.

She runs hot most days, but this feeling is different entirely. It’s gentle but frustratingly present, burning like embers that just won’t cool.

She submerges herself fully for a few seconds so the muffled noise of the party completely disappears. Peace. Finally. What she’d give to float here forever as naught but murk in the river. Leader and hero to none.

As she reemerges up to her shoulders, something stirs behind her. There’s a gasp, a shuffle and then the snap of a twig as something moves clumsily on the bank.

Ciri immediately whips around, firebolt poised in her hand.

“Don’t fire!” 

Gale stands about twenty paces away with wide eyes and both hands up.

She waves the fire away. “Bloody hells Gale! I could have incinerated you.”

“Ah sorry.” His eyes float from her face down to the water lapping just under her collarbones before he abruptly jerks his head towards the sky. “And– uh–  thank you for not doing that. I don’t have much else to change into should my clothes get destroyed.”

Ciri's cheeks flood with heat and she quickly ducks further into the water, crossing her arms over her breasts. She has no idea how much he’d seen, but is fairly certain the sweet pink spilling across his nose is not from indulging in too much wine.

“It’s fine,” she says slightly too hurriedly. “It’s almost a relief I suppose. I’d rather not fight anyone else until at least tomorrow morning. So what brings you out here anyway?” 

“I did not follow you, if that is what you are worried about. There may be strange creatures lurking in the bushes out here but I can assure you I am not one of them.”

Ciri turns back around and cups a handful of cool water to her neck. She’s almost surprised it doesn’t sizzle. “Just warn me next time. The last person who snuck up on me lost their eyebrows.”

His answering laugh is a soft rumble over the wind. “Duly noted.”

“Even if I didn’t turn around I think the crack of those knees would have given you away.”

“Get to my age and then see if you’re still laughing about it.”

She throws a softer look over her shoulder. “I’m ten years older than you.” 

She’s almost disappointed he’s still staring at the sky so intently. She wonders that if she’d turned a second sooner she might have interrupted a furtive glance, perhaps one that lingered on the damp column of her neck for just a moment too long. It’s as her own eyes wander over his face that she notices the red stain spreading from his neck and over his usually pristine shirt. 

“What happened to your clothes?”

“An experiment gone awry. Between Rolan and his two mage hands, it turns out the number of wine bottles he can juggle is three and I happened to be standing in the exact wrong place. Once the laughter died down I thought it was high time for a rinse.”

“You couldn’t just prestidigitate yourself clean?”

His eyes drift down to meet hers again. This time, they stay. “I could, but after being on the road for more than a tenday, the prospect of an actual bath is a luxury. And I’d go so far as to guess that you are of the same mind?”

She turns and makes a show of scrubbing her arms. “You’re the one that had plenty to say about my musk. If I am to be this party’s reluctant leader, then we cannot have anyone distracted by whatever got splattered on me this time.”

It’s a half truth. She can feel the dirt of this particular journey seeping into more than just her skin and she hadn’t planned on leaving these waters until she’s managed to scrub every fleck of blood and sinew clean. It’s her mind that needs a good clean as well. Fear, stress, confusion, want– they’re all tangled like vines knitted together over the door of some ancient temple. Every day she gets one answer and a hundred new questions about their situation.

Just one moment of true clarity. It’s all she wants. If not about what their future holds than at least what this party of broken misfits actually want from her.

Her eyes flick back to Gale, perhaps the most frustrating knot in that tangle. Now he’s here, with her. Alone. Naked. Like something out of one of the bluer novels she’d pilfered from local libraries in her younger years.

Ciri rubs the back of her neck. “Truth be told, I just… couldn’t get all the blood out from under my fingernails. We spent so long checking all the bodies for equipment and when we finally walked away we were covered in that mess.” It’s something she has not admitted to anyone, far too scared of bringing down the party’s mood when the tieflings were just trying their damndest to be happy. “Do not misunderstand, I’m so happy that everyone from the Grove is safe but there were so many bodies.”

There’s a long moment of silence between them.  “I suppose this is different to your usual adventures then?” he finally responds.

She shakes her head. “I’m usually hired to chase away monsters or fetch cursed artefacts. I stopped Sazza getting struck with a crossbow in the Grove but then was more than happy to mow down her companions barely a day later. Yes, they were a violent warband, but also people.” People she burned and then looted. People that she felt no guilt for as Lae’zel pushed them from ledges and Astarion slit their throats from behind. It’s not the smell of charred skin or the gore that’s twisting like a dagger in her gut right now, but that it was easy. That up until half an hour ago she’d been parading around the party in clothes she’d stripped off a dead drow’s body with not a comment from anyone.

“They would have killed you if you’d hesitated. Then me. Then everyone else who is enjoying tonight.” She hears the soft shuffle of Gale stepping closer to the water’s edge. “Just because I see the value in preventing a fight before one breaks out, does not mean I’m not ready to jump in when it’s required. And sometimes swords and sorcery are the only way.” 

Ciri had certainly seen that in action today. She’d watched him, awed, as he’d thrown spells with the grace of a trained archer, disintegrating his targets to dust. 

“Perhaps someone else needs to take up the mantle of leader for a while,” she says.

Gale laughs again. “I would have to disagree there. After all, we’re still here and very much alive thanks to you. Not that I’m diminishing my own considerable involvement but that silver tongue of yours has gotten us out of more than a few scraps already. There’s no one else I’d trust to get us from A to B still in one piece.”

A slow, hidden smile breaks over her face. “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment for me or an insult to the rest of our companions”

“The highest praise, I can assure you.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat, then something slightly sweeter plucks at that tangle inside her.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you be,” he continues when she stays quiet. “I doubt company was what you were searching for when you ventured out here. My shirt can wait.” There’s no sound of him backing away as he speaks. She can feel the question hanging between his words, present as the weight of his eyes on her bare shoulders. 

Do you want me to stay?

She turns and deliberately brushes a droplet as it falls down her neck. “You should try the water. It’s more pleasant than you might think.”

She shifts before she can see his reaction. There’s nothing to interpret here, no words lost or wrapped in metaphor. Just the two of them, the pale moonlight and a week’s worth of tension she’d all but ready to shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces. 

There’s another pause, a rustle of fabric then a series of soft ripples as the water breaks behind her. 

“Well, that’s certainly warmer than I expected.”

She raises her hand to show her glowing palm. “You can thank Iraxys for that.”

“Judging by the draconic etymology, I’m going to assume that’s who you have to thank for the scales? It’s quite the impressive feat to have found the specific dragon in your ancestry.”

“It’s what my family told me so I’ve always called her that, even if they probably just made something up to stop my constant questions." She touches the scarlet patch on her cheek bone, an old rough comfort. "There's no way they could know- that anyone could, but even if that’s not what she was called, it’s nice to put a name to the feeling.”

A louder splash rings out as he submerges himself fully.

“Would it be rather crass to question exactly how a fifty foot dragon joined an elven family?”

“You would not be the first to ask. And I do have my own theories– some being a lot more descriptive than others.”

“And those are?”

She twists her head a fraction. “Not yet for your ears.” 

He’s a blur in her peripheral vision, knelt deep in the water a respectable number of paces back. She lifts her chin a mite, just until she can make out the edges of detail. His hair has fallen a little more freely in front of his face, the wet strands clinging to his ears. So round she’d found herself thinking more than once, so… human. She follows the purple lines of the orb from the corner of his eye to where it lies under the water. Even mostly hidden, she can see the breadth of his chest, the dark hair dusting over the softness and trailing down. They’re the things she’d seen but hints of before, ones she’s been folding away during the day and leafing through so carefully at night. She’d been quick to push past her initial vexation at such thoughts, for even if they are impractical, perhaps even insufferable– they’re warm. Why should she not indulge when it’s one of the few comforts she has left on the road.

Ciri looks away as he rubs the edge of his beard, plunging her twitching hands back into the water. Gods above does she want to feel that roughness. 

“I did not expect you to leave the festivities so soon,” he says. “You’re the talk of the camp. Last I heard there are ballads being composed with your name and drinks still being poured for you. Though as an adventurer I expect you’re used to all that.”

She shrugs. “First time actually. When you’re getting paid, people don’t tend to throw you a party as well. It’s certainly a different experience. Lots of people. Lots of attention.”

The water ripples again as she feels Gale move closer. “It can be a lot to have all eyes on you. Especially when some may linger for longer than others."

“Maybe I want that,” she whispers, idly turning a current-worn pebble between her fingers before letting it sink back into the silt. “Or maybe just one pair in particular.”

She’d been ready to take that step tonight. She’d sought him out first, laid out the teases, the smiles, her intentions flashing brightly as any beacon. But he’d left her be, told her to enjoy the evening while he waited at the sidelines lest the orb destroy them all. She needs to hear the words now. The real words that were not so carefully chosen when surrounded by companions and strangers alike.

Ciri lifts herself from her knees and stands at her full height. The river laps around her waist, droplets running in cool trails over her scars, her breasts, the curve of her stomach. She rubs her scales again and fights the urge to duck back down into that protective shroud of water.

“I’ve been thinking about what I showed you when we channelled the weave together.” she says. “About… if I should have done that.”

That vision of their kiss had been dancing in the gentle colour in the corner of her trances for days now. It had been such a small thing to start. Something fanciful, a want driven by both the fear of death and a few days enjoying the shape of his mouth whenever he spoke in such an overly impassioned way about magic. That was before she saw the full hungry truth with her hands clasped to his glowing chest. He’d tasted a goddess, shared her bed, her wonder, her wrath. And despite that he’d still humoured her mortal wants, seemed elated at them even, enough for that fanciful desire to grow ever hotter inside her with each passing hour.

He hums softly behind her. “You should never regret being so bold. It was more than just a pleasant moment and those have been few and far between since we crash landed here.” There’s another moment of silence. Another ripple as he moves until the smell of wine and parchment brushes past her. “And I've been thinking on it too. Perhaps more than I’d like to admit.”

Ciri rubs the back of her hand. “Then why not take it?”

She wonders what would happen if she turned around right now and showed him her every naked curve and dip and colour, about whether he would avert his eyes or drink her in more eagerly than the evening’s wine, if he would back away or reach for her and feel exactly how much she burns for him under her damp skin. They’re questions she can’t quite answer– not when she knows she’s still standing against the memory of the divine. Magic may be her life, but Mystra she knows little of. When he showed that dark torrent of memory, Ciri had seen the echoes of her still glowing in the corners of his mind. Lyrical praises whispered, about how she was beautiful as the weave, soft as a dream, everything wonderful and terrible a mage could want.

Something larger flutters in her chest as she feels the heat of his skin barely a pace behind her now.

“Once, the promise of a truly kind touch would have been worth the cost of potentially levelling a city. To feel one’s demise in a moment of pure ecstasy– it’s almost poetic in a way.” His breath brushes her shoulder as he speaks, tender as a kiss. “But now? I cannot. For so many reasons– for the journey we must complete, for these companions, friends even. And for you, perhaps most of all.”

She breathes out shakily. “Are you really sure it would be so catastrophic?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Not even slightly. But what I do understand all too well is wanting to take comfort with someone in a moment of calm. When danger can pounce at any given time, such desires are all too mortal.” Her skin prickles with heat as he gently touches Astarion’s bite marks at the side of her neck, then the bruise on her arm from where Lae’zel had bumped her a little too enthusiastically. “Whoever that may be with.”

She reads his message loud and clear. ‘Take whomever you wish to your bed tonight. I won't hold it against you.’ 

“I know what I want. I don’t need an itch scratched or some fleeting desire satiated,” she answers firmly. 

There’s another breath against her skin, a longer one. “You might just be the death of me, Ciri.”

A titter bubbles in her throat. “Maybe. Maybe not. So tell me then, Gale. If you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

He considers her question for a second before removing his fingers from her arm. Her disappointment quickly dissolves into a gasp as he places them on the back of her neck instead. He caresses the short hair there before moving slowly, deliberately, over her shoulder, down her spine and to the dip of her waist. It’s feather light, but she feels sensation everywhere until her desire finally settles, warm as a blush, between her legs.

He leans forward. “If I could? Everything.” He cups her hip, stroking his thumb back and forth until all her thoughts begin to melt into a pink fog.

She wants him. Wants and wants and wants in a way she can barely comprehend right now. She wants to press herself back against him, feel the softness, the muscle, the heat. She wants to turn and wrap herself in his arms, letting them both taste and bite and devour until the mess of their joint passions dissolves into the water around them. She wants to have him, to let him have her until that vile orb shatters under her touch and there’s nothing left but the scar of their coupling burned into the earth. And yet, above all that, she wants to be gentle. To touch and be touched, enjoy something quivering and slow and sweet amongst the death and disarray that follows them everywhere.

And for that, she can wait.

“Alright. That’s all I needed to know. Goodnight Gale.” She steps away from him and marches towards the closest bank without turning around. She keeps going when her feet hit the ground, walking past her clothes and into the most secluded piece of forest she can find. And then, with one hand braced against a tree, she slips the other between her legs and touches her clit until her back is misted with sweat and gold explodes behind her eyes.

This is part of my longer fic, Broken Horizons. Read the full thing here