#I finally found my purpose in the fandom

[flamesfox]

Nukani edition: Who do you wank off to the MOST?

Thank you @idololivine for the idea this time.

[doodlingwren]

It's 2024 can we please stop saying it's normal to trace or copying an entire drawing and pretending it's 100% your work? Just bc you changed the character or added clothes on a base you found on pinterest it doesn't mean you created original art

[megwritesriddles]

In the Middle of the Night (In My Dreams!) ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 21 - Somnophilia. Riddle has to figure out a way to keep Reader happy and covering for his ever increasing duties outside of the castle. What initially starts as a transaction escalates when they're both more willing than he expected, leading them to explore the slightly more forbidden together.

Tags: Somnophilia (consensual), Mildly dubious consent, Fingering, Hand jobs, Oral sex (f and m receiving), Friends with benefits, Denial of feelings, SoftDom!Riddle, HeadGirl!Reader, Manipulation, Faking an illness (chronic fatigue is very real, he's just a lying POS, only briefly mentioned).

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!!!!

Word count: 5.1k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: Okay so despite this poll (sorry), I edited this into a less dark kinktober fic and will then release a much darker (non-con elements) part two after I finally finish kinktober!! This works as a stand alone if you're not into reading that kinda stuff (which I totally understand, ily dw)!! It just felt too dark for kinktober... even tho I literally have non-con as the prompt for day 25.... idk okay!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

PART 2 COMING SOON !! (but works as stand alone)

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The moment the two of you had been announced as Head Boy and Girl at the start of the year, Riddle knew he had to get on your good side. Not only for the purposes of professional engagements and living in the same quarters but also because there would be a lot he’d need from you. Last year, he had found a flaw in the enchantments around the castle, discovering that apparition in and out of the castle was in fact possible, so long as you did so from the room of requirements. He has started attending to business outside of the castle regularly, rallying supporters in closed-off magical communities, among trolls and elves. He also searches for artefacts and researches dark magic when he finds the time, visiting isolated collections owned by old eccentrics who he is able to charm easily. He’s made himself a busy life outside of Hogwarts which he’s determined to keep up in order for his plans post-graduation to go as smoothly as possible. Which is where you come in. 

He leaves for these expeditions every weekend, but obviously, he’s not actually allowed to leave the castle. He has to ask you to cover for him if anyone asks where he’s gone. He concocts a rubbish story about having chronic fatigue and having to rest all the time he can, and that he can’t possibly be disturbed while he’s resting as he’s taking special potions for sleep. It’s all a lie, playing on your empathy, which he knows you have droves of, something you are widely admired for. He tells you that he’s horribly embarrassed about it and doesn’t want anyone to think he’s incapable of being Head Boy because of it, so asks you to cover for him if anyone asks about him. You give him those big sympathetic eyes and agree, workshopping a litany of excuses with him. He almost feels bad with how seriously you’re taking this, how much you want him to feel okay, even though you’ve never liked him much before. Almost. It won’t happen a lot either way, he’s told his ‘friends’ that he will be out of reach and very sternly told them not to question, so they won’t poke around, and anyone else who needs him won’t need him often. He makes a show of being very tired in the evenings in the common room the first few weeks you live together. Soon after, he drops the charade and you don’t seem to notice the falsification happening right in front of you, continuing to cover for him every now and then when it comes up. You even comment optimistically that he seems more energetic lately, to which he smiles.

“I suppose so, yes, it must be that I can finally get the rest I need, thanks to you,” he says smoothly, proud of himself for taking this as another opportunity to keep you pliable. You seem overjoyed to be helping.

In return, he keeps you sweet. At first, he merely observes you to get an idea of what might keep him on your good side. Then, he starts showing up for you. He brings your favourite pastries from breakfast (you have a bad habit of sleeping in, which sometimes makes him wonder how you got this job, but alas), accompanied by a coffee just how you like it. Complimenting you whenever you try a new hairstyle or dress up nicely on weekends. The first time he’d done it, he’d commented on a trim you’d gotten to your hair over the weekend in Hogsmeade. You were baffled, saying no one had noticed a thing all day. He sensed that you found the fact that he was the only one to notice odd, but he couldn’t help being observant. He told you as much, and you just smiled. He makes sure to do any favours you ask of him, so you can’t throw his refusal back in his face in case you want to stop helping him, he needs something to hold over your head. It’s never much, perhaps helping you with a bit of schoolwork, listening to a speech you’ve prepared for Head duties or just jostling the logs in the fireplace of the common room when the flames die down. He’s surprised you don’t ask for more, considering that he starts asking for a lot from you. 

His schedule outside of Hogwarts gets complicated, requiring him to head out occasionally in the middle of the week. You always cover for him, insisting to professors that he’s ill in bed, even though it’s clear by now that you’ve realised he’s actually missing during these periods. Your enthusiasm over helping him out has dwindled as you get the sense you’re being played, but he treats you well enough that you seem to assume the best intentions. How naive. Having someone so respected by the professors, the head girl herself, lying for him, he knows, is the only reason he’s been getting away with it for this long. He’s ‘sick’ far too often and never seen at the hospital wing, never requesting any medicine or showing any symptoms. He wonders what you think he’s doing when he’s away, doubting you could guess the truth, but you never ask despite your increasingly suspicious looks, which he appreciates. He likes you, you’re discreet, a surprising trait for such a goody-two-shoes as you are. He spends more and more time with you in the common room in his free time, charming you and winning you over, making sure he’s there if you need a favour or a ‘friend’ to talk to. He finds you to be intelligent and likeable, you’re funny, even if he prefers a bit of a darker humour than you have. There are silences as you sit together where you stare at him while he works on whatever schoolwork he deems most important that day, he knows you’re formulating all sorts of theories, your brain turning as you try to make a guess.

“I appreciate you being discreet,” he says simply one night as you sit together, working separately on assignments. The statement is followed by a silence in which he is tempted to look over at you to see your reaction but resists the urge.

“I don’t suppose you’ll ever tell me what you’re up to?” It’s meant to be a question, but it comes out as a statement. You already know he won’t, and he knows it too. No matter how good you’ve proved to be about covering for him, if you knew the true nature of what he was up to, you’d run. Tattle before even letting him explain, which really wouldn’t help either way. He turns to you, extending an arm. 

“Come here,” he nods his head in his direction. You look confused, and he doesn’t blame you for feeling that way, he isn’t affectionate with anyone. He makes a point of never being seen as being soft, which is easy given he isn’t soft for anyone. But he knows the type you are, so sweet and kind, the type that you can be won over with a little affection. There’s no one here to see either of you anyway, he can risk it this once. You slowly scoot into his side and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. He brushes an errant strand of hair from your face and holds you to his side. “I really do appreciate it, I’m always here if you need anything from me,” he whispers. You look up at him and nod. “Good,” he hums. You spend the rest of the night pressed into his side as you do your homework, it’s odd, but he’s warm and solid, and most girls at Hogwarts would kill to be in your position, so you let it be. It becomes a fairly frequent scene, the two of you snuggled up by the fire, especially as the days grow colder and colder. His hands like to wander, brushing places they probably shouldn’t, but you never stop him or say a word, letting your own hands wander a little too. You don’t talk about it, not with him or with anyone else. You know without words that he doesn’t want it to leave the room. It’s just another secret you have to keep for him. 

He starts having the need for more frequent meetings with his little group of in-school followers, the Knights of Walpurgis, as his plans get closer and closer to their time of fruition. The Head Common Room is the perfect place to host, spacious and completely secret, except for from you. He knows he has to sweeten the deal once more to have you leave the common room for long periods in the evening. So one night, while the two of you study together snuggled up, he kisses you. You’re alarmed but immediately kiss back. He knew you would, every girl in the damn school would, but it still feels like an unexpectedly simple triumph. His hand grips your jaw, not allowing you to move away, not that you’re trying to. Your hand gently cups the side of his neck, keeping him close as his tongue carefully breaches your lips, slightly surprised by how willing you are for him. He has a multitude of things he’s considered doing to you, but for tonight, he has to stick with something focused on your pleasure. He doesn’t mind, pleasuring you is an act of domination in its own right. By the end of the night, he has you sat between his legs, your back to his chest as his fingers thrust in and out of you. You squirm and mewl in his ear, your head thrown back on his shoulder, as he holds you securely with an arm around your middle, fucking you on his fingers. He’s high off of the fact he has you completely nude apart from your socks before him, while he’s still fully dressed.

“There we go, darling,” he purrs in your ear, gently pressing his lips to your jaw. “I bet you’ve wanted this for quite a while, haven’t you?” he teases, grinding the heel of his palm against you as his fingers press in and out. You must have, given how quickly you’d let him strip you down, manoeuvre you into the position he wanted, just how soaking wet you’d been from a couple of strategic words of praise. He’d wrongly assumed you’d be a little more prudish, but he was pleasantly surprised otherwise. “I want you to do something for me,” he whispers, slowing his movements a little so you can focus on his words. You whine softly in protest and he smirks. “Tomorrow evening, could you make yourself scarce for… let’s say three hours? Starting from… six thirty?” his fingers caress your inner walls torturously lightly, almost tickling, making you squirm unhappily.

“Where would I go?” you exhale.

“Library? Walk the grounds? Astronomy tower? I don’t mind, darling, as long as you’re not here,” he kisses behind your ear softly. He expects some questions or protests, but none come, only a simple nod. He’s a little surprised how easy things are with you, although it may have a lot to do with how his fingers are currently buried deep in your cunt at present, he concedes to himself. But you’re always easy, always helpful, so willing to give him the benefit of the doubt even though you were more than smart enough to know better. “That’s a lovely girl,” he smiles against your skin. He hesitates, unsure whether to reveal the transactional nature of his kindness toward you, but he feels he must assure you somehow that it will be worthwhile. “I’ll reward you accordingly, I promise. You’ll hurry back to me at nine-thirty, won’t you? I’ll be missing you by then,” he purrs, trying to further pull the wool over your eyes with some flattery. He straightens up to look down at you, your head still resting back on his shoulder. “Won’t you?” he prompts again, kissing your forehead. You nod, giving him a pleading look and bucking your hips helplessly. You want him to keep going, feeling half-insane from his unmoving fingers filling you up.

And that he does, finger-fucking you through two mind-blowing orgasms that night, showering you with ever more ridiculous praises as the night goes on. It’s unclear whether you’re losing your mind to the pleasure and not understanding him, or if he’s just spewing every compliment he can possibly think of. Once you’re thoroughly debauched, he helps you into your bed as your legs are too shaky on their own, laying you down and kissing you goodnight with a slightly stilted tenderness. You watch him in quiet confusion as he retreats from your room, feeling satisfied and yet completely confused. 

It becomes a bit of a routine, whenever he needs you to stay away from the common room, or otherwise go out of your way for him, he pulls you into his lap in the evening and tugs down your underwear, pleasuring you expertly. Soon, it becomes harder to tell, as he begins to get you off every night, whether he’s after something or not. You don’t know if it’s just his efforts to make sure you don’t forget to think of him positively, you’re far from oblivious to the fact you’re being bribed, or if he’s just enjoying it at this point. He stretches out your encounters more and more, especially when you start returning the favour, using your hand on him while he does the same to you. You’re pleasantly surprised how aroused he gets just from fucking you on his fingers, always at least half-hard by the time you can get your hands on him. When he introduces his mouth into the equation, you’re sure he’ll be asking something big of you soon. But he doesn’t, nothing new comes up, other than you also beginning to use your mouth on him. He seems to love it, so you suppose it must have been motivation enough. He likes to take his time, to make you feel helpless and desperate, not seeming to care if it leads him to spend long periods of time kneeling before you, which was something you were certain he would have never been caught doing for anyone.

It’s a nice relationship in Riddle's opinion, he gets off and he gets what he wants from you. You make yourself scarce and Riddle is able to conduct his meetings in peace in a perfect setting. Whether you’re using mouths or hands, it’s always intensely pleasurable. He grows attached to the sight of you on your knees before him, his cock deep in your mouth as you look up at him with those wide innocent eyes. You’re amazing with your mouth, and usually willing to get on your knees whenever he’d like you to. It’s a perfect arrangement in this way. He loves to hold you down and make you scream using nothing but his tongue. Some of his friends say that eating out a woman is demeaning, but he never feels more powerful than when he has you crying and begging. He loves to make you beg, long-forgotten is the fact he’s meant to be doing this just to keep you sweet, just to manipulate you into helping him. He’s lost in it now, and no matter how selfish he gets in bed, you keep covering for him, seeming to misinterpret him as generous rather than intensely power-hungry. It works well for his purposes, so he lets you think of him as a giving lover.

He’s a little surprised that you haven’t asked for any exclusivity or any indication of whether he’s bringing in other girls at the times he asks you to keep away. He’s not, of course, but he doesn’t understand why you don’t care to ask. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, but deep down it does bother him, every other girl he’d ever been involved with, even briefly, had asked to be his one and only. You’re a sweet girl, the type he assumed would fall in love with him the moment he first got his hands on (and in) you, but you haven’t indicated this in any way. He knows you’re not seeing any other men because he keeps an eye on you whenever he can. Even having gone so far as to cancel a meeting with a tradesman in Diagon Alley to stay back and watch you while you think he’s away. Nothing. You go about your day as normal, come back to the common room and curl up to read your book. Just before bed, you attempt to get yourself off and fail, pouting through your night routine. You can’t do it without him, he notes smugly. He wishes he could come help, but he can’t without revealing his spying. By the time he gets back legitimately, you’re fast asleep. Given all of this, he still doesn’t understand why you’re not asking him for a commitment. It’s not that he wants to commit to you, he doesn’t like the idea of being tied down, even if he currently has no interest or energy to pursue anyone but you, but the fact you haven’t asked drives him nuts. You seem happy to get off with him and go to sleep without asking a single question. He lingers in your doorway, watching your frame rise and fall under your blanket with slow breaths, wondering about you.

He’s surprised when you bring it up. How you’d felt his presence in your doorway while you’d been asleep, despite not being fully awake. He explained that he’d been wanting to help you out (his own evasive phrasing) but that you’d been visibly asleep so he’d left instead. At your expression, he asks you teasingly if you’d have liked him to do it anyway, his teasing smirk only growing when you blush and nod. And so a system was set, he tells you to sleep on the sofa in the common room if you’d like his attention during the night, as he has a habit of waking up in the middle of the night to fetch water. You agree and you proceed together like normal for the next few days, pleasuring each other in the evenings when he isn’t busy. Every night, even on nights he wasn’t actually waking up naturally, he would come into the common room to check for you. For a long time, you’re not there, and he’s a little frustrated with you. Why dangle such a tantalising idea in front of him if you never meant to go through with it? He’d been a perfect gentleman, telling you that you could say no if the idea made you uncomfortable, but at the time, you’d seemed apprehensively excited about it, yet now, nothing. His eyes stay glued on your door as he goes about getting his water each night, wishing he could go in there. He tries his best not to show his disappointment when he spends time with you in the daytime, not wanting to come off as pushy and drive you away. He needed you to like him, staying on your good side was non-negotiable and pushing you on a matter like this was generally frowned upon. About a week and a half later, he trudges from his room to top up his glass and sees a lump under a blanket on the sofa. It’s you.

He immediately slows and lightens his footsteps, not wanting to wake you as it would ruin the fun. He hadn’t had time for you the last four days, between increasing stakes when it came to schoolwork and closing in on a magical artefact outside of it, he’d been gone for everything but class and sleep. He creeps over to you, seeing your peaceful face squished against the velvet throw pillow. You must have missed him, he thinks, since you started your little mutual arrangement you’ve never gone more than two days without each other before, mostly because Riddle found himself quite insatiable. He’d always told himself he was uninterested in matters of the flesh, that he enjoyed indulging but could easily control himself, and that he was only doing what he was with you to manufacture a sense of closeness and keep you in the palm of his hand. Yet, he had to admit that he doesn’t usually go so far for the purposes of manipulation and that he never would have done this in the first place if he hadn’t found you attractive. He was unwilling to sacrifice his own happiness for his manipulation, beyond a bit of necessary flattering drivel. So when he’d allowed himself into this arrangement, even simply under a pretence, he had quickly lost control of it and become ravenous for the sensations you could offer. He watches your parted lips as you breathe softly. Gently, he rolls you onto your back, waiting to see if you wake. You don’t. He slips the plush blanket down your body and exposes you to his eyes. You’re dressed in a sweet feminine nightgown and he finds the look to be sweet on you, fitting. You were a perfect thing to corrupt. Yet, he smirks to himself, you had agreed to this, you were already corrupted, so desperate for him that you wanted him even in your sleep. Surely you did want exclusivity from him, you were just trying to appear laid back to not scare him off. You could be endearingly shy like that at times. Yes, you agreeing to this was surely evidence that you wanted more from him than you had. That you needed him.

He slowly and cautiously shifts you around until he can settle comfortably between your legs. His hands run up and down the soft skin of your thighs, keeping a close eye to see if you stir. He wonders if you’re really such a heavy sleeper, or if you’re merely pretending not to have woken for his benefit. At the moment it doesn’t matter to him, you seem asleep enough, and if you are conscious, you’re hardly objecting. He pushes up the hem of your nightdress and grins at the sight of you already bare for him, with no underwear in sight. Naughty girl, he thinks to himself as his hands skim up and down your inner thighs, leaning forward to press a soft kiss just above the little patch of hair shielding the part of you he wants most. He would love to tease you and draw it out more, but he doesn’t want you to wake before he can explore the more intimate aspects. He carefully lies down, guiding one of your supple thighs over his shoulder, spreading you open for his eager eyes. You’re already a little wet, he wonders if it’s from his teasing now, or perhaps your dreamy anticipation. He knows he can get you wetter easily. He uses two fingers to gently spread you open even more, revealing the sensitive pearl nestled within your folds. He blows lightly on it, making you twitch a little. He grins.

Still trying to let you stay asleep for now, he leans in and very gently touches his tongue to your bundle of nerves. You sigh softly in your sleep but don’t seem to wake. Your dreams are turning sticky-sweet, you begin to feel warm and floaty, but you’re not conscious enough to register this change properly. You squirm slightly and moan as his tongue gently swirls around your clit, not touching to keep you just bubbling below waking. Your breath is hitching softly, and little noises are leaving your throat. He can tell you’ll wake soon unless he stops, but he figures he doesn’t mind. He wants to see your face when you wake up to his head between your legs. Will you be shocked to start with? Or immediately eager and accepting? He was oddly thrilled to discover this. Your hands slide away from where they rested on your stomach, trying to grab something as he starts to lap at you just a little faster, your breath hitching a little more, exhaling shakily. He’s surprised you’re still asleep, he’s tempted to use legilimency on you to discover what you’re dreaming of. Your face is flushed and your lips parted blissfully, so he figures it’s something nice. His tongue slides up and down between your slick folds, the familiar taste of you spreading across his tongue as you become more and more aroused. He gently kneads the skin of your hip, pulling you a little closer to his mouth, trying to coax you awake without startling you too much. Your eyelids flutter, but you remain asleep, whimpering quietly. He focuses the tip of his tongue on your clit, making the stimulation just a little more intense, watching for your reaction intently. Your fingers tangle into the crumpled blanket by your side, curling into the plush material, and he knows you're on the very verge of wakefulness. He smirks, gently suckling your clit into his mouth. 

This rips a loud moan from your chest, which in turn makes your eyes snap open. You try to sit up, blinking blearily, looking a little bewildered, trying to make out shapes in the dim moonlight, to understand why you feel lost in a haze of pleasure. Riddle's hand moves, splaying out on your stomach, pushing you back down and holding you there. Your eyes snap to him, he grins up at you from between your legs, looking unbelievably smug, his eyes glinting in the light of the moon. The sight of him between your legs, the knowledge of what he’d been doing while you’d been sleeping, coaxes another moan from your lips. He eases up a little now you’re awake, going back to gentle teasing licks against your bundle of nerves. Your heart pounds and you breathe rapidly, partially reeling from the sudden awakening, but mostly just feeling amazing. You lie back against the sofa, trying your best to get your bearings while he continues smothering you with unrelenting bliss. He pulls back for a moment, though he instantly replaces his mouth with his fingers, not giving you a moment to think. 

“Naughty girl, sleeping without underwear to give me access,” he purrs, his voice rumbling in a self-satisfied manner. You giggle sleepily. You had done that, hadn’t you? He smiles up at you. “Was it a nice awakening, my darling?” he murmurs smoothly, leaning back in to continue his dedicated licks. You whimper softly, your hips twitching before he holds you solidly in place, tutting against your sensitive skin.

“The best awakening, so unbelievably arousing,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, watching him work his magic between your legs. He hums against you. He knows this of course, this was quite possibly the wettest he’d ever had you, only increasing since you’d woken up and become conscious of what he was doing. Your hands slide into his short curls as he works, usually, he might complain about this, but you’re still a little sleepy, and he decides to let it go. You sigh pleasurably, your hooded eyes locked on him. His eyes look up to meet yours as he begins to suckle on your clit once more. Intense pleasure floods over you, your head lolling back, your hands tightening slightly in his hair. You let out a string of desperate moans, moans he’s become intimately familiar with over the past few weeks. You’re close and he intends to get you there, to show you how much you need him, to remind you that you can no longer achieve this alone, if you ever could. He doubles down on his actions, gripping your hip a little tighter to keep you firmly in place. “Oh… Tom!” you plead, trying to grind your centre up into his face. You could get so desperate sometimes, Riddle tuts to himself. “Please,” you beg, anticipating his desire to tease you and hoping to get ahead of it. You need this, badly, he hasn’t been around to help you for days, and the scenario was driving you mad with lust. He’s uncharacteristically gracious, not relenting, continuing to lavish you with exquisite sensation, building you up and up. You look down again, and as his eyes meet yours, the coil in your belly snaps. Your whole body tenses, your back arching off of the sofa, a guttural cry escaping you. He holds your hips in place, continuing his assault as you ride out the climax. Tears gather in your eyes and you feel a little humiliated by how intensely this is affecting you. 

After several desperate sobs, you finally collapse back, your hands slipping from his hair. You take several deep breaths as he withdraws from between your legs, sitting up to look down at you. He grabs a tissue from the coffee table, wiping his mouth and discarding it haphazardly. You smile tiredly, and you feel exhausted by your sudden wake-up, but completely heavenly at the same time. You stare at each other for a moment. It’s an oddly domestic moment. You’ve never seen him in his pyjamas before, a matching shirt and trousers, made of silk or some other such soft material, the type that’s popular with the rich Slytherin boys. His hair is a little curly naturally, this you did know from him getting back to the common room on rainy days, but is now slightly messed up from your hands in it. You cover yourself back up, tugging the hem of your nightdress back down as he watches. He looks almost sweet, he has been sweet to you, in his own way. He reaches over and touches your flushed cheek, rubbing it softly with his thumb, unsure whether he’s trying to prove his effect on you, or just wishing to touch you. 

“I’ll have to think of something to ask of you in exchange for doing that,” he jokes a little unnaturally. You laugh honestly. 

“You didn’t already have something?” you tease, moving to sit up. He smiles, enjoying the way you see through him, just enough to prove you’re not stupid, but not enough to compromise any plans. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t asked for exclusivity with him, you’re not stupid like the others, whether you want it or not being irrelevant to the facts. The facts that were feeling more like theories lately.

“No, believe it or not,” he chuckles, pushing your hair behind your shoulder. “But it’ll be easy enough to think of something,” he pulls you onto his lap and kisses you goodnight. “You always find a way of being useful,”

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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

xoxoxo

[sayuri-of-the-valley]

On how Crowley and Aziraphale felt during the kiss (but mainly Crowley here):

Ok so first, the main idea for this huge meta is that a LOT of us noticed how the music from the kiss scene is similar to the nebula one, right?

Second, a lot of us also correctly noticed the parallels between the kiss and how it was to taste food for the first time for Aziraphale: bc of his reactions, the hand on lips, the similar way MS acted both scenes, the little inhale etc. So how was it for Crowley?

Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss is practically a puzzle to solve on its own, so it's fun to analyse it, but basically, in a few words, Aziraphale kissed Crowley and he discovered he was physically starving for him, longing for him, yearning for him, for his kiss, and he had no idea. Just like with the ox. And now he needs to gorge himself in him but he can't. Great amazing heartbreaking chef's kiss someone give MS an Emmy.

But there's already so much amazing meta out there about Aziraphale x Ox ribs x The Kiss that I want to focus on Crowley here, and on the music.

So back to the music. The song in "Before the Beginning" and the song that plays during The Kiss (I Forgive You + Don't Bother) are so similar. They're not *exactly* the same, but they're totally reminiscent of each other. The viewer is immediately reminded of those chords that played in the opening scene. It's no coincidence that the fandom was talking about this fact only minutes after first watching those final fifteen minutes. This is an obvious intentional choice for storytelling reasons (David Arnold is a genius).

I have no expertise whatsoever when it comes to music, so I asked our friend @otsanda to see if that made sense and not only it does and she explained it, but she also uncovered so much more hidden meaning in all of it (musicians are amazing), so check out her meta about the music that not only serves as evidence to what I'm proposing here but it also has so much more juicy information in it 💖.

Back to the point: WHY thought? Why choose a similar song? Why intentionally COMPOSE a similar song for that moment?

Hear me out. WHAT IF, by reminding the audience of the creation of the nebula, they meant to convey to us that, for Crowley, kissing Aziraphale gave him the same feeling that creating his stars did?

THAT'S what the music is telling us. THAT'S why it makes us remember "Before the Beginning". It may sound cheesy, but Crowley may have literally seen stars when he kissed Aziraphale. He couldn't react accordingly (just like Aziraphale couldn't), bc it was an overwhelming and extremely sad moment (the music is also telling us that) for both of them. They knew it was ending . They were both having a moment of huge revelation that was fated to not come to completion. Crowley was right, it was too late.

It makes sense to show Crowley's feelings through the music, bc he was the one who started the kiss, and also he was wearing sunglasses in that scene, it's different from a character like Aziraphale that has all his million expressions for everyone to see at all times. And they've been doing this ever since s1 with the Queen songs that play in his car or in the background.

So my point is: the same song being used there makes me wonder if kissing Aziraphale finally gave him what he lost. His purpose. What Aziraphale was trying to give back to him by taking him back to heaven. There's no need for Heaven. Just kiss him, Aziraphale, and there he'll find the stars you want to give back to him. There you will one day see that smile on his face you saw Before The Beginning. Neil Gaiman and David Arnold I am in your walls 😭

This is what may lead us to see this happiness in Crowley again (not the action of kissing itself, of course, but what it represents to their relationship, them being together, them being an Us).

As @otsanda said: from the music we can interpret that that moment was a Revelation for them. Almost a religious experience. Crowley found his purpose again. What he'd been missing the whole season (or even his whole life since the Fall, but we've seen him especially depressed this season).

I'm not even getting into the poetry of how one can interpret the parallel to the angel's reaction to the kiss as carnal, and the demon's as religious; that would be another whole essay but let's just agree that it's incredibly beautiful. (Let me be clear that I mean here Aziraphale's reaction is carnal specifically for Crowley, and Crowley's is religious specifically for Aziraphale, not religious as in "worshipping god")

"Do you ever wonder what's the point?" Crowley asked in s2e1. The point, for him, is Aziraphale (if you've seen The Good Place you know what I mean). I hope he figured this out with that kiss, even as heartbreaking as it was. Even if it was a (temporary) separation kiss. (I hope Aziraphale figures this out with time too, that he's more than enough to make Crowley happy, that Crowley doesn't need Heaven, or stars, that Crowley needs him.)

Maybe that's why Crowley didn't leave and kept waiting outside until the very last moment.

Aziraphale and Crowley both bit the apple at the end of s2. There's no turning back from that Knowledge now.

Edit: I just have to add here this brilliant colour analysis of the nebula scene by @halemerry. And it's pointed out that during the nebula formation there's a moment when it looks like two people embracing. And the fact that a similar song is used in the actual Kiss scene I just... I have no words

[linkspooky]

Are You Satisfied?

As you might have heard chapter 236 of Jujutsu Kaisen ends with the death of Gojo Satoru. The fandom is making a pretty big deal about it. As someone who predicted from the beginning that Gojo was going to lose against Sukuna, the reaction is fascinating to me. This is perhaps the most controversial chapter of Jujutsu Kaisen I've ever seen. So I've decided to throw my hat into the ring.

The central theme of Jujutsu Kaisen is death, so the death of one of the main characters isn't too surprising, but what does Gojo's death mean for the story? What does it say about his character?

As I said above I am a little bit shocked by the extreme controversy over Gojo's death. Gojo was never going to win the fight in the first place, because Jujutsu Kaisen is a story and the story would be over if he defeated Sukuna. He'd easily be able to take care of Kenjaku afterwards and the main conflcit would be resolved. Would it really be an interesting story if Gojo one shotted the villains while the kids just wathced on Television?

The story is also not about Gojo, it's about the students. Gojo may think he's the protagonist of reality but he's not the protagonist of the story.

Once again, Jujutsu Kaisen is a story and stories have themes. We may grow personally attached to characters, but characters are just narrative tools to convey the themes of a story, no different from prose, dialogue, and art. Characters are a tool to be used well or used poorly, and sometimes yes that means killing them. Whether Gojo's death was naratively satisfying though isn't the purpose of this post though we're only asking what does it mean?

Finally, Jujutsu Kaisen is not only a fictional story, it's specifically a tragedy. Full disclosure, it's a manga about death.

The Protagonist of a Tragedy

So, number one shout out to me for making this post 4 months ago where I called the way Gojo would end the fight.

Excuse me while I fist pump for calling it!

The question on everyone's minds is why does one of the most powerful characters in the manga die offscreen in a pretty humiliating way, cut in half and helpless on the ground just like Kaneki. The reason Gojo didn't get a more heroic (or cooler) death is because we're not reading My Hero Academia, this is not a story about heroes or even a typical Shonen manga it is a tragedy.

In poetics Aristotle defines tragedy as:

"an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions" (51).

To paraphrase a tragedy is about human action, actions characters make in a tragedy often have dire consequences. One of the most common consequences if the reversal of a hero's fortune, a hero of a tragedy usually starts out on top and ends up on the bottom because of the bad choices they make. If in normal shonen manga characters overcome their flaws through effort and persistence, in Jujutsu Kaisen we see characters more often than not lose to their flaws.

The reason I posted that Kaneki panel specifically is because it was a brilliant moment of narrative punishment for Kaneki's central character flaw. Kaneki the hero's main flaw is that he always fights alone, and he constantly makes that same choice over and over again to fight alone. One of the characters helpfully explains it as well.

Stories are primarily about change. If a character doesn't change they're not serving the plot, unless that specifically is the point. People have pointed out how abrupt it is for Gojo to get sealed in Shibuya, get let out, and then immediately die afterwards but that's kind of the point. Gojo made more or less the exact same choice (he asked for Utahime's help for a buff but otherwise fought the entire battle himself). The definition of insanity and what not, why would doing the same thing over and over again net him a different result?

Not only did Gojo choose to fight alone, but as I've been hammering on and on about in previous meta the entire fight Gojo cared more about fighting a strong opponent then he did saving Megumi, the child he was responsible for.

Jujutsu Kaisen is not a typical shonen manga where everything is resolved by beating a strong villain in a fight. That's specifically why I used the Tokyo Ghoul reference, because the reason Kaneki is defeated offscreen like that is because he thought the world worked like a shonen manga. He has a fantasy sequence where he's fighting Juzo in a shonen battle tournament like this is Yu Yu Hakusho right before it snaps back to reality and he's limbless on the ground.

Gojo is a major character in the manga Jujutsu Kaisen, literally "Sorcery Fight" and he is the best sorcerer in the whole world. His entire identity revolves around being a sorcerer. Since he is so good and beloved at what he does, he thinks that everything is resolved by exorcising a curse or defeating a strong opponent. He has basically no identity outside of that. Which is why when he's fighting the possessed body of his student, a person he's been mentoring since childhood his priority is not to save Megumi but to beat a strong opponent. Gojo is a sorcerer, before a human being. That's who he is, that's who he always has been since day one.

I think part of the negative fan reaction comes from fans being really attached to this scene in the manga and deciding Gojo's entire character revolves around being a good mentor figure to children.

Which is just incorrect, Gojo's entire character revolves around being the strongest. On top of that though, Gojo can care about children and also care about being the strongest he can care about multiple things at once and have those things contradict each other because humans are complicated. I'd point out even in this panel where he's stating motivation he's not trying to raise these kids up into being healthy adults, he wants them to be strong Jujutsu Sorcerers. Even when he's raising kids, his intention is to turn them into Jujutsu Sorcerers because everything in Gojo's mind revolves around Jujutsu Sorcery. Gojo does not exist outside of the world of sorcerers. Gojo may be the chosen one but he'd never be able to hold down a job at Mcdonalds.

I think in general readers put more investment in the things characters say out loud, rather than their actions. You can say one thing and do another. I can say "I should never eat sweets again I'm going to improve my diet", and then go and eat ice cream five hours later. Gojo can state out loud his intention to foster children and protect their youths, but then fail to properly do that in the story. Characters are not always what they say they are, that's why they're interesting to interpret. This isn't me calling the readers stupid, just pointing out that Gojo is made up of contradictions. He wants to get rid of the old guard and replace them with something new, but Gojo IS THE OLD GUARD.

If the culling games arc has shown us one thing, it's that ancient sorcerers brought to the modern age do not care that much about human life on an individual level, they are all of them egoists. There's a reason Gojo resembles someone like Sukuna more than he does any other character in the manga. I'm not saying Gojo is exactly like Sukuna, he's far more altruistic and uses his genuinely noble ideals but at the same time Sukuna is a shadow archetype to Gojo he represents Gojo's flaws. The flaws that Gojo succumbs to in tragic fashion.

Which if you believe that Gojo genuinely does love his students, and the ideal he's fighting for is to raise up a better generation and allow them to live out their youths, then Gojo throughout the entire Sukuna fight is acting against those ideals. He cares far more about fighting Sukuna then he does saving Megumi, it's shown over and over again in the battle, Megumi is an afterthought to him. If Gojo care moredefeating the big bad and saving the world is more important than helping a child that Gojo is responsible for then Gojo is acting against his stated principles. Why should Gojo win the fight when he's fighting for all the wrong reasons?

Tragedies are like visual novels, if you make the wrong choice the novel will give you a red flag. If you ignore the red flag then you get locked into the route with the bad ending. Gojo always fights alone. Gojo only ever fights for himself, even if he's using that selfishness in support of a more noble ideal like creating a better generation of sorcerers. If Gojo consecutively makes the same changes then in a tragedy he's not going to be rewarded for it.

Gojo wants the old generation out and the new generation in, but Gojo resembles the old generation too much. Old sorcerers like Hajime and Sukuna respect him, Hajime argues that Gojo being able to fight for his pride is far more important than him living to the end of the battle when Yuta wanted to interfere and help him.

Gojo's death isn't a surprise curve ball that Gege is throwing us for shock value, it's a result of his choices throughout the manga. A manga about change, and the change between generations is not going to punish a character for remaining roughly the same. Of course you might find it disappointing that Gege didn't give Gojo the chance to grow and change and experience a character arc like Megumi or Yuji, but Jujutsu Kaisen is a tragedy, and the way Gojo's arc ended is consistent with what Gege wrote.

Jujutsu Kaisen is not just a tragedy though, it's a manga about death. The manga begins with Yuji's grandfather warning him not to die alone the way that he did. His grandfather's dying words are what motivate Yuji throughout the beginning of the manga as he's searching for a "proper" death.

One of the major themes of Yuji's character is a contemplation of death. He accepts that death is inevitable, so he wants to save them from the gruesome deaths they'd experience if they became victims to curses and allow them to have a more satisfying death. Yuji's grandpa died an unsatisfying death because he died alone in a hospital room. Yuji even tries to make his own death a satisfying one because he believes by dying to seal away Sukuna he'll reduce the total number of casualties to curses.

Jujutsu Kaisen keeps investigating the theme of death and what exactly would make for a satisfying death. At one point it's all but stated that death is the mirror that makes humans analyze their lives.

When Yuji fails to save Junpei from the "unnatural death" it calls into question whether or not his goal of saving people from unsatisfying deaths and the gruesome deaths caused by curses is even feasible. Nanami even says that Yuji might not be able to accomplish his goal and warns him away from the path.

We see repeated unsatifying deaths in the manga, each time someone reflecting on their deaths that they weren't able to get what they wanted out of life. This list comes via @kaibutsushidousha by the way I'm quoting them.

Nanami's a character who chose to work as a sorcerer because he didn't want to evade the responsibility of doing all you can to help people, he wanted to believe he's somewhere where he's needed. He never runs away from responsibility like Mei Mei does so he quite literally works himself to death, living and dying as a sorcerer. Nanami or Gojo's dying hallucination of Nanami even says as much, his death is the result of him choosing to go south and returning to be a sorcerer.

Maki chose revenge against the Zen'in over her sister, and as a result Mai is dead. Maki has all the power in the world now, her revenge complete but she's left with a sense of "now what?" She's as strong as Toji now but she failed to protect her sister, and it's the result of the choices she made. Maki's reflection isn't triumph, it's "I should have chosen to die with her."

Even Yuji himself is robbed of his narrative purpose. The manga began with Yuji saying he wants to choose how he's going to die and he'll die taking out Sukuna with him so he can reduce the number of people killed by curses in the world. Both of those things are thrown in Sukuna's face. Number one the amount of people Yuji can save by permanently killing Sukuna is now a moot point because he let Sukuna rampage in Shibuya.

Number two, Sukuna isn't even in Yuji anymore. To build on what Comun said though, this repeated tragedy has a purpose to it and understanding requires understanding that Jujutsu Kaisen is an existentialist manga. Existentialism is basically a school of philosophy centered around the question of "Why do I exist?"

There's nothing about the invetability of death to make you question why you're alive in the first place. In the myth of Sispyhus, Albert Camus boils down all of philosophy to one question.

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. "

All of philosophy is should I shoot myself in the head or should I keep living? Everything comes after that question, which is why in Jujutsu Kaisen a lot of the characters motivations revolve around them contemplating death. Sorcerers exist in a world where they can die any moment, and as Gojo says most of them die alone. It might be the nature of sorcery itself that causes so many people to die, not only are they dying because they are trapped in an uncaring system, but the characters themselves aren't really attempting to live outside of it. They live and die as sorcerers, replaceable cogs in the machine.

All of these unsatisfying deaths may just be the result of all these characters making one choice, to live as sorcerers rather than people. Because to exist means to live in the world.

Even in Mechamaru's case, his goal is deeply existentialist by what I defined, all he wants to do is live in the world with everyone else rather than be stuck in his hospital room but his actions contradict that goal. Instead of letting his friends come and visit he's obsessed with the idea of getting a normal body because he feels that's the only way he can exist with everyone else, he makes a deal with the devil, he lies and goes behind their backs. He wasn't living with everyone else in the world and he could have chosen to, he chose wrong and his death is the result of that choice.

Jujutsu Sorcerers aren't living in the world. They're living in a little snowglobe far removed from the world with its own rules, most of them regressive and disconnected from the rest of society. If you define existentialism as just "living in the world' then a lot of these characters aren't, because they only exist in the world of sorcery.

INVISIBLE BUFFY: What are you talking ab- SPIKE: The only reason you're here, is that you're not here. (drinking) INVISIBLE BUFFY: Right. Of course, as usual there's something wrong with Buffy. She came back all wrong. (moving around on the bed) You know, I didn't ask for this to happen to me. SPIKE: Not too put off by it though, are you? (drinking) INVISIBLE BUFFY: No! Maybe because for the first time since ... I'm free. She tosses the sheet aside. Spike looks around, trying to figure out where she's going. INVISIBLE BUFFY: Free of rules and reports ... free of this life. SPIKE: Free of life? Got another name for that. Dead.

Not living in the world with everyone else is the same as being dead.

A lot of these characters either make the choice to act alone, or be a jujutsu sorcerer rather than a person and because of that they die as sorcerers, b/c sorcerers die that's what they do. Mai didn't want to keep living as a hindrance to Maki so she kills herself. Maki didn't want to be anything other than a sorcerer, so her little sister dies and she's not a big sister anymore. Nanami chose to leave his job behind and become a sorcerer again, he dies as one.

Of course I don't think the manga is punishing characters for being too egotistical, but rather too unbalanced. If anything Mai is too selfless and that is why she died, she didn't want to live for herself and chooses self sacrifice for her sister. An unbalance between selfishness or selflessness results in an underdeveloped ego. Jujutsu Kaisen doesn't punish individualism per se, moreso if you're not a fully developed individual you won't last long. Because it's also a manga about growing up in the world, and a person who doesn't have a healthy, mature, well-balanced sense of self is not a grown up.

This twitter user det_critics points out that Gojo (and also Yuki + Yuji's) failures in the manga can be attributed to the fact they don't have real senses of self.

Gojo has an identity crisis as outlined by Geto, "are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest, or are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo?"

It's a challenge for him to find some reason to live outside of being the strongest, and in tragic fashion Gojo just doesn't find it in time. Gojo lived for fighting others, and proving to himself that he's the strongest, and that's how he dies.

There's something I like to say about narrative punishment in stories. There are two ways to punish a character, you either don't give them what they want, or you give them exactly what they want. This is the latter, Gojo wanted to find someone stronger than him because deep down he believed that nobody could understand him unless they were on his level. He wanted to be surpassed, and that's why he focused on creating stronger young sorcerers, but he never shook himself of the belief that only someone as strong or even stronger than he was could ever be emotionally attached to him so he made a deliberate choice to draw a line between himself and others.

Gojo's essentially gotten what he wanted from that choice in the worst way possible. The student he picked to succeed him Megumi, has his body stolen and kills him. Gojo is surpassed, but it's not by one of his own students it's by an enemy that's not only trying to kill Gojo but is going to massacre his students afterwards.

Gojo's spent his entire life believing that because he's more powerful that makes him inherently different and above others, and being lonely because he himself believed he couldn't relate to ordinary people and he dies like an ordinary person, an unsatisfying death where he wasn't able to bring out Sukuna's best, where he gets unceremoniously cut in half offscreen but yay he's no longer the strongest. He's gotten exactly what he wanted. Megumi is still not saved, Sukuna's probably going to kill more people because Gojo failed to stop him here, but hey at least he stopped to compliment Gojo.

It's empty, but it's empty because of the choices Gojo made in life to just not bother connecting to people or develop any kind of identity besides being a sorcerer. Gojo lives and dies as a sorcerer, and his dying dream is returning to a teenager being surrounded by everyone he was with during his school days, because that's the happiest time in his life. Ironically he was happier before he became the strongest, because that was the only time in his life that he allowed himself to connect to people.

However in the eyes of others, he is someone who has it all. That's why he is always alone. There was no one who could hold the same sentiments and mutually understand him. Geto was the only one who could understand what he was trying to say, and the only one who could communicate well with him.

It's no coincidence Gojo and Geto die exactly a year apart on the same day, if anything I'd say the reasons they die are similiar to at least thematically. They both die because they don't want to live in the world. Geto thinks the world is too corrupt and GOjo doesn't want to be anything other than a sorcerer, both of them fail to adapt.

「 'It's just. . .' It's just that it was what Geto had to do. [...] To someone like him, the reality that the world of sorcerers presented to him was just too cruel. '. . .that in a world like this, I couldn't truly be happy from the bottom of my heart.'」

They can't be happy in a world like this from the bottom of their hearts, so narratively they both die. The things they chose to live for at the end of their life they fail to accomplish, Gojo is no longer the stronget, Geto fails to wipe out mankind or make major changes to the world and they die as normal people unsatisfied because they weren't trying to live in the world and make connections to others. They die almost karmically a year apart because their main connection for both of them, the thing which made them feel connected to the world and other people was each other.

Which is why this panel breaks my heart and is so narratively satisfying because of how unsatisfying it is...

"If you were among those patting my back... then I might've been satisfied."

Gojo reflects that he's not satisfied dying against Sukuna, not because he failed to give him a good enough challenge but because Geto wasn't there to pat him on the back. The one thing that would have satisfied him he couldn't have, because he didn't live to connect to people he lived to be the strongest and he died alone as the strongest. There's just something deeply upsetting about Gojo's dying dream fantasy just him being there talking with all of his dead friends who he never appreciated or connected to properly when he was alive. Knowing that if something had just gone a little differently, that even if he had to die no matter what he could have died happier if Geto was among the people saying goodbye to him because that connection with Geto is what gave his life meaning.

Dazai Osamu: "A life with someone you can say good-bye to is a good life, especially when it hurts so much to say it to them. Am I wrong?" -Bungou Stray Dogs Beast

[girlsworldillusion]

CLAIM - by Aemond Targaryen

+18 (seriously, no minors)

author's note: my first time writing for him, even though I've been in the fandom for a while now. (I hope this isn't the only one).

There you go, Aemond thinks with some bitterness.

Bright, innocent, pure. Tempting in annoying ways. Certainly a cute little thing to look at, though.

Unfortunately, he's not the only one who noticed this.

A warm, tingly ball curls in his stomach the more he watches you and your pathetic excuse for a partner during the waltz. Every delicate twirl you make around the grand ballroom sends shivers down his spine. The flushed dust high on your cheeks leaves his throat dry. The gentle smile you offer the Lord who smugly leads you through the dance makes his fist clench so tightly around the wine glass that Aemond is actually surprised he hasn't shattered the thing into a thousand pieces yet.

Aemond is not jealous, however. Aemond doesn't get jealous - being jealous is wanting something someone else has, and he has everything he needs, a lot of enviable things, to be honest. (That's what he tells himself, sipping some wine and sending icy daggers toward the man who insists on holding your waist tighter and tighter).

He's not jealous. He just doesn't like it when others covet what's his - or what should be his.

You, another Lady with a prestigious name. Theoretically there were many like you, it's true. But to Aemond, you always stood out. Unique, special. It is a great inconvenience that others also think this way.

Aemond was trying to be a gentleman here. He was purposely going slow so as not to scare you; innocent walks in the garden, subtle conversations about a book you both recently read, an unassuming invitation for afternoon tea (although he doesn't even like tea).

He was already exhausting the limits of his own patience and he still didn't get any real sign that you reciprocated his interest in you. You are kind and lovely, of course. But that's how you are with everyone around you. This, in itself, is no guarantee of absolutely anything for him.

Aemond was trying to be patient. Gods, he really was. But with each passing day he found himself more and more tormented by thoughts and fantasies about you. His mind is playing tricks on him, pushing the limits of his self-control to the point where he feels like he might snap like a stretched rubber band.

And it is on these nights, when everyone in the Red Keep is already asleep and he is absolutely certain that he is finally alone with his own demons - that he gives in.

He closes the only eye he has left to keep from seeing the shamefully needy descent of his hand beneath the waistband of his sleep pants, only for it to become a fleeting, innocuous thought a few seconds later, because there it is again; that all-encompassing, overwhelming feeling that makes him see stars every time.

He palms his straining erection wet with precum, imagining it's your tiny hand there - or your pretty mouth, your tight pussy. The mere thought of it sends a bolt of pleasure down his spine and makes him part his lips in a husky sigh.

He thinks of you, over and over again; in hurried and repetitive steps, like someone lost in a maze.

Your cheeks flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyelashes fluttering with pleasure, your sweet voice begging for him...

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond-

Aemond writhes on the sheets, panting, shaking with it, his toes curled against the bed; his hips twitching with each wave of pleasure along his shaft trapped between his fingers. In the waves of euphoria, he throws his other arm over his eye, hides his sapphire and his personal decay like a secret, panting, getting close, so close, fuck, fuck...

It's sweet torture, after all. Spills out onto his own stomach and sheets instead of where he really wants to be.

But he can handle it. All to be a gentleman for you. All to endure the long, agonizing (and embarrassing) wait while you happily accept his invitations to teas and walks in the gardens and entertain him with your witty anecdotes about the latest book you read -

Although you never give him a concrete answer about your feelings for him.

He's trying to hold on.

But you need to pressure him, don't you?

He grits his teeth and narrows his gaze when the man waltzing with you leans down to say something close to your ear.

This isn't new to him, of course.

Aemond is used to having to fight to get what he wants. Nothing really comes easy for him. But there is something about the arduous trajectory of his personal achievements that no one is able to deny.

Once claimed, it's his forever.

That's it, enough of trying to be a gentleman - Aemond hums as he uses the rim of his wine glass to hide the wicked smile tugging at his lips.

.

"Oh, baby."

He is against you.

Pressing his crotch against the curve of your ass so you can feel how hard his cock is in his pants.

He's laughing in your ear.

Mocking.

"You like that, don't you, girl?" he asks, in a dark whisper after cornering you in one of the castle's corridors, blocking your walk to your chambers. He deposits words laced with malice and honey into his husky voice, whispered against the shell of your ear.

You shudder against him.

He's rubbing himself against you. His cock rubbing explicitly against the curve of your ass, while his fingers squeeze your throat, pulling the back of your head to his shoulder.

"You're mine," he says, his voice full of possessiveness. Like he was on the verge of losing it. He already lost.

You cry out softly, feeling him squeeze your throat again. Harder this time.

"Nobody touches you from now on. Got it?"

He's nuzzling into your hair. Lost in the tickle of your strands on his face, in your sweet smell in his nose.

You shake your head somehow even with his firm grip on your throat and he laughs against your hair.

A low, harsh laugh, a wicked sound that rumbles straight from his throat as he leans down to leave a single kiss on your cheek, intertwining his fingers with yours to give a light tug.

"Good girl."

.

You open your mouth to say something, anything - an apology, a well-rehearsed argument, words too soft and genuine to compete with the sound of Aemond's hips slamming violently between your thighs - but all all you can do is a low, breathless meow.

"You smell like him," Aemond huffs coldly, though it's more of a breathy grunt.

Maybe there is a certain amount of exaggeration in his words, you don't smell like him. Not really. But the simple memory of that man's hands on your waist and his face close to yours to whisper anything was awakening a dangerous euphoria in Aemond's veins.

He tries hard to at least pretend to be easy, to at least pretend to have some control over the situation. Struggling silently to remain composed, as if he wasn't finally fucking the woman he's wanted for a long time at a brutal pace, as if your scent and your tears weren't permanently staining his sheets right now, as if he wasn't squeaking his teeth to keep from spilling too soon at the mere thought of having permanent physical proof that you were here - right in the bed where he sleeps every night. Aemond feigns an indifference and coldness that are not real.

But he's trying.

He is under the intense watch of your drunken, half-closed gaze, and tries hard not to embarrass himself any more than he already has. He struggles to breathe through his nose, trying not to blink too often; carefree, not a hair out of place. And, in the midst of his personal battle for dignity, he finds some amusement in how you seem to be going insane beneath him; as if you seams were being torn apart with each breath hissed through your teeth.

"I-it was just a dance..."

“He was desperate,” Aemond cuts you off, squeezing you so that your words turn into nothing more than a pathetic groan at the end of the sentence. His fingers dig into your throat, anchoring him as his hips work furiously against yours. His hair is falling to your shoulders and breasts, raising goose bumps on your skin with each thrust of his body against yours. “And that smell is really offending me, girl.”

“I-I, I’m so sorry-” you stutter, hands gripping his wrist as he resists the urge to sink his teeth into the crook of your neck, exactly where everyone can see it tomorrow, “I told him I already had someone and -"

He barely hears your confession before he interrupts. Thick words spilling from his lips as the grip on your body doubles in intensity.

"He thought with that sticky smile that he could just have you? That he would be the one to take your purity? This is for me, he should know. You belong to me. Only for me - only for me." He shakes and sputters to the wild pleasure coursing through his veins, some of his self control slipping as he bows his head and bumps his forehead against your sweaty shoulder, panting heavily into your skin at the feeling of your tight walls gripping his cock like a lathe.

"Yeah - only for you", he distantly hears you moan above the roar in his ears, feels your little fingers tangle between the silver strands of his hair until you manage to give a sharp tug, right at the base of the back of his neck. He groans into your skin at the sensation.

The liquid heat building inside him is almost overflowing, so close that he can't stop his trembling hips from meeting yours with shallower thrusts. He's almost rubbing himself against you, over and over, frantically. “Aemond, p-please,” you murmur, cherry-colored tongue wetting your plump bottom lip. "I can't anymore, I can't - ngh, please-"

Aemond swallows the rest of your words with a punishing kiss, answering your broken plea by quickly grinding his hips, encouraging your orgasm to wash over you. He doesn't stop, not even when you go rigid, unable to kiss him back or do anything other than moan and cry into his mouth.

Aemond traces your lips with his tongue, nibbling them until they're soft, his own breathing becoming as frantic as the cock that's dragging without pause against your wet walls. When his orgasm washes over him, Aemond is already panting and moaning as if in pain as he rests his forehead against yours; an intense gaze observing yours, focused on every detail of your delicate features. Your hooded gaze, the wet trail of tears on your red cheeks and your uneven breathing. The purest adoration for him shining in your eyes like stars in the dark sky.

And he smiles then.

Because you are his now.

Duly claimed.

.

With a gentle touch on his elbow, Aemond returns to reality.

The apples of his cheeks are dyed a subtle (but noticeable) shade of red as his violet gaze scans the space in front of him, silently surprised to have been caught in the middle of his unholy reverie.

It's you.

A beautiful silk dress on soft skin. Hair tied in a slightly loose braid. So small compared to him. So beautiful. So...his.

"Prince Aemond, are you okay?"

He looks at you for a moment, debating between feigning disagreement to spare himself the humiliation of being caught or pushing you against the nearest wall.

In the end, he chooses to remain still, head raised proudly and face indifferent, although his violet gaze remains stubbornly tilted downwards, thirsty to maintain eye contact with you.

"Yes, I just got distracted," he says, voice deeper than he'd like it to sound.

You smile, sweet and soft and his heart quickens.

"That's great. Well, it's late and my feet are hurting after all the dancing." You close your eyes in an amused, relaxed expression, there's even a dimple forming in your cheek as the wide smile stretches your lips - and although the sight is enough to fill his chest with a bubbling sensation of pure warmth, a muscle Aemond's jaw jumps at the mere mention of your recent activities. "Have a good night, my Prince." You conclude when he offers no response to your comment, bowing with a respectful farewell before walking away.

He watches you leave the great hall with delicate steps, gentle smiles and nods directed at the people you meet on the way. The image of grace and innocence, without a doubt. At least until you turn your head towards him before walking out the hall doors.

The way your upper teeth sink into the plump flesh of your lower lip, your heavy eyelashes fluttering when you squint briefly, the flushed cheeks and swollen pupils aimed specifically at him...

It happens as quickly as it started. With a fluid movement you turn around again and walk through the hall doors, as if nothing had happened.

Aemond sighs; tired, irritated, burning with lust.

You keep playing with him.

The wine glass shakes and clinks loudly as he places it roughly on the table, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even care if anyone notices as he abruptly follows your steps, leaving the ballroom behind, with a hard gaze and dark features.

He would catch up to you.

And this time he'll make sure it's not just in a daydream-

He will claims you. Truly, indisputably.

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."

Word count: 5,000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!

RELEASE — 14. Him.

“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.

His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.

The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.

“What?” 

“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.

“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”

It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.

“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.

“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.

His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.

Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.

“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.

At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.

Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.

They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.

Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.

The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance. 

Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.

Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.

The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.

What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms. 

His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues. 

And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.

Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.

He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.

“Perchance that is exactly what we need” Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.

He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.

Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.

His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.

The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.

Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”

“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.

He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.

Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.

Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.

Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.

The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.

Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.

In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.

She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.

From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.

That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.

His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.

After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.

The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.

Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.

Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.

When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach. 

He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.

“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence. 

The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.

He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision. 

The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation. 

Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.

She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand. 

And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament. 

In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.

Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.

With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.

He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.

The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?” 

“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.

“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.

“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”

She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second. 

He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.

“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.

“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.

“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.

Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.

The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.

“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”

Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for. 

“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative. 

He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.

“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.

“Was it only once?” 

“Yes.”

“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”

“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”

“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”

“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.

“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”

He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.

Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“No” he breathed out.

“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”

A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.

A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.

With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.

Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.

For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.

On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.

“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.

“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”

“It was a grievous mistake.”

“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”

“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”

“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”

She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”

He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.

Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.

“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.

She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.

The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.

“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”

Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”

He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.

She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.

He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.

In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”

When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic. 

“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.

“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”

“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”

Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.

A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified. 

“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”

“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.

She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.

Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.

Yes, he was a child.

It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.

The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.

His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest. 

With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.

Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness. 

As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability. 

“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”

“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.

After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness. 

Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.

“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside. 

With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.

As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.

He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.

He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.

“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”

In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.

@callsignwidow @purplegardenwhispers @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @squidscottjeans @fossface @truly-abysmal @congenialcat @that-girl-named-alex @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark

[soleilapproves]

I loved what you did with Kento seeing y/n in a backless dress.🌷😭🩷 Could you possibly do something similar with Gyomei from demon slayer if you write for that fandom? He’s blind so he won’t be able to see the dress but I was thinking when he embraces y/n in a hug he could tell how the dress hugs all her curves and maybe he gets a little turned on? 🫣🤭🥹🌷

Thank you so much 🫶 I haven’t watched a lot of demon slayer but I’m definitely open to writing new characters. I hope I got his personality down correctly.

Notes: Modern!AU, fem!reader AFAB, Gyomei has a cane to assist him. Lightly (like feather) hinted at not being with a woman before you. Not proofread yet, sorry :( ,suggestive

Date nights were your favorite because it was one of the many times you had your busy boyfriend all to yourself. For once, the two of you were going out after weeks of not having enough free time together. Which is funny because the relationship hasn’t even gotten into the ‘using the bathroom while my partner showers’ territory yet.

Either way, you were in complete bliss as you spritzed your perfume. A finishing touch to your look for tonight that concluded of a lovely full sleeved backless dress with heels of the matching color. Simple yet sensual.

You heard your apartment lock beep and a shuffling of foot steps along with the slight rattles of metal. Gyomei was here. Since it had been a while since you had last seen him, you decided to cheekily surprise him with a back hug sneak attack.

You removed your heels and tiptoed out of your room to see him before he could let you know that he had arrived. However, you stood still for a few seconds, taking in how handsome he looked.

Sure, you found him attractive no matter what but he looked especially delicious today with his hair styled and his outfit fitting him in all the right places.

You crossed your hands and silently thanked your lucky stars for sending him your way before approaching him.

He turned towards the sound of your feet shuffling and had a blinding smile on his face as a response.

You sulked at the fact that he had noticed you before you could hug him. “Ugh, I wanted to catch you off guard for once.”

“I think you’re forgetting that my other senses are heightened since I’m blind.” He cheekily replied. Having a good sense of navigation around your apartment, he leaned himself against your kitchen counter, retracting his mobility cane in the process.

“Do you want anything to eat before we leave? I can pack some crackers for our drive to the restaurant since it’s kinda far.” You said as you began to look through your snack cabinet for some more light snacks.

“I’m alright. However, I would like a glass of water before we head out.”

“You got it.” You filled up his designated mug that said ‘hottest DILF on earth’ in braille on it. A small gag gift that you gave him on his birthday. You couldn’t stop laughing at his reaction when you told him about the meaning of DILF.

You hand him the mug and ignore the butterflies in your stomach when his large hands purposely engulf yours when grabbing the cup.

“Okay, all I need are my shoes and then we’ll be off.” But before you can leave, your boyfriend is quick to grab your arm and put his mug down on the counter.

He pulled you into his hold, hands resting dangerously low on your waist but not high enough to be on your back.

“Before you leave, I’d like to tell you that you smell divine.” He shyly says as he leans his forehead against yours.

Your face burned as you placed your hands on his firm biceps and rubbed them up and down. “You say that for every perfume I wear.”

“Yeah, but this one’s my favorite favorite.” You giggled at your boyfriend before lightly smacking his chest. You missed so much during your time apart from him and you were going to take complete advantage of him now that you were together.

You slowly moved your hands up his arms, to his shoulders, then neck, and finally his face to make him lean further to you. Signaling that you wanted to kiss him.

Gyomei let out a small hum of approval before pressing his lips to yours. It felt like kissing him for the first time again. Like when you both first reciprocated your feelings to each other.

Lips tantalizingly pulling against one another. Molding and melding to relay just how much love the two of you had for each other. His hands slowly trailed up your back, finally reaching the exposed skin just a few inches above the small of your back. He turned you around so your back could rest on the counter instead of his and he pressed his body completely against yours.

“It’s a good thing your dress is unzipped.” Gyomei chuckled between kisses.

“It’s not. It’s backless.”

He stops kissing you. Instead, his hands roam around the expanse of your back. “This is the first I’ve heard of something like this.”

You let out a small smile, letting him quench his thirst of curiosity. “Yes, a lot of people wear these kind of clothes for special occasions.”

It touched his heart to hear you say that. It made him feel a little insecure that he couldn’t compliment you on the effort you made to look good for him but it helped knowing that you never stopped doing it.

He was glad that his presence made you want to dress up and feel pretty.

He leaned in to kiss you again, but this time with his fingers trailing down your spine, enjoying the familiar feeling of your skin. “I love the way your skin feels.”

The fingers from his right hand then began to dance around your zipper while his left hand continued to stroke your spine.

“Honey, if you keep this up we’ll never make it to the restaurant.” You mumbled as his mouth trailed moist kisses down your neck. He deeply inhaled when he reached the base of your throat, relishing the scent of the perfume.

“I’m going to be honest with you, the reservation is the last thing on my mind right now.” He mumbled while moving his left hand to hold you right beneath your right breast. You gasped as his grip gradually tightened with every kiss he left around your décolletage.

“I say we order in and do something I’ve been waiting to do all these weeks.” He continued as his hips began to grind to yours.

-

Dry spell so bad I had to watch kissing scenes to get inspo.

[subway-tolkien]

Okay, this is 1600 words of (positive!) meta regarding the OFMD finale. Included is character analysis and a treatise on why a certain trope people keep throwing around does not apply here.

This is of course just my take, and I'm sure people will disagree, but I needed to get this out. Apologies if it comes off disjointed, I've had like no sleep.

Spoilers within, obviously. You have been warned. Heed the tags. I didn't tag any characters because I consider it a spoiler, but you know who this is about.

Listen. Listen.

Let me start off by saying I have been where you are. I’ve had beloved characters die, either because it was important to the narrative or for shock value. I’ve been there, so I’m not coming at this without empathy. I’m not an Izzy hater. I loved him as a character. I’m truly sad to see him go.

But from what I’m seeing around Twitter and tumblr, some of you do not understand the role of an antagonist in a story.

Izzy was always meant to die. The moment he said, in the first season, “the only retirement we get is death,” I knew he was meant to die in the end. The foreshadowing ran through both seasons. Izzy was the true antagonist of S1. He was there to keep Blackbeard tethered when he started pulling away, and yet he also set the plot in motion. He inadvertently introduced Blackbeard to the person who let him be just Ed. He put Ed on his own path to redemption without even knowing it.

S1 ended with Izzy getting what he wanted as Ed lost everything he had. S2 was about Izzy coming to terms with the fact that he’d gone too far, he’d turned Ed into a monster. It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Blackbeard back, just like old times. Instead, he got the Kraken, and it was more than he bargained for.

Especially after it cost him his leg and he realized how far gone Ed really was. The conversation that ended with Izzy’s half-assed suicide attempt was the final blow to Izzy—Ed really didn’t seem to care anymore. Where Izzy wanted him to stop giving a shit about his silly boyfriend, he instead got a Blackbeard who didn’t care about anything, and he was apparently now included in that category.

(I said half-assed suicide attempt because Izzy wasn’t meant to die then, THAT would have been an empty, pointless death. It wouldn’t have taught Ed anything—in fact, all it did was make him more self-destructive, which was Izzy’s purpose to the narrative, but not his endgame. That Ed thought Izzy killed himself pushed Ed to the brink. Ed wanted to die and take every scrap of Blackbeard with him. Had Izzy successfully killed himself, Ed and the Revenge would be at the bottom of the ocean.

It wasn’t until the crew left Izzy the unicorn leg that he realized the power of compassion, the incredible act of grace from a crew that suffered so much from Izzy’s own machinations and didn't need to forgive him. It moved him to tears, and it moved him to accept that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to let people in, to let himself be cared for. It was a foreign concept and something Izzy likely hadn’t experienced since losing his family (I fully expect a shit ton of fanfic of Izzy’s life before piracy).

Israel Hands found the capacity to let love all the way in and by god, did he pursue it.

But, again, Izzy was always meant to die, and I’m glad they stuck to the narrative they set out with instead of placating fandom and letting our influence dictate how they told this story That’s never good, trust me. Fandom should not influence a creator’s decisions regarding their own characters. It rarely if ever ends well.

[Stares in Voltron S8]

And I see a lot of people out here throwing the “bury your gays” phrase around—I beg you, please look up the definition of the trope. Izzy didn’t die because he was queer, he didn’t die because of his disability. He wasn’t one half of the only queer couple in the show fridged for shock value. He wasn’t killed off due to pressure from conservative viewers. He wasn’t the only queer, disabled character.

They didn’t kill off Lucius, or Jackie, or Wee John. Would you be as outraged if it was any of them?

Killing Eve is bury your gays. Supernatural is bury your gays. Pretty much any film, book, TV show, whatever, where a queer character dies because they’re queer, of AIDs, to further the narrative for a straight person, etc—that is burying your gays.

Izzy’s death was none of those things. Izzy’s death had meaning.

Izzy’s death freed Ed from the Blackbeard persona. It finally forced Izzy to say the things he couldn’t say until he realized it was his last chance. Izzy was also tired. I honestly think he stuck it out for Ed’s sake, because he was afraid to let Blackbeard go without making sure Ed would be ok.

He loved the idea of Blackbeard, but over time, he learned to love Ed. He finally understood what Ed tried to tell him the whole time.

“Fuck off, you twat. You’re surrounded by family.”

You’re safe. You’re loved. You don’t need me anymore. You don’t need to be reminded of who you’re capable of being, you need the people who will guide you to who you will become, and I’m not one of them.

I know a lot of Izzy fans are stung by his death, some of you are deeply upset. I get that. Like I said, I’ve been there. Sirius’s death made me throw that fucking book across the room. That Fucking Woman™ killed off my entire OTP, purely for shock value and, imho, a direct response to shippers. Trust me, I have felt betrayed by a creator for their decisions.

But I need you to understand that no, this was not a personal attack, this was not malicious, this was not “bury your gays." A show that celebrates queerness and diversity is not suddenly homophobic and ableist because your favorite character died and happened to be both of those things. But when the majority of your cast of characters is different in some way, and they’re in a show about 18th century pirates, you have to accept that one of them could, in fact, die. “Anyone Can Die” is also a trope and the more accurate one to describe E8.

If only being queer and disabled made you invincible.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

And no, I’m not an Izzy hater. I loved him, I loved him as an antagonist, and I loved his redemption arc. He was fascinating and Con put his whole O’Nussy into that part. I’m sorry to see him go, but as a mystery writer who often has to kill off beloved characters, I understand that he served the purpose he had from the beginning.

I swear, if some of you had your way, there’d be no conflict at all in any form of media. This what a steady diet of nothing but fanfic gets you. This is not a fluffy one-shot with magical healing dick and a happy ending where everyone sails off into the sunset. If that’s what you wanted, what you headcanoned, you did this to yourself. It’s not David et al’s fault that we took that character and babygirled him. That’s the risk we take when we decide to love a specific character, when we take a genuinely terrible person (in S1) and woobify him.

So, please stop harassing and attacking David, Alex, et al. David did not and should not change his story to placate us. The fact he went ahead with it despite the backlash I’m sure he expected makes me respect him as a creator even more.

Anyway, I’m going to revel that we have three (!) queer relationships with happy endings where one or both didn’t immediately die (again, the actual definition of “bury your gays”) and that we got at least two seasons of a little show that celebrated individualism, diversity, queerness, compassion, and love.

In the end, it all came down to love.

“There he is.”

Goodbye, Blackbeard.

Hello, Ed.

[technoturian]

I have been thinking about this a lot. I drafted this and considered not posting it, but I read this post and I kinda wanted to add onto it and at the same time I didn't want to derail it with my own issue. Discussion of Neil Gaiman, fandom, and fatphobia below...

I was not a fan of Neil Gaiman. Not in a way where I disliked him, I just simply didn't engage with his work whatsoever. He was a non-entity to me. But when his big "Sandman" show came out I became aware of a certain incident in his show, namely the fatphobic depiction of the concept of "Despair". In an article about his work I remember Gaiman's characters in the source material had been described as fitting the aesthetic, "heroin chic". This character, Despair, the personification of human misery, was the only fat woman in the main cast.

I saw other fat folks call this out. I saw a direct response from him that, in my opinion, was smug and patronizing. But much more importantly, I saw flocks of people defending not his choice, but him personally. About what a feminist he is. About how thoughtful he is. We just didn't understand his genius. It was a misunderstanding. A misinterpretation. Because that would be bad, and he's not bad, he's good.

Some even went so far as to defend the choice as "better in the source material". You see, in the source material the fat woman personifying human misery was naked! It was better when she wasn't so sad, she simply scurried about like some hateful gremlin, shocking her victims with the grotesquity of her uncovered fatness. Isn't that better?

I researched the character and read a claim that her body was inspired by the Venus of Willendorf. The Venus of Willendorf is a historical artifact of a voluptuous woman. It signifies desire and fertility. Dare I even say, joy. And then someone allegedly saw this artifact and went, "I will name it Despair."

I was offended by reading that, but after doing so I found that I was so much more offended by the response. I mean, it's obvious that this was fatphobia, wasn't it? It was so clearly cut and dry. There was no kinder interpretation. And yet I watched as people bent over backwards, because he was so good! And he made them feel seen and so he couldn't have any prejudices that make that less true. And so when I posted about this whole situation I mainly posted about that response. Because that's what irked me most.

And after that, I decided I wasn't going to be a Neil Gaiman fan on purpose, rather than on accident. When it came to the man himself, I just rolled my eyes and put him into the box of "Not For Me". He could have turned out to be a holy saint in all other ways, for all I knew or cared.

But he wasn't a saint. He turned out to be a rapist.

I'm sorry if this comes across as a gotcha because that's the opposite of my intention. I'm not saying it to derail focus. I'm not trying to make it all about me or my pet cause.

What I'm trying to say is, people will now see things like Despair and take it as a "sign". It's going to be okay now to pick apart his work because now he's a rapist. But I didn't need to know he wasn't a good person to know this person's work wasn't safe for me. And I also knew it wasn't safe to say so, because everyone who tried to talk about how hurt they felt was told how wrong they were to feel that way.

At the same time, it's safe for me to finally vent about how this made me feel now, now that it doesn't matter because he's not good, he's bad actually.

I guess I'm just hoping instead of the usual pattern, where everyone bemoans the fall from grace and debates whether we "should have known" or "couldn't have known", people reading this can try to make space for a middle ground of criticism of the things you love now. Find that gray area somewhere between the top of the pedestal where everything the saint did was with the best intentions, and down in the muck where we should've known he was a rapist all along. Not because saints are secret rapists, but because there are no saints, and most people are there in the middle.

[lover-of-mine]

Hi!

Happy 8x06 day :D

I recently got into 9-1-1 (read: binged all seven seasons and five episodes in two weeks) and I can honestly say no other fandom drew me in this quickly - that being said I love the color theories surrounding our boys, however I am still a bit unclear on what the significance of Eddie's yellow / Buck's blue is and how do they play into eachother?

Hi!! Welcome to the madness. I will link my main posts about the blue and yellow but a lot happened this season already, so I'll do an overview here too (x x x x x)

Basically, Buck's coming out arc is blue and yellow coded and Buck is dressed in shades of blue through the whole thing.

The culmination of Buck's coming out arc is the coming out scene in 705 because it is the only moment Buck chooses to come out. So this is Buck's blue.

While Buck was doing all that, Eddie was in the sun, or surrounded by gold/yellow.

So in the coming out scene, we have Buck settled into his blue and Eddie in front of his yellow.

But the blue and yellow coding of Buck and Eddie actually started in 201. Down to the way that "Practice rounds have blue caps. Gold caps are live." with the blue and yellow lights on the ambulance ceiling. If you pay attention while watching they have a lot of scenes with blue and yellow elements.

Some more blue and yellow coding.

But the main thing here is the will reveal.

For all intents and purposes, this is an aborted love confession, and Buck is in yellow, Eddie is in blue. But more importantly, Buck is in the yellow that we have behind Eddie for the coming-out scene.

And interestingly enough, the blue of the wall, is the blue of Buck's hoodie in the hospital when he comes out to everyone. So they are switched.

Also, during the 601 dinner, when they establish the couch thing, they are blue and yellow, like, Buck's grey is blue in the same way Eddie's beige is yellow.

So the idea is that Eddie will be sandy yellow beige the same way Buck was navy blue while figuring himself out. One example of that is the sandy shirt Eddie is wearing while talking to Bobby on 804. Also the general blue and yellow coding of Eddie's arc that episode.

Something else that happened is that Eddie was wearing Buck's blue at the hospital in 805.

Which leads us to today's clip. I color-corrected the clip because @stagefoureddiediaz thought that it might be the same shirt, which would put Eddie firmly in the yellow category while talking to the priest, and tie things to that conversation in 601.

This puts more into the theory that Eddie find his way to his shade of yellow the same way Buck found his shade of blue. I think since Buck worked through darker shades of blue to find his color, Eddie will do the opposite and will be lighter shades of yellow, working up to something in this real of yellow.

And that the buddie canon will be with Buck in his blue and Eddie finally in his yellow. So I'm on high alert for them in blue and anything that could be categorized as yellow.

And this got longer than I planned oajksoaksoaks if you read this I love you 🫶

I will taglist this one (interact with this post if you wanna get tagged)

@sparkedblaze @caw-salem @dreamofsomepiphany @100ceruleaneyes @linus-lucy @chaosqueery @gina-spike @chimchiminie98 @elvensorceress @singitforthegirls @dangerpronebuddie @182daysof @steadfastsaturnsrings @sparklespiff @inell @miles--to--go @jesuisici33 @wolfdeans @lunarsolar1 @joshwritesfics @glasscities @kejfeblintz @stagefoureddiediaz @mosaicstardust @eddiedisasterdiaz @hermioneindisguise @queerprincesseddiediaz @lookforanewangle @becausebuckley @lemotmo @thenainitaldisaster

@dingdongfries @angelcamael

[beartitled]

Found your art through the STP Reddit and now I have a new TSPUD artist to enjoy!!! Your style is gorgeous :)

Reddit 🤨❔

I don’t have reddit

*sounds of paws tapping on the keyboard*

Aha repost with no permission I see? 🔍🐻‍❄️👓

This ask actually send me on a mini research lmao

I didn’t expect to see like 4 posts on Reddit with ppl posting my comics/sending a screenshot from ?Pinterest? and asking who the author is

That made me chuckle :'D

To be clear, I don’t really mind reposts if a person credits me

Always appreciate ppl askin permission 👍

For the reference: Reblog - a button that looks like this 🔄, shares a post on your page while showing the original author; Repost - when you screenshot/save someone’s art and post it on your page (ideally with credit, but if you’re a meanie you will just post images with no word about og author); Credit - a reference to the author «this art was made by [@author] on [this social media]». Sometimes see ppl mixing up terms 🫡

(Most of the time creators dislike reposts, bc it often leads to art theft)

Since we’re on the topic, specifically what I do have a problem with:

- Don’t use my art for AI training or for NFTs

- Don’t profit off my art (no merch is allowed without my approval, if you want to use my art for commercial purposes, this must be discussed with me in advance)

- Don't pass off my work as your own (here does reposting my art without credit, creating blogs/accounts impersonating me and so on)

- Don’t use my personal projects (this applies to my ocs, any original IPs/content I create: picture books, comics, artbooks, megadrawings etc. At some point in the future I may register a legal copyright for them btw.)

I’m more flexible and forgiving with fandom art, but still would appreciate ppl communicating with me. Fandom comic dubs - are welcomed, just be sure to credit me (tag me and share the final dub too man, I’m always interested). Fandom comic translations - ask permission first please.

This list is a pretty standard for any artist really, if you’re doubting something - feel free to ask 👍

If you see somebody breaking those/potentially breaking those - feel free to notify me 👍

I considered creating “blog rules” or “list of boundaries”, but I’m not sure if it’ll work on my blog 🤔 My header is pretty oversaturated as it is - portfolio, tags, navigation and so on; if I add rules to the pile, something tells me ppl won’t even look at it 💥 + I didn’t have specific issues with anyone yet (as far as I’m aware), I might create a list if something happens, but stayin hopeful for now

There’s certain things that do make me very uncomfortable/are triggering to me. But again didn’t have any specific issues where it was a huge problem + those stuff are highly personal to me to just put publicly. For now, I prefer to resolve issues personally, there wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle at this point 🫡 Mayhaps in the future it may change, we’ll see

Also some might have noticed that I don’t use any watermarks/signatures on my art, again considered that, but never ended up implementing that 🐻‍❄️ Some part of me just likes lookin at pictures in full HD quality with no watermark 😭 (I have an art signature, but I mostly use it in my mega drawings or if someone specifically asked for a commission lmao)

Sorry for a wall of text on such a sweet ask 💥 Just saw an opportunity to talk and took it lmao

Thank you, I really appreciate your words ❤️💕

Made a doödle of the narrator bois for the old time sake :D

Surprisingly there is a bunch of reposts of my art, with is a bit wild to me (you guys actually like my comics? 🤨 what? 🤨)

Especially never imagined my voices x princesses would get so popular 💥

Oh I see you went under read-more

Come closer

Closer

Just a smol step more

I forgot to draw Smitten’s brows in this specific frame

Now you will never unsee it 😈😈😈

*tiny mischievous bear giggling*

[raointean]

Silmarillion Survey Essay!

My essay was due last night (submitted it with 6 minutes to spare!) and my professor said I could post it to Tumblr if I wanted to. It's divided into four sections, all marked. The first section is the introduction where I explain the point of the survey, who I studied, and why. The second section is the methods I used to design the survey, get answers, record answers, and control for variables. The third section is results, where I highlight several of the questions I thought would be most stratifying and explain what I actually found (it has graphs!). The fourth section is the discussion where I talk about what I found and what conclusions I drew from that.

I'd love to hear all of your thoughts on the results and my conclusions!

Introduction

            For this project, I looked into age (and length of time in fandom, in one case) affected knowledge and attitudes about fandom language. I investigated several terms and phrases, both from fandom at large and from the Silmarillion fandom specifically. The group I studied was the fandom of The Silmarillion on Tumblr because I am intimately familiar with that internet space (and could therefore phrase the questions in a way that would be understood) and because the majority of Archiveofourown.org (a popular fanfiction website) users are also Tumblr users.

            For the purposes of this paper, I am defining the Silmarillion fandom as a community of practice. The Wenger-Trayner article, “Communities of practice a brief introduction”, defines a community of practice as an entity with three parts: domain, community, and practice. The domain is “an identity defined by a shared domain of interest” (Wenger-Trayner 2). The domain in this case is The Silmarillion. As The Silmarillion is a history book set in a fictional universe, it is incredibly dry at times (there is an entire chapter titled “Of Beleriand and its Realms” which deals mostly with geography) so anyone who reads it by choice is necessarily interested in the work. The second part, community, is made up of “members [that] engage in joint activities and discussions, help each other, and share information” (Wenger-Trayner 2). Most fandoms engage in discourse/discussion, create transformative art (mostly written or visual, but I have seen musical as well) and exchange craft advice to better each other’s creative work, but due to the almost academic nature of the Silmarillion fandom, we exchange background lore knowledge, additions to Tolkien’s conlangs, translations, timelines, and character sheets in addition to the regular fandom activities. Finally, the Silmarillion fandom also has a shared practice, defined as “They develop a shared repertoire of resources: experiences, stories, tools, ways of addressing recurring problems—in short a shared practice” (Wenger-Trayner 2). As mentioned above, the Silmarillion fandom has shared resources (such as tolkiengateway.net, Nerd of the Rings on YouTube, as well as several established “fandom elders” who are happy to answer questions), stories, established characterizations for “only-mentioned-once-in-a-footnote” type characters, settled linguistic debates, and several research-oriented blogs (such as two of my own) that record niche or new knowledge about either Tolkien’s work or the fandom itself. Almost all of the above (with the possible exception of the website and the youtuber previously mentioned) is unpaid hobby work.

            When doing this survey, I expected to find a rather steep difference between older and younger members of fandom regarding their knowledge of fandom terminology. I expected the 18-25 age group to be the most knowledgeable of fandom terms with the under 18 group to be only slightly behind them and the 26-30 group a slightly further way behind the under 18 group. For the groups over 30, I anticipated that the rate of knowledge would sharply decline and that older fans would be unfamiliar with fandom terminology for the most part. I was… incorrect.

Methods

            There are eight questions highlighted in this paper. The first chart (Figure 1.) is the total percentage of answers that amounted to “I don’t know”, filtered by age. The first table (Figure 2.) looks at the people who did not know the term “Isekai” based on whether or not they were native speakers of English or live in Asia (given that “Isekai” is a Japanese word). The second table (Figure 3.) compares the percentage of people who mentioned that the word “angst” is also present in everyday German, categorized by German speakers and non-German speakers. The third table (Figure 4.) examines attitudes towards the anti/pro-ship terms based on age. The second chart (Figure 5.) examines attitudes towards the term “omegaverse” separated by age. The fourth table (Figure 6.) compares groups of people who could define the difference between “peredhel” and “peredhil”, separated by how long they have participated in the fandom surrounding the Silmarillion fandom. The third chart (Figure 7a.) looks at people who understand the phrase “Fëanor did nothing wrong” as a joke, filtered by age. Finally, the fourth chart (Figure 7b.) shows the percentage of people who used the phrase “tongue-in-cheek” in the 31-40 group as opposed to other age groups (that one was not explicitly asked for in the survey; I simply noticed a steep trend while dissecting the results from the “Fëanor did nothing wrong” question).

            I compiled all of these questions (along with several others) in a google form as a three-part survey. The first part was comprised of basic demographic questions, the second of general fandom terms and phrases, and the third of terms and phrases specific to fanfiction of The Silmarillion. The 418 responses were recorded and examined in Google sheets, which I used to filter the demographic information for ease of synthetization.

            The group I examined was people who participate in the Silmarillion fandom on Tumblr. I chose this group because I am familiar with them, because they are the most likely to be aware of these terms (due to the large overlap between Tumblr and Archive Of Our Own), and because fandom language is (to the best of my knowledge) not well studied. I was able to isolate this group by only posting the survey to Tumblr itself. Tumblr posts are only viewable to Tumblr users, so even if someone were to post a link to the post elsewhere, the only people able to access the survey would be Tumblr users. I further attempted to control by including several fandom related and The Silmarillion-specific questions in the demographic portion of the survey. Anyone who completed the demographic portion would have been well aware of the nature of the survey by the end, regardless of how poorly they understood the original survey posting. These measures, of course, did not stop everyone. I had a few respondents who submitted only the demographic portion or the demographic and general fandom portions. Luckily, due to the Google Sheets functions, such responses were relatively easy to filter out.

Results

(Figure 1. A chart observing, out of all 16,065 answers, how many equate to “I don’t know?” Under 18: 14.24%, 18-25: 5.9%, 26-30: 7.43%, 31-40: 9.17%, 41-50: 13.63%, 51-60: 7.3%, 61-70: 9.7%)

(Figure 2. A table comparing different categories of people and what percentage of them are unfamiliar with the term “Isekai”; a Japanese term which is most commonly defined as “a trope in which a character somehow travels from the mundane ‘real’ universe into a fictional one.” 23.08% of native English speakers are unfamiliar with the term. 27.07% of non-native English speakers are unfamiliar with the term. 20% of respondents who live in Asia are unfamiliar with the term.)

(Figure 3. A table comparing different categories who mention that “Angst” (defined in fandom context as “dramatic, serious, and sometimes dark”) is an everyday word in German. 12.73% of German speakers mentioned it. 1.38% of people who either do not speak German, or did not mention it in their language background, mentioned it.)

(Figure 4. A table comparing the attitudes of different age groups to the terms “anti-ship” and “pro-ship”. These terms are hotly debated in fandom. Those on the anti side of the debate define anti-ship as “being morally against abuse and pedophilia,” and pro-ship as “excusing abuse and pedophilia in fandom.” Those on the pro side of the debate define anti-ship as “puritanical and chronically online people who can’t separate reality and fiction” and pro-ship as “letting people ship whatever they want and separating reality from fiction.” Those under 18 are 4% anti, 4% pro, and 92% neutral. Those from 18-25 are 2.44% anti, 29.27% pro, and 68.29% neutral. Those from 26-30 are 0% anti, 33.67% pro, and 66.33% neutral. Those from 31-40 are 2.2% anti, 26.37% pro, and 71.43% neutral. Those from 41-50 are 0% anti, 46.15% pro, and 53.85% neutral. Those from 51-60 are 12.5% anti, 37.5% anti, and 50% neutral. Those from 61-70 are 0% anti, 50% pro, and 50% neutral (although, admittedly, there are only two respondents in that group.))

(Figure 5. A chart that shows the rate at which respondents cringed (using phrases such as “please don’t make me define this,” “oh god,” and “Nuh uh. Sorry man. Sweet baby rays good lord.”*) within their responses while defining “Omegaverse” (an erotica subgenre within fandom based on outdated wolfpack dynamics. Very popular, but also very taboo). Under 18: 16%, 18-25: 6.71% 26-30: 7.07%, 31-40: 6.45%, 41-50: 12%, 51-60: 12.5%)

*All real responses I received

(Figure 6: A chart exploring the differences between who can correctly identify the difference between the terms “peredhel” (half-elf, singular) and “peredhil” (half-elves, plural) based on how long they have been in the fandom. Those who have been in the fandom for less than a year are 31.71% correct and 14.63% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 1-2 years are 71.67% correct and 10% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 3-4 years are 74.44% correct and 7.78% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 5-9 years are 65.93% correct and 9.89% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 10-14 years are 73.85% correct and 12.31% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 15-19 years are 76.92% correct and 11.59% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 20-24 years are 69.57% correct and 13.04% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 25-29 years are 100% correct and 0% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 30-34 years are 75% correct and 0% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 35-39 years are 100% correct and 0% incorrect.)

(Figure 7a. A chart observing who sees the phrase “Fëanor did nothing wrong as ironic” divided by age. Under 18: 23.53%, 18-25: 35.77%, 26-30: 36.9%, 31-40: 42.67%, 41-50: 22.22%, 51-60: 37.5%)

(Figure 7b. A chart observing the percentages of age groups who used the phrase “tongue-in-cheek” while answering the above question. 18-25: 1.84%, 26-30: 2.04%, 31-40: 9.78)

Discussion

            Observing these results, I can see that, while there is some level of stratification by age and length of time spent in the fandom, it is not nearly as dramatic as I had expected it to be. These results strongly demonstrate the power of communities of practice. These people, across ages and continents, communicate so often and so deeply, that nearly all terms are understood to the same degree by everyone, and nearly everyone has similar stances on divisive pan-fandom debates.

            Were I to do this study again, or a similar study in the future, I would probably narrow the purview by a lot. I would ask fewer questions (or at least, only ask questions of a single type), compare them against only one demographic question, and sincerely consider making them multiple choice. That being said, I do not regret this survey having short answer questions. There were several definitions of several terms that I never could have come up with in a million years. Synthesizing the short answers may have taken more effort on my part, but I learned a lot about my fandom.

@proship-anti-discussion (ship debate was mentioned)

[paradoxic-ally]

Nevermore Theory

Alright, I’m finally going to go out and post my own Nevermore theory, now that the comic has returned. A lot of the things I wanna talk about are already pretty popular subjects of theory in the fandom (“Who killed Annabel Lee?”), but I wanna tackle a few points I rarely see addressed.

I am going to put all of this under the general thesis of: “The deans don’t lie, but they deliberately mislead.”

Unscientifically speaking, every time the deans come out and tell us something, my bullshit senses go off big time! I want to focus on two main claims they have made, that influence how we view the story in a major way: Who killed Annabel Lee and What’s up with the new life?

1. Who killed Annabel Lee?

I feel it necessary to type out the exact wording the deans use, because it is often misread or misremembered. Don’t worry, that is by design!

“Betrayed by the one who loved you above all else.”

“Who loved YOU” and not “Who YOU loved”. I think that distinction is very important and easily missed. Especially since the expressed purpose of the deans in that scene is to drive a wedge in Annabel and Lenore’s relationship. Now, you could easily argue, that this still points to Lenore. The two of them are the No. 1 relationship to root for after all. But this is where the second part of the statement comes in: “above all else”. In my opinion, Lenore has already demonstrated that she can and will put other things above Annabel Lee (divorce arc anyone?). I don’t doubt, that Lenore and Annabel were a lot closer when they were still alive, but I also don’t doubt that this is one of Lenore’s core personality traits. The other thing I want to point out is, that you don’t have control about “who loves you the most.” You would hope it is your significant other, or maybe a good friend or even a parent. But you can’t really know that. Which brings me to another part of this theory: “Well, who did it then?”

Short answer, I don’t know, but I have a hunch.

First off, I kind of dismissed her father as a suspect by personal preference. We don’t have a lot to go off here, but I think he is too dismissive of her to fit the description. I’m particularly thinking about the scene where he gushed to “Leo” about boats, rather than playing wingman for his daughter.

My main suspect is instead Annabel’s nameless suitor. We don’t know much about him, other than he has already challenged Annabel multiple times (showing dedication). She says: “I’ve defeated the poor fellow a dozen times now, but he is terribly persistent.” Her father has promised him, that at the end of the season he can marry Annabel if she hasn’t found a husband by then. I can imagine how angry he might be, if that plan doesn’t shake out and she gets engaged to another man, right before he finally gets his wish.

Coming back to the deans, I think we can find that they very deliberately chose their words to lead to a false conclusion. Annabel might know who she loves above all else, but she can’t know who would love her in that way. She is left to make assumptions and we along with her. The words “love” and “betrayal” point to someone close to her, and since she died on her wedding day we are lead to a most likely suspect. That’s how we skip over the precise details of the claim. And the deans have never even uttered a lie.

2. What about the new life?

“If you survive these exams you’ll get a chance at a new life.”

That’s the first claim we get from the deans about the prize waiting at the end of nevermore academy. And it is frustratingly vague. Luckily, we already know the first trick they pulled with that one, so we can take that as a guide to analyse it further. This short little claim lets you read almost anything you want into it. It doesn’t specify how many students are allowed to claim the price or, even more importantly, how tose exams will be designed. By leaving out information the automatic assumption is: “Everyone who passes the exams, gets a chance at a new life.” However if these exams ever are designed to only allow a single winner, then only one person would be able to clear the win condition. Nobody would think about any of this, when presented with such an opportunity. It’s why all hell breaks loose when they finally reveal the reward will only be granted to one student. Speaking of which, their wording changes a bit in that reveal.

“…and to the one lucky student amongst you who will be born again.”

Born again is new. It implies at least to some degree a fresh start. Not simply a continuation from where you left off. But that’s another problem. We do not know a single thing about what that new life entails. The students are too caught up in the urgency of the whole situation. They are dead. The deans are offering a way to return. That is all that matters. We hear what we want to hear. I think if we were to ask every student, every one would want something different out of the new life. I doubt Pluto would like to return to how things were.

What the new life looks like is impossible to say, and it is once more designed that way. I still would like to theorise. My personal pet theory is, that you return to the world of the living as a spectre. This is why the deans push students to manifest train their powers. Students with strong spectres are shown favouritisms and exams are designed to eliminate students who haven’t manifested. If you were to return to the world of the living as a human, what good would your spectres do you?

Im conclusion, the deans use our own assumptions against us, by being deliberately vague on important subjects. At the same time, they have yet to outright lie about something. They simply don’t tell you things. To me, that means double checking everything they say. It is kind of like uttering a wish to a djinn or dealing with fae. Be really mindful of the wording and how it may be used against you.

Thanks for reading this far and please let me know if I have missed something, especially if it debunks some of my claims. I am happy to hear your thoughts :)

[yayakoishii]

sleep it off | Ace x Reader

Fandom: One Piece

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x GN! Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Genre/Tags: Fluff, Light Angst, Slight NSFW at the start and end, Suggestive, Established Relationship, kinda crack/silly

Summary: Ace falls asleep in the middle of your first time having sex together.

A/n: I have had this idea for a while but, there were multiple factors I had to consider before I wrote it. So, fair warning, I have no clue how actual narcolepsy works. It would be best if you read this as a silly fic based on his gag. Secondly, I have never written sex or sex adjacent scenes so, really sorry if this is awkward ;-; Other than that, I hope you enjoy reading this !!

also available on ao3!

"You better fuck me hard, commander," you whispered into Ace's ear. His grip under your thighs tightened at the words and he lightly growled, holding you even closer against him. You tightened your arms around his neck when he started walking back to his room with you in his arms. "Fuck, Ace, that's…"

You trailed off, cheeks burning at how hot it was that Ace could pick you up like you weighed nothing. Like yes, you knew he had to be crazy strong considering he's the second division commander, but having him actually pick you up was enough to give you butterflies in the stomach. Even the wolf whistles and jeers behind you only fuelled to make you flush harder, the arousal pooling in your gut.

Ace slammed the door shut with his foot when you finally reached and up close, you could make out his pupils dilated with lust as he gently placed you on the bed. You crawled backwards to give him space and Ace immediately hovered over you on all fours, trapping you underneath him.

"You don't know how long I've waited to have you underneath me like this," he looked equally flushed. In fact, Ace's eyes seemed to have a quality to them that said that he couldn't quite believe he actually had you.

"Mm, I think I have an idea," you teased him, hand reaching up to card through the bottom most hair.

"You will be the death of me," he groaned and sat up, straddling your waist just so that his weight wasn't on you. "Don't you think it's unfair that I'm the only one who's half naked here?"

"You're always half naked, though?" You laughed even as you removed the form fitting top you had worn solely for the purpose of enticing Ace into having sex with you. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just my luck that I get blessed by the sight of your abs every day without having to do anything for it."

"Returning the favour every now and then seems like a fair deal," Ace's eyes were trained on your body intensely. It made you squirm and blush harder but you focused on throwing your shirt over to the chair a distance away. (You missed but that was a problem for later, right?) "God, you are beautiful."

Without waiting for a response (not that you had one other than to feel pleased at his words), Ace dived right at your neck, pressing open, wet kisses at the juncture of your neck and shoulders. Every part of him was so much warmer and hotter than you expected and it felt like his lips were leaving a trail of fire. You keened at the feeling, back arching as he marked the way down to your chest and over the nipples.

"Ace–" you exhaled shakily, fingers automatically tightening in his hair. He went lower and lower, down your stomach and then suddenly, you felt him drop on top of you. His weight trapped your legs, his face poking into your stomach. The sudden sensation startled you and you propped yourself up on your elbows to look at Ace. "Ace?"

To your surprise, he had fallen asleep. Of course, you were aware of Ace's sudden bouts of sleep and found them endearing at times, but right now, you could only stare at his calm, sleeping face for all of two seconds before you burst into giggles.

He really fell asleep in the middle of your first time. You smiled softly at him as you scrambled to pull him up and settled him beside you in his bed. Although someone else might have been upset, you were too in love with this fiery idiot to not find it cute and hilarious. You gently pressed a kiss on top of his forehead and leaned over to turn off the light after you put on your shirt.

Curling up next to Ace's warm body, you fell asleep.

•

When you woke up, the bed was empty. It was just you and the crumpled up sheets that you had thrown off yourself after Ace made you sweat all night with his insanely high body heat. You sleepily sat up and looked around but it looked like Ace had already left.

He was a division commander, so he was busy a lot of the time. You didn't think too much about it and trudged back to your room and freshened up with a nice bath. It was normal to even miss him at breakfasts sometimes so you didn't realise until half the day had passed that Ace was avoiding you.

Unbeknownst to you, Ace had woken up and remembered what happened last night. He was mortified and embarrassed and didn't know how to face you after that. He fell asleep in the middle of sex?!! How could he have fallen asleep in the middle of the one thing he had wanted to do so desperately for months now? And you had even gone all out yesterday, dressing to seduce him (not that you needed it, but it sure had helped speed things up) so for him to fall asleep like that… You must be so upset with him!

Ace just ran out and started on his work, avoiding everyone else as much as he could. The other commanders were giving him suggestive looks or asking him how it was and all Ace could stammer out were nervous lies. There was no way he could let anyone find out what had actually happened. They would never let him live it down.

Of course, he already knew that he couldn't hide it forever. After all, you were definitely upset with him and might even break-up with him and then everyone would know what had happened the night before. And then Ace would have to jump off the Moby Dick in mortification and also as an apology to you.

"You're not being very subtle," Marco's comment made Ace freeze. The two of them were currently going through some data compiled by the recent investigation team. Outside, the sun was starting to dip beneath the horizon. "Did something happen with (y/n)?"

"Uh, no, why would you think that?" Ace didn't think he was this bad at lying. Maybe he was just terrible when it came to things related to you. Even he knew that his nervous smile at Marco wasn't convincing anyone, not even himself.

"Avoiding your lover after you finally have sex with them, for one," Marco said pointedly without looking up, "is a sure sign that something's not right. What is it? Was it bad? Did you have a fight?"

"I kinda wish it was that," Ace admitted, giving up on the papers in front of him and also on trying to hide what happened. Marco could see through him a bit too much.

"That bad?" Marco finally looked up with a raised eyebrow. "I'm curious what could make you say that but, regardless of whether you want to tell me or not, I'd say you better figure it out soon. (Y/n) is looking really upset, you know."

"I…" Ace sighed and buried his face in his hands. You were the best thing to happen to him. He had liked you for so, so long and when you accepted his confession (that had been a complete disaster too, what with a bar set on fire, his bloody knuckles and the bloody tooth you had found in your hair), it had felt a lot like a dream. You liked him back too and said yes even though he fucked up the confession. But now he had gone and fucked up again. You deserved better than all this, right? "I need to fix this. But I don't know if I can, or how to even."

"You could start by apologising for whatever you did wrong," Marco suggested.

"How do you know it was my mistake?" Ace pouted. Marco just smiled in amusement as he looked back to his papers again.

"Doesn't take a genius to figure out it wasn't (y/n)," he answered. "An apology and your honest feelings would help. I don't know anyone who would accept and forgive you as easily and quickly as (y/n) does."

Ace sat there in silence for a few seconds, thinking over the words. You deserved better, yes, but all that meant was that he had to better himself. It's not like he would just give you up. After all that time he had spent on trying to get you to like him back, he sure as hell wasn't giving you up without fighting for it. He would beg on his knees if that's what you needed, but he would get you to stay.

"Um, Marco?" Your voice startled Ace and his head snapped towards the door where you were standing nervously. "Could I borrow Ace for a few minutes?"

"Of course," the first division commander flashed you an easy smile. "Just make sure he comes back. He still has quite a bit to finish."

"I'll do it," Ace grumbled as he got up. You had come to him. You had made the first move. A part of him was sure that you were going to suggest a break-up but he told himself that he was jumping to conclusions. You wouldn't do that… right? "Let's go to my room to talk?"

"I was going to suggest that," you smiled weakly at Ace. The two of you walked in awkward silence; it was so unnatural and Ace hated it. Your relationship stood on the basis of your friendship and the ease with which you treated each other.

Once inside the room, Ace closed the door behind him and gestured for you to sit on his bed. You did so and Ace settled down next to you. Silence rang in the room for a few more seconds.

"Did–"

"Are–"

The two of you abruptly cut-off.

"You go first," Ace said hurriedly. You worried your lower lip between your teeth before you spoke again.

"Did I do something wrong?" Your voice was small. Ace had never heard you speak in such an unsure manner. You were fidgeting, playing with your fingers nervously. "You've been avoiding me all day, Ace…"

"I'm…!" Ace reddened in embarrassment. Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned to face you properly before he spoke. "I'm the one who made a mistake. I have been avoiding you out of embarrassment but, you deserve better than that. You deserve a proper apology for last night–"

"Apology?" You were confused. "For last night?"

"Yeah, I," Ace was confused by your confusion. Weren't you upset with him?

"There's nothing you need to apologise for last night, though?" You tilted your head in question. "An apology for avoiding me today would make sense but… why are you apologising for yesterday?"

"Aren't… you upset?" Ace flushed, looking down at his own lap. "That I fell asleep in the middle of our… y'know."

There was silence for a few seconds before you burst out laughing. Ace looked up in surprise, finding you laughing through watery eyes.

"You thought I was upset about that?" You were giggling and Ace didn't really understand it but it didn't look like you were upset about it. "Here I was, worried that I did something wrong and that you didn't want me anymore and you were avoiding me because you thought I was upset you fell asleep?"

"So, you aren't upset?" Ace asked, bewildered at your reaction. You beamed at him and shook your head then folded up your legs to inch closer to him. You straddled him and sat yourself on his lap and Ace automatically wrapped his arms around you so that you wouldn't fall.

"Why would I be upset, silly?" You smiled at him, eyes soft and full of love. "I admit that it was shocking but it honestly just made me laugh. It was unexpected but it's nothing so bad that you need to hide from me, Portgas D. Ace. I knew what I was signing up for when we started dating. Honestly, I'm just glad you fall asleep in moments like these instead of on the battlefield."

"Hey!" Ace weakly protested but it died down the moment you cupped his cheeks in your palms and kissed the tip of his nose. You were smiling so happily at him and suddenly, all his embarrassment and mortification from before felt silly. "Does this mean I get a second chance to prove myself?"

"I wouldn't be against a redo of last night," you trailed a finger down his chest as you spoke, "but don't you have some work to finish, commander–oof!"

Ace didn't wait to hear you finish speaking before he toppled you onto your back, his frame hovering over yours just like last night. You didn't resist and pulled him in for a kiss. Only after a few minutes of making out did you look up at him slyly, flush and with spit-slicked cherry red lips.

"I guess it can wait for later, hm?"

°•❀•°

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@toertchen | @boomboom-tanjiro2019 | @katiemrty | @writingmysanity | @akaashi-todorki

[cephalofrog]

been playing rain world and thinking about saint again recently

full rain world spoilers below

I hate the "saint is the triple affirmative" interpretation. hate even more how it appears to have become the accepted truth in the fandom

first off, my dislike for this interpretation is not logical. it isn't something I can be convinced out of using canon evidence, because my reason for not interpreting the story this way is not evidence-based, it's because I don't find it to be a satisfying conclusion to the entire story of rain world.

but here's some rambling about logical reasons why it doesn't make sense anyway

if saint was created as the triple affirmative by sliver, that makes them extremely old - they came into existence LONG before spearmaster's campaign even started. if they came into existence with the purpose of ascending iterators, they sure took a long time to ascend any iterators - like okay, travel time and whatever, but you'd think they'd get at least one or two more before all the iterator comms break down entirely post-spearmaster. SM and hunter managed to get from SRS and NSH to the pebbs/moon area pretty quickly.

they also have fur, which seems to be an adaptation for the cold judging by the lizards in the campaign, despite the world not being cold at the point at which they were created. this could be easily explained by sliver just being very forward-thinking, but...

if sliver created saint, their entire triple affirmative thing comes across as incredibly thoughtless, which imo contrasts with sliver being forward-thinking enough to make saint immune to cold. like they finally created the magical rat that will ascend them all but didn't even think to send out a message beforehand like "hey guys I'm trying something new if I send out the triple affirmative and die right after this it worked and you should be visited by a flying green dude with an ascension beam at some point in the future"

there's also the thing of... wait so how does this whole iterator ascension work again? cause saint's timeline loops. after they ascend, they end up back in sky islands, with the iterators back where they were. this could be explained by "later playthrough loops aren't canon and pebbs and moon are ascended if you got em" but there's literally a specific gameplay mechanic - carrying stuff in your stomach between campaigns - meant to make it clear that the campaign is a loop.

anyway. the real reason I hate the theory isn't related to any of this - it's that it absolutely destroys pebbles and moon's story, thematically speaking.

sliver of straw's triple affirmative/death is a random event that could mean basically anything. the futility pebbles felt around trying to solve the great problem caused him to assign meaning to sliver's death that wasn't necessarily there - they found the solution, and it was self-destruction. that's what they were trying to tell everyone. it wasn't a random event, the triple affirmative was real. one of the bugs in the maze found the way out, and he's going to prove it to everyone by following them and escaping.

and that's what leads to the events of the main story. this random event - this horrible tragedy, the death of someone who seemed to mean so much to so many people - was assigned meaning by someone desperate to prove that his entire existence, and the existences of everyone around him, are not futile. the ancients created the iterators without knowing whether the answer to the great problem could ever be found, and this is the result of that.

a nihilistic, hopeless person, abandoned by his creators to work forever on an unsolvable problem, assigns meaning to a random tragedy, and tunnel visions on what he has to believe is what he's been looking for - because it is an unimaginable understatement to say that the alternative would be worse than death. and then, in his self-destructive desperation, he kills his sibling* and dooms himself to the slowest, most painful death imaginable. this is the legacy of the ancients' dead society, the result of all of their stupid ideals and obsession with karmic perfection. (*as far as he knows)

but saint being the triple affirmative undermines all of that. not only does it make sliver's death less of a tragedy and more of a noble sacrifice - like yeah, sure, they were loved, but solving the great problem was far more important - but it also makes pebbles look less desperate and more just kinda stupid. like you thought that the solution was self-destruction? nah, it's a magical flying rat. in this version of the story, pebbles wasn't striving for something that didn't exist, he was just not smart enough to figure out the real solution.

even outside of canon evidence, that sucks. it causes pebbles' story to go from being about how you should value the people around you over the impossible striving that life always seems to expect from you or you're gonna end up hurting them and yourself to how you should just be smarter to find the right solution to all of your problems.

anyway as for my own interpretation of saint, I think that the campaign is just a representation of what it's like to be an echo. reliving the moments that led up to your failed ascension over and over, reaching maximum karma and gaining superpowers because you're just that karmically pure - you are a saint, after all - and then letting your ego consume you at the crucial moment of ascension, over and over again, cycling into infinity. (I don't think they actually had superpowers prior to ascending, I just think that they kinda thought of themselves so highly that they thought they should have those powers.) then contrast this with the world as the age of the iterators and the rain finally ends, and you have an unchanging echo reliving the same few cycles over and over contrasted with a world that is, at last, changing and moving on.

yeah it doesn't make sense with the joint iterator dialogue in rubicon (at least, the final line doesn't make sense). I don't care. it's what makes me happy as an interpretation. you can pry my morally dubious hypocritical ego-driven saint from my cold dead hands