#I’m on my own pursuit of justice here

[flakops]

warrior cats hot takes be upon ye!

[vigilskeep]

my friend has just started origins!!!! and whilst i am so excited, they stumped me pretty much immediately with a question about the fade in the mage origin:

if the fade is pure idealism wtf is this dude (spirit) doing seeking perfection (in crafting a weapon). Why doesn't he imagine himself or the weapon to be perfect?

I’m no fade expert but i would assume because interactions with the fade are just inherently different for a mortal visiting it versus a spirit that lives there full time?

well here’s how i like to think about it: in your imagination, you can make up whatever you want. like, make up a dragon right now. (fuck yes there is now a dragon in your mind, you’re welcome.) you can decide it’s red or green or black. you can decide whether it breathes fire or something else, whether it has two legs or four, whether it’s inspired by different cultural ideas of what a dragon is. in a world of imagination, you have the power to make everything as you will it.

okay, you can imagine whatever you want! great! since you can do that, please now imagine for me the perfect expression of the idea of a dragon.

that’s harder, right? you can’t just decide what the perfect dragon is. you probably haven’t thought about dragons enough to decide what all the best dragon-y qualities are. and lots of different people have different ideas of what a dragon looks like. even if you were able to settle on whatever the perfect dragon is to you, it probably wouldn’t be anyone else’s perfect dragon. because ideals are subjective!

the spirit of valour from a mage warden’s harrowing is one of the first spirits we’re introduced to in the series, and we’re immediately asked to question whether it really is what it says on the tin. our temporary companion, mouse, sneers that he never thought it worthy of its name, and with enough willpower our own warden can demand to know how valour can truly claim to be valour and not a demon when it wants to fight you before helping you. before it decides to respect your valour and will by daring to ask the question, the spirit reacts with real anger. it seems like you have touched a nerve!

the spirit is attempting to create the purest expression of the ideal of valour. is there a pure expression of the ideal of valour? is valour an ideal at all, a good quality that a spirit should represent? think about how much brutality and violence there is in thedas. is valour “good”? does “true” valour, to you, come in the form of a weapon? could this spirit’s pursuit of the perfect expression of valour be entirely fruitless because it has decided that expression would come in the form of a weapon? the fade draws not from Real And Objective Virtues Delivered By God but from the emotions and values of people in the real world. not just any real world, but thedas. why does the spirit of valour think it can best represent valour with the purest expression of combat? with a sword in the hand? well, maybe because knights and templars believe it. maybe because children taught to idolise knights and templars believe it all their lives. does that make it true?

spirits are more complicated characters than existing as the authorially correct “true” embodiment of what they are trying to represent. when dragon age presents a spirit to you, the franchise about how truth is never objective is not suddenly saying to you: this is what justice definitively is. this is what compassion definitively is. this what valour definitely is. the franchise about how truth is never objective is saying: this is the scraps of people’s ideas about that value, coalesced and given life into a creature that is striving to embody it. a creature that thinks it knows what it is and can best represent it. but we often see multiple spirits of the same virtue, for example, and they’re not all the same. you can’t be all aspects of wisdom in one being. which inherently means that none of them have gotten it “right”. that’s distressing to the spirits themselves! but even in the fade, ideas are just not so simple that you can get it “perfect”, no matter how hard you try

(as a general aside, it’s also important to remember that another reason the power of will is not limitless, even in the fade, is because you’re not the only one here with a will. in my understanding, this is why the stretches of fade we visit usually have some kind of demon overlord “ruling” them. that’s the creature that has been able to grow strong enough to impose its will on this region of the fade and shape it in its image. since this isn’t physically real, what you’re really doing by fighting it, as mouse explains during your harrowing, is setting your will against that demon’s. as a visitor, you’re generally able to get away with the combat ability you’re capable of in the real world, because it’s so easy for you to believe in what you know so well. but there are limits to how far you can push that! you can’t just decide that you magically insta-kill the boss or that there’s suddenly a dragon on your side because you believe so; the demon has a few thoughts about that of its own! so spirits, who tend to be weaker, fewer in number, and less territorial, are not necessarily able to pull the classic kid’s make-believe game move of “well, i create the most-powerful-ever sword of True Valour, and smite you with it!” because there’s usually something bigger and meaner running the show that says it’s the most powerful thing in the room.)

these explanations are more my interpretation than Definitively Canon Fact (how thematically fitting!) but it’s my read on the situation anyway and i hope it helps!! or is at least an interesting perspective lmao

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (II)

Chapter 2 : ‘Through me the way to the City of Woe’

Hi, everyone!!! Here we go for a second chapter! Drama is upon us, the plot is plotting! Let me also introduce you to Samantha, Andrew’s partner… I’m sure you’re going to love her a lot…

I hope you like this series! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 4510

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Through me the way to the City of Woe, Through me the way to everlasting pain, Through me the way among the lost. Justice moved my maker on high. Divine power made me, Wisdom supreme, and primal love. Before me nothing but things eternal, And eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, you who enter here.

Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy : Inferno, Canto III, 1321

Andrew was tired, but then he was tired all the time.

As he prepared himself a strong coffee that morning, Sam was busy on her phone, probably going through her social media or reading the news. It didn’t really bother him, he was quiet in the morning anyway, liked to start slowly, to emerge into the world in a silent and gentle way. He was naturally a night owl, it was a struggle every morning to get out of bed early. At least, before the new year of classes started, he could go to work later, no classes schedule early these days.

Elwood was sleeping again. After an early walk around the neighbourhood, the dog was back on his comfortable bed, curled in a black and white ball, softly snoring. Andrew looked at his dog with love, refraining from petting his head, choosing to let him rest instead. He was a good boy, he deserved all the sleep he wanted.

He thought of you as he poured some coffee in his favourite mug. The meeting to distribute classes for the upcoming year was today. Of course, there had been one already before summer, so lecturers could begin preparing their classes if they needed. But some new arrivals would change a few things, some negotiations between lecturers too. Andrew himself was going to switch a class with Colm, another professor from the English department, inheriting a class about Yeats’s poetry instead of biblical studies. If he wasn’t against some religious metaphors – and given the weight of religion in Ireland, Andrew reckoned that he could never escape from it anyway – he was happy to avoid teaching about it.

But you were new at Trinity, and he wanted you to enjoy yourself during your first year. Upon his arrival, Andrew had lacked a guide, someone who would explain to him how things worked, especially the more selfish and ruthless side of the institution. If Trinity was wrapped in traditions, it was also filled with professors who cared little about their colleagues thriving in their academic pursuits, especially if that meant compromising with their own wants. Some professors were kinder than others, more willing to compromise. He’d help you navigate through the meetings, and hoped you could get to choose your classes too…

“My mother wants to invite us on Sunday,” Sam broke the silence that covered Andrew’s kitchen. A blank silent, an emotionless one; neither uncomfortable of comfortable, one that was there to settle on the furniture and in the corners of the room and simply lay there, undisturbed.

“I can’t on Sunday, I’m helping Jon with his film project, and then I’ll have lunch at my parents’. You were supposed to come to lunch with me.”

Andrew turned to Samantha then, sipping on his coffee and grabbing an apple as a breakfast. She said nothing, but her frown spoke volume. She was annoyed, maybe even angry.

“It was planned, baby. I’m sorry, we can go next week.”

“I think I’ll go see my parents anyway,” she said, her tone cold and firm, the one Andrew knew meant that he had no chance of changing her mind. He heaved a sigh, rubbed at his tired eyes with the back of his hand.

“As you wish, I’ll warm my mom.”

“You’re really not coming with me?” she asked, and her eyes were throwing daggers at him.

Andrew bit on the inside of his cheek, his stare growing sterner as well.

“I had planned to spend time with my family, and my brother needs my help. I’ll come with you another time.”

We had planned to spend time with my family… but he didn’t say that out loud, unwilling to start an argument.

She mumbled something under her breath, turning to her phone again; something about ‘a useless film’, and Andrew didn’t want to hear her comment, he knew he wouldn’t like it.

“Won’t you be late for work?” she asked, her voice calmer again, but the remark annoyed Andrew anyway.

“I don’t have classes, and the meeting is at 1pm, I can take my time.”

She could have added a comment on his time blindness, but she didn’t, and he was grateful for it. He relaxed a bit thanks to that.

“Busy day for you today?” he asked, and she heaved a sigh in response.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll come over tonight. Besides, we might go for drinks with the guys from the tech company we’re working with at the moment. Do you remember? I told you about them.”

“Of course, I remember, honey,” he answered with a soft, tender voice.

“I still haven’t finished that bloody logo for them…”

Andrew was brought back to their university days then, when she studied art and he studied literature. When she longed to paint all day long and he fumbled through notebooks and broken guitar strings. When they both had dreams that were too big for them. They had made a choice, had decided to finish their degrees, and not to make the hardest of the sacrifices that would have opened the gates to a life filled with art. Andrew had changed major from music to English during his first year, had passed his exams instead of spending his time in a studio. Samantha had specialized in design and publicity, and had given up her brushes that painted the coasts of Ireland in favour of simpler shapes created on a screen. Andrew couldn’t say that he had regrets about it. He liked his life like this, on the outskirts of Dublin, sharing his love for poetry, writing his own poems, waking up most days by Samantha’s side, even if after all these years she still didn’t want them to move in together, and he couldn’t fathom why. He loved his job beyond measure, always finding a fascinating detail to study, something new to read that would shake his world. He still sang with friends when he felt like it, sometimes wrote music to fit his poetry. He had a full life, a happy one, he couldn’t complain, really.

He thought about the engagement ring he had bought once, when she wasn’t ready to get married. She had said no, it had broken something inside of him. But he loved her, he would be patient, he could wait, and anyway, that was years ago…

“You’ll do an amazing job, you always do,” he encouraged her, but she rolled her eyes.

“You’re too sweet sometimes,” her words were spoken as criticism, not as a compliment. He clenched his jaw.

“Anyway, I’ll be pretty busy too, today,” he said, even though she hadn’t asked about his plans for the day, but then she hardly ever asked. She listened when he spoke about it though, and that ought to be enough. “We have our final meeting to select the classes we’re going to teach. I’m a little worried for Y/N, though.”

“Why? I’m sure she can take care of herself.”

Sam’s tone was a little dry still, he wasn’t sure if she were jealous or simply still annoyed.

“Trinity isn’t always filled with the nicest people. A lot of academics are quite selfish sometimes. I want her to have a nice time teaching. She seems very nice. And I arrived only last year, I know how stressful this situation can be.”

Sam nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.

Andrew threw the core of the fruit in the bin, finished his coffee, washed his mug. He didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to fight. Still, for some reason, he really wanted to talk about you. He had been worried upon learning that someone would share his office now, and he was relieved to find that you were kind, smart, and everything but annoying. He hoped the two of you could become friends.

“Y/N said that she found a poster for the office too! Can’t wait to see what she’s chosen.”

“Nice,” Sam nodded, and Andrew knew she wasn’t paying attention anymore.

He let out a long exhale through his nose, and she didn’t notice. He grabbed his water bottle, crossed the room, stopped to drop a peck on her head as he walked by her.

“Have a nice day, babe. I love you.”

“You too. Love you.”

She didn’t look up from her phone, and it sounded automatic, the way she answered. Andrew remembered when they started dating, about seven years ago. Both in their early twenties, young and naïve and heads full of dreams. She used to stare at him for hours, she used to look him in the eyes every time she said she loved him, to make sure he knew she meant it. He wasn’t so sure she meant it every time she said it anymore…

He pushed the thoughts away; he reckoned that this was his busy, anxious brain talking. Instead, he put on his shoes and his denim jacket, grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He stopped thinking about Sam, and thought about you and the poster you had promised you would bring today, and he walked out of his flat.

The meeting was over, and you seemed happy. Actually, you seemed ecstatic. And it made Andrew happy as well.

He had managed to get the class about Yeats, as planned. He had helped you through the meeting, discreetly, in whispers, but it was enough for you to secure classes you were interested in teaching. This year, you would teach three classes bound directly to your research, a general introduction to 19th century English literature, another about revolutionary writings in which you planned on including a fair share of pamphlets about women’s rights, and another about 19th century novels. You were buzzing with excitement as you walked back to your office, chatting with Andrew and his good friend Colm.

“I have so many things to prepare, but also… I feel very confident in these subjects,” you grinned at the two men.

“You can’t be happier than Andy finally teaching only classes he wanted,” Colm laughed, bright and loud, throwing his head back like a child despite the fact that he was middle-aged man.

Andrew nodded, heaving a relieved sigh.

“I thought Lydia was about to make a scandal…”

“She didn’t want you to leave one of the difficult classes. You’re too popular a teacher for that.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“I definitely am not.”

“You are too! Students love him,” Colm added, turning towards you. “And I will easily admit he’s a good professor, great at explaining things, and always very calm. But let’s be honest, the fact that most of our students are attracted to him helps a lot.”

Andrew looked away, trying to hide that he was blushing, but you laughed anyway.

“Such a pretty mug!” Colm teased, trying to grab Andrew’s chin, but he merely pushed his friend away, laughing.

“Quit your nonsense, would you?” Andrew laughed. “Don’t listen to him, Y/N. He loves talking shite about others.”

“That is not true! Y/N! Please, with your feminine point of view… tell him I’m right.”

You chuckled, shied away, but answered anyway.

“Oh, I’m sure Andrew must be popular, yes. I would have definitely preferred staring at his face when I was a student, compared to the old dinosaurs I had to put up with.”

Andrew was blushing so hard, even his ears were turning a bright shade of red, but he couldn’t refrain his grin nonetheless.

“Please, tell me I don’t fall in that category!” Colm protested, making you laugh.

“No… not quite yet. You still have a couple of years ahead of you,” you joked, and Andrew burst into laughter, while Colm mumbled something under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“Well, children, this is my stop, have a good day,” he mumbled, entering his office while Andrew and you continued a bit further.

“I’m glad you’ll give classes you’re interested in,” Andrew said, giving you a warm smile.

“Thank you so much for helping me throughout the meeting. It was… a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, some people here are proper gobshites.”

You laughed at that, entering your shared office.

“Hmm… I have noticed, yes. You seem particularly fond of Ian,” you chuckled, and Andrew rolled his eyes.

“I’m a very peaceful kind of lad, but that arsehole deserves to get some sense being punched into him.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow at that. If you had been teasing, the fact that Andrew had turned more serious as he answered made you intrigued now, rather than playful.

“Really? What did he do?”

Andrew stared at you for a few seconds, wetting his lips before he would answer.

“Nothing illegal, don’t worry. But he’s an arsehole. He will destroy your career and reputation if it serves his interests. Especially if you’re a woman.”

He saw you clenching your jaw at that last remark, and he heaved a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, and he hoped you could see that he meant it.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not you who is at fault. Anyone else I should be cautious about?”

“Mahon, O’Reilly, Evans, Hillstone and Patterson.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow.

“You’ve got a whole list ready,” you pointed out.

“I’ve been here for a year. Fool me once, shame on you…”

You slowly nodded, Andrew sighed again.

“Don’t worry, the rest of the bunch are nice though. Most of them are nice.”

“I’m used to it.”

You shook yourself out of the conversation, a smile growing on your features.

“I have something to show you!”

Andrew frowned a little at that, bending to avoid the lamp hanging from the ceiling as he walked over to your desk. He had grabbed his thermos filled with his favourite brand of tea.

“Really?”

You pulled out a rolled poster, and he laughed.

“Oh! So you did settle on some decoration!” he pointed out, while he opened the buttons of his grey tweed waistcoat. He buried his hand in the pocket of his tweed pants while you fumbled with the empty frame.

He put down his thermos on the edge of your desk, then pushed back a strand of hair that was falling across his eyes, readjusted his glasses upon his nose. You were quick to place the poster in the frame, and you grinned up at him once you were done, right before turning the frame around to show him the poster.

“I love this illustration. I had it hanging in my dorm when I was a student, and then in my first apartment. But my fiancé finds it a little… dark. And he’s not particularly interested in literature so… he doesn’t really get it. Anyway!”

You stopped your little rambling, grabbed the frame, and showed it to him.

Andrew raised a surprised eyebrow, immediately recognising Gustave Doré’s illustration of Dante’s Inferno.

The black and white print showed Virgil and Dante standing on the edge of a precipice, staring at a hurricane carrying the souls of sinners, talking to a couple crying in their everlasting punishment. Andrew had not read the book since his own college days, but he remembered that this was the punishment for those guilty of lust.

“Do you like it? Can I hang it?” you asked, an excited smile he found adorable on your lips. “I thought the black and white would fit your poster quite well.”

“Sure, go ahead. Need help?”

But you were already placing the frame against the wall.

“I have to admit, I’m quite surprised by your choice,” Andrew inspected the print, leaning against your desk, his hands still in his pockets. “I didn’t picture you as a fan of Dante… especially given his… conservative thoughts.”

“I love Inferno. I’m not going to pretend that I love the entirety of the Divine Comedy, but I love Dante’s image of hell. The haunting part of it. The way it is structured. Of course, it’s medieval thinking about issues that have radically changed now, but… It was a long time ago. If I don’t appreciate all of his thoughts, I do admire his imagination. Besides, it was a heavily political book. I’m surprised you don’t give him more credit for that.”

He answered your teasing smile with a genuine one.

“I do remember a little bit of that. Last time I read it, though… I was a student and hadn’t chosen to suffer through it. Besides… I think I was a little too young to understand it fully.”

You nodded.

“I’ve read it many times. I don’t know, there’s something… something about it that draws me in. Not the Christian moral lessons, of course. But just… I don’t know… there’s something fascinating about it. And I often wonder what our version of hell would be today. If we kept the structure, if we kept the place Dante created… how would we view those who are imprisoned there? Would we find their pain justified? Would we find it unfair to punish them like this? And who would we place in there? If we replaced the references to people Dante knew by people from our world, who would be stuck in Hell?”

Andrew pondered on these questions while he kept on listening to you. He had a few names in mind, for sure. He smiled at the thought, didn’t interrupt you while you babbled away about the book, about the things you loved and disliked about it.

“And I love Doré’s illustrations so much! They’re haunting, just like the book. And this one in particular, with Francesca and Paolo… like… their story is so sad, but even Dante was touched by them. Even if the moral in his book is outdated now, goes against what I believe… I’d like to think that we’d turn their story around today, that we wouldn’t condemn their love or include such a warning towards fiction through them, you know… with the whole reference to Arthurian myths and everything… don’t know if you remember that… but anyway… what would we think of them today? I’d like to believe we would find their punishment in hell unfair.”

You trailed off after that. You were nervous when you looked at him, pushing some of your hair behind your ear.

“Sorry for the ramble,” you apologised, but Andrew frowned in response.

“No need to apologise. Why would you?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me at all. Your thoughts are very interesting.”

You blinked at him, as if surprised. You gave him a bright smile, growing a little shy.

“Right, thanks. But we should get back to work.”

Andrew nodded, moved away from your desk and bent again to avoid the lamp hanging from the ceiling.

He looked at you as you stared at the poster for a moment. He was happy you were the one sharing his office, you were getting along well, you were so nice, you were so smart and always seemed to have something interesting to say. He just wanted to talk to you more about this book you loved, but you were right, you both had a lot of work to do. He should focus on this article he was reading before the meeting. Instead, he looked at you for a moment longer. And before his brain pushed the thought away, before Samantha was on his mind again, he didn’t fail to notice how beautiful you were.

He looked for his thermos across his desk, furrowing his brow when he didn’t find it there. He rolled his eyes, annoyed at himself when he remembered where it was.

He walked over to your desk again, reached for it while you were still focused on the poster. But his fingers got clumsy as he threw you a glance, and it fell across your desk. Some of the warm beverage was spilled on the wooden surface.

“Shite! God!”

You turned around at the sound, but Andrew didn’t see your eyes growing slightly round. Instead, as a reflex, he had grabbed your phone and papers to secure them, was already looking for some tissues to clean the mess he had made. You reached for some Kleenex tugged inside your backpack.

“Christ, I’m so sorry,” Andrew profusely apologised, hurrying to clean your desk too. “Sorry, I’m so… long, clumsy limbs… I’m so sorry…”

He cursed at himself under his breath, didn’t look at you, fiercely blushed. Always count on him to ridicule himself…

“That’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you reassured him, and when Andrew looked up again, you had an earnest smile on your lips. “It was just an accident, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry…”

Andrew was so flustered, so embarrassed… He finished cleaning, handed you back your things without making eye-contact, rubbed at his collarbone through his shirt as soon as his hands were empty again.

When he finally looked up once more, you were still smiling.

“It’s nothing, Andrew. It’s merely a little bit of tea. Besides, you’ve saved the most important items on my desk. Nothing to be so upset about.”

The anxious side of him had kicked in, he couldn’t help it. He ran his fingers through his hair several times while he forced out a chuckle.

“I know, sorry…”

Andrew walked back to his desk, looked at his computer screen while he heard you chuckling lightly. He saw in the corner of his eyes that you were fondly shaking your head at him.

Why did he have to always make a fool of himself, huh?

All you wanted to do was to rush home to share the good news with Frank.

You had managed to get interesting classes, including some linked to your research… you were so excited to get to work and begin teaching in October.

When you came home, Frank was on his computer, working. He kissed you when you leaned closer, but focused on his screen again, and so you decided to wait for dinner to talk to him about your day.

You took a shower, prepared dinner. Frank was still working, he only stopped when you told him dinner was ready.

“Smells nice,” he said with a smile, squeezing your hand, and you took the gesture for a silent thank you.

“Thanks!”

Frank remained silent as he started to eat, and so you jumped on the opportunity to speak about your day.

“The meeting about classes and lectures was today. And it went so well!” you started babbling away, Frank looking up at you with an emotionless gaze. “I’ve managed to get topics I’m interested in, and I’m going to teach about my research too! I mean… not directly about my research, but problematics bound to it! I’ll have a class about the male gaze and female gaze dynamics, another about feminism and feminist essays…”

“That’s great, babe.”

“Yeah! Andrew helped me navigate through the meeting quite a bit, and he got the classes he wanted too, so…”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah! And…”

“Could you hand me the salt, please?”

“Sure. I’m also gonna work quite a lot on the 19th century, which is great! I like that period, especially for novels. And that means that I can include lots of female writers, like Austen and the Brontë sisters, obviously… but I can also spend some time on feminist movements, cause that’s really an important century for them.”

“Good, good…”

“Yeah, that’s grand, and…”

He heaved a sigh, and you grew quiet.

“You’re alright?” you asked, trying not to show your disappointment.

You knew that this question meant that the conversation would focus on him for a while, and you might not be able to talk about today again.

“I… Y/N, we need to talk.”

Your heart sank.

That was not the answer you were expecting…

“Talk?”

“About us.”

“What? What do you mean? About the wedding, you mean?”

“No, I…”

He hesitated, looked at you for a moment, before putting his fork down.

“I think we should break up.”

And that was it. Words that were shattering your world spoken like they were easy to let out, like they didn’t mean the earthquake they produced. You merely stared for a moment, waiting for Frank to tell you that he was joking, to take his words back. But he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “But I think we should go our separate ways.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re engaged! We’re going to get married!”

“I’m sorry, Y/N… I know it’s pretty sudden…”

“PRETTY SUDDEN! WE’RE ENGAGED! YOU’RE EATING MY FUCKING FOOD!”

“There’s no need to shout…”

“NO NEED TO SHOUT! OF COURSE, THERE IS A NEED TO SHOUT! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“I’m sorry… but it’s best if we don’t stay together.”

“Why? What happened? You… We’re supposed to get married…”

“I’ve met someone else, Y/N.”

Your eyes grew round, and suddenly all air had left your lungs.

“You… you’re cheating on me?!” you asked, your voice lowering again, your emotions bubbling too much, tears rising to your eyes.

“No! No! No!” Frank defended himself, shaking his head vehemently. “Nothing happened. I swear, nothing happened… but… Y/N, if I am able to feel this way for another woman, then we shouldn’t get married.”

“For how long have you known her? Who is it?”

“You don’t know her. We’ve met through work.”

“How long?”

“Not long… a few weeks.”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow, crossing your arms before your chest.

“A few weeks? You’re trying to make me believe that you want to leave me for a woman you’ve met weeks ago?!”

“You don’t understand, we’re in love…”

You felt your head starting to spin, you had buried it in your hands.

This was a nightmare, just a bad dream, you would wake up and everything would get back to normal, you would tick all the right boxes again…

“What do you mean in love?”

“I love her. I know that it sounds… mental, but I do. And if I can fall in love with someone else like this… then you and I shouldn’t get married. It means that I… that I don’t love you enough to marry you.”

“You’ve got to be joking…”

“I’m not. I’m sorry, but I’m serious.”

“What’s her name?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, no… Do you want to be with her?”

“Yes. But I don’t know if she’ll want to be with me.”

“Really?”

“She’s not single either.”

You laughed then, tears streaming down your face too, unable to cope with the tidal wave of emotions that was drowning you.

Denial, pain, betrayal, anger, sadness…

“I’ll gather my things,” he said, standing up while you started shaking on your chair, struggling to breathe.

You didn’t even notice that he was moving away, that he was packing… you remained frozen on your seat, sobbing, while Frank was gathering fragments of your lives and tearing them away from your space.

He only reappeared about an hour later in the kitchen, the rest of your meal was cold. You hadn’t moved an inch.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

And then he was gone.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hello! I have seen this question debated many times and I wanted to know your take on it cause I find your theories very compelling. Do you think harry should've been in Slytherin? Does he have what it "takes" to be a Slytherin? Is it because of voldemort's soul in him that lead the sorting hat to even suggest he could be in Slytherin? I know this is not one question but I would like to know your opinion on this topic in general!

First of all, thank you for the kind words! 😊

As for the questions, well, you've asked more than one question, but this ask kinda gives me a good reason to talk about how Harry isn't some golden Gryffindor. He actually has some anger issues and he most definitely has what it "takes" for Slytherin.

I'll start with the last question and then go backward, actually.

Did the hat consider Slytherin house just because of the Horcrux?

I don't think so.

I mean, Harry is incredibly clever, magically powerful, and has a cunning streak a mile wide all on his own. I'd actually go as far as to say he's more cunning, ruthless, and resourceful than many of the Slytherins we see in the books. So his own traits definitely are in line with a Slytherin sorting, Horcrux or no Horcrux.

We can try and discern if the Horcrux has an effect on Harry's personality then, and if its influence is seen like that. I'd say that I don't think so either.

Tom and Harry, while they have their similarities, are very different people. They both have a bad temper (although they react to anger differently), but Harry has low self-esteem whereas Tom thinks he is the best (while still hating himself). They're both stubborn, but Tom is much more obsessive than Harry in pursuit of his goals. Harry cares for justice and isn't willing to hurt innocents, Tom doesn't really care about any of that he cares for efficiency. If the Horcrux was influencing Harry's personality, I'd expect to see more similarities between them that go deeper than that.

So, I don't think the hat only offered Slytherin because of the Horcrux. Harry is a Slytherin in his own right.

Does Harry have what it "takes" for Slytherin?

So, I honestly got really excited at the sight of this sentence. See I love Harry, that's no secret. But one of the things I love about him is that he isn't the perfect noble hero. He can be angry, and cruel and ruthless. But he has a sense of justice, he wouldn't wish harm on someone innocent, but someone who did harm to him, or was mean to him or someone he cares for... then Harry can be terrifying when he wants to be.

So, now I'm going to go through some (I have so many more examples of this, and the examples here are mostly books 1-5 since that's what I had on hand) of my collection of quotes showing Harry Potter's vindictiveness and anger.

Harry's response to "have a good summer" at the end of his first year:

“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer.…

(PS, page 221)

This is Harry's (very justified) vindictiveness we see towards the Dursleys many times in the books. He uses the idea of magic to scare them and is gleeful at the thought of Dudley's fear. Harry is very much chill with vengeance.

“…He likes to keep in touch with me, though . . . keep up with my news . . . check if I’m happy. . . .” And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.

(PoA, page 435)

Same as above, just Sirius Black as the threat instead of magic.

Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was no point putting in the dream; he didn’t want it to look as though he was too worried.

(GoF, page 25)

Harry can and does lie and conceal information, even from people he trusts (like Sirius) if he thinks it'll be better not to tell them something. Whether that is for his own image or for what they would think.

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?” It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. “We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and see —” “Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at him. “We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry —” Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. “Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her beady eye.

(CoS, page 259)

And he clearly can lie well, even at 12.

But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules. He wasn’t following Dudley’s diet, and he wasn’t going to let Uncle Vernon stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and then said, “Okay, I can’t see the World Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I’ve got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know — my godfather.” He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon’s face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream.

...

He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn’t go to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle’s mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then — “Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy . . . this stupid . . . this World Cup thing.

(GoF, page 33)

Again, vindictiveness and manipulation of Vernon through fear. Not only that, but Harry can keep his calm and keep his face blank even at 14 for the sake of getting something he wants.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron. . . .” “Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?” “You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry — both he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy — “that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?” Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink. “Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” “Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” said Harry, turning away.

(GoF, page 204)

Harry has a bark (all of the above quotes are Harry having a bark). He can and does shoot back as good as he gets.

Harry isn't all bark though, he's got a bit. Harry's anger is palpable and so very real and I love seeing it:

just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters. “COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!” But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon. “She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast. “She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.”  He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door. “I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.”

(PoA, page 30)

Again, Harry has his vindictive strike. (Obviously, Marge had it coming, but that's also what Harry is thinking).

A boiling hate erupted in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend himself, but to attack . . . to kill.

(PoA, page 339)

“You killed my parents,” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly, but his wand hand quite steady.

(PoA, page 341)

Harry, at 13, was fully willing to kill who he believed led to his parents' deaths. And more:

So what if he had to kill the cat too? It was in league with Black. . . . If it was prepared to die, trying to protect Black, that wasn’t Harry’s business. . . .

(PoA, page 342)

He's willing to kill Hermione's cat if it stands in his way.

Harry stood there, feeling suddenly empty. He hadn’t done it. His nerve had failed him. Black was going to be handed back to the dementors.

(PoA, page 343)

Harry Potter, at 13, laments that he didn't have the nerve to kill Sirius himself. He thinks he should've killed himself. He sees it as a failure that justice would be served by someone other than him.

Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him. . . . If only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse . . . he’d have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching. . . .

(GoF, page 300)

Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing “We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potter ” as he passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight.

(GoF, page 347)

The above quotes are both situations Harry was willing and wishing to curse people. Even Crucio Snape. He's not as noble and righteous and golden as many fans and characters in the books make him out to be...

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking Harry. . . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond . . . and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, Harry was ready — he had his wand . . . let them try . . . He’d love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had once made his life hell —

(OotP, page 11)

And sometimes, Harry wishes for an excuse to fight. An excuse to take his anger out on someone. (He has a lot of anger in him)

Smirking all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy leaned across Harry and seized the largest bowtruckle. “Maybe,” said Malfoy in an undertone, so that only Harry could hear him, “the stupid great oaf’s got himself badly injured.” “Maybe you will if you don’t shut up,” said Harry out of the side of his mouth.

(OotP, page 260)

He's threatening and witty.

“Oh no,” said Hermione, quaking so badly that her knees gave way. “Oh, that was horrible. And he [Gwamp] might kill them [the centaurs] all. . . .” “I’m not that fussed, to be honest,” said Harry bitterly.

(OotP, page 759)

And when it comes to people he doesn't consider innocent, or ones he doesn't care for, even if they never harmed him, Harry is still vindictive. The centaurs mistreated Firenze and Hagrid, so Harry doesn't really care if Gwamp kills them all.

That being said, he is more concerned about Sirius in the above scene.

And he can and does cast unforgivables easily by the later books:

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed “Crucio!” Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as Neville had — she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the golden fountain again — her counterspell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor.

(OotP, page 809)

Harry raised the hawthorn wand beneath the cloak, pointed it at the old goblin, and whispered, for the first time in his life, “Imperio!” A curious sensation shot down Harry’s arm, a feeling of tingling, warmth that seemed to flow from his mind, down the sinews and veins connecting him to the wand and the curse it had just cast. The goblin took Bellatrix’s wand, examined it closely, and then said, “Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!”

(DH, pages 152-453)

As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!” The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. “I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, “you need to really mean it.”

(DH, page 502)

So, I think Harry definitely has what it takes. He's clever, he can be ruthless, and he's capable of lying and hiding secrets when he feels it's the best option. He can hide his emotions when he really needs to, even if he rarely does. Actually, only in book 6, Harry starts sharing everything with Ron and Hermione on Dumbledore’s advice. Up to that point, he kept quite a bit to himself. And when someone wrongs him, he can and often will swing back.

And last but not least, should he have been in Slytherin?

So, this is an interesting question, because "should" can have two meanings.

1. Should've for the story — as in what is best for the narrative.

2. Should've for the character — in universe, which house the sorting hat should've picked.

So, for the first one, my answer is no. Gryffindor was the right choice for Harry for the narrative of the books as they are. Gryffindor is essentially the opposite of Slytherin and represents a choice more than just the traits and values the house represents. It represents Harry's choice even though he could've been a Slytherin he chose Gryffindor. And it's a constant choice with every heroic act. (personally, I'm not the biggest fan of equating school houses with morality, but it's effective in creating a clear narrative)

And while not all Slytherins are evil and not all Gryffindors are good, a Slytherin Harry Potter would've resulted in a very different story than what we have. So, for the story we ended up getting to happen the way it did, yes, Harry needed to be a Gryffindor.

For the second, maybe. Personally, I believe people (even if they aren't hatstalls) have more than one house they can fit into. Harry is both a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, and neither of them is more wrong or right for him as a person. I think deciding which one of them is best for him is up to a coin flip (and when in his life the question is asked).

He can be ruthless and cunning like a Slytherin. Selfless and courageous like a Gryffindor. He values justice like a Gryffindor. But he also has the selective loyalty of Slytherin to their own.

Point is, there isn't really a "should", because both suit him and he would’ve done well in both. Do I think Slytherin Harry is an incredibly fun concept to consider? Yes. Did I read way too many fics with this premise and would read more? Yes. Do I think he might've fit into Slytherin better than Gryffindor? Well, not necessarily.

Harry is much quieter than most in Gryffindor, but I think the constant scheming and image-keeping in Slytherin would be exhausting to him. He just doesn't care about all the gossip and politicalizing (something that occasionally leaves him out of the loop also in Gryffindor). So, again, both suit him about equally. The difference is that we get a very different story depending on his house.

[jj-the-hobbit171]

Well, today I had this weird idea.yandere Justice league x villain reader. It’s still fresh but I’d try to put me thoughts in words.

So, reader is like a heavy hitter in the villain circle, the one the league spends a whole timespan of a movie defeating. But after a while they starts to see cracks in readers cold and intimidating personality.

They hesitate to attack when in a wild life presivation center. They are found to be heavily analyzing pride and prejudice when their home base is infiltrated for crucial information.

So, they start digging. Batman tracks down their background, while jo’hn tries to read readers mind during battles,and well, they came to find many things:

1. Reader used to want to be a writer. But after becoming a villain, there was no time to put down their thoughts into written words.

2. Reader actually doesn’t like putting animals in danger. They had a ferret when they were little, but their father got rid of it because of a bad grade.

3. Reader can’t be around fire; they have very fire sensitive skin which they have yet to find a way to counteract it.

4. Reader has almost the same powers as deathstroke like Accelerated healing, enhanced senses, mastery of acrobatics and some level of enhanced intelligence

Learning these things and more, the league became obsessed. They start building a containment chamber for you, studying your fighting style, noting your injuries that could be exploited. They learn more and more about reader, Batman was able to, god knows how, install cameras in readers base to watch them, Watching reader at their most valuable.

Tensed shoulders relaxed, menacing amour swapped for a large shirt and dress pants, and their face, while still tense and riddled with scars, is relaxed, and sporting a pair of reading glasses. The league watches them up and about, reading the favorite books( which they note for future actions), fixing their damaged amour or making adjustments to it. Occasionally Staring at their dusty typewriter before shaking their head and walking away. This display make the league more desperate to capture them. You,Their lover should not have to push their dreams away for this fruitless pursuit of power! If they can’t see that and end this madness, then they’ll take reader’s fate into their own hands one way air they the other….

Let the plan commence….

J.J here! I’m thinking of making a part two of this but I’ll be holding off on that for the mean time since I’ll be writing my finals soon. Maybe after I’ll post a part two of this and the cod au. But do send your ideas two me! I’d love two read them in the hobbit hole and expand on the ideas you send.

Thanks

[arclundarchivist]

[Spoilers C3E99]

-

-

Thinking about who isn’t on Aeor right now.

We have Mercy and Death, Nature and Knowledge, Deceit and Destruction.

And while Etharis is notably absent, she isn’t alone. But why would the Goddess of Civilization come to witness the destruction of the last great sky city? Why would she play her hand? How could law personally create such chaos? So she sends a being… that seems to my eyes to be born of Elemental Chaos, and what *love* does it bring with it?

But there are others.

Kord is waiting in the wings. For the battle has yet to truly begin, but when it does he will be ready.

Yet Avandra. Bahamut. Moradin. Where are they?

Freedom and change doesn’t stand against Aeor’s tyranny yet, perhaps she sees the tyranny the gods themselves have wrote upon the world in their conflicts.

Justice and Honor are not here in Aeor. Does that mean he believes what they do is wrong?

And the Moonweaver? Why does the goddess of trickery not play her hand in this caper?

Moradin is a god of creation and craft, how could he take part in the dismemberment and what is more destruction of the last great edifice of the Arcanum?

And those Betrayers that ignored their kin to follow their own pursuits?

Bane *is* tyranny, is conquest. Is he too focused on forging his domain to care, or does the tyranny of Aeor empower him all the same even if they refuse to pay homage to any?

What of Tiamat? Does she simply stay away because her twin is also missing? Are they too embroiled in their own conflicts? Is there nothing for her to cover in this place? Did her envy consume her enough that she can only look upon her siblings in scorn?

And Zehir, the snake, the spy, the bloodletter, why would the god of murder not wish to wet his hands in the blood of a city so old and defiant? They wish to kill him. Does he respect that wish? Or is he simply eager to watch the pair he hates walk in *his* domain

There is so much a *want to know* but I’m not sure there will be answers.

[menkya-and-charon]

⋆ ⸝ Sandara and Logan kids ⸝ ⋆

more infos about them below↓

✨️Andy - The Twinkle Star✨️

▪︎ 15 years old

The spirited and mischievous boy we all remember as the youngest member of the Logan gang, always hold a special place in our hearts so I tried my hardest on his design. Before Logan adopted him, Sandara already saw him as family so it was no surprise that she embraced him as her son without hesitation (she ofc shed a tear the first time Andy accidentally called her "Ma"). As a teenager now, Andy has maintained his lively spirit eagerly absorbing the knowledge of monster hunting and striving to be a great big brother to his younger siblings.

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

🧡Herena - The Sand Daughter🧡

▪︎ 6 years old

Herena, the first biological daughter of Sandara and Logan, is a captivating blend of her parents' best features. Her spirited personality is a captivating fusion of bravery and pure clumsiness (if she ever takes a tumble in front of you, rest assured—she's quick to bounce back!), with a protective nature towards her family and friends, she spends a lot of time with her uncles Unsuur and Justice patrolling the town. She likes to mimic her older brother and dad as well as often show overprotective behaviors to little Yohan. Though self-conscious at times, her extroverted and loyal disposition shines through, making her a cherished member of the family and a promising young guardian for Sandrock.

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

💚Yohan - The Little Shadow💚

▪︎ 4 years old

Yohan is the youngest of the family. Very reserved and shy, he finds solace in his own company, preferring the quiet pursuit of chasing insects and encounter with monsters and mutants to the boisterous play with other children he finds utterly boring and mean. In the depths of Yohan's pale green irises, mirror of his own mother's ones, a mysterious reflection flickers hinting a past story veiled in enigmatic shadows that cling to him. When he's not playing by himself or with other creatures, he's glued to his mom often seeking comfort in her arms as Sandara is the only one able to momentarily soothe whatever troubles his mind and sleep.

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

Here they are—my precious babies, finally in full render! I’ve had them in mind for over a year now, and I'm thrilled to say I’m finally fully satisfied with their designs. I've kept their names as a tribute to their late grandfather on Logan's side, Howlett, and their grandmother on Sandara’s side, Yisul.

As an EA player, these MTaS next-gen ocs feel like a breath of fresh air, keeping my Sandrock enthusiasm alive. I hope you will enjoy them as well and are ready to join them on new adventures !

I would love to meet other potential friends for my little ones among the community's builders and interract, so feel free to share your next gen babies with me anytime♡

Take care !

[vindicated-truth]

(Originally written here, inspired by the gifs)

It must be a curse, Dongsik thinks, to be saddled with partners who can't seem to take care of themselves.

He thinks of Jihoon, too, whom Jihwa has once unceremoniously entrusted in his care—he isn't fooled at all that it was Sangbae who made the decision for him to be Dongsik's partner, given how he's caught Jihwa conversing quietly with the Chief one too many times at Jaeyi's when Jihoon was finally inducted as a police officer.

The kid struggled a lot with anxiety and depression, this much Dongsik knows, because he has grown up with Jihoon's fierce and protective sister. And while she is now only too happy to see her little brother finally come out of his shell, the worry that comes part and parcel with being family never really goes away.

Dongsik wonders if it's a curse that these people think of him as family.

He thinks about how Sangbae assigned Lee Sangyeob into his care too, and wonders if Sangbae has a knack for remarkably picking out incompetence in a sea of bottomless options to thrust into Dongsik's responsibility.

Dongsik grips the steering wheel tightly. No, he thinks fiercely, that isn't fair at all.

Jihoon isn't incompetent. He just believes in the good in people far too much.

Sangyeob isn't incompetent. He just sought justice far too recklessly.

Joowon isn't incompetent. He's—

"I'm in pursuit now."

Dongsik has absolutely no idea what brand of lunacy Han Joowon has.

"I'll make sure I don't lose him. I'll stop him no matter what. I'm going to rescue Chief Nam, and no matter who it is, I'm going to catch this jerk. No matter what. I will catch him for sure."

Dongsik doesn't know what it is with partners who burrow themselves inside his ribs to take a piece of his heart and then rip it out of his chest when they willfully run headfirst into danger like this.

“I’m on my way,” Dongsik says in response to the idiot’s impassioned report of pursuit, surprising even himself with how steady his voice sounds. “I’ll hurry. Be careful until I arrive.”

Don't these stupid partners know, Dongsik thinks in despair as he furiously blinks away the way his vision blurs with hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes, that he doesn't have many pieces of his heart left.

He doesn't know how much more he can afford to lose.

“Lieutenant Han,” Dongsik can barely keep his voice from cracking as the silence stretches on because the idiot doesn’t think it’s unsafe for Dongsik’s erratically beating heart to not answer him. “Do you hear me? Respond,” Dongsik demands, not caring anymore when the cracks of his heart seeps into the trembling of his mouth, the shaking of his hands on the steering wheel. “You need to be careful.”

Dongsik’s breath catches in his throat, making the words stick to the roof his mouth, and he inhales sharply, ready to go on another tirade—when Joowon’s staticky voice rumbles through the speakerphone.

“All right. I'll be waiting.”

And Dongsik furiously swipes at the salty wetness on his cheeks then, because he needs to be able to see clearly on this godforsaken highway damn it, because he can’t get into an accident now, he can’t be stuck in traffic now, he can’t lose the trail now—

Not when Joowon has promised to wait for him.

Joowon isn’t incompetent, Dongsik thinks as an almost hysterical laughter bubbles up his throat. He simply matches Dongsik's own brand of lunacy perfectly.

Because Han Joowon, it turns out, is the kind of lunatic who listens.

[velvees-archive]

Tags: Love Confessions, Getting Together, Found Family, Miles POV, Insecurity

and more!

this is my day 16 submission for @fictober-event, and my late contribution to unnecessary feelings day…which passed two days ago. woops!

Prompt: “No, I’m not okay”

inspired by my tumblr post here!

An errant strand of jet black hair bobs to and fro as he pores over Miles’ face. "Edgeworth? You with me?" He’s surrounded by an emulsified blurb of noises: easy laughs, accompanying shouts, a beat. Miles isn’t feeling quite up to a lengthy conversation about his rationale, not when he’s insisting to himself that Wright is happy, he is happy, that the fire brewing inside of him is a fluke, and that perhaps it was time for him to move forward with his therapy sessions— “I was asking why you did it.” If he were to tell Wright that he already knew the answer: that he'd been spurred into action due to his creed and his pursuit of justice, he knows he’d only be propagating a half-truth—a secret by omission. In other words, a lie. “I wanted to help you,” he says, earnestly. Wright's shoulders rise and fall, an even rhythm. He takes a deep breath in, and the silence scatters. “Why?” - Miles Edgeworth does not long for more than he’s already been given. Sometimes, though, he thinks about it.

a few days ago, i proposed that narumitsu hits even harder when miles is the one hopelessly pining over phoenix following his disbarment. i also happened to want to explore phoenix working through the “prosecutor miles edgeworth chooses death” fiasco in jfa.

hence, this fic.

fic screenshots:

misc commentary/musings under the cut! :)

one day, i’ll stick a fic landing. it won’t be today, but one day...

very fun idea that became more convoluted as i tried to parse through dialogue, leaving me with 3 pages of unused scenes and dialogue exchanges. i can’t tell if i really hate this fic or really really hate this fic. regardless, it’s out there now, so no takebacksies :)

i’m happy with how the setting came out though! purposefully isolating miles from the rest of the group while they were in the karaoke bar was dirty work on my part but necessary for setting the tone of the story. phoenix is a bit mean here but i think that smarminess is integral to phoenix wright, especially when he’s confronted with his repressed abandonment/dependence issues.

did i sacrifice characterization for liberal dialogue choices though? absolutely!

about the title. it was originally supposed to be called “kill the lights” but i switched it to save me a seat because i think it gets the point across better!

i still don't think i've gotten the angst worms out, mostly because this fic doesn't follow my narumitsu getting together hc + the way i feel their characters are in canon. miles is a bit too self aware and eloquent w his feelings, while phoenix is too nice and too mean at the same time. there's always the next fic tho, thankfully! and maybe once i’ve gotten characterization down, i can share my actual hc

i have a few other fics i want to pump out before i start playing the great ace attorney and my lack of object permanence catches up on me. i’m thinking of making a low stress fic (lie, writing is never low stress for me) from an outsider’s pov. you’ll never guess who the outsider is tho, i promise

[danyseastar]

this is an INCREDIBLY disingenuous take, which doesn’t shock me in the slightest despite season two utterly destroying the fanon perception of alicent many have made up in their minds.

rhaenyra did not want to marry laenor, book or show. it is a direct consequence of viserys’ inability to be anything other than a complacent door mat, and daemon attempting to sully rhaenyra’s reputation in the hopes that viserys will marry her to him. the only husband she chooses is daemon.

the show did her far less justice in that it created a storyline of rhaenyra being given a ‘choice’ or at the very least the ‘illusion of choice’ before being forced to marry. the situation leading up to it is roughly the same minus that aspect is the book. i have no doubt in my mind that viserys would have concocted some scheme to bring the velaryon’s back into the fold regardless of rhaenyra’s reputation being put into question, but i digress. i’m not here to talk about hypotheticals.

rhaenyra has no intentions of not ‘doing her duty’ or ‘not sacrificing herself enough’ in this endeavor. this person is purposely misleading with their usage of only part of the quote (the one that fits the narrative they want to push). below is the dialogue for the scene this person is talking about:

the conversation, as this person so eloquently put, is not about rhaenyra wanting to ‘fuck whoever she pleases.’ it’s two teenagers put into a predicament they don’t want to be in; one because she both does not want to married and wishes to find love with someone else, and the other a closeted gay man with no interest in women. the full quote is, “that we perform our DUTIES to our fathers, then each of us dines as we see fit.” rhaenyra had no initial interest in not having trueborn children with her husband. this is further proven with the season one episode seven line, “i had hoped to bear your [laenor’s] children.”

another point i’d like to make is WHY exactly is it seen as such a character flaw to not want to be looked down upon, or taken advantage of? to want freedom and flights of fancy and the ability to be happy? a certain someone DID her duty, and she wasn’t happy. she SACRIFICED everything, and she still wasn’t happy. she ultimately decides to gift her sons on a silver platter to the enemy in her pursuit of protecting her daughter and granddaughter; after a conversation where she admits that she was jealous of rhaenyra, for finding that happiness she herself was unable to grasp. this is not a moral failing on rhaenyra’s part. i don’t care what the in world ethics are of any given situation, i’m not going to sit back and look at a system meant to hurt women and root for it, whether my favorite character supports it or not. whether i deem it the ‘safest’ option (it isn’t) for my favorites lives to continue. how is anyone meant to break the wheel if they continuously allow themselves to be stepped on, or god forbid uphold it for their own personal gain?

‘i’m supposed to root* for her?’ you don’t have to root for her. you’re not obliged to. you’re not going to be burned at the stake. you’re not special for siding with overt female subjugation because the only women you deem to deserve better are those who perform their duties unwillingly and sacrifice their bodies and minds in the process. those who don’t fit into mold of the patriarchy be damned, the imperfect victims that they are, the ‘bad’ women of society.

[joanofexys]

here is your reason to talk about emeryk wesninski 👉👈

Emeryk Wesninski my beloved (not really. I also forgot he existed and debated killing him dead again instead of confronting my embarrassing ocs)

If it isn’t obvious he’s intended to be Neil’s brother, which I’m probably gonna skirt around as much as possible due to my own shame lmao

Emeryk Wesninski:

25 years old

he/him

queer idk he’s not gonna sit there long enough to slap a word on it

played striker

was supposed to start on the Ravens lineup with Emiko their freshman year

dropped the sport for academic and familial pursuits (also cause he was not about to major in fucking business)

We’re gonna pretend I know why the hell I decided having an Em (Moriyama) and Em (Wesninski) was a good idea cause I did create them at the same time but honestly? fuck if I know.

Pretending I can do math I think there’s a six year gap between Neil and Emeryk. Or at least it’s around there. So when Mary and Neil went on the run Emeryk was 16 years old and pretty deeply involved in his father’s business. Not that he enjoyed it. He and Mary knew there was a far smaller chance of success survival with three of them instead of two and Neil had the better chance. So he told her to just him and go, with only a little resentment.

Emeryk escapes some of the worst parts of his father’s work through a series of deals with the Moriyama’s, specifically Ichirou. He and Ichirou aren’t far apart in age and now he of course wonders what the hell was doing, but he would rather have indebted himself to Ichirou over Kengo. And he knew one day Ichirou would be in charge, he just didn’t expect it to be quite so soon.

So instead of getting sucked in deeper (to the Wesninski’s business at least), he’s able to somewhat save himself. He enrolls in Edgar Allan University at 18 and doesn’t sign a contract to play with the Ravens. Despite it he and Emiko still become friends and he has some, albeit limited, interaction with Kevin, Riko, and Jean.

He studies criminal justice and goes on to study law. All of it, of course, being put towards working for the Moriyama’s. But at least he’s not actively killing people.

He spends a lot of his time covering up any tracks Mary and Neil leave behind. Whenever he can find them, he knows that means someone else will, and he does his best to remove any sort of paper trail or hint to their existence. Even if it’s just confusing Nathan’s men. Anything that gives them enough time to create a new identity and move.

He’s not exactly happy about it but he does feel like it’s part of what he agreed to years ago. So he lets the resentment build and does it anyway.

And when Neil shows up at Palmetto, seemingly not even trying to be subtle, he is so fucking pissed. Everything’s undone. He can run his mouth and mess things up as much as he wants but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

By the time Baltimore occurs Emeryk is so far removed from the Wesninski’s and so deeply involved with the Moriyama’s that he doesn’t even see it coming. At least not fast enough. When Stuart reaches out to him he reluctantly agrees to work with the FBI, temporarily, to find Nathan.

That’s the first time Neil and Emeryk see each other in years. Emeryk’s pretty sure Neil doesn’t remember half of it, blacked out from pain. And he sure as fuck wasn’t going to stick around to visit him in the hospital. He gets out of there with the intent of talking to the least amount of cops he can.

He forms a bit of a relationship with Neil after that. Mostly “don’t talk to cops”, “seriously get a fucking lawyer”, “have you considered not running your damn mouth?”, and the like. But ultimately he doesn’t give a shit what Neil gets up to. Not his business (though he can’t help but keep a worried eye on him to make sure he’s not getting into too much trouble. He spent too long doing it to stop. And if it has the added benefit of seeing his brother happy and healthy, somewhere he can call home, no one else to needs to know)

While Emeryk didn’t wind up a full blown serial killer he’s still a worse person than like Emiko. He’s very much out to save his own skin. He’ll always go with his best chance of survival. For now that lies with the Moriyama’s. But if a better opportunity ever presented itself he’d take it in a heartbeat.

And idk that’s just a little bit about Em (Wesninski) who I made 4-ish years ago and forgot about until now

[youngbounty]

Injustice DamiKara is Basically Earth 0 DamiJon

Kind of a hot take, but I’ve noticed within the DamiJon and Damian Community that whenever I bring up Tom Taylor’s missed opportunity with Damian and Kara, nobody says anything. I think it’s because most Damian fans never gave Injustice 2 a fair shake. Many are surprised that Damian actually reformed or is different in Injustice 2 from Injustice 1.

Let me start by saying that Damian doesn’t have a Jonathan Kent. There’s no Super Sons or a World’s Finest with Chris Kent. Damian doesn’t have that ray of sunshine in his life, especially since Superman has become the thing he hated, except for one… Kara Zor-El.

In Injustice 2, Kara Zor-El is released from her spaceship by her cousin and Wonder Woman. She is being deceived about Batman and his team being evil without knowing what is really going on. She’s being deceived, manipulated, lied to by her own family. She has no one to go to or trust… except one called Damian Wayne or Nightwing.

During the most confusing and vulnerable time of Kara’s life, Damian pushed her to finding the truth herself. Damian knows doing this will mean she may turn against him, but he does so because he knows what it’s like to be imprisoned with lies. Even he had followed similar deceit from Superman and Ra’s, including himself.

Just like Jon, Kara sees so much good in Damian even though he sees none in himself. She sees that despite being from an evil family, Damian a good man wanting to do good for the world. Her words encourage Damian to continue his pursuit for good while she continues her pursuit to find truth and Justice.

Kara was able to bring Damian back to the path of good when he thought it was too late. I consider this a straight DamiJon, since their relationship feels similar to DamiJon with a shorter meet.

For anyone wishing to check out the comics to see what I’m talking about, check out Injustice 2 issues 25-26, 29-32, 41. I’ve only found one Injustice DamiKara fic in AO3 besides mine here. If no one will write any, I guess I’ll just have to do it my damn self.

[thefallenangelsgang]

As always, only half finished and kinda edited (as most of my bg3 writing is)

This is the Weave Lesson scene. I'm playing with using game dialogue and my own for kinda the first time for this maybe fic. I can't tell how it's going quite yet.

the only context you need for this scene is Gale spends his evenings practicing his spellbook in early levels and he gets frustrated at the pace he's crawling at. I have a fragment of this earlier in this scene where he slams his book onto his alchemy table (cause my game Gale was our potion brewer extraordinaire) and Wynleth hears glass breaking. its a passing mention in this.

(EDIT: there is something else. Wynleth describes being percieved directly by Lathander. This is a reference to her encounter with the god during her Paladin vows. I haven't ironed it out but the gist is she has spoken directly with the god once before)

I'm gonna also try a new way of formatting these posts.

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

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Gale huffs and runs his hands through his hair. I can see the mental battle he’s losing behind his eyes. Eventually he gives in.

“I’ve been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. It’s like music, poetry, physical beauty all rolled into one and given expression through the senses. Mastering it felt as natural as breathing air. So losing it now feels like another kick in a series of blows to my ego. I suppose that was half of it.” He brings up that projection again. “She meant to bring low again, to humble me.” 

Absent-mindedly, he begins to play with his earring and exactly who is hovering above his palm dawns on me like a crashing wave. 

“Mystra?” 

He nods an affirmative while gazing wistfully up at the goddess that spurned him. 

I don’t know what to say. 

“Her idols don’t do her justice.” The words leave my lips before I really think about them. It’s true though, they don’t. The ones I’ve seen depict a sensual woman, clothing and hair animated by the very Weave she commands. Sharp features and languid poses that reek of the male gaze and look nothing like how Gale presents her now. It’s almost shocking how simply he paints her. She could be just another beauty walking the streets of Baldur’s Gate. “They truly don’t,” Gale whispers back.

“I’m ashamed to admit, the way you speak of the Weave makes me almost jealous. It seems so infinite.” Poetry and music and beauty. He truly has a way with words if he can make me crave something when my magic feels like the kiss of sunlight after a dark winter. 

The light comes back in his eyes as I shift the conversation. “Divine power must feel almost… limiting in comparison. Being only allowed as much as your deity sees fit.” Mystra’s visage is gone again, momentarily forgotten for the time being. The “More than you know,” dies swiftly on my tongue. He does know and that is the problem.

He gets an idea. I can tell by the look in his eye and the mischievous smile on his face as he pushes up to rest on his elbow. “Would you like to learn?”

What?

“You could teach me?”

He’s actually grinning now which makes me feel better. He’s not hung up on all this bullshit that’s going on. “Oh yes. Here-” He shifts into a seated position and takes my hands. Together we stand and move to the open space in front of his tent. I can't help but laugh softly at how serious he looks as he positions me and motions for me to stay put.

He turns away and makes for the table he has set up for his alchemical pursuits to retrieve his spellbook, snapping away the beaker I heard fall earlier. Prestidigitation. Perhaps that’s what he’ll teach me. I’ve heard it's a very useful spell with many applications, quick clean up being one of them.

He thumbs through the tome until he finds what he’s looking for based on the way his face settles in a self-satisfied expression. “This is a simple spell for channeling the Weave. See here-” He says as he positions himself just behind me and runs his finger over the sigil drawn on the page.

It’s brain-bendingly complex for a “simple spell.” Even the most complex healing sigils or anointments I had to learn were markedly less intricate. But it’s beautiful the way the lines curl and intersect. 

“It is, isn't it?” 

I must have said it out loud. Gale’s eyes are shining, they're so bright. He truly loves this. “Could you explain this to me, what all of this means?” I say, running my finger across the same path he did. There seems to be a start and end to the figure that the movement traces.

He launches into an explanation I only half understand but follow with rapt attention. What I do glean is I was right about the beginning and end and the segments of the glyph refer to different parts of the spell. Somatic, Verbal, and Material. This one only has Somatic and Verbal.

“I hope that wasn’t too hard to follow. I’ll admit, some of this stuff requires prior knowledge of spell composition.” 

He looks sheepish as he pulls the book away and goes to set it down gently off to the side so he can continue to consult it from afar. It’s endearing, his concern.

“Some of it certainly went over my head but I’ve read political treatise and legalese so dense they make your head spin. I’m no stranger to asking questions and learning more.” 

That seems to assuage him. He shakes out his arms and gives a winning smile. “Are you ready?”

“After you master wizard,” I say with a playful bow.

He makes a gesture that is almost like theatrically flipping something over in his hands. I watch astutely as something seems to glow from between them. Then he gestures for me to mimic him. I try my best. It’s a lot less confident than his, but from the wideness of his grin I’ve done it satisfactorily enough. Then a shiver goes up my spine as a feeling begins to overtake me. Warmth and… something I cannot place. It’s different from the sunlight of Lathander, or Shadowheart’s healing, or the electric crackle when Gale casts something. I must rock back at the sensation because Gale’s hand is there to meet me at the small of my back. “That’s the Weave. Don’t be afraid. You get used to it.”

It does feel like poetry. It feels like looking up from prose that touches your soul and letting the words sink into your skin and bury themselves in the very marrow of your being. I close my eyes at the feeling and let it wash over me. “More things on Heaven and Earth…” I say as I open my eyes.

“Indeed,” Gale matches my conspiratorial whisper. “That was the Somatic component. Are you ready for the Verbal?” I nod. “Repeat after me. Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao.”

The words are strange on my tongue but then the feeling somehow compounds, doubling, tripling in intensity. Gale’s voice is hushed in my ear as he leans in and whispers, “Now I want you to picture in your mind the concept of Harmony. As true as you can.”

My mind wheels through various options. Things I’ve been taught are harmony. People living in peace together. Unwavering Devotion to the Morninglord. People singing different words and notes but bringing together something transcendent and beautiful. 

None of it seems to fit. 

Harmony is this. It’s sitting in a Druid’s Grove full of people who just want to survive, surrounded by nature and beauty and finding a moment of peace despite the hell of our reality. It’s taking precious minutes of our lives for an impromptu magic lesson in a discipline I am wholly unfamiliar with. It's Gale's patience and my eagerness and this feeling rolling over me in waves. 

My hand finds Gale’s as a pulse of energy issues forth. 

An energy field envelops us. It plays with our clothes like a breeze in the absence of any detectable current. Weave. Purple and blue and as fine as spun sugar. It tastes sweet and floral and electric in a good way. 

Poetry and music and beauty all rolled into one. Gale has never been more right.

“It’s beautiful Gale.”

“That doesn’t even begin to describe it.” He muses, his eyes reflecting the beautiful light surrounding us.

“No. No it doesn’t, I choke out around an incredulous laugh. I feel the urge to weep and laugh and dance all at once. This is incredible.

Instead, we stand like this- Gale’s hand pressed against my back and his other clasped in mine- breathing in what feels to me like the cosmos for some time. 

“Do you feel her? Watching over us?” A reverent tone has taken over his voice as Gale breaks our reverie. Calling attention to it suddenly helps me put the feeling into words. We are being perceived by Mystra of all things. It’s a strange feeling, different than it was being perceived by Lathander. This is less direct, more idle than anything. It’s the comfort of knowing she is there. She is watching over us and keeping us safe. Tangible reassurance that your faith is not misplaced. This is a prayer answered.

“Thank you,” I say with a squeeze of my hand. We are making the most direct eye contact we have this entire encounter. No more passing glances that happen to meet or gazing at the other as they experience the majesty unfolding around us. Connection, true connection this time. 

“For what?” Gale breaths, like he truly doesn’t know what a gift this is. 

“For teaching me. For giving me a taste of what you experience everyday. For opening my eyes to this.” My free hand gestures around us and I mean to follow with my eyes but find I cannot tear them away. Gale looks so alive when surrounded by magic, in a way he isn’t when he is pursuing other things. It suits him handsomely. 

It sinks in exactly how intimate this moment is, the two of us connected not only by touch but by the very Weave itself. I could take a thousand nights just like this one and never tire. And what I would do for a lifetime of conversations about subjects like this one! Strolling arm in arm learning from each other. I am half-convinced even a lifetime wouldn’t be enough.

As if in the same breath,  I am filled by an almost innate sense of how beautiful I look lit by the Weave. The way my green eyes compliment the hues of purple and blue and the copper of my hair stands out against the ethereal backdrop. It’s a strange and discordant thought. Not mine.

I think we both realize at the same time that they aren’t our thoughts, that perhaps the tadpoles have pulled a fast one on us or even the Weave has something to do with it. We both blush in unison and impressively. 

And then we laugh. 

Gale’s laugh is always loud and rapturous. Barking would be a good way to describe it. But it’s pleasant and jovial. It feels right every time I hear it. I get the sense mine is musical in the way horn instruments are. Not like peeling bells, but brassy and boisterous and unladylike. That makes sense, my grandmother hated my laugh. It was too masculine and unbecoming of a daughter of a noble house, my culturally masculine social position be damned. Which is a damn shame, it is a nice laugh. 

“I- Um- Well.” Gale clears his throat, still blushing. “Unexpected consequences. Not unwelcome ones! But unexpected all the same.” I’m still laughing, gently now. “There is no harm. I’m glad someone likes my laugh.” Gale blushes impossibly harder.

In a swift movement, like a breeze blowing smoke away, the spell dissipates. It’s almost frigid in it’s absence, or maybe it’s the act of Gale stepping away that brings the chill. I refuse to let him release my hand though.

“There it goes. As fleeting as the dawn, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiles at me, pleased at his metaphor. 

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

[sunseekingz]

die a hero: chapter 8

here's a snippet from my jegulus idk !

He’s smirking at James with a face that so clearly reads “ checkmate.” 

“Who the hell is that?” James yells through the wind in short breaths, pointing to the ground below them. His chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

“You brought your sidekick, I brought mine,” the man shrugs carelessly, and he’s clearly not as gassed as James is from the chase. He sounds so posh as he says it, James has to resist the urge to mock him the way he does Sirius. 

“That is not my sidekick, if anything I’m her sidekick,” James corrects for some reason, because he can never think straight when faced with this man. 

“Wow, how very feminist of you, Jamie,” the man mocks, his eyes crinkling up to match the sarcastic grin that has spread across his face. It’s this grin, the one that’s so sinister, but somehow so sweet that wakes James up.

 In one swift movement, he grabs his bow and arrow from his back, and has it drawn back and pointed at the man across from him. He can’t turn and run now, he won’t be able to avoid James’ arrow. He has him now. He finally has him. 

“Are you going to kill me, Jamie?” the man pouts, although he doesn’t look afraid. He doesn’t look scared at all, only patronizing. Toying with James. But he’s wrong. He’s not going to kill him. 

“I’m not you. I don’t kill people. But that doesn’t mean I won’t shoot this arrow through your shoulder and drag you to meet the justice you deserve,” James shouts, his anger coming out through the gravel in his voice. James takes a step forward, ready to take a shot, and is surprised when the man before him takes a step forward as well. 

“Oh how righteous you are, James Potter , so holier than thou” the man begins, taking another purposeful step towards James. “You think you and I are so different because– what? You get rid of the bad guys? Guess what, baby?” he sneers. “’I'm getting rid of the bad guys too, but unlike you, I’m not giving them the chance to return to their sin. I’m doing you a favour, I’m doing what you’re not strong enough to,” he spits now, taking another step, “I’m getting rid of them for good.”

James veins pop from his forehead and neck as his body tenses up.

“Those people are innocent!” James screams, his fingers shaking on his bow. “Innocent people, and you’ve taken everything from them!”

“Is that what you think? That I’m doing all this for no reason? That these people don’t deserve this? Look a little closer, Jamie. I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

He’s playing mind games with James. He has to be. 

He lying. There are no ulterior motive to his crimes. He’s a murderer, a monster. He wants to try and appeal to James’ emotions, to try and make him think that there’s some sort of honour in his killing.

 The anger, the slight conflict, it must be apparent on James’ face, because the man speaks again.

“What’s wrong, Jamie? Having trouble fitting me in that little box you’re trying to put me in? I–”

He doesn’t get to finished his sentence, because James fires. His arrow flies through the air, heading straight for his aimed target, and James has never missed. 

James wouldn’t have missed.

But the man darts to the right of where James had aimed at his shoulder and catches his arrow in his hand mid-air, and for the first time, James seems to have surprised the man.

 His eyebrows are furrowed as he twirls the arrow he’s caught around in his fingers like a baton. He stares at James, and his surprise quickly turns to anger, the smirk he usually wears disappearing into a stone-cold grimace. The grey of his eyes gets darker, turning almost black, and James hates that he notices them so easily. Hates that he always manages to catch his attention. Hates that he thinks he’s so–

His expression turns to pure hatred, and it’s for the first time that James realizes that this man could kill him.

 In his pursuit, James had never feared for his life. It wasn’t that he was unaware of who he was up against, the type of person he was dealing with. There was just something about the man that gave James the impression he didn’t want to kill him, not if he didn’t have to at least.  

But it seems James has just changed the rules of the game. 

He had killed seven people now, all without struggle, and James was good, but now he was evenly matched. It wasn’t just a cat and mouse chase anymore.

James had closed the trap when he fired at him.

His only mistake was that he didn’t catch him. 

It wasn’t death that scared him, it was the fact that to die would mean to lose. 

If he died, the murders would continue until the man with the mask decided he had killed enough. Until there were no more cards left. 

 Nobody would ever be able to stop him.

But James won’t be afraid, he won’t beg for his life. 

He hopes that Marlene is having better luck. 

He hopes that she’s okay, that he hasn’t failed her too.

The man stops twirling the arrow, holding it in his fist as he draws his left hand behind him. 

He hopes Sirius will forgive him. He hopes Remus will take care of him. He doesn’t want Sirius to be alone, he’s not meant to be alone. 

 He doesn’t want him to have to suffer another loss, but well, that seems to be out of James’ hand now. He doesn’t have time to keep thinking about it. 

James holds his chin up, and takes a page from his opponent's book. He decides, for what may be his last trick, he’ll play a mind game of his own.

He reaches up to his face and pulls his mask down, letting it wrap around his neck instead. If this man is going to kill him, going to take his life, he’ll have to face him. He’ll have to look him in the eyes while he does it. The eyes he somehow already knows. 

 James smiles, a bright, full teethed grin. 

Something in the dark haired man’s face flickers as he takes in the sight of James. It looks like recognition, familiarity, and of course he knows who James is already, but it feels different with everything uncovered and on the surface.

 It feels different for James, too. 

The man hasn’t unmasked himself, but for some reason, looking at him without his own mask on, it feels like something he’s experienced before. It feels like the eyes looking back at him with indifference while James smiles is a situation he’s been in before. It’s on the tip of his tongue. He knows this feeling, he’s been here before, he’s certain of it. He knows this feeling. 

“Who are you?” James asks, his voice soft this time. 

It’s a question. It’s a temporary truce. It’s the dropping of a knife from a clenched fist and holding out a hand instead. 

The man's face flickers again, and it’s fear this time. He can sense that James knows him from somewhere, that his harsh gaze is familiar, and it’s scared him.  James isn’t holding the arrow anymore, but the ball is in his court again. 

But the man before him, he doesn’t  unclench the knife from his own fist. He doesn’t take James’ hands. 

His fear turns to anger once again and the storm eyed man draws his hand all the way back. James can tell it’s aimed for his chest, for his heart.

He thrusts it forward, and the arrow flies through the air. James thinks he can dodge it for a moment, that it’s not going that fast, but he’s wrong.

His chest clenches as he braces for the impact. He wonders what it will feel like to have something stabbed into his heart. He thinks the feeling may be familiar. 

The air flies, but it doesn’t hit his chest, not at all. 

It lodges into his right kneecap, and James falls to the ground with a thud, a loud grunt of pain bellowing from his throat. 

The pain is immediate, radiating from the point of impact through the entirety of his leg. It’s piercing to his bone, and James hasn’t felt a pain like this in a long time. He’s hissing through clenched teeth, staring as blood pours from his knee and trails onto the cement of the roof. He can’t pull the arrow out, but he can’t walk with it in. He’s trapped there, curled up on the cold pavement of a rooftop. 

 He hears the sound of boots slapping against the roof tile, and he tries to sit up, but he can’t find the strength to get up, to fight  back. The pain is overwhelming. The black boots come into view, and the man crouches down to where James is laying on the floor. 

“That was a warning shot, Potter,” the man grits through his own teeth. “I’m going to finish what I’ve started here, and if you don’t stay the fuck out of my way, your importance to him is going to cease to matter to me any longer.” 

He reaches to James’ knee and pulls the arrow out with one quick yank, not bracing James for the impact or trying to soften the blow in any way whatsoever. James winces, crying out in pain as he feels the arrow split through his skin, tearing through the flesh and bone. It’s a toe-curling, nauseating pain that’s almost worse than the pain of the arrow going in. 

The man throws the bloodied arrow to the ground with a clank and rises back to his full height, walking back across the roof out of James’ view from where he lies on the ground. 

He had let him go.

He hadn’t killed him.

Why hadn’t he killed him?

He thinks he hears the sound of boots slapping the pavement again, that the man has jumped to another roof, but as he tries to sit up to look, his vision begins to darken, and his mind begins to cloud. 

His head falls back to the pavement, and before he passes out, the last thing he thinks is of the man’s words.

“Your importance to him is going to cease to matter to me any longer.”

Who the hell was him?  

And then it all goes black. 

[eugenedebs1920]

When the party of inclusion and equality is shunned by half the country it means one of two things. Either half the population is a bunch a pricks, which is highly possible, or somewhere along the way that party went largely astray.

Think about it. Other than racists, bigots and homophobes, who’s going to look at a sect of the populous and be like ‘ God! I hate those guys, always being open minded and trying to embrace all peoples! They suck!’. Yes. There probably is maybe a quarter of Americans who may think that way due to prejudices and intolerance, but that means somewhere along the way we lost the other 75%.

How did that happen?

I grew up in a very liberal environment and turned out as such. My first election was Gore v Bush, and I have voted Dem ever since. There came a time though when I wasn’t all that proud to pronounce that I was a Democrat.

I can’t pinpoint the dates exactly, but it was after the Me Too movement, which I believe was justified and appropriate. There was this shift in culture though.

I remember going to protests against the invasion of Iraq under the second Bush regime and liberals where dirty hippies (like myself) anti establishment punk faulkers (like the majority of my friends) blue collar workers (which I turned out to be) and intellectuals, scholars and teachers (alas, not myself).

Then liberal causes became these young, whether male of female, Karens. Offended by every word anyone said. Like the overly dramatic character in an old movie that faints when they see something mildly disturbing.

When the term “woke” entered the scene, it became an incredible trigger for some. There’s whole opposition to it, the “war on woke”. Woke triggers me and I’m a liberal! Can we PLEASE drop that word and go back to liberal!? Liberal; adjective. willing to respect or accept behavior or opinions different from one's own; open to new ideas. The definition of liberal is beautiful, and fits like a glove our perspective and purpose.

There is a time, a cause, and a place to be offended and stand up to injustice. Ab-so-fuckin-lutly! That time is when injustice is happening.

We all heard the story, the boy who cried wolf. That story holds relevance to what I’m trying to pontificate here. By decrying everything as a grave injustice, by ostracizing people as bigots for the slightest thing, by creating a cancel culture where everyone has to tiptoe about, the power that once was in the pursuit of justice and equality had gotten diluted.

Like I said. I’m very liberal. A bit rough around the edges and sh*t talky, but I believe in equality. I believe in acceptance and inclusion, I believe that, as long as you’re not hurting others, you should be who and what you want to be without being afraid to do so.

It got to a point where my liberal ass would feel like I engaged in a hate crime if I called someone mam, or sir. Like, ‘sh*t I don’t know if that’s what they go by’, but in reality I was being polite. ‘Yes mam!’, ‘yes sir’. Not trying to be insensitive or rude, simply expressing common courtesy. When did that become inappropriate?

Think about it. Me. An open minded, inclusive, caring liberal, feeling like I was walking on eggshells with every random interaction. Now imagine you aren’t some bleeding heart liberal. You’re more center of the road, maybe leaning right, have your opinions on things, but mostly keep them to yourself, you go out and call someone sir and get disapproving looks. It’s not going to sit well with you. No one likes being told what to do, and no one likes being publicly called out for their mistakes. If it’s a friend or family member and they perhaps were a bit insensitive, express that to them later and in private.

In my late teens, early twenties, my friend group was eclectic to say the least. This lesbian couple, who the one girl was my best friend, we’d poke smot, eat dose, play hackysack, and chill. Her partner became a mentor to me, “kidnapping” me and taking me on Phish tour when I was 16. We’d sit around, listen to music and just talk, try and solve the world’s problems.

A topic that often came up was the concept of free will. Can free will exist when one person exercising their free will, impedes on another person’s free will. It’s a topic I still often ponder.

Where I think liberals went wrong, is in our pursuit of justice and equality, we demanded perfection. No ifs, ands, or buts, about it. We insisted everyone, all the time, be this picturesque version of an American citizen without question. If they faltered in this mold we constructed to fit them inside of, they were targeted and labeled as a racist, or a sexist, or xenophobic, or homophobic, when in actuality their transgression did not fit the punishment received.

Thats not to say that some people aren’t all those things and deserving of the criticism and consequences therein. I’m simply saying, by making everyone whose ever told a racial joke, or used a pronoun, or said some sh*t they probably shouldn’t have said in the heat of the moment out to be a tyrant, we have both lessened the power of calling out social injustice and alienated large swathes of society. When I say “we”, I mean some of y’all.

Now! Because of the crusade for justice being turned into a cancel culture movement, the punch is so watered down with crying wolf, ACTUAL, injustice is happening. Nazis, openly and without masks (some of them), having f*ckin parades, waving swastica flags, weekly in Nashville for months and months, recently at a showing of the play, The Dairy of Anne Frank, then again parading around Ohio. They have boat parades and storm the f*ckin capital.

WHERES THE CULTURE WARRIORS CALLING THAT OUT!?!

It seems like a good amount of that social injustice campaign was for show. A facade to get clicks and likes and make people feel superior to the lowly bigots who would dare tell a harmless joke. Thats where we went wrong.

Standing up for what’s right, what’s good, what’s just, should have ZERO to do with this, popularity contest, social media, vain exercise of self indulgence. Put your damn phone in your pocket!

I’ve been to a few, and seen a good amount of coverage of various protests, marches and rallies of late, and it’s embarrassing to see nearly every single younger person has their phone out, videoing. It’s one thing to record the event, or if things are getting wild, or there is brutally, but to just be selfie recording yourself during a march for justice to impress people you don’t know, or do, contaminates the whole movement. It gives the appearance that you’re there for the self gratification of showing people you were there, as opposed to being there because you felt strongly about the cause, the movement. Again! Cheapening and diluting the reasons behind it.

I know there wasn’t cell phones at the time, but think if in the footage of the march to Selma, a huge amount of the participants were selfie recording themselves to later post the video on some social media platform. It would lessen the potency of the struggle.

I’ve always felt that helping someone who will never be able to return the favor, without anyone but you and them knowing about it, makes it the purest, and strongest act of kindness one can engage in. Do what’s right because it’s the right thing to do. Not for bragging rights and to appear like a kind hearted philanthropist. Otherwise the act is tainted and a gesture is for oneself as opposed to being out of doing good.

As liberals. We need to do some soul searching. Our cause is just. Our approach is off. We’ve become what we were in opposition to. Discriminative.

Shunning, and alienating our fellow Americans, and humans, will not bode well for us. Acting elitist and entitled, will only hurt our cause. Scolding and correcting everyone for every little thing, will only push people farther away.

If we are the party of inclusion as we claim to be, it’s time we include people. Engage with them. Rather than criticize from afar, diplomatically debate as to the reasons why. Why they feel immigrants are poisoning blood, why they feel America isn’t great already. Converse as to why they’re so angry and hostile. INCLUDE them in the conversation.

We have segregated them, or ourselves, from the discussion for a while now. Unless we want to end up like the open minded, non hate filled, German people in the 1930’s, we better do that soon. Because with the way the tide is turning, with the hostile, rising populist movement at hand, if we don’t, it will get real bad real quick.

[holybananaoafshoe]

Sneak peak

Hello! I had some brainrot on Klee and Keaya exploring Fontaine. I typed up a lil rough draft on my lunch break and I wanted to share it as a sneak peak before pounding out the rest!

Enjoy~

“No, no, no, nononononononononono--”

Almost in slow motion, Jumpy Dumpy rolled and bounced across the walkway. Keaya watched in muted horror as another small explosion rocked the inner city wall. Small pieces of stone flew past him, and flames blackened the once white stone.

“Jean is going to kill me,” Keaya whispered.

Screams echoed in the market. People jostled and bumped into him as they ran away. Billowing clouds of smoke rose high above the city wall. Pieces of robots were strewn across the road, and small fires broke out in stalls. A few shopkeepers grabbed buckets and ran to a nearby aqueduct to put out the fires.

A small figure clad in red slammed into his torso and hugged him tightly.

Klee pulled her tearstained face away from his shirt and cried, “Mister Keaya, I didn’t mean it! I promise, I just got so excited to see the robots! I’m trying really hard to be good.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Klee, I know it was,” Keaya said soothingly.

Normally, Keaya would be able to smooth over the misunderstanding quickly. It didn’t take much, just an explanation and some sweet talk. If the damage was more than usual, he’d offer some of his own mora as a small reparations payment and top it off with a promise to fix everything that was damaged.

Would that be considered bribery?

He winced as a chunk of the wall fell with a loud thud onto the blackened pathway.

Perhaps he’d find out sooner than expected.

The Courts of Fontaine were known to be unwavering in their pursuit of justice and relentless in finding the truth of the situation before demanding an equivalent punishment or retribution. Klee wouldn’t be spared from their system, no matter how much of an accident it was. Maybe he’s biased here, but Klee is a good kid. Deep down, she really means well. She’s just prone to… accidents.

Keaya looked up, from here he could just catch a glimpse of the court’s glittering roof.

Maybe… maybe the courts would go easy on them. After all, he was technically the person who was holding the bomb. If nothing else, maybe he could convince them the bombs were his and he forgot to leave them in Mondstadt. If he was convicted and held in the Fortress, maybe he could convince a nice officer to let him write to the Knights of Favonius. Lisa or Jean could come get Klee and smooth everything over.

Maybe everything would be okay?

A tiny explosion went off by the wall. Those who stayed behind to put out the fires yelled and jumped back.

Maybe Jean would reduce his sentence.

He and the shopkeepers kept their eyes fixed on the wall. When it seemed there wouldn’t be any more explosions, they went back to assessing the damages done to their shops. He looked down at Klee with a raised eyebrow and she nervously muttered something about a modification she made to the bombs on the way here. All so she could ‘test them against the super strong robots’ she heard about from the boat attendants.

Barbatos, help us.

Keaya sighed and grabbed a hold of Klee’s small hand. “It seems the situation is under control here, how about we go to the Grand Courts and explain what happened, yeah?”

Klee nodded hesitantly and grabbed his hand. Together, they walked towards the Grand Courts.

.....Nothing else could go wrong, could it?