#I’ve had this saved on word for a while and debated on posting it here

[robo-milky]

It’s Not Vanity

[Feat. Cloche & Rollo NOT SHIP | 516 Words | Spoilers ]

A ficlet of how I imagine Cloche acquired Rollo’s picture, now published in celebration that he’s here in EN.

Cloche was unarmed, only holding the ghost camera strung around her neck. She watched as Rollo stood at the edge of the belltower, bathing in the amber glow of firelotuses. The scene would have reminded Cloche of a camper by a cozy campfire, if it weren’t for the barrage of screams drilling into her ears. She wasn’t sure who to feel more disgusted by, the boy who started the fire, or the girl who drowned out the noise as a nuisance.

“Master… Rollo,” Cloche voice dipped, trying to correct her indifferent tone, now that they were allies. Rollo’s head turned towards her, giving an expectant stare for her to speak. “Would you like a picture to commemorate this achievement?” raising the camera with an almost childish glee, she looked at him longingly.

“We can save the celebrations for later—actually, they won’t be necessary at all.”

“Why not?” Cloche stepped closer. “If it’s the other students you’re worried about, the flowers are well on their way picking them off.”

“You can’t get comfortable yet,” Rollo said. “Like cockroaches, they may even crawl up here headless.”

“They might as well…” Cloche hummed. “But it’s just a picture, nothing fancy. It’ll only take a second.”

“Cloche, I’m doing this to carve out a path of salvation for the people, not thanks or recognition. My aspirations are greater than any pursuits of vanity.” said Rollo. “To save Twisted Wonderland, Pyroxene, Fleur City, to save you.” His eyes scrolled over to the bells embedded in Cloche’ ears.

“I’m sure the Righteous Judge didn’t save Fleur City from its calamities for recognition either,” Cloche replied. “Yet his exact image is captured on statues. It was to document a time in history.” The corner of Rollo’s lip rose in a snicker, “I’m not sure if this is a deed I’d like to attach my face to—”

“Only if you fail.” Cloche insisted. “You’re standing here with pride, right? No regrets? We all know it is winners who rewrite history.” His eyes hardened, ”With absolute certainty.” He walked past Cloche, his cape fluttering behind him. He stopped at a point of the belltower where his figure bled into the fiery cityscape. It was a contrast of where he stood, darkness signalling absence of the danger. His sceptre stomped with a commanding thud as he tilted his head accordingly. “Well? You’re the one who suggested it. Make it quick,” Rollo said.

Cloche was quick to follow when she realized Rollo had not only considered but agreed to her idea. She scoped out the tallest platform on the belltower she could find to match his height and the scenery below. She raised the camera over her eye and clicked the shutter button when a breeze brushed past them. The anima card shot out from the camera. It was captured, Rollo posed in front of the mayhem with a menacing grin, his hand comfortably extended to brandish the parasitic flowers behind him. Cloche’ ears twitched, brushing her thumb over the print as it developed, “It’s perfect.”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Would I be the asshole if I refused to pay my phone bill?

📱🧾♿️ <- To recognize my post for later :)

The title is probably already a bit of a red flag, but I genuinely didn’t know how else to word it…

For context: I am a disabled, chronically and mentally ill trans guy who recently turned 20. I haven’t left home yet for a lot of reasons, some being that my parents promised to let me live rent-free so long as I was in college (which I am, just not currently for the summer) as well as the fact that they really haven’t raised me to be very independent and rely solely on them (which is honestly a whole other can of worms), but primarily because of my disability. It isn’t safe for me to live on my own, as I faint commonly, cannot stand up for more than maybe fifteen minutes at a time roughly, and sometimes am unable to eat for long periods of time due to debilitating nausea which leads to weakness. I also have severe chronic pain in my limbs and gut, something I’ve had most of my life, while my chronic illness I’ve only had for about a year and a half now and am still struggling to adjust to.

Because of my disability, I also can’t work a traditional job. I offer art commissions online, because I’m very passionate about art and it’s one of the few things I’m good at, and I haul in a decent amount, but certainly not enough to live off of. I make enough to set aside some good savings (I’m currently saving for a wheelchair, as that might grant me more freedom and the potential to get a job at least for the summer) while also indulging myself in buying the occasional fatty treat (I’m very underweight so that’s not an issue, and I was raised essentially in an almond mom household all my life, so this form of eating is really the only sense of control I have over my life, as I’m fully dependent on my parents elsewise).

The issue has come upon relatively recently. I feel like a huge entitled brat for it as well, and if others believe the same, I sincerely don’t blame you.

My mom sat me down the other day and said that she expected me to start paying at least one bill. She offered my cheapest bill (which would be for my phone; my parents bought it, and it’s theirs, they’re just letting me use it as my own.. I don’t own a whole lot of “my” items myself) and asked what I thought about that. I was fully honest with her: if I had a steady stream of income, I wouldn’t hesitate to offer to pay for all of my bills, but with the way it stands, I just don’t make enough month-to-month to regularly afford the bill. I also do my commissions through my phone, so if I could afford the bill, my phone would be turned off, and I’d be unable to continue.

My mom got very upset and started talking to me like a child (though she really has every right to, honestly, and I know that). She went on a very long rant about teaching me responsibility, and how I can’t rely on my parents forever, and that I need to grow up at some point… All things that I fully agree with. I sincerely want to! I want nothing more than to be fully independent. But the way it stands, my parents cover my entire medical bills and they pay for my meds… And I just don’t make enough to survive on my own, and I can just barely afford a meal or two from a sandwich shop I enjoy twice a month to keep my sanity in check because I’m usually bedbound.

I tried explaining to her that I would if I could, sincerely, and that I’m not trying to be a leech or lazy, but she wasn’t having it. She just scolded me and said that if I can afford to eat out every month, then I can afford the phone bill. But again, with the way things are, I don’t think I’d be able to do it every month without tapping into my savings, which again, is for my wheelchair so I can regain some sense of freedom for myself. I’m seriously debating just telling her no straight out, but I don’t know what the aftermath might look like…

So, sincerely: Am I in the wrong here? Should I just swallow my protests and cough up the money somehow? I really don’t know and would love an outside perspective.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 28

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 25, part 26, part 27

It is a lot easier for Wayne to find Steve than he thought it would be. He had the vision of tires screeching out of the parking lot. Speeding down the road to his house or somewhere worse. But here Steve is, sitting on the curb outside the hospital doors. An unlit cigarette in his hands. Looking like he’s debating the world.

Wayne’s not sure why he followed him. He has every right to yell. Every right to question what that was. Why he came at Eddie with so much anger? Lashing out as decisions that had already been set in stone. Already dealt with.

After all this talk of telling Dustin that he can’t change what Eddie did, how he got hurt, Wayne thought that Steve was over it. That whatever happened between them was in the past. And all of them were ready to move forward and try to forget the pain.

But as he looks at Steve, the way his shoulders hunch and his arm wraps around his knees, the pain isn’t forgotten. Just hidden under the surface of someone trying to keep everything together. To be the strong one while the world falls apart. The bandage that keeps the dam from breaking.

Wayns sighs. Sitting down next to Steve and extending that olive branch. Telling Steve that he didn’t come here to scold him, or break whatever trust they’ve formed in these past few weeks. But here to be a person who will listen without judgement. The same way that Steve has for him.

“You know you’re supposed to light those.”

Steve stares at his hand, giving the cigarette a gentle flick. “I haven’t smoked in years. Don’t even know why I have it to begin with.”

“Because it’s familiar, doesn’t matter how long you’ve gone without them. Or how long you smoked them to begin with.”

There’s a long break of silence. Wayne waiting for Steve to open up. Explain himself. Or maybe just get ready to put the mask back on whenever Dustin finds them. Either way, Wayne will be here next to him. Attempting to understand whatever is going on in his head. Be the sturdy post that Steve needs in this moment. Giving him the permission to crack.

Steve eventually hands Wayne the cigarette, giving up on trying to smoke it. Wayne takes it, feeling the weight he’s so familiar with rest in his hand. Finding his lighter and holding it up to the end. Not letting it go to waste.

After a shorter silence, Steve takes a deep breath. “Barb Holland, Billy Hargrove, Jim Hopper, Max Mayfield, and Eddie Munson. Those are all the people that either died or got hurt while I could do nothing to stop it.”

Wayne can’t find the right words to respond to that. He doesn’t have to, Steve still has more to say.

“I didn’t really know some of them well. And some of them, I didn’t really care about that much. But I knew people that did, and I see what they all left behind. And each of them could have been me. It could have been me that died or got hurt. But somehow, no matter how many times I’ve almost died, no matter what I’ve done, the universe keeps picking me to save.”

“And it makes you feel guilty.” It’s an obvious statement, Wayne knows that. But he can’t seem to find the words to say. Trying to find something comforting without minimizing how Steve feels. Knowing that whatever he says isn’t going to stick.

Steve’s nod is full of guilt. Like he’s the reason all of this happened. That everyone got hurt because of him. And maybe they did, Wayne doesn’t know the full story. But what he does know is that Steve is still a victim in this. The scars are only a proof of that. Whatever’s going on with his head is proof of that. The way he’s feeling right now is proof of that.

“I’m still in the dark about most of what’s happened in this town, apparently. I only know what you’ve told me, and I know that was only a partial story. But I can’t imagine that these people blame you at all. I know Eddie doesn’t. I can guess that Jim doesn’t. And Max. It seems like the only one who blames you, is you.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Steve tries to correct.

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. That doesn’t matter right now. Right now, all that matters is that you think that your life is worth less than theirs. I can tell you right now that isn’t the case.”

Steve’s huff is full of self-deprecation. Refusing to believe that what Wayne is saying is true. It breaks Wayne a little bit. Finally seeing the cracks beneath the hard exterior Steve presents himself in. He's what, a year younger than Eddie? Barely an adult and holding himself to an unreachable standard. Pining for perfection that isn’t wanted.

“You don’t know me that well,” he says. Like that makes some kind of point. “I don’t think you can make that call.”

He has a point. Wayne doesn’t know Steve that well. But he knows enough. He knows that this kid will do anything and everything for the people he loves. Fight the unfightable just to protect them. Shelter them with everything he has. Even if it breaks him in the process.

He drives Dustin to and from the hospital day after day, no matter how he’s feeling. He sat with Max while she was still here, and with the kids while they were dealing with everything. He sat out in the waiting room while Wayne wouldn’t let him in Eddie’s room, just to show that he was there. That he wasn’t leaving them behind. Not again, or never at all. Wayne’s not sure.

What he is sure of, is that these people care about him more than Steve realizes. He sees it in the way Dustin trusts him. In the way all the kids trust him. Even in the way Eddie lights up every time he enters the damn room. In the way Eddie’s voice broke when calling out to Steve to stay.

Wayne can see how much Steve is loved while knowing so little about him. It crushes him that Steve can’t see that for himself.

“I don’t need to know you to know that your life is worth something.”

Steve shakes his head like he still can’t believe what Wayne’s saying.

“How old were you when this all started,” Wayne asks, trying a new approach.

“Seventeen,” Steve answers in a whisper.

Wayne has to bite his tongue to keep himself from cursing. Trying to keep this conversation in the place it is, instead of his own shock. “You were just a kid yourself, how could you have made the right decisions?”

“I still could have made better ones. I was a dick back then. Kinda still am.” He says this like it’s an excuse. It's not.

“I’ve heard the stories, so I’m not going to fight you on that. But who you were doesn’t decide who you have to be. Or what punishment you think you deserve. Yeah, you might regret the actions you’ve made, I do the same thing. But it’s that regret that shows you that you are a good person. Bad people don’t regret their decisions. The fact that you do tells me a lot about you.”

Steve shakes his head gently. Almost forcing the words to bounce off whatever wall he’s built up. The disbelief in it’s mortar refusing to break. But Wayne can see how he hasn’t said a word out loud to dispute it. He’s still listening.

“I can tell you right now that those kids don’t believe a word of what you’ve said right here. They still want you here. And that girl, Robin, that you hang out with all the time. She does too.”

Wayne’s just trying to make the point stick. Not quite sure where the words are coming from, or how effective they are. But something about them seems right, so they continue.

“Eddie wants you here. Hell, I do too. You mean more to these people than you know. Your life is worth something to them. Don’t let it mean nothing to you.”

The tension in Steve’s shoulders starts to break. Loosening from the ball he’s curled himself into. For the first time, Steve turns his head and looks Wayne in the eye. A wealth of sadness and hurt hiding behind his eyes. Something that can’t be built in a few years, but a lifetime.

Whatever this feeling is, it runs deeper that what he’s saying.

“You really mean that?”

“I do,” Wayne says with a nod. Nothing but truth in his words.

There’s nothing but silence after that. Steve going back to staring at the concrete. But looking less troubled than before. Something knew ruminating in his mind.

He eventually stands, wiping off the palms of his hands on his thigh. Wayne takes a second before following, feeling the regret of sitting on nothing but a curb for this long.

“I’m going to go-.” Steve motions to the hospital doors. “You know, apologize.”

“You sure? You’ve been through a lot today. I don’t think he would mind if you waited a day.”

That’s a lie, he would mind. Probably would spend the night thinking about it. But right now, Wayne can lie. He can lie to give someone who’s gone through so much grief some peace of mind. Even if it’s just for a moment.

Steve shakes his head. “No. I think it might make us both feel better if I do.”

Wayne watches him walk back into the hospital doors. Leaning against the wall and pulling a new cigarette from his pocket. Stands out there as the wind starts to chill and afternoon turns to evening.

Eddie wouldn’t mind one day without him saying goodbye. Not since he’s in there talking it out with Steve. Probably on to something else at this point. With that glint in his eye that tells Wayne there’s about to be a whole new problem.

tag list (capping at 100, only 2 spots left): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

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@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

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@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[gucciwins]

something new

wembley brings love and celebration 

Word count: 5190

A/N: posting something for the first time in months (since april) and I am very excited for you to read.  please let me know what you think. I enjoyed writing and promise I'm already working on the next thing 💜 asks

_____

Wembley Stadium.

It’s a place you had heard many stories about and even attended a show in 2019 as a gift for your father to watch his favorite band, Fleetwood Mac. This entire week has been remarkable, but tonight is the final night. You are here supporting your boyfriend, Harry, and because it’s the last night, there will be a celebration after with the attendance of everyone who knows Harry from family, friends, and workers.

When you first met Harry, you didn’t know he was Harry Styles. Many people would ask how you could not recognize the Harry Styles, but when you met him, he had a full beard and hair full of messy curls. He was dressed in mini running shorts wearing a black jumper and bright running shoes. The reason you spoke to him was his shoes. This brand is known for its style of color combination and lightness in weight, making it the running shoe. You had been debating buying a pair, and his looked well-loved. It wouldn’t hurt to hear an opinion from someone who wasn’t an online user.

“Excuse me,” you called out softly behind him.

He jumps and moves away from the counter. “Sorry, was I in your way?”

You do your best not to melt hearing his deep voice; it was comforting for some odd reason. You smile and shake your head. “No, uh, actually. I’m sorry to bother you. This is actually such a silly question now.” You pause, debating walking away while you can, but he encourages you to continue. “It’s about your shoes. Are the Hoka’s worth it? The online reviews have not been able to convince me, and I’ve read too many articles at this point. Yours look like they’ve seen a few miles,” you point out.

Harry looks down at his shoes and laughs, “so they do.” He meets your eye, stepping closer and away from the counter. “I’m on my fourth pair,” he confesses sheepishly.

You wince, knowing the price for these shoes is not cheap. “Are you constantly running? Are they easily worn out?”

His face reddens, and he fiddles with his necklace. “No, uh…I like having more options to match my outfits.”

You laugh, “that makes sense.” You pause. “Does that mean picking my first pair will be harder? I saved for one pair, and my pocket will hurt if I decide to bite the bullet.”

“I debated a few choices at my computer and ultimately bought two pairs. They were orange and yellow. Bondi are a good first choice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You notice the barista, Lily sliding a coffee on the counter and gesturing it’s his, meaning it’s time for you to go. “Sorry for bothering you, but this was very helpful. Sorry, I never got your name. I’m Y/N.”

“Harry. It was no bother.”

You doubt that.

“Bye, Harry.” You collect your bag and walk out, knowing you were going to overthink buying these shoes, and Harry would never leave your mind.

To no surprise, you’re back at your favorite coffee shop the following day, but this time dressed in your favorite jeans and a cardigan your grandma helped you knit over the summer last year. It’s pastel pink with flowers placed randomly all over. You didn’t dress cute for a guy. You dressed cute for yourself. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. Lily is a good friend, and after walking your iced latte to your table, she sat down for a moment.

“Nice conversation yesterday?” She ponders.

“Mhm…nice fellow.”

“Was surprised you bothered him?”

You look at her, confused. “Was it rude of me?”

“Some would say so.”

“I’m confused. We talked about shoes. What did I do wrong?”

Lily stares at you, trying to see if you’re joking. “Y/N, be serious.”

“I am.”

She looks around, leaning closer. “You spoke to Harry Styles. Popstar sensation. Most loved man on the earth.” Lily sees you processing her words, and before you can make rebuttals, she pulls her phone out and shows you a photo of Harry, the guy you met, under a Harry Styles update page.

“Well, shit!”

“Yeah, he at least looks interested in your conversation.”

You roll your eyes, “geeze, Lily, thanks for making it seem like it’s awful to talk with me.”

“Not what I meant,” she apologizes.

“It’s fine. The beard threw me off.”

“He’s a regular here. Comes every other day.” Lily excuses herself needing to get back to work, and with that reassurance, he wouldn’t be coming in; you enjoy your coffee.

You took out your laptop and began to work while keeping an eye on the door. Pretty soon, you got deep into your research and didn’t even notice when the door chimed, signaling someone knew had entered.

“You look really focused. Are you working?” Harry had walked up to your table, startling you.

The truth was you were not working, although you should have been; it was a Wednesday morning. You feel your cheeks warm up, knowing you’ve been caught. “Won’t lie to you, Harry. I’m looking at shoes.” You turn your screen to let him see you have a page pulled up for running shoes with multiple open tabs.

Harry laughs in surprise and gestures to the empty seat to join you. You move your bag, and he happily slides in. You move your laptop closer to him, giving him a better view.

“Those are cute.” You had been looking at a lilac pair.

“Right! But look at these.”

Harry frowns when you switch the screen to display a cherry-pink design. “Now, that’s a tough choice.”

“Ugh…I know. I’ve been alternating back and forth.”

“Okay, close your eyes,” he orders.

You look at him skeptically but do as he says.

“It’s a sunny day which is just a miracle here in London,” you laugh, and he continues. “You’re out on a walk deciding where to go for the day when a stranger points out your shoe is untied. You bend down to tie it. Now what color are your shoes?”

“Purple,” you answer without thinking.

“Well, there you go.”

“That was helpful, Harry. Thank you. Are you a therapist or something?”

“In another life, I would be.”

“Well, what do you do now?” You ask, genuinely interested.

Harry looks at you, confused as if you’re really asking the question. “I sing for a living. Uh…” he feels embarrassed sharing this for some reason. “I go on stage and perform.”

You frown, looking at him closer. “From my eye level, you look like a rugged Harry Styles.”

Harry looks amused. “Rugged. Huh, I thought the beard was good.”

“It is,” you quickly agree. “Sorry, I’m used to seeing videos of him—well, you clean-shaven.”

“I’m on a break. It’s a nice way to let go.”

Right.

You were at a crossroads now because you liked Harry. He was friendly and easy to speak with, but would this new information change everything for you?

“Maybe we can go on a run when your shoes arrive?” Harry suggested.

Your eyes lit up, “really?”

“Mhmm…I like running around the park.”

“Oh, I love finding new trails,” you gushed. “I bet you have found the best-hidden roads.”

Harry shrugs, “we’ll have to see.”

“Uh… I’m sorry for not recognizing you. I don’t know if that was weird or not.” You decide to apologize.

“You’re fine, Y/N. When you came up to me, I thought you wanted a photo, but clearly, my shoes were more interesting,” he teased. “It was nice being just Harry.”

You smile sheepishly at him, “you’re still Harry to me. Feel like you’ll turn into Harry Styles when you’re clean-shaven on stage.”

“Not for a few weeks, then. I have shows in Los Angeles at the end of January,” he tells you because he wants to bask in being just Harry for a few weeks more.

“Oh, fun,” you wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“Mhmm…” Harry waits for you to ask more, but instead, you turn the conversation to his workout routine.

From then on, conversation flows easily. You tell Harry you’re the oldest of three. Two younger brothers who live to embarrass you whenever they get the chance but love when you drive them around. You tell him about your job in publishing and that you worked your way up to being an editor. It’s a job you love dearly. Harry lets you ramble on, asking questions and wanting to learn more. He learns you’re allergic to mushrooms. Your first tattoo was a cherry you got at eighteen on an impulsive night out. That you’re the only family member in generations to be born left-handed.

Harry shares that he loves to travel because it gives him a place to miss and come home. He loves his sister and calls her his best friend. That he’s too competitive and loves a long game of Scrabble. He dreams of having a pet dog but does not want to commit when his life is on the road. You mention your family dog, Woodstock, named after the iconic yellow bird from the Peanuts comics. A yellow Labrador who runs up to strangers, always asking for belly rubs. You promise to take him to visit.

Your friendship with Harry grew from there. You would meet most mornings outside the coffee shop for a run and then for a coffee that turned into hours of conversation. You liked Harry and reckoned you liked him more than a friend, but there was no way you would change that dynamic and instead settle to be his friend. When Harry showed up one day clean-shaven, you were taken aback because it made him look younger, and it was as if you were seeing him for the first time.

“Don’t recognize me anymore,” he teases.

“I could spot those green eyes in a sea of people,” you promise him.

Come April, a shift in your dynamic happened. Harry wanted you to work out with him and his trainer. You thought he was crazy, but really Harry was dying for you to meet his friends. They couldn’t stop teasing him that you were made up.

“Harry!”

You both turned and found a man in a white shirt and shorts, similar to Harry, approaching you. Harry welcomed him in a hug before going to stand next to you. “This is Y/N. Y/N, Brad.”

Brad shot you a smile, “pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.”

“It’s nice to put a face to a name. He can’t shut up about you,” Brad confesses.

“Oi! Stop that.” Harry frowns, but you can tell he doesn’t mind.

You end up having the worst workout of your life. Brad, not taking a moment of pity for you until he finally called it quits an hour later. You threw yourself on the grass, closed your eyes, and took slow breaths. You heard Harry laughing above you but did not acknowledge him.

“Come on, petal. I’ll buy you a coffee,” Harry offered.

You peeked one eye open, “and a scone?”

“I’ll get you all the goods you want,” Brad chimes in. “You were a trooper out there.”

“Fuck, I never want to work out with you again,” you huff.

“Don’t think we will if he has a say,” Brad points to Harry. “Never seen him so angry.”

“She’s my friend. Didn’t want to explain her death to her parents.”

After that, it seemed you only saw more of each other until one night at your home, Harry made a move you didn’t see coming. After the film finished, Harry turned serious.

“Y/N?”

“Harry, what is it?” You ask, concerned.

“I like you.”

You sigh in relief, “gosh, you scared me. I like you too, silly. You’re my best friend.”

Harry shakes his head. “You’re not listening to me.”

“Heard you loud and clear.”

He sighs, frustrated. “These last few months as your friend have been amazing. I feel so lucky you approached me to talk about shoes. While I enjoy being your friend every time we get together, these feelings I have continue to grow, and I can no longer keep them to myself. I like you, and I want to see where this goes.”

You sit there shocked because you never expected Harry to reciprocate your feelings, but he is pouring his heart out for you. “Harry,” you breathed out. “I-I-I like you too. I have for some time, but I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Me either, but Brad said a person as amazing as you would not wait around for me.”

You laugh, “tell him I’m a fool because I think I would have waited a lifetime for you.”

“I know it’s too soon to ask you to be my girlfriend seeing as we haven’t been on a date, but—”

You interrupt him. “Why can’t we say this is our first date? If we think about it, every time we have spent together could be considered a date.”

“Do you end a first date with a kiss?” He asks sheepishly.

“Only if it’s you,” you promise him.

When your wine-stained lips meet his, you feel a wave of peace surround you knowing that it might be soon, but the universe sent Harry to you. He was your other half. He made you better. You pulled him closer, loving the closeness this kiss brought you. Harry sighed, ending the kiss. You went in for a second kiss needing more of him for a little longer.

“Petal, baby. I’m here,” he spoke against your lips.

You giggled out of breath. “Sorry, I think I like you a little too much.”

Harry leaned his forehead against you. “I feel the same.”

“Good, let’s kiss some more and then have a sleepover.”

“Don’t you think it’s too soon, petal?” Harry asked.

You frowned, “you slept here two nights ago.”

Harry sighed, “you’re right.”

It wasn’t until a week later you made it official. Life was perfect, and you were happy. Harry knew starting a relationship as he began touring wasn’t the smartest option, but he was close to home and promised to check in at every chance. In each city he visited, he picked up a souvenir for you as a reminder he was thinking of you. It was cheesy, but he wrote you postcards from each city because even though they wouldn’t arrive quickly, they would remind you of him when you did receive them. It only made you like him more and knew you were falling in love quickly. There was no stopping it.

While you joined him at his special show at Slane Castle, you didn’t have the chance to meet many of his family, mainly only the band. They welcomed you with open arms, and how Harry never stops talking about you. It made you nervous. You hoped to live up to his words because these people and his band members meant the world to Harry.

____

Now being here to celebrate four sold-out nights at Wembley, it felt overwhelming knowing Harry’s entire family and friends from his childhood would be here. You’ve known Harry for months but loved him like he’s always been yours. It was a joyous day, but even that wouldn’t take away your nerves for the final night of seeing Harry shine on stage.

“No one is going to believe I didn’t recognize you when we first met,”  you tell him as the driver drove down a road that arrives at the back of Wembley, away from the crowd.

“Course they will.”

You give him a deadpan look, “you’re basically the face of the UK. A prince, some would say.” You sit up and clear your throat. “Oh, how’d we meet. Well, I met him at a coffee shop and asked him about his shoes.” You rolled your eyes, “sounds fake to me.”

“Good thing it’s the truth. Plus, I thought you were cute. Would have never worked up the courage to walk up to you, though.”

“Stop. You’re only saying that.”

“Nope, I mean it. Brad and the band like you.”

“I hope they do,” you muttered. “Only people I’ve met now. I’m meeting everyone.”

“You met Mum and Gem,” Harry reminds you. “Spent time with them for three nights.”

You sigh because, for a moment, you feel Harry doesn’t understand how overwhelming this is. Everyone here knows Harry. They know Harry from Holmes Chapel, and they know the amazing person he is. You feel happy to know and love him, but they’ve got a lifetime of Harry, and you’ve got months. It differs for everyone because you would move mountains to ensure he was happy. Except, everyone doesn’t know that. They don’t know you.

“Y/N, petal will you look at me,” he begs softly.

You take a deep breath and allow yourself to meet his emerald eyes. Harry takes in the worry shining bright, and smiles. “Petal, I love you. I know you love me. You remind me every moment we’re together and when I’m away. I don’t doubt it. My family knows you, maybe not your physical form, but they have heard stories and seen endless pictures. They will love you because I love you. If you get overwhelmed, you can always sit back and watch, they’ll understand. Most importantly, I will understand. I wish I could hold you as Mum introduces you to everyone. I told her to hold off, but she’s excited. Brad will be on the floor, and I know you enjoy that. You’re in safe hands.”

“I love you. Thank you. I know it’s your day, and I’m making it all about me.”

Harry shushes you, “hey, hey. We’re a team. Your feelings are just as important as mine. Now give me a kiss.”

You loved him, simple as that. He was the missing piece in your life.

___

The show was like no other. Harry, from the moment he got on stage, radiated happiness. The fans were the loudest they had been all week, filling you with so much joy. Anne told you to join her at the family box, but you decided to be on the floor as close to Harry as possible by the Jonny pod; you noticed Harry favored the side more, knowing his dear friend was in the audience tonight. From surprise songs to dancing and Mitch receiving his Grammy, you knew it would be a night you would never forget. As Harry began his encore with “Sign of the Times,” the rain started falling, and so did your tears. The fact that over 90 thousand people were here for Harry said enough. They chose to spend their evening with him, and he delivered to make it memorable.

You didn’t even notice that Brad captured a photo of you staring at Harry on stage with a giant smile and hands over your heart you would only see later when Harry made it his lock screen. Harry thanks the crowd for a magical night stating over and over again that he’s never been happier.

Brad wraps an arm around you and walks you towards Harry, who’s sharing long hugs and meaningful words with his bandmates. This is the man you love, and there’s nothing you’d change about it. You followed Harry to the dressing room, wanting a moment alone before the madness. Harry bounces around quickly to change, removing the overalls and shimming them down his waist. He slips on shorts, throws on a random shirt, and puts on his new Adidas Love on Tour sweater with his initials.

You lean against the door admiring him in all his glory. He didn’t bother for a shower, too eager to see everyone.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper. “I know it might not mean much, but I am.”

Harry pauses, finishes tying his shoe, and walks over to you. He stops before you, his hands finding a home on your cheeks. “It means the world. Don’t ever think it doesn’t. We might only have been together for two months, but my heart has loved you my entire life. You being here is enough. I could feel your love from the stage.”

He connects your lips together, and you melt against him. Harry breathes life into you, and you never want him to stop. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, Harry. So much.”

“Good. Let’s go mingle.” You move away from the door and make your way outside when he tugs you back in. “Forgot one last thing.”

He hurries over to his bag, pulls out an identical sweater, and hands it to you. You accept it moving and look it over. Your eyes quickly find your initials on the right side, similar to his.

“Harry—this isn’t necessary.”

Harry shrugs, “it was your idea.”

You don’t fight him as he slips off your red leather jacket and helps you slip on the thin material. He fixes the collar making sure none of your hair is tucked under. Harry decides you look good, giving you a pat on the butt. “Now we can go.”

Harry held your hand as you walked over to the area Jeff had set up for the celebration. He mentioned there would be another location later in the night, but it would be good to let the crowds outside die out. On your walk over, Harry told you about outfits and signs he saw in the crowd. How overwhelmed he came when the rain came down. He felt at home.

You expressed how much fun you had, told Harry how Jeff and Tommy taught you the boot scoot during “Treat People,” and assured him many videos of your failed attempt were taken. Harry paused outside the door where you could hear the loud chatter, and you knew what was waiting for you behind those doors. Harry shoots you a look, and you give him a reassuring smile letting him know it’s okay to go in.

The cheers are loud when the man of the hour walks in. Everyone was quick to gather around him. You try to sneak away, but his grip on your hand stays tight. Every person who thanks him, he makes sure to introduce you.

“Love, go celebrate. It’s alright. I’ll be fine,” you tell him in a low voice.

Harry shakes his head, instead kissing you and pulling you along to meet and chat with new people. You felt a bit overwhelmed, but everyone has been so sweet. They asked where you were from? Scotland. What was your job? An editor. How did you meet? Coffee Shop. How proud were you? Immensely.

You kept trying to hang back, but Harry seemed to notice when you drifted away. He would kiss you and ask for your input in the conversation. You told him you were getting a drink and would be back momentarily, except you got a vodka cranberry and hid in a corner. Harry found you when your drink was half gone.

“Babyyy,” he called out. “Missed you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up as he wrapped himself around you. He moved you away from the wall, making you face the crowd, his hands around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You lean against him, happy to be wrapped in his arms, feeling safe. “I love you, bub.”

Harry takes a sip of your drink and hums at the bitterness of the cranberry. He knows you’re a social drinker because it allows you to relax and not be as anxious. You and Harry get lost in your world as you let him talk your ear off. He tells you about people around the room, who they are, and how they’ve helped them. Surprisingly, Harry can name everyone in the room, though it shouldn’t shock you much. It’s just the type of person he is.

Your boyfriend is an affectionate person. He loves having a hand on the small of your back or your hand in his. He wants to be close because he says he wants makeup when he’s away. Some would say it makes him look clingy, but lucky for you, you love his touch; it’s comforting. You could feel his smile against your skin as he planted kisses on your face.

Even while in your corner, people come up to you. When they see Harry begin to kiss your shoulder or whisper in your ear, they excuse themselves. You can’t help but feel you are keeping Harry from celebrating with everyone, not realizing he’s happy to celebrate with you in his arms.

“Harry! Sue!” Is yelled from across the room. You see a short, dirty-haired blonde yell and wave for him, but Harry is too busy peppering kisses all over your neck to realize.

“Bubby, love. They’re calling for you.”

He hums against your neck. “I’m perfect here.”

You sigh because the yelling continues, and you’re starting to feel overwhelmed because he’s not celebrating. Instead, Harry is ensuring you’re not nervous, which seems like the most boring job in the world. He should be taking shots with friends and telling stories about the last four nights.

“Go on, I’ll be right behind you,” you promise him.

Harry tightens his hold on you, “baby, you sure?”

“Yes, no go. I’ll even bring you a drink.”

“Te–”

“Tequila neat,” you tease. “I know you.”

Harry pecks your lips once, twice, and a third time before making his way across the room, but not before looking over his shoulder one last time at you. You shoot him a wink and exaggerate, looking at his bum and making him laugh. He moves his hips a little extra just for you. As Harry easily falls into the conversation, you use this moment as an opportunity for a breather.

You were alone for around five minutes when you heard footsteps coming your way. You were in a corridor that led you out to the stage if you continued walking down but stopped halfway, knowing no one would come this way. You were wrong.

Harry is who you expected to see, but to your surprise, it’s Gemma, his older sister.

“Hi,” you greet softly. The conversations with Gemma have been short, but from what you can tell, she’s wise beyond her years and always ready to listen.

“You okay?” She asks, straight to the point.

“A bit loud,” you gesture towards the hallway where the music can still be heard.

She nods, “I get that.” Gemma looks around before moving to stand next to you shoulder to shoulder. “Are you okay?” She asks again.

You sigh, “I—i-i.”

“A bit much for a family gathering.”

“A bit,” you exhale, knowing Gemma understands what you might be feeling.

“It’s the perfect opportunity, I feel. I did forget how overwhelming it was. I don’t even remember my boyfriend’s first family gathering.”

“Are you saying I won’t remember this in a few years?”

“Oh, you’re never forgetting tonight.” She smirks, “unless you keep drinking.”

You scrunch your nose at the thought. “Better not.”

The two of you stand in silence, and you know it’s because Gemma is giving you a minute to gather your thoughts.

“I just—I love Harry. I do. I hope you don’t doubt that, but I don’t know how to celebrate when you’ve all been here for him every step of the way. Year after year.”

Gemma deflates, “oh, Y/N.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—” Gemma cuts you off.

“It’s okay,” she assures you. “It’s difficult because of his job, not because of who he is. But trust me when I say he loves you.” Gemma’s words are firm, and you believe her. As an older sister, you would do anything to protect your siblings but never lie to someone important.

“Harry talks about you every chance he gets. Did you know Y/N ran a marathon? She’s swam with sharks in a reservation center. Y/N’s CPR certified. She edited and helped publish five number-one books this year,” Gemma rambles off. “We all know so much because he’s proud and wants to share it with those close to him.”

“I-I didn’t know.” You let all of this process, but it’s a shock because some of the things Gemma listed mean nothing, but clearly, to him, mean everything.

“Everyone in that room,” Gemma points over her shoulder, “knows who you are and what you mean to him.”

“Everyone?” You whisper. It doesn’t feel real. You’d never been so loved, and it might be why you’re feeling overwhelmed because he wants to bask in your love. It’s not a show; it’s simply his way of showing he loves you in front of everyone he cares about.

“Celebrate how you want but know all we want is to see him happy. It’s clear as day that you make him happy. This is the happiest I’ve seen him, and it’s because of you. Maybe even happier than selling out Wembley.”

“Thank you, Gemma.” She hugs you tight, and it’s so familiar yet different from Harry’s. His is light and full of love, while Gemma’s is tight and warm. “He wrote you a beautiful song.” You’re referring to “Sweet Creature,” which he dedicated to her tonight.

“It’s a special one. Don’t worry. I hear you’ll be getting yours soon enough,” she teases. “I’ll see you inside.”

A few seconds later, someone else joins you. It’s as if your body knows who it is without seeing them because you feel the familiar flutter in your stomach as his smell wraps around you.

“Baby, where did you go?” Harry whines. Baby is a term of endearment that comes out a lot when he’s had more than one to drink. It’s your favorite during these times.

“I’m here,” you open your arms, and he happily falls in your embrace. “I’m proud of you, love.” You run a hand through the back of his head, keeping him close.

“Thank you, baby.”

“Like really proud. You’re so loved. What you do is incredible. I feel so lucky to be able to love you.”

Harry pulls back, and you see his beautiful eyes glistening with tears threatening to fall soon. “I love you.”

You press your lips against his and put all your love into the kiss. You wish you could spend the rest of the night kissing him, but there is more celebrating to do. Harry doesn’t let you pull away, instead deepening the kiss. You melt against him, forgetting your worries and enjoying this moment with him. A moment only for the two of you to remember.

“Let’s keep celebrating, my love,” you whisper against his lips.

“Still nervous?” He checks.

“Only a smidge.”

Harry smiles, “that’s okay. I’ll hold your hand.”

“You won’t let go?”

“Never,” he promises.

As you return to the party holding tight to his hand, he asks an important question. “Can I keep kissing you?”

Your laugh rings loud, echoing through Harry’s heart. You bring your hand up to rest at the back of his neck and pull him down for a kiss. “As much as you like.”

[skepsiss]

I’ve been thinking a lot about Eddie seeing the patches from his old vest onto a new less ruined one after I made that post about his PT—so my prompt for you is Steve helping Eddie resew his new vest (but he’s not really helping he’s just kind of there for kisses and emotional support hehe)

I took a little more into the "actually helping" realm, but it's still fluffy sweet. Other people can send me prrrommmppptts too! --

Eddie had never done something like this with someone else before. Sewing his ripped jeans, bags, and battle-vest had been a solo venture thus far, but it felt strangely intimate to be getting help with his new vest. The old one wasn't salvageable, but Eddie had managed to save some of the patches and pins to start again. This wasn't his first battle vest, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but he had hoped to hang onto his old denim. It wasn't to be though, so Eddie had thrifted a second (or third) hand denim jacket and ripped the sleeves off to start all over again.

"What's this one?" Steve asked, handing over a pin Eddie had gotten from hanging outside a metal show he couldn't get tickets for.

"Bad Brains," Eddie explained, taking the yellow button and running a thumb over the red lightning bolt that streaked across the front. "From New York, I think. I traded for it; no one really plays their stuff on the radio."

Steve nodded like he was going to retain any of that as Eddie debated over where to stick the pin. He settled on the front right pocket and then turned the vest over.

"You want to help sew the back patch?" Eddie asked, grabbing the swath of fabric he had cut from an old band-T. He hadn't been able to get the blood out of his old DIO patch, and while 'the bloody look' was cool, something about it made Eddie squirm. He didn't like that it was Steve's blood, or that the stain had made part of the album art unreadable.

So, DIO was retired, and Eddie instead centred his new Megadeth patch on the back of his vest.

Eddie handed over a needle and thread to Steve and then cut himself his own length. He strung the needle easily and tied it off before setting to work. Steve seemed to be taking his sweet time, and Eddie eventually glanced at him to see what the hold up was.

Steve was still gingerly trying to thread the needle, his brows pinched with frustration.

Eddie snorted lightly before turning the vest around so it was facing Steve.

"Here, you continue my line, and I'll finish this," Eddie teased gently, finding Steve's inability to thread a needle charming.

"Is it too late to say I've never done this before?" Steve asked, picking up the needle and thread Eddie had left behind and stabbing into the fabric.

"I can tell," Eddie chuckled, easily starting to work again. "You don't have to, you know. I don't mind just having some company."

"No, it's alright," Steve said slowly, obviously concentrating as he tried to stick the needle up through the patch. "What're boyfriend for?"

Eddie felt a syrupy smile spread across his face at Steve's words, his stomach tumbling around inside of him. He was still getting used to Steve calling them 'boyfriends' and Eddie couldn't help how giddy it made him each time. Sure, it had been nearly a month, but it still made Eddie feel like he was a blushing fifteen-year-old.

"If you insist… love," Eddie said, keeping his gaze down. He was trying out a new pet-name and he wasn't really sure if it was pushing things a bit too far. Love or My Love was such an intimate title, but Eddie had been thinking of it for a while now. He saw Steve pause at the use of the new nickname though, and waited for him to say something.

"Ow---Jesus," Steve said instead, and Eddie looked up to see him holding his hand up, a ruby-red bead of blood forming on his finger.

"Ah…" Eddie said lamely, smiling still as he reached over for Steve's hand. "Sticking yourself hurts."

"Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious," Steve bitched, letting Eddie take his hand.

"I thought you'd be a bit more durable… you know, with the whole… missing a chunk of your stomach, thing," Eddie teased gently, putting his lips to the wound on Steve's finger much the same way his mother would have when he was a child.

Steve didn't reply to Eddie's comment, instead sitting there quietly and letting Eddie suck on the tip of his finger.

"You want a band-aid?" Eddie asked, pulling back just a bit and then cheekily pressing his tongue against Steve's finger, holding it there with his mouth open.

"Yeah, a band-aid----what are you doing? Don't be weird," Steve chuckled, still not resisting Eddie's grip.

Eddie quirked a brow at him and pulled back, before huffing a laugh.

"Look who you're talking to. Weird is practically stamped on my forehead," he scolded, before licking Steve's finger again for good measure.

"Alright, alright, fair. We get it, Count Dracula, can we grab that band-aid?"

Eddie chuckled again and then scrambled to his feet, trotting off toward the bathroom, but not before turning around and sticking his fingers in front of his lips to replicate fangs.

"I vant---to suck yer ddiiiiccck," he teased, smiling wide when he got an honest belly laugh from Steve.

[crystallizsch]

Hello Ian! ♡

I'm so glad you liked the first Jamiyuu fic I wrote! Here is the fic we discussed based on your glomas drawings!

I hope you enjoy! ♡

No matter the crowd, no matter the room, Jamil and Yuusha are always able to find each other somehow.

A masquerade where masks are adorn, identities meant to be concealed. Yet, here they were again, their eyes locking from across the room.

The ballroom was filled with people, some dancing while others mingled. Jamil stood near some of the others, looking around and taking in the sights. The room was extravagant, from the architecture, to the decor, to the outfits of those in attendance. His gaze lingered on the dance floor for a moment, watching couples as they twirled around. They looked to be in their own world, laughing and enjoying the company of their partner as they danced. The sight made Jamil's thoughts stray for a moment, imagining himself out there, dancing with Yuusha.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind, his eyes leaving the dance floor. As he looked away he locked eyes with someone across the room, the very person that wouldn't leave his thoughts. It was just like at Night Raven, during one of Kalim's parties or in the halls, his eyes never failing to find Yuusha's. Just what was it about her, that he couldn't look away? Just what was it about her, that caused him to stare?

At first it wasn't anything nice, he had plans after all, goals that he needed to achieve. He had to keep an eye out, had to watch out for her, as he couldn't let anything, or anyone, interfere. Yet, as his plans crumbled before him, he found himself still looking, still watching, unable to look away. They had grown closer since then, closer than Jamil could have imagined.

He found himself smiling, his eyes still locked with Yuusha's as she smiled back. They've truly come far from how they started, Jamil closing his eyes as he turned away. As he was debating leaving, he heard someone approach him, a familiar voice behind him,

"Where do you think you're going?"

He turns to find Yuusha standing before him, her hand held out towards him,

"I believe you owe me a dance"

He looks at her, at her outstretched hand, and considers it. Here, they weren't Yuusha and Jamil. Here, they were strangers, their masks making their identities. As he takes her hand and they make their way to the dance floor, he pretends. He pretends that they met under better circumstances, holding her close. He pretends that she was his, as they twirl by other couples. He hopes this won't be their last dance, pretending the masquerade didn't have to end.

Oh, to dance with you, forever and always

No matter where or when, my hand will always reach out for you

My first dance, my last dance, the only dance I crave

Let my love move you, with the words I dare not say ♡

Thank you! ♡

HELP I AM SOBBINGG --

I’M JUST GIGGLING KICKING MY FEET EVERY TIME I REREAD THIS IM HNDBAJSHS THANK YOU

I REALLY LOVE YOUR TAKE ON MY GLOMAS POST IM NOT NORMAL ABOUT THIS --

my glomas brainrot hngghh and dancing is one of yuusha and jamil's love languages so i'm just ,,,, aaghhhh save me

BUT ANYWAYS IM GONNA RAMBLE A BIT -- (also i love the whole thing i just want to point out the things that im most crazy about hdshsj)

Just what was it about her, that he couldn't look away? Just what was it about her, that caused him to stare? At first it wasn't anything nice, he had plans after all, goals that he needed to achieve. He had to keep an eye out, had to watch out for her, as he couldn't let anything, or anyone, interfere. Yet, as his plans crumbled before him, he found himself still looking, still watching, unable to look away.

ur honor ;;; his plans are being foiled by this woman how is jamil going to save himself from this (he cannot)

AKHDJSKSJ OKAY SO

i’ve been crazy about the idea with jamil being having future plans for him and himself only and then suddenly he finds someone that he actually genuinely likes that he cant imagine those plans without them???

ugh good food good food i’m so happy this was here it is SO cute 😭💕

Here, they weren't Yuusha and Jamil. Here, they were strangers, their masks making their identities. As he takes her hand and they make their way to the dance floor, he pretends. He pretends that they met under better circumstances, holding her close. He pretends that she was his, as they twirl by other couples. He hopes this won't be their last dance, pretending the masquerade didn't have to end.

AUGHHH MY HEARTTT

jamil sir all you do is pretend it is time to let your true colors (and feelings) fly

i love that he is thinking about the what ifs and also how he is hoping he continues to spend time with her knowing it’s not gonna be possible

AND ALSO the line “they weren’t Yuusha and Jamil” and the following one -

i am goin insane about it i don’t know how to put it all properly into words but im gonna try --

like YEAH despite the masks, despite knowing who each other is underneath it, they don’t truly know each other, but it doesn’t matter because right now it’s just this dance, nothing else, and only each other 🥺🥺🥺

Oh, to dance with you, forever and always No matter where or when, my hand will always reach out for you My first dance, my last dance, the only dance I crave Let my love move you, with the words I dare not say ♡

AND THIS LAST PART ^^^^^^ I’M OBSESSED THAT YOU ENDED IT WITH THIS IT’S SO ADORABLE AND SO FLUFFY

my thoughts on this too is basically the last thing that i said about only being them in their own world basically especially with the last line ,,, oughh i’m just sobbinf --

AAHHHH ANYWAYS I ATE SO WELL WITH THESE SHEEP YOU HAVE NO IDEA THANK YOU

AND I COULDNT HELP IT BUT I DREW FOR THEM AGAIN AHHH

(ack the masks kind of hid their expressions so i didnt put it on them and i realized that’s kind of against the point but im stubborn and i NEED to show their expressions)

(also this hamilton lyric fits the vibe of this but omg this musical needs to leave me aloneeeee)

[pilferingapples]

Bousingo Fashion: Rash Waistcoats and Scarlet Opinions

something of a companion piece to my recent post on Romantic fashions, dealing with a subset of it --specifically, the Bousingo style, or. What Would Bahorel Wear?  

( @badassindistress​, this is for you XD)

First, for those who’ve missed my other rambles on the Bousingo/Bouzingo/Bousingots group, a quick description of their general Deal, from Jehan Valter’s account of the  premiere of Hugo’s le roi s’amuse:

No doubt, the Bousingots had fought at Hernani and broke their share of seats, but ...The Bosingouts alone were at the barricades of 1832. There is the difference between them and the Jeune-France,... while the Young-France, inspired by the Byronnian sadnesses, hid their health and their good humor under elegiac and morbid exteriors, while they were satisfied with the freedom of the enjambement, and that they dreamed of revolutions as those of art, the Bousingots manifested political sentiments of extreme violence at least in form.

There’s a LOT of room to debate this description, but it gets across the general contemporary view of the group: the street-fighters types of Romantic republicanism, or of Republican romanticism; whichever side of it you like to emphasize.  The stereotype of their character was...well, Bahorel,pretty much to the letter. Hugo knew what he was writing, down to the Rash Waistcoats. Bahorel dresses Bousingo!  which means a very identifiable and politically loaded style But what exactly did that look like?

Let’s get some more 19C quotes in here!

" ...(there was) Pétrus Borel, in “bousingot” costume of insulting originality*: Marat* waistcoat, and a pointed hat with long ribbons, descending in the middle of the back.." (Jehan Valter's account of the opening night of le Roi s'amuse)

He could be spotted from afar by his pointy, wide-brimmed grey hat, his goatee, his long hair, by his enormous red cravat that clashed with the white lapels of his Marat-style waistcoat...- George Sand, Horace

There’s already a lot going on here, but let’s start with: 

Rash Waistcoats

...the best fellow possible; he had rash waistcoats, and scarlet opinions... (LM 3.4.1)

So as far as I’ve been able to tell, a Marat waistcoat is a waistcoat with really, REALLY Extra lapels. Based on , of course, Marat, as seen in this image:

(ID: noted French revolutionary Marat wearing an extravagantly loose cravat, and a furry...jacket? with wide, spotted lapels. Very Wide. Almost sticking out further than his arms. He’s gonna put someone’s eye out with those things./end ID)

I *think* those are coat lapels--but the waistcoat named after him seems to be based on that look. Lapels for days! (note: a “Robespierre” waistcoat, like Grantaire wears, seems to be the same idea- a waistcoat with wide lapels--but not as exaggerated, and with a different cut.  Like so :

(ID: a bright red waistcoat with lapels that reach almost to the arm-scye /end ID) And you can read more about them at this excellent post! )

George Sand’s Bouzingot wears a white Marat waistcoat,but red was a more iconic color. And a very specific red! Let’s fire up the quotes again!

" In order to avoid wearing the infamous red of '93, I had admitted a slight admixture of purple into the dye, for I was very desirous not to be suspected of any political intention. I was not an admirer of Saint-Just and Maximilian Robespierre, as were some of my comrades..." -Theophile Gautier, A History of Romanticism 

The “infamous red” to avoid was scarlet, the color Bahorel definitely wears: 

Bahorel, who was like a fish in water in a riot...wore a scarlet waistcoat, and indulged in the sort of words which break everything. His waistcoat astounded a passer-by, who cried in bewilderment:--

"Here are the reds!"

The Beards

“It was my beard that saved us! my romantic beard! my pretty little romantic beard!"- Les Miserables, 3.8.12

A beard ,fine,silky,full,scented with benzoin,and cared for as a Sultan's beard might be,... A beard ! A very ordinary matter in France nowadays,but at that time there were but two in the country : Eugène Devéria's and Petrus Borel's . It required absolutely heroic self - possession and contempt of the multitude And mark that when I say beard , I do not mean mutton-chop or fin-shaped whiskers,or a tip or a tuft,but a genuine,full,complete beard,one to make a man shudder . -Theophile Gautier, A History of Romanticism

In the 1820s and 1830s (especially early 1830s) beards were incredibly Out. Men of Proper Society simply Did Not Wear Them,  Oh, they had facial hair--but not beards. 

I need you all to understand how silly this dividing line got, so I made a Diagram: 

(ID: a rough sketch of a face, showing, in order, sideburns, a moustache, a neckbeard, and all three combined; these are in green and labeled “fine”. one face has a small soulpatch-level goatee, labeled “Risky, Satan’s Chin Patch”.  The last shows a short but fully connected beard, with  facial hair covering the entire jawline, labeled “Anarchy, Riot, Doom” /End ID)

The Full Beard was Iconically Romantic and especially iconically Bouzingo Romantic, as you’ll see when we hit the caricatures. Oh boy, are there gonna be caricatures. 

The final part of this is the hat--and here, I think, it’s time to move into contemporary (and near-contemporary) illustrations. First , a fairly Subdued version of two Bouzingo meeting: 

(ID: two Bouzingo talking closely, with a Secret Handshake. They are wearing the clothes described in this post. Behind them  a policeman gestures angrily. /end ID)

I love this picture (and would love to know the provenance!) ! You can see the Marat waistcoat lapels, the beard on the one on the left, and, of course, the signature Pointy Hat. Imagine those lapels in bright scarlet, those trousers in plaids, black, or white, and the jackets in either bright blue or dark black for maximum waistcoat contrast, and you’ve got a good mental image of how this would have looked at the time. 

...You can also see the police officer telling them to move along. “Hostile Police Interaction”is also an iconic part of the Bousingo look, for obvious reasons. 

Here are some more fairly realistic, and sympathetic, pictures; these are illustrations of Laraviniere, the “Bouzingo” character in George Sand’s Horace. 

Beard, long hair, pointed hat, extravagant but loose cravat,  “Robespierre” style lapels sticking out, tight plaid pants, solid cane for whomping people in fights? It’s the whole package baby! 

I gotta include this picture too, because “naked , having grabbed a carpet, so you can come out and fight with landlords and cops” is also an Iconic Bouzingo Look. I am extremely not joking. If you’re going to care at all  about propriety , you can’t be Bousingo, and at least one group (and that led by Borel, Bahorel’s most direct inspiration) did run a nudist commune for a while!

These images are reasonably realistic,even sympathetic, portrayals. Now let’s get to the caricatures, and how people who didn’t like them saw all this. This is some of my favorite stuff, it’s hilarious:

Image: Caricature (un peu chargée) d’un “bousingot” romantique  This image, leaning heavily on the Romantic associations of the Bouzingo, brings in that Medieval-style dress I mentioned. Apart from the hat and beard, this guy doesn’t have anything particularly Bousingot about his outfit; the dramatic ruff and doublet-esque cut of his coat could go for any Romantic. But I love this picture , look how ticked off he looks!XD

I have no idea if this illo, titled “Old and New”, was supposed to be insulting, but I think it’s really charming! It’s a French Revolution-era revolutionary-- Robespierre-striped coat, knee breeches, wig or powedered hair, little cockades, etc,-- meeting a then-”new” Bouzingo, in striped trousers, a broad-lapeled tricolor waistcoat, a wide-brimmed “sombrero” type hat (also a solid Bouzingo fashion choice) , full beard (but super short hair--the other way that fashion ran,it’s either long or basically a canon-level buzzcut), and 1830s coat. The old Revolutionary carries a neat cane, and appears to be opening a snuffbox; the Bouzingo carries a fightin’ stick, and appears to be smoking a pipe made with a crowned skull holy shit I love it.  And they’re getting along just fine!  I have no idea if the vibe is supposed to be “The kids are all right! carrying on the banner!” or “ Look,the Youth of Today is trying to bring back that awful Revolution!” but either way the affinity between generations has me charmed.  (and again, we see the strong perceived political aspect to Bouzingo fashion!)

Now a couple of definitely unflattering images:

Above, from an article about “newspapers and their readers”: a Bouzingo reads Le Charivari!  as @clove-pinks​ said on the post that introduced me to this image: “Swanky, obnoxious outfit, long hair, reading Le Charivari illustrated magazine—it’s a bousingot Romantic! “ Again we’ve got the hat, the beard, the loud pants, the stick (I am dying at the stick placement omgggg) -- but you can see how the negative take on them frames them as poor (everything here is patched and broken) , dirty, and menacing. 

One more, from the same source as “Old and New”:  a whole darn group! Again, there’s the outfit geared to be provocatively tricolor, the broad sombrero style hats, a friggin Phrygian cap, a heavy stick , and beards all around. Note though the wide array of colors, especially the guy in a pink hat in the background!:D 

So there’s Bouzingo/Bozingo/Bousingo etc fashion for you! Right at the intersection of Aggressively Political and Dramatically Romantic, bright, brash-- but still leaning into (then) modern styles. This look was about knowing the modern dress code enough to send very clear and specific messages; in this case, “Ready, willing, and able to throw down for the republic at any moment”. It could be toned up or down , but it was always  LOUD (Bouzingo Means Noise!!) and it was meant to be a legible message to anyone who’d been in Paris for five minutes.  Anyone wearing this outfit (a) knows how to do Style, and they’ve chosen to wear this look , and (b) is a fighter, or is about to become one, because oh,you will get punched in this outfit.  Or arrested. Or punched and then arrested. 

But you’re gonna look incredible when it happens. 

[autumnslance]

Year of OTP - January 2023 - "Whenever I look at you..." (Dual Perspectives)

(Prompt post here. Wolcred, Pre-relationship, ARR Patches, 560 words, 4 images.)

Whenever I look at you, I see Light and Hope. Not just the cliched metaphors one might be expecting—though I suppose they do apply. When I say “Light” however, I mean that which I saw through another’s perspective, though using my eyes at the time.

I saw the shifting rainbow of colors, every one of Her crystals responding to your call, brighter and brighter until that Shadow was cast out of me.

I wasn’t worthy; I should have died. I had no expectations otherwise, no hope left, save that you would keep the others, keep her, safe in my stead.

But you do naught by halves, my friend.

I know you’re not some fable; you’re a woman, born in Coerthas and raised in Thavnair, the ghosts of both lilting your speech and haunting your expressive eyes, your pensive silences. You steep your tea too long and eat your sweets too fast, pouting when they’re gone. You have good taste in literature—though I must debate some of your analyses. You smell of wildflowers and foreign spice, and the electric scent of arcane energy now follows you—that began after I was taken. That new magic tastes of wintergreen, reminiscent of a cold mountain lake and piney winds; intriguing, given you spent most of your life in a jungle.

I see a colleague who risked too much for me. I see a friend I do not deserve.

I see a woman I greatly admire, while wary that it does not become adulation for my savior. I’ve no desire to place you upon some pedestal.

But I would be humbly grateful to stand within the orbit of your light, as long as you allow.

Whenever I look at you, I see Light and Hope. Cliched metaphors perhaps, and so many want to apply them to me now, but truthfully, I see it more in my comrades.

Maybe you believe it doesn’t apply to you, trained as you are to be a shadow, to live among them—sometimes while even in plain sight. And yet…

I see your rakish smiles, easing tensions. Your witty quips, lightening a tense mood. That steady shadowing, a safe and familiar presence nearby if needed. I see how you believe in your comrades, encouraging them in your subtle ways. Not to mention how you’re as, if not more, prone to leaping to another’s defense than I am. You call yourself a rogue, or a bard, but you’ve the heart of a knightly defender.

Not that you would accept hearing that. Sometimes I want to shake you when you think I don’t know your boasts are empty, that you’re truly disparaging yourself. I wish you’d be kinder to yourself. That you could recognize what the rest of us have long known.

Maybe someday you’ll figure it out. Perhaps if you and I truly become friends; we share many of the same interests in music and literature—though I swear some of your interpretations are off—and I’ve never had such a comfortable and safe dance partner, either.

Not that I mean to be pushy. I just wish for you to see what I see; a stalwart comrade, a caring friend—a good man.

Your flaws don’t negate that, and I’ll spend as much time in your shadowy orbit for as long as you allow, until perhaps one day you can see your own hopeful light.

[queerrocket]

"so manny"

Oh god okay so- (this is about my tags on a post about Danny)

I don’t know if this makes much sense, I’ve had thoughts about Danny swimming around in my periphery for a while and anon’s ask has brought forth a bunch of word vomit, so proceed at your own risk :)

So Danny’s main thing going for him (his character) is that he’s an ex-soldier and he perceives the doctor as a kind of general/leader figure (during his experience in the army as a person of colour suffering from ptsd he would have, imo, encountered a lot of shitty people that looked and occasionally acted like the doctor -not that the show even touches on this, like at all) he sees the whole -you don’t need a gun because you make other people use them for you- and, while he’s certainly right that the doctor does do this and he does it repeatedly (though mostly without meaning too, if he were able to pull his head out of his ass in those situations he’d absolutely try and stop someone he cared about from hurting themselves (Adeline Brook in Waters of Mars) or someone else (Clara going to kill Missy and 12 not letting her in Death in Heaven) except the point is that he doesn’t realise what he’s doing until it’s too late anywayss).

Danny’s misunderstanding occurs when he equates this defining characteristic of the Doctor’s with cowardice. If asked I’m sure the doctor would easily admit to being a coward (there’s a quote around this or something but I’m blanking), but he isn’t, of course he isn’t. Why? Because of what happened that one time he Stopped running away. TLDR: bye bye all of gallifrey. See also: 12s speech in the Zygon inversion (probably my all time favourite monologue that I’ve ever seen) (also also, in the 50th novelisation by Moffat, river wiped 11’s memory of how many children were on Gallifrey, this is why 11 says ‘spoilers’ when asked by 10, River saw the person that he was or would be with that information, she saw the general, the gun wielding -I’m no longer the Doctor doctor- and erased it (there’s an autonomy debate here, you could argue she saved him and the universe or whatnot but that isn’t the point of this post ffs) she’s actively working against the Doctor becoming the person Danny assumes he already is) And to give Danny some credit, there’s know way he could know these things.

Danny also sees the influence the Doctor has over Clara and fails to realise that it goes both ways. His first thought is that the Doctor is her space dad (lol what?), essentially he defaults to the Doctor being the authority in their (Clara and the doctor’s) dynamic. I think part of what Clara was trying to show him with that whole Danny invisible in the Tardis bit in The Caretaker was that the above wasn’t true. Though I mean obviously it is, to varying degrees, Clara not only isn’t the one flying the Tardis, she can’t, she’s human, he’s a time lord ect. Something that Steven Moffat touched on in one of the interviews he did as he was leaving the show that always stuck with me (and I might’ve mentioned it before) was how he’d try and balance the dynamic in the Tardis with a third party like river or Rory or Danny because otherwise the balance is wonky. So Danny isn’t wrong necessarily and you especially can’t blame him for looking at the circumstances through the lens of his experiences and wanting to protect Clara from a similar situation.

We also get that bit of tension in Death in Heaven when the Doctor wants to know cybermen shit but Danny can’t access it or whatever, I mean I’m not crazy about this moment but it works as a good set up/reminder of Danny’s opinions/perception of the Doctor for the audience so that when the Doctor does hand over the bracelet and control, it’s a good moment. I mean I like death in heaven so much, missy is perfect ofc but mainly for the Doctor and Clara’s dynamic. That’s what the audience cares about and Danny ultimately functions as a tool to play with this dynamic, his death facilitates that fantastic sequence with the volcano ect. This does not a great character make and if they were never going to do more with Danny (and they certainly could’ve, the Doctor generally aligns himself with friends who bring out the best in him, watching him with someone who actively expects the worst would definitely be interesting) I’m glad they used his death for what they did and I’m still glad he was in the show.

So yeah, uh thanks for the ask :) do I know what I’m talking about? Maybe not, you decide 😅.

[vknq]

hello everybody.

i realise i accidentally went on a bit of an impromptu hiatus. oops.

a lot of things happened in my personal life that have greatly affected me emotionally and it catapulted me into a depressive state that i have since come out of again. expectedly so, it stripped me of motivation and inspiration, and forced me to just take a break and tend to my wounds.

while i was off taking care of my mental health and prioritising emotional healing, i’ve also had time to think about my blog and more specifically my experience in the fic community.

NOTE: i’m not here to take a jab at readers or mindlessly complain about notes. that’s not at all what this is. i think enough people have talked about overall reader engagement and the lack of it. i see no reason to repeat their words, nor is it where the issue lies for me personally.

during the 6 or so months i’ve been here, i’ve experienced very empty support from fellow writers (no i ain’t gonna single anyone out bc it’s been a general issue of mine). i’ve had my upcoming works hyped up, my released fics supposedly saved to people’s tbr lists, i’ve had people ping me saying they’re totally gonna read my fics, whether that be on tumblr or discord, however less than half of said fellow writers went through with reading less than half of what they claimed to have very great interest in. and it’s not like they haven’t had the time. it’s been sitting there for months.

but okay, hear me out: i wanna make it very clear that i have absolutely no problem with people not reading my fics. i’d never force anyone to, i’d never expect my fics to be for everyone. if it’s not for you, then it’s not for you, and honestly it’s all good bro. but the thing that makes me feel great disappointment is when i’m being told to expect engagement... and then to not get any. expecting to hear from all the people that expressed to me they were gonna read my fics, only to hear nothing for months on end.. i don’t think it’s shocking that it left me feeling very disappointed. and the support and interest just feels empty, fleeting, and not genuine.

it has puzzled me ‘cause it comes from fellow writers who are very aware of the importance of engagement, even if it’s just a little. i am of course okay with someone not reading my fics and showing no interest in them. like i said; if it’s not for you, it’s not for you. it’s all good bro i’d never force it down anyone’s throat.

but don’t tell me you’re gonna read ‘em, if you’re not gonna read ‘em. it builds up expectation that is then never met. it’s a set-up with no pay-off.. and it has been particularly bad with my fic series, astral combat.

speaking of astral combat, it’s officially dropped. i have no desire to continue it. both for the reasons mentioned above, but also simply because of my own mistake of putting months of work into a fic that little to none will care about. that one is my own fault, like i shouldn’t have put my all into it, i was definitely doing too much. i know. the amount of effort and work i had to do on it... gosh, it’s just not worth it when the engagement is barely there. the imbalance is too harsh for me to continue it.

anyway, all these things have drained me of motivation, inspiration, and honestly it’s drained me of a wish to continue writing. ‘cause of empty support, fleeting interest, and a massively lacklustre sense of community.. even from fellow writers.

you are more than welcome to disagree and disregard this post, shrug it off, and keep scrolling. you have every right to do so. it’s 100 percent valid if your experience on this platform has been different from mine. this is simply me voicing how my experience has been. i think it’s very telling that i got tired after only 6 months lol

if you do disagree and feel the need to voice your opinion, i won’t stop you, you are free to do that, however i will ask of you to please not be rude, dismissive, or disrespectful about it. this post was not made to spark debate, but rather to just convey my reasoning as to why i’m gonna take a step back from writing fics... for now.

vsualitae is officially on a semi-hiatus.

i might write, i might not. i don’t know yet. i just know that right now i can’t be assed. excuse my french. i’d rather focus my energy on other goals i have in my life. i am a bit sad, ‘cause i have so many ideas for fics, however time will tell if i decide to write them or not. i guess you’ll know if i randomly pop in and jumpscare you with a release lmao

i do wanna say thank you to all of you that have read my published fics, especially those of you who have reblogged with reviews, i am beyond thankful for your kind support <3 know that i’ve taken it to heart and i really, really appreciate it!

[limeade-l3sbian]

I think the biggest thing that pushed me out of radfem identity (which looking back is a good thing, 5 years on T and 2.5 years post top op, planning for bottom op soon) is the fact that they don’t seem to care I was SAed by a woman. No radfem has ever been sympathetic to my story of being saed to be “turned back into a lesbian” by someone who was drunk on radfem rhetoric and wanted to “save me from becoming a man” when I was questioning my gender. Radfem a don’t want to allow or acknowledge my AMAB friends who have both been SAed, one also by a cis woman who bragged about it because the definition of rape was forced penile in vaginal penetration. No radfem has ever given us sympathy, no radfem has treated us with compassion or given us resources, so why the fuck should we listen to you? Why the fuck should you believe that you’re against SA when I’ve had radfems tell me I am lying about my experiences and refused to acknowledge them? Why should we believe you’re really fighting for all people you see as woman (afab people) when you don’t talk about the disproportionately higher rates of sexual assault against trans men than cis women? Radfem rhetoric believes men and trans people are evil and women are good, there’s no nuance, and it is counter active to your claims of caring because the world isn’t as simple as that.

I'm not really sure what you're looking for here from me. You clearly have your mind made up and despite numerous false things you've said (trans people are evil? women are "good"? radfems don't support trans men?) you want me to...what? Hurriedly say, "No, no you've got in all wrong! Don't get those surgeries!"

I know when words are being said to me with the intention to rile or instigate some negative reaction from me. And while I'm sorry that that happened to you, "turn back into a lesbian" rape is not some secret guideline of radical feminism. If you'll notice my bio, I don't even necessarily call myself a radical feminist because the things I post about are not radical by any means.

I didn't make this blog to talk about men's issues so you're not going to guilt me into altering my female-centric platform. I have to wonder if you have a similar energy for MRAs or if I am inherently the target of your misplaced anger simply because I'm a woman unwilling to make concessions with the mission of this blog. I imagine something here must have riled you enough to slam down on that ask button and let me have it. That is if you're not a troll, but either way🤷🏾‍♀️

If a trans woman raped a woman, does that mean all trans women are inherently "drunk on rhetoric" or was that some shit stain trying to justify their own seedy actions?

Is it those radfems' responsibility to offer you resources without explicit request? Why do they have to burden your expectations and confirmation bias? To be honest, I don't think you even know why you sent this. Probably just a moment of anger. You'll need to have a basic understanding of radical feminism before you can approach me so brazenly, because we can't even build off your points when they crumble from the jump.

SA is bad, regardless of who it's happening to. I would think that was just common sense. And I never asked you to listen to me lol. My blog is for people who want to hear it. I have no interest in branching out and debating TRAs about why my thinking is superior or whatever tf. I post cats, women, and talk about arizonas.

I don't know that you tell you. 🤷🏾‍♀️

[yourbuerokrat2]

Ok so I’ve been reading your dark!Qcard stuff AND I LOVE IT so I just wanted to drop this in: More or less adhering to the idea that Picard gives Q and overwhelming sense of meaning in his otherwise lonely/meaningless existence as a god, but more liking the ‘ideal’ of Picard as a partner and the word ‘no’ pretty much being a curse for Q. Sometime after the Deja Q incident whenever Picard strays from the ideal Q has of his as a partner, he retaliates by taking out on Data. Someone close to Picard as a son-like figure but also somewhat close to Q because he was a guide when transformed into a mortal and pretty much sentenced to death. Q would see Data as someone to confide in at first, but as his obsession grows, the extremes he needs to go become exponentially larger. Why Data? Because he’s pretty much a blank slate when it comes to experiences revolving around pain and emotion, which makes it even more darker now that I think about it.

Sorry this is incredibly ramble-y I have had 0 sleep and I’ve been binging Qcard content ✨

Always glad to know that apparently some other people like the not-so-wholesome interpretation of qcard. Or at least an AU-version of it.

Considering the 'Picard gives Qs life meaning' and Q having an 'ideal' of Picard: Did you know that there exists a pre-Picard autobiography of Jean-Luc Picard and in the foreword Q interrupts Beverly (who in that verse is married to Picard) to actually admit to Picard giving his life meaning and that he considers Picard 'the perfect human'?

Dark!qcard after deja Q is certainly interesting to imagine because darker/messier interpretations generally work better with pre-dejaQ!Q because that's where Q is at his most amoral, apathetic and antagonistic.

long fanfic-esque post under cut although no Data torture because I could never bring myself to write that.

What if Q had already become obsessed with Picard prior to Deja Q? What if Picard and his crew had already become his number one entertainment and comfort? What if Q really did throw them at the Borg because he had wanted to be part of the crew in order to be closer to Picard but couldn't handle Picard telling him 'no'?

Let's say Q really did enjoy the thought of Picard needing him. But now here he was, utterly dependened on the man who had just stood up and walked away from him without a single look back. Q really hated how the human body treated emotional pain like physical one.

Q needed Picard to need him.

This rather dangerous sentiment stayed when he finally got turned back into a Q. Not really fully accepted back (not that he ever was to begin with) but at least he had his actual body and most importantly his intellect and powers back.

That Picard, despite the captains previous words and actions, had actually tried to save him even though the consequences and ensuing conflict with the Calamarian could have become dangerous for the Enterprise, was clearly already a sign that in spite of Picards stubbornness he already did.

Now, even more isolated from the other Qs than he had been before (to be honest he is not exactly in the mood to have people who had basically given him a death sentence for company), not being able to go to his countless other distraction (the Continuum has their eyes on him, already aware that he would like nothing more than to teach the Calamarians and any other who had begun to think to take advantage of his weakened state a lesson or two) the only thing he had left was the Enterprise.

The realization that while he was beginning to spend most of his time watching, thinking or learning about Picard, the human in question did not even seem to give Qs existence any thought at all had been there for all of 0.1 seconds until it was squashed by the ego of a god.

Of course Picard thinks of him. Of course Picard needs him and wants him.

Q would just need to help Picard see that.

What exactly Q would consider as the 'ideal' he has of Picard as a partner could be up for debate. Because Q knows nearly everything about Picard, all his previous relaitonships included.

I think what Q would want Picard to be is his forever-partner, the one person he wants to stay infinitely. Being lovey-dovey is not a requirement since he knows and accepts stoic nature and could always tell himself that it's implied.

The main cause of conflict in this verse could be Q really wanting Picard to need him and that he wants to be Picards number one priority. Considering it's dark!qcard Q is a whole lot more selfish in this, wanting Picard not only to drop his work when Q wants to show him something far away but wants Picard to act like that's what he wants. That he truely prefers Qs company over that of any of his friends and crew members.

Speaking of crew members, there would certainly be a lot more open jealousy involved. Jealousy of Beverly, Guinan and Riker (Q does not like Picard calling Riker his Number One here) or basically anyone that gets more attention from Picard while Q is also in the same room.

How this relationship came to happen in the first place would also be up to debate. Maybe Q is really not all that deluded in this verse and there is some reciprocation, even though in the beginning when Picard agrees to it the captain is not all that aware of how deep and how unhealthy the entitys affection are and grow to be.

If you want it a bit darker: Maybe it was a bit of situation where Q was getting more and more insistent and annoying and Picard miscalculated that if he would give Q a chance the entity would grow bored of him rather quickly. Like a dog chasing a car, not knowing what to actually do once he actually has him.

The problem with the Picard acting against this 'ideal' he has of him and their relationship, for exemple when Picard ignores him, when they fight (more than just their back-and-forth which Q actually enjoys but an actual full-blown conflict probably caused by Picard demanding Q respect his boundaries and privacy) or when Q feels like Picard might like his job or someone else more than him is that it can't be their fault. It can't be Qs fault because nothing ever is Qs fault. And it can't be Picards fault because Picard and their relationship are (close to) perfect.

So it has to be someones fault this is not working out the exact way Q has fantasized it would be.

He wouldn't blame Data. For once, Data was actually the only person who was actually nice to him in Deja. But he would certainly blame Picards crew. Especially if some of them openly voiced their doubts about Qs and Picards relationship. Starfleet would also be blamed in general if anyone of Picards superior said something to Picard that Q could blame as the cause of Picard acting a bit less friendly or hesitant towards him.

So, the punishment would not realy be dealt on one person but in a more general fashion.

In the beginning it would all be of a more.. harmless nature. Like the Robin Hood kidnapping. Q would feel jealous and/or unappreciated and decide that Picard needs a bit of a reminder on who deserves and should be given (him) his attention (and affection). The only way they all make it back to the Enterprise is by Picard apologizing (in an annoyed manner because he thinks Q is overreacting and simply a playing a game) and promising that he will make more time for Q.

But as you wrote, instead of that being enough the obsession grows worse.

And what started as petty jealousy turns into possessiveness.

Picard and Q have another one of their fights and Q hates it. Hates it because he hasn't gone back to the Continuum in such a long time. Hates it because he can't help but compare everyone he tries to distract himself only to find them lacking when compared to the human looking down on him even though Q is bigger than him in any meaning of the word.

Hates it because Q asked Picard that his lackeys can't possible mean more to Picard than his lover and Picard said that they did.

So now when Picard comes on the Bridge when his shift starts again, he is alone. He can't reach any of them via comm either.

And with anger, annoyance and more dread than he is willing to admit to himself Picard realizes very quickly who is responsible for this.

When Picard demands of Q, who he knows may not be 'physically' here was still watching him, to bring them back he finds the smiling entity in Rikers chair.

"Well, you see, mon capitaine." 'Mon capitaine' and not 'mon armour' being a clear indicator that despite of the smile Q was not at all in a good mood as Picard had figured out from their last confrontation "that's the funny thing about this. They are not really any plae I can just 'bring them back."

"What do you mean with that?"

"It means they are, by your pitiful perception of reality, gone."

"You have gone mad. You can't be implying.."

"None existent."

For a short time Picard tried to find something in the entitys words or expression that indicated a prank or a joke done in really bad taste.

"After all, they can't be more important to you than me if they are not there in the first place, can they."

For one of the rare few times in life Picard was truely at a loss of words. So many words spoken in outrage, so many questions and demands laid on the tip of his voice.

But before he can give voice to variety of emotions boiling inside of man, starting by calling out this utter.. madness Q gets up making a show of being bored.

"Well, it seems that you need a bit of time to think about all of this. Call me when.."

Picard grabbed Qs arm, a foolish effort to stop the being from leaving considering Q can make himself appear and disappear at will.

"Q, this is.. this is madness. "

"No, mon armour. Madness is telling the god who is willing to lay the universe at your feet that he means less to you than a bunch of people you play poker with every once in a while."

There was only one way of getting his crew back. And both Q and Picard knew it.

So, once again PIcard apologized. Said that he simply had a bad day back then that he shouldn't have let it out on Q. That of course Q is very important to him.

The softening of the expression and the growing of a fond smile, were signs of success.

"You know that I need you."

They should probably have a discussion about Qs growing need for Picard to tell him that.

But considering his crew was currently still missing now was a bad time to bring up the unhealthyness of their relationship.

Thankfully this seemed to be enough for Q (for now). And the entity was gone and his Bridge was filled again with everyone who should be there.

After a quick check that everyone who should be on board was still very much on board and alive, Picard excused himself.

He was in dire need of a cup of tea.

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Demons, the Lady of Dreams, and Tripled Fees

Horrifying nightmares of his worst mistake haunting every attempt to fall asleep. A member of the royal family possessed by a demon. A graphic exorcism performed in the dead of night, where one of the people involved would not live to see the morning. 

Y’know, just a normal Tuesday night in the life of Morpheus Constantine. Or at least, it started out that way. 

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HELLO EVERYONE!!! I had this idea last weekend while I was working, of a role reversal AU where Morpheus is the Constantine and Johanna is Dream and got so fucking excited that the first thing I did upon coming home was run to my laptop and start writing. It is twelve pages long in my Google Doc, so let’s hope Tumblr isn’t a dick about letting the whole thing be in one post. I had so much fucking fun writing this, it was an absolute joy, so I hope you all enjoy it too! I’ve also posted it here to Ao3, so go give it a kudos if it’s not too much trouble. OH ALSO: Netflix didn’t put the Latin words Johanna says in the subtitles, so I had to write out the words as they sounded, so this Latin will probably be incredibly awful. But other than that, happy reading!

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It was storming by the time Morpheus arrived at the nightclub. The droplets made the neon lights of the sign gleam even more harshly. There seemed to be no sign of anyone there, but he could still feel what was inside. It was emanating from there, like the entire building was vibrating from a silent scream. 

As the cab rolled away, Morpheus took out his phone and looked down at the lockscreen. The messages were still there, the same place they had been when they flashed across his screen an hour ago. 

Morpheus its happening again You need to get over here i’m really really scared I’m with dad at leland city club PLEASE HURRY

Seemingly on cue, there was a loud rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. 

The capital letters reminded Morpheus he couldn’t waste any more time. He put his phone back in his coat pocket and went to open the door and head inside. He didn’t regret giving Jed his phone number, because someone had to be there for the poor boy besides his sister. But he was rather frustrated that Cori fucking Walker made Jed have to use it so much. Whatever. He would just fix this and go back home… and definitely take Jed and Rose with him. 

Sure enough, the nightclub atrium was completely empty. It was completely dark, save the neon light fixtures that were blinking weakly. The energy he had felt outside was even stronger now, enough that it vibrated through his body. The hairs on his neck and arms stood up and, despite the amount of years he’d been doing this, a chill ran down his spine. Because bright light was bursting between the cracks of the doors in front of him. That had to be where it was. 

Morpheus swallowed to harden his resolve and stepped towards the doors. He was seriously debating just finding Jed and Rose and leaving, letting their father deal with the mess he had undoubtedly made. But no, he couldn’t do that. That would make the mess even worse. 

He reached for the door handle, ready to throw it open. He would deal with this as quickly as possible. Hopefully it wasn’t too powerful a demon…

“Morpheus!”

Morpheus whirled around and saw Jed hurrying towards him from where he’d hidden in the bathroom. “Jed!” He rushed towards him and knelt down, relieved to see that Jed looked unharmed besides the incredibly frightened look on his face. “I came as soon as you texted. What happened?” 

“We have to go!” Jed grabbed his arm and tried to drag him away. “We have to get out of here!” 

“And we will,” Morpheus said calmly as he stopped the boy. “Just tell me what’s happened.” 

Jed looked at him fearfully. “... He said it was an accident. Like when Mom died.”

God fucking dammit. A part of him had really been hoping someone else had done this. He bit back his frustrated sigh and instead asked, “Where is your sister?” 

“S-She’s not here. She’s sleeping over at Judy’s house.” 

Well, at least that was a good thing. One less Walker to worry about. “Good.” He straightened up and looked at Jed pointedly. “Now where is your father?” 

Jed turned and pointed to a door off to the side. Morpheus strode towards the door, hearing Jed’s quicker footsteps hurry after him. He was going to give Walker the ass-kicking of his miserable life when this was over. 

The door ended up leading to a backstage area of the club, which turned out to be far less destroyed than the rest of the place. And among the strewn about instruments, containers, shot glasses, and alcohol bottles was Cori Walker, passed out on a pentagram drawn on the floor in white chalk. 

This time Morpheus did sigh in frustration and marched over to stand over the constant source of disaster and despair… and the pentagram he was lying on top of. “Walker!” he barked. 

A book lying on the floor by Walker’s head caught his eye, specifically it’s title of SATANIC RITUALS displayed on the cover. He angrily snatched it up and smacked Walker across the head with it. “Hey! Walker!” 

He hit him again, and this time the man startled awake. He looked around, then turned to look up and found Morpheus glaring down at him. He simply gave him an unconcerned grin, like a sheepish child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. “Hello, Morpheus,” 

“What the fuck did you do?” Morpheus growled. 

“We were just havin’ some fun,” Walker insisted. 

“Some fun?” Morpheus brandished the book cover at him. “Summoning demons is having some fun?” Walker simply shrugged sheepishly and he forced himself to not hit him with the book again. “Who is “we”? Where are they?” 

“They must still be inside,” 

“Inside the club?” 

“Yeah… You don’t wanna go in there, man.” 

Morpheus scowled down at what surely had to be the bane of his entire existence. “No. No, I do not. But someone has to clean up your mess.” 

He threw the book back down on the floor and straightened back up to head back into the atrium. Jed moved to join him. “I’ll come with you,” he insisted. 

Morpheus stopped and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re safer in here with your father, Jed, shocking as it may seem.” He squeezed Jed’s shoulder comfortingly. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” 

Jed still looked unsure, but nodded hesitantly. “C-Can I go with you when you leave?” 

Morpheus couldn’t help his small affectionate smile. “Of course you can. We’ll go home, get some sleep, then call your sister in the morning. In the meantime, stay here. All right?” 

“Okay,” Jed nodded. “Be careful.” 

“I will, Jed,” 

With that, he left the room and strode purposefully across the atrium towards the doors. They were shaking now, holding surprisingly well against the demonic force inside. Whatever demon was in there was most likely feeding on Walker’s friends, too busy snacking to leave. Oh well. If they were friends with Walker then their deaths probably weren’t that great a loss. 

Morpheus suddenly found himself inside a long, dark hallway. Did his surroundings suddenly change or had it always been a hallway? He couldn’t remember now. He slowly, hesitantly lifted his hand to turn the doorknob and open the door. But something inside him was telling him to run, to turn around, grab Jed, and leave. 

Turn back now. This can’t happen again. You can’t let this happen the way it did again. 

But before he could seriously think about it, his hand was on the doorknob, and the door was swinging open. 

An explosion of light blinded him. The heat of flames hit his face. Unholy screams and wails overwhelmed his hearing. Then something grabbed hold of his foot and yanked him into the room. 

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Morpheus snapped awake and sucked in a deep breath. He could feel his heart racing as his eyes adjusted and he tried to see where he was. 

“Alright, bruv. We’re here.” 

He wasn’t back at the nightclub, facing a demon with Jed waiting for him to take him away. He was in a cab, completely alone. And Jed…

Morpheus tried to ignore the stab of guilt that went through him. “Sorry,” he said absentmindedly as he fumbled for his seatbelt. “It’s been a long day.” 

“My day’s just gettin’ started,” the cab driver sighed tiredly. 

“I have a feeling mine is as well,” Morpheus muttered. He pulled out his wallet and took out his credit card to pay the fare, then got out of the cab. 

The cool night air hit his face and he breathed it in to clear his head. He looked up at the looming cathedral as the cab drove away behind him and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. He wondered if his work would feel more important if he had gotten more sleep, but as it was, he just wanted to get it over with and go home. Just home, not back to bed–he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. The memory of that nightclub and what happened to Jed haunted him at night. The shadows on his walls seemed to taunt him with his guilt, whispering “Your fault,” over and over. The daytime wasn’t much better–waking hours spent wondering if Rose would pick up this time if he called… not that she ever did. 

Morpheus took another deep breath of the crisp air. He had to focus. He couldn’t change what happened, nor could he make Rose hate him any less. But he could do this. He could do this job. It was why he was called. So with that, he began to walk towards the steps of the cathedral. 

“Morpheus Constantine!” 

The voice behind him made him freeze. He turned around and couldn’t help smiling wryly as he walked towards the man dressed like G. K. Chesterton standing under the streetlight. 

“It’s rather late to be going to church, dear boy,” the man said cheerfully. “Even if you’ve dressed up quite well for it. Is that a new black coat?” 

“What are you doing here, Gilbert?” Morpheus asked in amusement. 

“Oh, the same as you, I expect,” Gilbert replied, eagerly shifting the hat and cane he had tucked under one arm. “She’s coming, isn’t she?” 

“Who?” 

“Oh, you surely must know who! Lady Johanna.” At Morpheus’s confused blinking, Gilbert went on. “The Lady of Dreams. The Oneiromancer. You know, the Sandman!” 

“The Sandman,” Morpheus repeated, wondering if Gilbert had another screw loose. “The woman who puts little children to sleep? She’s only a fairy tale, Gilbert.” 

“Oh, she is no fairy tale, dear boy. She’s back, and she wants her sand.” 

Morpheus just smiled amusedly. Yeah, right. “Thanks for letting me know. But I’m late for work.” 

He nodded goodbye to Gilbert, then turned to head towards the cathedral steps. “Take my word for it, dear boy, she has returned!” Gilbert called after him. “I know! I am two hundred and eighty years old, and I know!” 

Morpheus couldn’t help laughing quietly and turned to briefly wave at Gilbert. Crazy old man… 

“Constantine.” 

He turned and abruptly stopped again (how many times would this happen tonight?). This time he had been stopped by a woman, who had appeared out of nowhere on the steps in front of him. She looked about the same age as him and had long brown hair. She had a fancy white trench coat over a black turtleneck, dark pants, and black combat boots. And strangest of all, she was looking at him like she knew him… even though Morpheus was sure he had never seen her before in his life. 

Morpheus scrutinized her, trying to remember if he had ever met her before. “Do I know you?” he asked aloud. 

“We’ve got business, you and I,” was the woman’s response. 

Business? What business? He was certain he’d never met her before. 

He glanced at the cathedral and looked back at her. “With all due respect, you’ll have to wait. I have business with God first.” 

The woman said nothing as he walked up the steps past her and towards the church. But he could feel her eyes on his back, watching him. He had half a mind to turn and yell at her to fuck off. But it was far too late and he was far too tired of life to deal with anything besides the job he had to do. So he ignored her stare and walked up the rest of the steps to shove open the cathedral door. 

The sound of his boots against the floor echoed through the vast, empty hall as he entered, looking around for any sign of life amongst the many candles. “Lucienne?” he called out, hearing his voice carry. 

Almost in answer, Lucienne’s shaved head poked out behind a corner and she smiled happily upon seeing him. “Oh good, you’re here,” 

“Not a favor,” he reminded her as he made his way up the small set of steps to her. “I’m getting paid or I’m going back to bed.” He decided not to mention that going back to bed would probably involve watching crap reality shows on Netflix instead of actually sleeping. 

“And I’m sure you won’t accept “the honor of doing a service to devout followers of God” as payment?” Lucienne drawled as they walked through the vast chamber. 

Morpheus chuckled wryly. “I never do. So tell me, why have I been summoned this time?” 

“The usual reason. There is a soul in need of your help.” 

“Who is it?” 

Strangely, Lucienne paused before saying, “Oh… does it really matter?” 

She sounded far too casual. Morpheus gave her a suspicious look. 

“If I double your fee?” 

He stopped walking and stared expectantly at her. 

“Triple it?” 

Tempting… but he still wanted to know. 

Lucienne sighed. “Let’s just say, her family has means,” 

Oh, not this shit again… 

Morpheus sighed. “If her family is in any way royal, the answer is no. I’m done with that.” 

“I know, but none of them know she’s here,” Lucienne argued. 

“Who is it, the princess?” 

“I can neither confirm nor deny. She came here about an hour ago, demanding that I marry her and her boyfriend before the palace and the press find out.” 

Morpheus frowned. “Why? Who does she want to marry?” 

Lucienne looked like she was biting back a laugh. “Kevin Brody,” 

He blinked at her. “The football player?” Lucienne nodded. “Perhaps she is possessed, then. She could do far better.” 

“I don’t follow sports, so I really can’t say,” 

What was this, a bad romance novel? “Lucienne, just because a Goldsmith-educated princess wants to marry a subpar football player–”

“It’s not just that,”

“–does not mean she needs an exorcism.” 

“It’s not just that,” Lucienne repeated with a sigh, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Just talk to her, and you’ll understand.” 

“It’s far too risky with royals,” Morpheus argued. “If this goes wrong, there will be a dead princess, a demon running riot, and no one to…” 

“Let me go! FUCK OFF!!” 

Morpheus trailed off at the echoing screaming and turned to look in the direction it came from. “... Well shit,” he couldn’t help saying. 

“Told you,” Lucienne muttered. 

“Is that her?” 

“Can you not smell the sulfur?” 

He could, actually. But he’d gotten so used to it by now he hadn’t noticed it at first. 

Morpheus paused, weighing his options. Either he went in there and tried to exorcize a member of royalty who potentially didn’t need an exorcism… or he could go back home and fight off sleep, just so he wouldn’t have to relive the memory of that godforsaken nightclub again. 

He sighed. “Where is she?” 

Lucienne smiled happily and they resumed their walk. “In my office. You’ll need this,” she handed him her Rituale Romanum, “and should I get holy water as well?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Morpheus hummed, thinking about what to do. “I cannot burst in speaking in Latin… Has she been restrained? Is that why she sounds like that?” 

“She sounds like that because she’s been possessed by a demon,” Lucienne huffed. 

“We could tie her up,” Morpheus said thoughtfully. He had half a mind to continue the joke, just to see how scandalized Lucienne would get. “Do you think she would enjoy that?” 

Sure enough, she stopped and looked at him like he’d just told her he didn’t care for The Godfather. “She is British royalty!” 

“We don’t have to drug her,” Morpheus insisted, trying not to laugh at her face. “It would all be very consensual.” 

Lucienne looked like she wanted to smack him upside the head. “Have you got any other ideas?” 

Morpheus looked in the direction of where the princess was still screaming. Then an idea popped into his head. “I do.” He turned to Lucienne. “But I’m going to need your clothes.” 

A few minutes and a decision to not remark to Lucienne how they somehow were the same size later, Morpheus stood, fully clad as a vicar, in front of the princess and the football player. After getting a good look at him, he stood by what he said before–the princess could definitely do better. Both of them were so eager to get married as quickly as possible that neither of them noticed that the vicar performing the ceremony had messy, unkempt hair and eyeliner. 

He could smell the sulfur in the room (it was so strong he was sure he’d have to put his clothes through the wash to get the rotten egg smell out), and could feel the presence of something unholy. The problem was, he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He was pretty certain it was coming from the princess, since Lucienne was rarely wrong about who she thought was possessed. But still, he didn’t like any kind of uncertainty. 

“Do you, Princess, take this–”

“I do.” 

Morpheus trailed off at the slightly rude interruption. But the princess, clad in a simple yet becoming white dress, simply stared back at him with hardened resolve. 

Kevin Brody, being the second-tier football player he was, seemed less certain, glancing at his fiance hesitantly. “Wait–babe, are you absolutely sure you wanna do this?”

The princess turned to him, and Morpheus half-wondered if she would ask if she fucking stuttered. “I said “I do” because I do, Kevin.” 

“No, I mean… Are you sure you don’t want a big royal-wedding-of-the-century-type wedding? With, like, the queen and photographers and stuff?” 

Oh dear, trouble in paradise already. If it turned out there was no demon, Morpheus may be convinced to get a social media account just to see how this marriage played out. 

The princess’s face softened into what had to be the most loving, adoring look Morpheus had ever seen. If not for the circumstances, he would’ve admitted it was genuinely sweet. “I just want you,” she told him. 

Ew. Definitely the plot of a bad romance novel… not that he read those. 

Her words seemed to persuade him, and they both turned back to him. “Let’s get on with it, please,” the princess said politely. 

Morpheus nodded slightly. “And do you, Kevin–” 

He heard a cracking noise, then Kevin Brody yelped. “Ow! Yeah! Yeah, I do.” 

“Wonderful. Then repeat after me. Da locum derisimae.” 

“Da locum derisimae.” 

“Da locum empi isimae.” 

“Da locum empi–” 

Kevin Brody suddenly stopped and hunched over, coughing loudly. Both the princess and Morpheus’s heads immediately turned towards him as he cleared his throat and straightened up, trying to laugh it off. “Sorry,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Been fasting. Just in case there were photographers. You know what I’m sayin’?” The princess looked like she very much did not know what he was saying, and his awkward grin faded. “Doesn’t matter.” 

She gave him what looked like a warning glare and turned back to Morpheus. “Keep going,” she demanded. 

Morpheus, however, wasn’t looking at her. He was studying Kevin Brody suspiciously. Maybe he’d been right all along, and the princess wasn’t possessed at all… but someone in this room still was. “Da locum christo…” 

“Da locum christ–” Kevin Brody doubled over again, this time looking like he’d been about to throw up. He held up a hand desperately. “Sorry, can we–” 

Morpheus kept chanting, the words coming rapidly. “Vonelium venistido perebustubis,” 

Kevin Brody grabbed his throat and doubled over in pain, actually gagging this time. The princess just looked at him, aghast. “Are you going to be sick?! Kevin! Are you going to be sick during our wedding?!” 

Morpheus just studied him and went on. “Quotis boliavit quam regnum tuom destrucit.”

The princess kept looking back and forth between him and her fiance, who had been sent down to his knees. “Kevin!” 

Kevin Brody gagged… and then a green hand with black nails slowly slithered out of his mouth. 

Oh shit. “Quivit emigavit, evasa tuem eripulit!” 

And Kevin Brody, or at least his body, was rocketed to its feet and its head was thrown back as a green arm and hand burst out of the mouth. The demon inside growled, the sound booming through the cathedral, as the hand clawed at the air. Then another green hand slowly appeared, then an arm, tearing through the mouth and face as it fought its way out of its constricting vessel. Then both hands reached back to grab the top of the head, and tore the body in half. What used to be subpar football star Kevin Brody exploded in a mess of blood, bones, and flesh. In the body’s place stood a huge, hulking demon. He had green skin, pointed ears, spikes of purple-gray hair atop his head, completely black eyes, and a darker green vest and pants. The demon exhaled with an enraged snarl and stood to his full height, towering over the princess and Morpheus’s heads. 

Morpheus’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he vaguely registered the princess bursting into terrified tears. Wow. He really hadn’t seen that coming. Lucienne had been convinced the princess was possessed, not the footballer, and she was never wrong. That’s a twist. 

Speaking of whom… “Lucienne!” he called, not taking his eyes off the demon. The demon glared right back at him as his arms and legs slowly cracked and snapped back into place. 

Footsteps echoed, then Lucienne appeared, clutching his coat around her. She froze in shock upon seeing the demon. “You won’t believe this,” Morpheus said to her, “but you were wrong about who was possessed.” 

“Oh dear,” was all Lucienne responded with. 

Morpheus glanced at the princess, who had backed away in terror and had her hands over her mouth to conceal her hysterical sobs. “Get her out of here.”

Lucienne nodded and went to place her hands gently on the distraught princess’s shoulders and hurry her out of the hall. “Come along, dear. There we go. Come with me.” 

The demon’s head and body turned and he seemed to be watching as Lucienne and the princess left the room. He let out a growl of frustration. Morpheus didn’t want to find out if that meant he was going to attack them, so he began to chant again, stepping down to the floor. “Visitas vasuomos dominae. Habitatione istum et omnis–”

“You… talk too much,” the demon snarled as he turned around to face him. “Especially for a little twink in eyeliner.” 

Morpheus chose to ignore the very original insult he had never heard before. “If you tell me your name, I’ll stop,” he retorted. 

“Now why would I do that,” the demon said, advancing on him with a very lecherous smile, “when there’s far more enjoyable ways to make you stop?”

“His name is Choronzon.”

Morpheus whipped around and found the woman from outside in the white trench coat standing behind him. Her chin was raised regally and she gazed at the demon—Choronzon, apparently—with a very intent look, like she wanted something from him. “A Duke of Hell,” she finished. 

The green-skinned demon grinned at her. “Surprised you remember me, Lady Johanna,” he sneered mockingly, “after your little vacation away.”

The woman simply smiled dryly at him. “Nice to see you too, Choronzon,” she said mildly sarcastically. 

Morpheus, who had backed away a few steps, turned to look again at the woman, this time remembering what Gilbert had said to him. “Lady Johanna?” he repeated to himself, astonished. He couldn’t believe it…

Choronzon apparently heard him. “It is indeed, little twink. Though she looks a bit different without her helm.” He grinned at her. “Now where do you think that could be?” 

“I’m guessing it’s in Hell with the demon it was traded to,” Lady Johanna shot back. 

“Yeah, but which demon? Gimme the princess and I might be willin’ to tell you.”

Fuck this. Morpheus was out of patience. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on here between these two primordial beings, but he was past the point of caring. It was far too late for this shit. So he grabbed his crucifix out of his boot, held it out towards Choronzon, and began to chant again. “Exis ergo, Choronzon!” 

A panicked look appeared on Lady Johanna’s face. “Wait!” 

Flames began to appear around Choronzon’s feet with a blast of heat as Morpheus kept chanting. Choronzon yelled in surprise and fear as tendrils of flames wrapped around his arms and pulled him down. 

“ALRIGHT FINE!” he yelled, whipping his head around to Lady Johanna. “I’ll tell you where your fucking helm is. Just don’t send me back!”

“Erventis tutis suom memuoquis–” 

“Constantine!” Lady Johanna yelled, running down the steps. “Stop!” 

“–engentium Choronzon! Visitas vasuomos dominae!” 

“I SAID STOP!” Lady Johanna screamed as a portal opened below Choronzon’s feet and he was slowly sucked down. “STOP!”

“DREAM OF THE ENDLESS COMMANDS YOU!” Choronzon roared at Morpheus as he finished his chant. 

“Make like a good demon and fuck off back to Hell!” Morpheus shot back. 

The floor rumbled under his feet and flames appeared between the stones. Ash and flame shot up and twisted around Choronzon’s body, consuming his form, until with one last despairing roar, the demon was dragged back down to Hell. 

Morpheus slowly lowered his crucifix as the embers blinked out, and finally turned his eyes to look at the woman across from the mess of soot on the floor. Lady Johanna looked down at the place Choronzon had just disappeared from, then slowly lifted her head to give him a mortified look. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” she asked him. 

With a flourish, Morpheus snapped the Rituale Romanum shut. “I do,” he replied, finally allowing himself to smile in satisfaction. “I have just tripled my fee.” 

Then he turned on his heel and strode away. Tonight was turning out to be pretty okay after all. “Lucienne? Will I be invoicing the Church of England or Buckingham Palace for this?”

[zurdta]

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#and there are too many men who would rather highlight nonsense as men's rights

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

"Remember after the overturning of Roe v Wade, how many women in England breathed a guilty sigh of relief that our reproductive rights were safe in this country? Rees-Mogg’s comments at Westminster Hall should disabuse anyone who still thinks that access to abortion – a form of essential and life-saving healthcare – isn’t at risk here, too."

I’ll say this for Jacob Rees-Mogg: he’s predictable. Dangerous, disingenuous, arrogant – but predictable. Yesterday, he offered another of his rousing anti-abortion speeches – this time at a Westminster Hall debate about a petition for terminations to be included in the government’s planned Bill of Rights. He never tires of caring for the children, that one.

Given all his talk of protecting babies, you’d expect him to be a staunch supporter of affordable childcare – especially for the most vulnerable families – a fierce advocate for free school meals to make sure no child in the UK goes hungry, and a steadfast proponent of anti-poverty policies.

Not likely.

Remember when UNICEF had to step in and help feed deprived children in the UK during the Covid-19 pandemic – the UN agency’s first domestic emergency response in its history? Rees-Mogg accused them of a “political stunt”. And that time when he said increased food bank usage was “rather uplifting”?

That’s right, the MP for North East Somerset only goes all “think of the babies!” while they’re still foetuses. Once they’re out of the womb and really need the help, his heartfelt “preference for life” appears to suddenly disappear. Funny that. It’s one of the most startling contradictions of those who describe themselves as “pro-life”, that they’ll happily dismiss the needs of children and adults – but foetuses must remain sacrosanct.

To me, it’s almost as if it’s not really about ‘babies’ at all; it’s almost as if it’s about controlling women’s reproductive rights instead. I’m sure that’s not the case with Rees-Mogg, though. He’s got integrity. Oh no, wait, sorry, I’ve got that wrong; I’m just looking at my notes here and it appears to be the exact opposite.

Rees-Mogg doesn’t mind making a mint “in a very roundabout way” from abortion pills in Indonesia, and he’s apparently not too fussed about an unnecessary death or two (or a hundred thousand) through draconian policies that effectively punish people for being poor.

Still, he’s got a way with words. Honestly, his powers of rhetoric during the abortion debate almost brought me to tears (of horror).

He used every trick in the book. Incendiary language? Check: the former Leader of the House of Commons spoke of essential healthcare “killing babies”. Demonisation of supporters of reproductive freedom? Check: he referred to abortion rights as a “cult of death”. But there goes the Moggster – forever serving up 19th century attitudes to a 21st century society.

MP for Walthamstow Stella Creasy was having none of it. On Twitter, she posted a damning indictment of Rees-Mogg’s comments during the debate. “If you think we don’t need to codify in law that women have a human right to choose to have an abortion, Rees-Mogg just argued against women who are victims of rape or incest having a right to have one. Women deserve equal rights. Whoever is in government #trustWomen.” Well, it seems you can certainly trust Rees-Mogg to attack women’s bodily autonomy whenever he gets the chance.about:blank

Rees-Mogg’s gutter politics surely put him in a difficult position to take the moral high ground over anyone, but to condemn those who’ve had abortions and those who support reproductive rights is a new low even for him – and there are so very many lows to choose from.

To keep up to speed with all the latest opinions and comment, sign up to our free weekly Voices Dispatches newsletter by clicking here

Remember after the overturning of Roe v Wade, how many women in England breathed a guilty sigh of relief that our reproductive rights were safe in this country? Rees-Mogg’s comments at Westminster Hall should disabuse anyone who still thinks that access to abortion – a form of essential and life-saving healthcare – isn’t at risk here, too.

His impassioned speech – which was effectively in favour of endangering the lives of women across the country – comes just after government documents outlining plans to curb access to home abortions were leaked. It’s unsurprising that such a move would be detrimental to the most vulnerable women – those at risk of domestic violence and those without a fixed address. But then, Rees-Mogg doesn’t seem to care about those lives. Those lives don’t suit his political narrative at all. Not a bit.

How many unnecessary deaths have the Tories caused since they came into power? Never mind. They don’t matter anyway. Not to Rees-Mogg, it seems. He’s apparently more interested in the slitheringly slow but certain erosion of women’s right to bodily autonomy.

This bloke who’ll never get impregnated by a rapist, this bloke who’ll never get pregnant at all, this bloke who’ll never need an abortion. This bloke dares to denounce the women who do experience all those things. This bloke, with his extravagant wealth and all the privileges imaginable, dares to try and make life worse for the most vulnerable women.

2 notes - Posted December 1, 2022

#4

If you are scrolling through your timeline trying to distract yourself from something you don't want to think about, or you're looking for a sign.

It is going to be okay.

Just breathe.

You are alive and you matter.

via Pink News on Facebook.

3 notes - Posted December 17, 2022

#3

🎶✨️ when u get this u have to put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish, then send this to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool) ✨🎶

Tagged by @asongthatsingsitself, thank you:

Europa Endlos - Kraftwerk

This House is Condemned - Pulp

The Light That Has Lighted the World - George Harrison

Der Räuber und der Prinz - DAF

Separations - Pulp

3 notes - Posted November 13, 2022

#2

5 notes - Posted December 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Sparks, 1980.

@parts-of-me-unravelling this is for you.

20 notes - Posted December 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[anythingwriter]

Badassery

Thomas Shelby x reader

Warnings: language, Oswald Mosley, teeny tiny bit of sexual assault, implied smut if you squint, small bit of angst

Word count: 1,988 of pure trash:)

Requested by: anonymous 🐆

Summary: At one of Tommy’s famous parties, he sees his wife being hit on by the one and only Oswald Mosley. On his way to save her he stops in his tracks, shocked by how she handled things.

*******************************************************

Y/n Shelby was definitely a force to be reckoned with. While most men and women cleared a path when they saw Tommy coming, they’d clear the whole damn street when they saw her. She was unpredictable and even scarier than Arthur doped up on his snow.

Oh and her looks, she was one of the most beautiful gems Small Heath had ever seen. The men all wanted a taste of her, and the women strived to be her. She knew she was beautiful, and she walked with her head held high in confidence. Most importantly, she knew she could take care of herself. Apparently though, her husband did not.

It was a Friday evening and naturally your husband had decided to throw a party. People from the richest of families were there, wanting to see how the Thomas Shelby lived.

You and Tommy were in the corner conversing amongst yourselves, laughing at the guest and their ridiculous outfits, and Charlie was upstairs with the maids, hopefully asleep by now. Tommy had gone for a normal suit, his ocean eyes standing out against the deep black. You had chosen a beautiful burgundy dress with a daring plunge in the neck, accompanied by a jaw dropping diamond necklace Tommy had given you for your three year anniversary. The dress hugged you perfectly, showing off your best assets. Tommy couldn’t tear his eyes off of you.

“Tommy, look at Mrs.Evans! Sh- she looks like she has a dog wrapped around her neck!” You bent over laughing, having to put a hand on your knee to stop yourself from falling flat out on the floor, almost spilling your wine in the process. Her scarf was obnoxiously large and fluffy, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

Tommy looked over as well, and he chuckled at the sight, nowhere near laughing as hard as you. It was safe to say you were a little more on the tipsier side. He reached down his ring clad hand and grabbed your wine, “that’s enough for you love,” and he put it on the passing butlers tray, mumbling a small thanks in the process.

You straightened back out and looked up at Tommy and gave him the biggest puppy eyes you could muster, you were not done with your wine and you wanted it back.

“Bu-“

“No buts darling, you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of all these people, right?. Maybe wait until it’s just me and you, yeah? Sound good?” You weakly nodded your head to Tommy, knowing there was no way you were going to win this debate.

“Tommy?”

He turned to look at you, “yes darling?”

You stared at him with the best serious face you could possibly offer in your given state, “ You- you said butts!” You doubled back over again laughing your ass off. It truly wasn’t that funny, but you felt like a damn comedian at this point. Tommy gave you one of his famous “bitch, really” faces and walked away from you.

“Tommy! Where are you going? You can’t just leave me here!” He kept walking to the other side of the room, not once turning around to spare you another glance.

“Tommmmyyyyy!” He still didn’t turn around, and you were about to shout again until you saw some guest looking at you. You gave them all a bitter look and they averted their gazes, none of them wishing to die tonight. You frowned in Tommy’s direction before turning around to find someone you knew to talk too. You spotted Polly in the distance and headed her way.

“Ahhh Mrs.Shelby, lovely to see you this evening.”

You stopped in your tracks at the voice, slowly turning around to meet the cold eyes of Oswald Mosley. All the wine you had drank that night quickly left your system at the sight of him. Tommy had warned you to stay away from him, he warned you that he had no care about the feelings of women. You knew he was a terrible man.

He reached out with his bare clammy hand and grabbed your glove covered one and brought it up to his lips to give it a kiss, never once breaking eye contact with you.

You cringed on the inside, giving him a charming smile anyway. “Lovely too see you as well, Mr.Mosley.”

He looked you up and down, “might I just say dear, you look rather… ravishing tonight,” as the last word left his mouth he allowed his eyes to stop and stare at your breast. You pulled back at this, hating yourself for choosing such a daring dress. “Thank you, sir. I do believe I should go find my husband though, I’m sure he’s looking for me, have a good night Mr.Mosley.”

As you were walking around him to follow the way Tommy had left you moments prior, Oswald latched his hand onto your wrist, pulling you back towards him.

“Actually y/n, I ran into him for a brief conversation before I came to see you, and I can promise he seems quite busy with Mr.Solomons at the moment.” He gave you a sinister smile, still not letting go of your wrist.

You tried to pull back your hand but he only gripped it tighter, your wrist began to throb at this point.

“Mr.Mosley,” your teeth were clenched and you were sure your face was red, “I would actually love to go say hello to Mr.Solomons. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Alfie.” And with one final tug, your wrist slipped from his hold, but he was having none of that. He quickly grabbed you by your hips and pulled you flush to his chest, you could smell the alcohol and cheap cologne coming from him. For being so confident in himself he sure smelt like a piece of shit.

He squeezed your hips too tight for comfort and forced a smile towards you.

“It seems to me, Mrs.Shelby,” squeeze “that you are trying to get away from me. Do you not enjoy my company?” His dark brown eyes were boring into your e/c eyes.

You felt disgusted, who did this man think he was?

You glared at him, you gathered every ounce of anger and disgust you could and pushed it all behind your eyes.

“Mr.Mosley, I suggest you take your hands off of me right now, I don’t believe my husband would be too happy. He doesn’t like sharing.” You were furious, spitting out every word through your clenched teeth.

He scoffed, “your husband? Wouldn’t you like to see what a real man is like?” He still held your hips, and he slowly but forcefully pushed his hips up against yours.

*******************************************************

Across the room, Tommy was looking for you while he listened to Alfie speak. His blood boiled at the sight he found.

“So you see Tommy I-“

“Shut up Alfie.”

Alfie gazed over at Tommy incredulously, his cane stuck in midair from his rambling.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me Thomas?”

Tommy didn’t have time for Alfies games and pointed his cigarette in your direction. He followed Tommy’s hand and widened at the sight. There was no mistaking the disgusting excuse of a man and the beautiful woman Tommy was oh so lucky to call his.

Alfie had met you a couple of times, and although you were one scary bitch, he knew you were kind hearted behind your exterior. Even though you weren’t his he felt rage bubbling inside. He could see the discomfort on your face, he could only imagine what Tommy was thinking.

“Yeah, if I were you lad, I think I would go over and put a bullet in between the wops eyes, yeah.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more Alfie.” And with that Tommy was marching his way across the room to save his wife. When he was halfway across the room with determination on his face, he almost tripped over his own feet. The sight in front of him was not one he was expecting to see.

*******************************************************

Mosley pushed his hips up towards yours, and disgustingly enough you could feel everything through his pants. You could feel bile rising in your throat. You looked over his shoulder and saw Tommy on his way over with figurative steam coming out of his ears.

To hell with Tommy, he was the one that left you in the first place. You didn’t need his help, you were anything but a damsel in distress.

With that you brought your knee up to Mosley’s groin, a satisfactory smile on your face hearing him moan in pain.

When he doubled over in pain you didn’t hesitate before beating on the man.

“I-,” punch “said get-,” punch “off of-,” punch “ME!” kick.

Breathing heavily standing over the bloodied mans body, your senses began to come back to you. The band Tommy had hired stopped playing, everyone had stopped dancing, looking at you with bewilderment on their faces. You could hear Mosley struggling for air beneath you, and Tommy, well he was completely frozen in his spot, his jaw hanging open and he felt something stir inside of him.

You looked around, wiping off the dirt and blood on your hands and snapped at everybody staring at you, “shows over fuckers!” Everyone resumed what they were doing.

Tommy stormed over to you and for a second you thought he was going to shout. His brows were furrowed and he had a scowl on his face. When he was finally standing in front of you, you ducked your head waiting for the scolding.

You let out a surprised sound of shock when Tommy grabbed your face between both his hands and pressed his lips to yours. It was messy and uncoordinated, but neither of you cared.

Recovering from your moment of shock you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing back with just as much neediness. Tommy moved his hands down your back and grabbed your ass, emitting a moan from you and he slipped his tongue in your mouth, groaning at the taste of wine and cigarettes.

When he pulled back for air he stared into your eyes, keeping his hand on your ass.

“That-,” he took a deep breath, “was the hottest thing I have ever seen.” He pulled your hips closer to his, and you could feel him hardening against you.

You smirked up at Tommy, laughing before running your hand down his chest. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

His eyes darkened, when he opened his mouth to speak again he was interrupted by a very impressed gangster.

“Y/n! Darling!,” Alfie came running over as fast as he could with his leg, swinging his cane all over the place in excitement, almost pulling off Mrs.Evans scarf in the process, “that was amazing! Tell me, how did you do it?”

You gave an innocent smile in the mans direction, still wrapped in Tommy’s arms, “it’s called badassery Alfie, I could teach you if you want?”

Tommy let out a loud laugh at that, letting go of your ass to pull you to his side by your waist and gave Alfie an award winning Thomas Shelby smile.

Alfie looked at you for a moment before laughing himself.

“You gotta’ keeper here Tom, don’t let her go or I’ll snatch her up myself.”

Tommy glared at Alfie and turned his attention to you smiling, “Trust me Alf, I’m never letting this one go.”

And with that Tommy dragged you upstairs into your shared room, showing you how hot he thought it truly was, and awarding you a job well done.

*******************************************************

a/n: I hope you like it honey! I’m not sure I liked the ending though, but I hope y’all do!!❤️❤️

Also! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Have a good day darlins!🥰

@shadowfoxey @nothingleftthaticando

[warriorsfireandwater]

Warriors Analysis 2: A Breakdown of the Crow/Night/Breeze Family Dynamic

I said I would do it, so here we are. The big doozy. For this one, I’m going to putting all of the sourced scenes in a linked google doc, because I just don’t want to make this post a million miles long. Instead, for this post, I will sum up all of the conclusions made after reviewing every scene involving the family from Po3 through OotS, with other relevant information from other books included.

Context of this one: I’ve watched (and participated in) a lot of debate over this family. Just about every single argument I’ve seen tends to:

1) rely on a person’s opinion of a character overall to how they feel about the family (”I found Nightcloud annoying” often goes along with “Nightcloud is equally bad of a parent” or “Breezepelt was a bad person so I don’t sympathize with him in the family situation”)

2) misremember canon

3) rely on a person’s headcanons of what actually happened to shape their judgement of the family (”Nightcloud spoiled Breezepelt and told him Crowfeather is bad” when there are zero canon scenes of this happening)

Some ground rules: I’m relying on breaking down the canon scenes in the books. I am NOT inserting my own thoughts or beliefs as to what happened behind the scenes. If there’s anything bordering on that (”this behavior implies X”), it’ll be clearly stated that it’s an interpretation. I ask that if you want to comment or debate this analysis that you do the same. People’s headcanons shaping how they remember the family is the thing that frustrated me enough to spend hours digging this up. As a personal request, please don’t use this post to say “Nightcloud still sucks and I hate her”/”Breezepelt still sucks and I hate him”/”neglect isn’t abuse” - the latter is definitively incorrect and is upsetting to hear as a survivor of abuse. “X character still is bad” just takes away from the point of this - which is not to say “Breezepelt is a good person”, but PURELY to breakdown the family dynamic. With that out of the way, let’s GO:

After looking at literally every scene involving Breezepelt, Crowfeather, and Nightcloud and analyzing the ones that involve or mention them as a family, here’s some key points. The scenes that back these points up are included and detailed in this doc.

Breezepaw is introduced to us as a bit aggressive and rude, and his mentor, Whitetail, wishes to Crowfeather that she would teach him manners (earning her no response from him)

We first properly see Nightcloud during the dog attack in The Sight, when Breezepaw returns from checking the barrier. Breezepaw reports that there is no damage, and Crowfeather immediately questions if he actually checked all the way around. Breezepaw tells him “Of course!”, and Nightcloud says that Crowfeather should trust his son more.

This suggests Nightcloud is ready to defend Breezepaw whenever. However, as ThunderClan is leaving, Breezepaw mutters that WindClan can manage on their own. Nightcloud immediately scolds him and compliments Lionpaw for saving Heatherpaw during the battle.

Later, at the daylight Gathering, Lionpaw and Breezepaw are buried underground. Crowfeather and Nightcloud help dig them out, and Breezepaw is not breathing when he comes out. Jaypaw has to pull dirt out of his throat to save his life.

Leafpool says to Crowfeather that she would “give [her] last drop of blood to save [his kit]”. Nightcloud sharply retorts that “our kit was lucky that Jaypaw was here”.

Nightcloud carries Breezepaw away from the scene “like a kit”. Crowfeather offers to help, but she carries him on her own. She does not push him away/force him away/shout at him, she literally just chooses to carry him. Nightcloud spends the rest of the daylight Gathering curled around Lionpaw and Breezepaw and keeping them resting.

We learn these things from the Sight: Breezepaw and Crowfeather seem to have a tense relationship, but that isn’t fully developed. Nightcloud is willing to defend him from Crowfeather’s doubts, but notably does not defend him when he acts like a punk in front of her. She is bothered by Leafpool’s comment about giving her life for Breezepaw (which I personally find pretty reasonable to be bothered by), but counters by giving her gratitude to Jaypaw. She wants to carry Breezepaw after he nearly dies, but isn’t pushing Crowfeather away or denying him anything like many people claim.

In Dark River, Crowfeather encourages Breezepaw’s bias against ThunderClan, telling him that they “celebrate mixed blood” in a tone that implies it as a negative thing. (It seems implied he does this to get to Leafpool, who is upset by his comment.)

Jaypaw is able to feel Nightcloud’s jealous emotions on a few occasions, but she actually never says anything to Leafpool or Crowfeather about it.

In Outcast, Crowfeather is called to go on the journey to the Tribe. Onestar tells him to take Breezepaw, who has gotten in trouble a few times. Breezepaw makes it very plain he doesn’t want to go and worries that his Clanmates are just trying to get rid of him. Crowfeather wants to go, but “sighs” over the idea of taking Breezepaw. To me, he comes off as disinterested and possibly disappointed that he has to bring him. Crowfeather snaps at Breezepaw for asking to say goodbye to his friends, saying “There isn’t time!” even though literally no one is rushing them to leave. Nightcloud comes to say goodbye, but Crowfeather is distant and doesn’t respond to her.

Throughout Outcast, each POV character has at least one (if not many) moments where they think about Crowfeather/Breezepaw and feel pity for Breezepaw, despite really hating him. Hollypaw especially thinks often about how she appreciates Brambleclaw for encouraging and supporting her, and the apprentices all seem to realize that Breezepaw is angry because his father “doesnt seem to like him”. 

When questioning why they have to help the tribe, Crowfeather just tells Breezepaw “You’ll never understand loyalty.”

When they run into Purdy, Breezepaw is pretty rude to him. Crowfeather doesn’t interrupt a single time throughout multiple insults, then reacts by hitting him across the ear without saying anything, which is noted as “a hard blow”.

Breezepaw nearly dies falling off into a ravine after thinking he’s discovered a faster way. Crowfeather pulls him back and snaps at him, expressing no concern for his life. In Eclipse, Crowfeather pointedly does not compliment Breezepaw’s catch of the rabbit, which angers Breezepaw.

During the reveal of Leaf/Crow in the last book, Breezepelt and Nightcloud stand by Crow’s side and don’t publicly turn on him or say anything against him.

This journey gives us a lot of insight into Crow and Breeze’s dynamic. Breezepaw is pretty obviously a little punk throughout this book, but Crowfeather has no healthy way of communicating with him or discipling him. Instead, he snaps at him, hits him, or ignores him, all of which just feeds into Breezepaw’s anger. Nightcloud is not present for any of this and has no way of controlling their interactions here, which could have been a perfect opportunity for Crowfeather to build a relationship with his son if it were true that Night had prevented this.

Breezepelt shows up in Fading Echoes, training in the Dark forest. A few things are made explicit: he is being manipulated by the Dark Forest and Tigerstar’s words have an almost hypnotic effect on him. The cats present egg him on against Crowfeather, feeding into his belief that Crow does not value him. (Side note, I find it really interesting that in this book, Breezepelt has notable value in the warrior code [which encourages his hate towards Crow] and the DF cats encourage this, saying it is “strong” in his blood. Next time we see him, though, he wants to destroy it.)

Flametail randomly thinks about Breezepelt’s family while spending time with Tawnypelt, feeling glad he has nicer kin.

We get the infamous scene where Lion and Breeze fight. Breeze and Crow were both trespassing on ThunderClan territory and Lion caught the prey Breezepelt was about to catch. He intentionally eggs Breezepelt into a fight (rather than just attacking him himself). Leafpool interrupts, asking how Crow can watch this. Nightcloud then shows up and insists Crowfeather has only one son. Leafpool jumps in between them as Breezepelt is leaping for Lionblaze, and she gets clawed. Crowfeather hauls him off and throws him aside, then keeps talking to Leafpool, who tells him she loved him.

Nightcloud then comes over and pulls Crowfeather away from Leafpool. She sinks her claws into his pelt to do this. However, it’s worth noting that this scene contains MANY references to blood every time claws come out - she does not draw blood and he does not express any signal of pain. It’s likely she used her claws only as a means of holding onto him, not to cause him harm. Crowfeather turns on him, and Breezepelt wails before getting between them, telling Crowfeather to leave his mother alone.

Nightcloud doesn’t react rationally in this scene - but neither does any character. Lionblaze is an ass, Breezepelt is an ass, Crowfeather is an ass, and Leafpool is still walking around making declarations of her former love in front of Crowfeather’s wife.

Nightcloud is one of the cats to react rudely to Hollyleaf’s return, but she doesn’t directly attack/challenge her. (This is actually the last time we see Nightcloud.)

The final meaningful scene is in The Last Hope, when Breezepelt fights Lionblaze. Crowfeather intervenes and says he will not allow Breezepelt to hurt him. Breezepelt retorts he always knew Crowfeather hated him, which Crow denies.

“I never hated you!” Crowfeather growled. “That’s just what you were determined to believe. And Nightcloud encouraged you.”

“It’s not her fault!” Breezepelt spat.

“No,” Crowfeather hissed. “I should have done something much earlier...”

This is the first and only time this is blamed on Nightcloud. This is the only indication we have that this could be true.

Some other notable things:

Crowfeather took Nightcloud as a mate to prove his loyalty, not out of love. (This is said in After Sunset: We need to talk)

The Ultimate Guide also confirms the above, but is a questionable source given the many errors included in it. It states that Crowfeather resents Nightcloud (for not being Leafpool), and that Nightcloud coddled Breezepelt. However, the latter is never shown in the story (and the opposite is actually shown when she scolds him).

In Crowfeather’s Trial, Crowfeather is pushed to recognize his anger towards his son and apologize for his behavior towards him and Nightcloud. Even in an entire book from Crow’s perspective (which provides opportunity for memories, flashbacks, etc), there is no indication that Nightcloud actually pushed Breezepelt to hate Crowfeather. There’s a throwaway mention that Crowfeather was too strict or too rough with Breezepelt as a kit, but it’s never actually said that Nightcloud told him this/kept him away/etc. (IE: it’s impossible to say if Nightcloud screamed this at him or asked him once to be gentle. We just don’t know!)

With all this said, here’s my take on the dynamic:

Crowfeather was a neglectful father and an inconsiderate mate. The only scene we get where he seems to actually get along with Breezepaw is when he is encouraging him to dislike ThunderClan by feeding into hatred for “mixed blood” cats. In all other scenes, he: 1) ignores his bad behavior, 2) is unnecessarily harsh to him or dismissive of him, 3) questions and undermines him, 4) does not have healthy ways of addressing his poor behavior (IE, he ignores and turns away from him rather than discussing it when all the apprentices are in trouble and the other warriors are scolding them, he flat-out hits Breezepaw at one point after saying nothing to intervene in his rudeness), and 5) blames Nightcloud for their bad relationship. Crowfeather is provided plenty of opportunities to interact with Breezepaw while Nightcloud isn’t present (in fact, Nightcloud shows up very little - most scenes of the family have just Breeze and Crow, there are many books where Nightcloud isn’t even mentioned).

Nightcloud was literally just being a normal mom and was often pushed to feeling jealous around Leafpool, often because Leafpool doesn’t have any boundaries around hinting about loving Crowfeather for some reason. I was actually really shocked by how... absolutely fuckin brazen Leafpool is 24/7 about waltzing up to Crowfeather while his wife is standing right there and going “just so you know......... i miss you........... i’d give my life for you......” It’s just WEIRD. IMO, it’s pretty damn reasonable for that to make Nightcloud irritated! Most of the time, she never actually voices her jealousy, we just know about it because of Jaypaw’s ability. When she does, it’s sometimes done by complimenting someone else or giving credit to another cat, like when Jaypaw saves Breezepaw. There is zero text in the story supporting the idea that Nightcloud was overbearing or that she spoiled him: we have TWO SCENES where she has character moments around this. In the first, she is defending him from Crowfeather’s doubt, and in the second, she is scolding him for being ungrateful to ThunderClan for their help.

Breezepelt was a kid that grew up feeling unloved, unappreciated, and angry and resentful as a result. The Dark Forest, not Nightcloud, fed into this belief, but we also have a whole lot of scenes that show why that feeling of resentment towards Crowfeather is there to begin with.

The final hot take: If you believe Nightcloud ‘spoiled’ Breezepelt or that she was ‘overbearing and possessive’, you need to reread Po3 and OotS. It’s just not there.

(Bonus: I love Leafpool but god, girl, you need to read a room.)