#The Architect of Catastrophe

[wigster07]

Much love to the amazing and talented @somewillwin for doing this commission of Evil Kit for The Architect of Catastrophe. This scene is from Chapter 12 “Welcome Home Kit”.

[spybrarian]

Been upsetting myself a lot lately with @wigster07′s fic The Architect of Catastrophe so when a post full of doomy textposts crossed my dash there was nothing for it but to make these...

It’s a good fic but note the warnings on it!!

[zeroseuniverse]

A Prince's Fear

Word Count: 2.5K Summary:“I swore I wouldn’t leave my—”“I swore I would bring you home,” Pairing: Wonwoo X Reader

taglist: @haaruki  @agaha127 @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120  @ltfirecracker

There are many kinds of rulers in this world.

There are those who command with words, whose voices stir hearts and ignite revolutions. They are the ones who walk among their people, speaking their names, promising change, vowing to carve a future from the echoes of their declarations.

There are those who lead with steel, standing shoulder to shoulder with their warriors. They do not hide behind castle walls or dictate orders from gilded thrones. Instead, they wade into battle, blood and dirt staining their armor as they fight not for their people, but with them. Their respect is earned through sacrifice, their loyalty forged in the crucible of war.

There are those who crave power, who see a crown as a means to indulge in riches and decadence. They rule for themselves, their subjects nothing more than a means to an end, a source of wealth, labor, or entertainment. Their reigns are often short, for greed invites downfall, and the people will only endure so much before their patience runs thin.

There are those who manipulate, spinning webs of deceit and secrets, ensuring they remain atop their throne not by brute strength, but by outmaneuvering all who seek to dethrone them. They are the masters of whispers and veiled threats, the ones who turn allies into enemies and enemies into pawns. Their rule is precarious, but their cunning makes them dangerous.

And then, there are the strategists—the ones who do not seek the throne but ensure it stands. They are the quiet architects of empires, fixing problems before they become catastrophes, moving pieces in a game only they can see in its entirety. Their victories are not sung in ballads, but without them, there would be no kingdom left to rule.

Among these rulers stands a warrior. A ruler who sees themselves not as a sovereign above their people, but as one of them. You fight because you must, because you know too well the cost of trust misplaced, the sting of betrayal buried deep in your bones. Your kingdom flourishes not because of fear or blind obedience, but because your people believe in you. A belief earned not by words, nor by political maneuvering, but by action.

And standing in opposition—or perhaps, beside you —is a strategist. A man who does not understand why his betrothed insists on throwing herself into the chaos of war when you have an army to fight in your stead. To him, a ruler’s duty is to command, to make the decisions that win wars before they are fought, not to risk her life on the front lines. Yet, despite his disagreements, despite the frustration that burns beneath his carefully composed exterior, he will ensure one thing above all else.

That you will always return home to him.

The war drums thundered in the distance, their rhythmic beat echoing through the valley. Soldiers stood in formation, banners fluttering under the weight of an approaching storm. At the front of the army, where a ruler should not be, you sat atop your steed, eyes fixed on the battlefield ahead.

"You should not be here," came the calm, measured voice from beside you.

Wonwoo’s horse moved in perfect step with your own, his dark eyes unreadable as he studied the scene before him. He was dressed in practical armor, unadorned but effective, his sword sheathed at his side. Unlike you, he had no intention of drawing it today.

"And yet, here I am," you responded, not sparing him a glance. Your fingers tightened around the hilt of your weapon. "Where else would I be?"

"In the war room. Behind the walls of your stronghold. Anywhere but in the path of a blade meant for another."

Your lips curled in something that was not quite amusement. "And leave my people to bleed while I hide behind stone and parchment? I am no coward, Wonwoo."

"Cowardice and wisdom are not the same," he countered smoothly. "A leader’s duty is not to die for her people but to ensure her people do not die at all."

You turned to him then, eyes burning with something fierce and unyielding. "And what would you have me do? Sit idly by while my people pay the price of my decisions? I will not lead from the shadows, Wonwoo. I will not rule from fear of death."

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, barely restraining the sigh that threatened to escape. He had known this argument would go nowhere. It never did.

"Then at least allow me to ensure you return home in one piece," he said at last, his voice quieter now, steadier. "If you insist on standing in the fire, I will be the one to pull you from the flames."

Your gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before you turned back to the battlefield. The war horns sounded. The battle was upon you.

And just as always, Wonwoo would ensure you came back alive.

The first clash of steel rang through the air, drowning out the war drums. The battlefield erupted into chaos—shouts of soldiers, the sickening crunch of metal against flesh, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. You wasted no time, urging your horse forward into the fray, your sword flashing in deadly arcs as you cut down the first enemy in your path.

Wonwoo remained close behind, his movements precise, controlled. He did not fight with reckless abandon, nor did he lose himself in the battle’s frenzy. Instead, he watched—analyzing, predicting. Where you fought with passion, he fought with calculation.

And still, his eyes never strayed too far from you.

A flash of movement—a blade aimed directly at your exposed side. Wonwoo reacted before he could think, his own sword meeting the strike with a sharp clang. With a swift, efficient motion, he dispatched the attacker, his grip tightening around the hilt.

"You are reckless," he muttered under his breath, stepping closer as you turned to him, expression unreadable.

"And you are predictable," you shot back, breathless but smirking. "I knew you would cover me."

Wonwoo didn’t answer, only letting out a soft exhale. Of course you had known. You always did.

The battle raged on for hours, long enough for the sun to bleed into the horizon, staining the sky in hues of crimson and ash. The once-green valley was now a sea of churned mud and trampled bodies, the earth slick with blood.

It happened fast—too fast.

You were locked in combat with a soldier twice your size, blades clashing in rapid succession. You didn’t see the second soldier closing in behind you.

But Wonwoo did.

“Behind you!” his voice rang out, sharp and clear, but he was too far.

The second soldier lunged.

You spun, blade meeting the strike—but too late. The enemy’s sword carved a thin, shallow line across your side, slicing through leather and grazing flesh. You hissed sharply, pain blooming white-hot across your ribs.

Wonwoo was already there.

His sword cut through the first soldier with cold, lethal precision, then struck down the second attacker in a single blow. His movements were swift, practiced—but his eyes were wild, dark with fury.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. His hands were already on you, gloved fingers brushing against the torn leather at your side, seeking the wound.

“It’s nothing,” you gritted out, trying to shake him off. Your hand was still tight around your sword, blood still staining your knuckles. “I can still fight.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed, dark with barely restrained anger. His voice was low, sharp.

“Enough.”

The word cut through the battlefield noise, cold and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Before you could protest, he caught your wrist and yanked you close. Your chest collided against his armor, and before you could react, he was hauling you onto his horse.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you snapped, struggling in his grip.

“Getting you off the battlefield.” His tone was unwavering, unyielding.

“I swore I wouldn’t leave my—”

“I swore I would bring you home,” he bit out, his voice low but fierce. His arms tightened around you, firm and protective, refusing to let go.

And you knew, despite your protests, he would always keep that vow.

The ride back was silent.

You sat stiffly in front of him on the horse, your back pressed against his chest, but neither of you spoke. Wonwoo’s arm was a steel band around your waist, keeping you secure despite your attempts to squirm free in the beginning. Eventually, you stilled, the throbbing ache from your wound making you lean ever so slightly into him.

You could feel the tension in his body—the rigid line of his shoulders, the sharp edge of his jaw pressed against your temple when the horse jolted forward. He was furious, you knew. Not at the enemy. Not at the battle.

At you.

When you reached the stronghold, he dismounted first, gripping your waist firmly as he helped you down. His hands were steady—too steady. Wonwoo was always composed, but you could feel the storm barely restrained beneath the surface.

He didn’t say a word as he guided you inside. His grip on your wrist was gentle, but unyielding, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“Wonwoo—” you started once you were in the privacy of your chambers, but he cut you off with a look.

“Sit.” His voice was low, rough. A command.

You blinked, startled by the sharpness in his tone. He was never this curt with you. You parted your lips, ready to argue, but something in his eyes made you pause. So, without another word, you sank onto the edge of the bed.

He knelt before you without hesitation, pulling off his gloves and setting them aside. His fingers were steady as he unlaced the buckles of your leather armor, but he refused to meet your eyes.

The metal plates clattered softly to the floor as he removed them piece by piece. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching. Only when he peeled back the torn fabric of your tunic did he pause, inhaling sharply.

The cut wasn’t deep, but the sight of blood against your skin made something dark flicker in his eyes.

“You said it was nothing,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-rough.

You winced slightly as he pressed a damp cloth against the wound. The sting made you hiss, but you bit your lip, refusing to pull away.

“It is nothing,” you insisted quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

Wonwoo’s fingers stilled for half a second.

Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours. And it was only then that you realized the depth of the fury he had been holding back. It wasn’t loud or explosive. It was sharp and quiet—a barely restrained storm, threatening to break.

“That’s the problem,” he said softly, but his voice was like iron. “You’ve had worse.”

Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but he wasn’t finished.

“You’ve had worse because you’re reckless. Because you don’t think. You rush in without hesitation, without care for whether or not you come back.” His voice was calm—too calm. That sharp edge of control only made it more cutting. “And you think it’s noble. You think it’s brave.” His fingers curled slightly around the cloth in his hand, knuckles whitening. “But it isn’t.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“It’s foolish,” he muttered bitterly, voice barely above a whisper. “And one day, it’s going to get you killed.”

There it was—the truth he had been holding in, the words he hadn’t spoken on all the battlefields before this one.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound in the room was your unsteady breathing.

Then, softly, you reached out. Your fingers brushed over his knuckles, curling around his hand.

“I know it’s foolish,” you admitted quietly, surprising even yourself with your honesty. “But I’m not afraid.”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened. “I am.”

The confession fell from his lips before he could stop it. His voice was so soft, so raw, that it felt like a blade against your chest. You felt the weight of it—the fear he had never spoken aloud, the quiet dread he carried every time he watched you ride into battle.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

“You’re afraid of being a coward,” he muttered. “And I’m afraid of losing you.”

The words hung in the space between you, fragile and heavy all at once. You stared at him, your chest tightening with something you weren’t sure you could name.

For once, you had no retort.

You watched as he set the cloth aside, his fingers trembling slightly when he pressed them over the bandage he had placed over your wound. His touch was light, almost reverent, as though he feared you might break beneath his hands.

“Don’t ask me to watch you die,” he whispered, voice barely audible. His eyes found yours—dark, pleading, stripped bare of the careful mask he usually wore. “Don’t ask me to be strong enough for that.”

You stared at him, breathless. His eyes were steady but filled with so much restrained emotion that it made your throat tighten.

You reached up slowly, cupping his face in your hands. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and for the first time since the battle, he let out a shaky exhale, closing his eyes briefly at your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, brushing your thumb gently over his cheekbone. “Not without you.”

His eyes opened slowly, dark and searching, and something in them softened ever so slightly. His hands came up, trembling slightly as he cradled your face in return.

“Swear it,” he muttered softly. “Swear you’ll come back. Every time.”

You held his gaze, your voice steady despite the rawness in your chest.

“I swear it.”

And then, before either of you could speak again, he was kissing you.

It was not a soft kiss. It was desperate, rough-edged with fear and longing, his lips pressing against yours with a fierce, unyielding tenderness. His hands framed your face, holding you there as though you might disappear if he let go.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic, pulling him closer. You could taste the salt of his sweat, feel the ragged edge of his breath against your lips.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut. His breath was uneven, but his hands never left your face.

“I will bring you home,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and steady. “No matter what it takes.”

You pressed your lips against his again, softer this time, but no less sure.

“I know.”

And somehow, you knew that no matter how many battlefields you walked into, no matter how reckless or stubborn you were, he would always be the one who brought you back.

Every time.

[literallyaflame]

“catastrophizing” is such an annoying personality flaw. like yeah, don’t mind me, i’ve decided to architect my own dread for the afternoon. yeah, this gives me a false sense of control and security. i shouldn’t be doing this. it will happen again

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It��s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine:

What is happening in northern Gaza is the most heinous chapter of genocide in modern times

What is happening in northern Gaza is the most horrific chapter of genocide in modern times, as the zionist war machine continues to bomb entire residential blocks on the heads of children, women, and the elderly, besiege all hospitals, prevent the entry of food aid, and wage an unprecedented war of starvation and thirst.

The major war crimes being committed against our people in the Gaza Strip, especially in the north, are being carried out with the green light from the U.S. The criminal U.S. administration continues to obscure the horrific massacres being committed in northern Gaza, issuing a hypocritical narrative that downplays the indescribable catastrophes taking place there.

The U.S. administration, which provides the zionist war machine with weapons and political cover, consistently proves that it is a direct partner in these crimes and bears full responsibility for these brutal massacres.

The international community continues its disgraceful silence, issuing weak statements that do not reflect the scale of the atrocities committed, while Arab regimes stand by watching the massacre, unable even to utter a word of truth or take a position, however weak.

This silence and Arab betrayal is a blatant historical treason against our people and the people of the region, and it will remain a stain of shame on these complicit regimes and all who turned their backs on the tragedy and suffering of Gaza.

We are at a critical historical moment that requires the free people of the world to immediately act to stop this genocide and not remain trapped by empty diplomatic illusions or criminal American lies, propagated by the architect of massacres and their sponsor, U.S. Secretary of State and war criminal Blinken.

The blood of our people will not forgive anyone who has faltered, conspired, or evaded responsibility. These massacres against our people in Gaza will not go unanswered as long as there is a resistance that is present, enduring, and knows no defeat or retreat.

The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine

Central Media Office

October 23, 2024

[morphids]

Enmies to lovers hange zoe

Pls🤗🤗

the worst neighbour, hange zoë

i love enemies to lovers, it’s probably my fave trope of all time—ty anon <3

nonbinary, they/them hange.

summary: hange moves in next door and ruins your peace, until a storm forces you together.

warnings: not many so idk storms?? very sfw—a bit silly and fluffy really, minus some suggestive themes throughout, and a heavy makeout sesh at the end. poc friendly!! weed smoking- stoner!hange. r has autism but its not an integral part of the story. hange is also a lil mentally unwell.

wc: 5.7k of pure yap, enjoy.

—

When you first moved into your own place, away from the helicopters that are your stringent and unpleasant parents, you were so relieved that you could've levitated. Thinking you'd finally have a safe haven of your own. To decorate, eat, dress and generally live life on your own terms. Bills be damned! It was that - for maybe a few weeks? Until you spotted the 'For Sale' sign on the lawn of the semi-detached connected to your own. When exactly did that get put up?

Internally groaning, you already were catastrophizing— what if it's a family with five kids and two twin newborns? What if they're a crazy dog person and the dogs bark every hour and set each other off? What if it's a group of college kids who party every night?

So imagine your relief when you see a single van pull up, and only one, very tall individual lifting boxes into the building attached to yours. Quite an attractive person, at that. Hair messily pulled back, glasses framing their face, clad in a tank top underneath an oversized blazer and some loose pants. You had been stalking observing the new arrival through the gaps in your blinds. Praying that your silhouette wasn't spotted from the outside. I mean, look.. we all have to be wary of our surroundings, right? Lest there be a creep move in next door and you're none the wiser.

A few hours later, the big van outside had already left its spot on the side. There was a knock at your front door, revealing the very hot neighbour on the other side, holding a plate of some homemade stew.

You made your introductions, Hange was incredibly friendly, you couldn't deny, a wide smile stretched on their lips as they almost pushed the stew into your hands, saying, "I read that this is a good way to greet new neighbours!" It was a short, courteous greeting. You both returned to your homes soon after. You wanted to kiss the stars that you got so lucky with a pleasant hot neighbour. The stew ended up being delicious, by the way, saving you the effort of cooking your own dinner for the night.

That relief very quickly dissipated once you realised just how loud Hange was. It drove you insane. If you were maybe four years younger, you probably wouldn't have minded so much, but as a working adult with a regular 9-5, you found yourself seething at how incredibly absurd it was. You had no idea what Hange did, mind you, and you cursed the architect's firstborn for connecting your bedroom wall to Hange's. It was as if you lived next door to a busy night cafe, the buzzing whir of what you'd assumed was a stupidly designed, industrial-sized coffee machine. Grounding coffee beans together, followed by bangs of metal against the counter as they'd dumped the old ones into the trash. The walls were so unbelievably thin you could almost feel their exact movements. Every night. At three in the damn morning. Who drinks coffee that late?

The whirring seemed to vibrate through the entire structure of the house, reverberating through the walls as you laid your head against your pillow. You had taken to banging against the wall as revenge once, not so nicely letting them know they were keeping you up. Crashing out by yourself in the solitude of your bedroom. If there had been cameras installed you would've looked so unhinged and probably been sectioned to a ward to live out the rest of your days. A part of you was so aggravated that being sectioned felt like it would be a gentle kindness. You tried getting ear plugs—didn't help. The noise-cancelling headphones that you used when you were experiencing sensory overload? Nope, didn't help, it was like it was in between the walls vibrating your floor, even if you couldn't hear most of it, you still felt it.

After a few nights of not so passive-aggressive banging against the wall, Hange seemed to get the hint. Well, that and perhaps also the way you glared at them when you made your way back into your house after your shift. You weren't the greatest at verbal confrontation, you'd probably rather die than actually go and confront them in person. So, the nastiest glare you could muster was enough. Hange had been mowing their lawn, white tank top tight against their well-sculpted torso as their built arms glided the lawnmower over the grass. Lifting their hand up to wave at you as you ignored their advance for a conversation, scoffing as you quickly entered your house. At least they weren't cutting grass at night, too.

Not to mention the smell of weed that travelled through the walls, almost thickening the air with a haze. Look, you didn't care what people did in their spare time, wasn't like you were gonna call the cops over a joint but... Hange had already pissed you off so much, to the point where this was just a rotting cherry on top of your least favourite cake. It clung to your clothes, for god's sake! You wouldn't have even noticed if it wasn't for one of your coworkers cheerily asking you if you were holding any because they hadn't smoked in a while, creating a very awkward, "I.. don't smoke?" on your part and an even more awkward realisation from your shocked co-worker. Embarrassed that they had accidentally outed themselves to someone who could potentially report them to the bosses. You would never, but they didn't know that.

That night, you got home and washed all your laundry, deciding to keep them in a different room where the smoke remnants didn't reach, not wanting to go through a similar situation with someone else another time.

Did I mention that they were apparently a guitar player, too? It's just hit after hit. Strumming strings late into the night and you wondered how someone could have so much nocturnal energy. They weren't unskilled, in all honesty, they were just incredibly annoying.

Fortunately, the coffee machine incidents had ceased. The relief returned as you settled yourself for the first good night's sleep in three weeks, finally feeling well-rested the next morning as you got ready for work. You should've known it wouldn't last long, though. How naive of you to think your neighbour would become reasonable overnight. This time, at around midnight, you heard drilling and the subsequent falling of wood against the floor. Perhaps Hange was doing it out of spite, unpleased with your glares every afternoon. You hadn't exactly been the nicest, but it wasn't like it was unjustified. This had been building up for almost a whole month, you had grown sleep-deprived and irritable, disgustingly moody.

Huffing to yourself, you lifted your body up off the seducing comfort of your bed. Throwing on a jumper that had been left discarded on the chair, and some slides. Mentally amping yourself for what you were about to do, trying to script how you were going to politely yell at them and burst all your inner feelings about their inconsideration.

You rapped a fist at their front door, noticing how the lights were on in each room through the window. There was silence at first, then you spotted the silhouette coming closer to the door. Revealing Hange, with a dark green woollen cardigan hanging off their slender shoulders, grey sweatpants that didn't quite cover their toned midriff. Hange puffed on a joint, leaning their weight against the doorframe.

"Wha-"

“I swear to god, if you make more noise at night, ‘m gonna set your house on fire.”

Well, you hadn't quite scripted that particular sentence. Apparently, arson had been on your mind! Great, now you look insane and actively threatened your neighbour!

Hange's eyes widened, shock falling over their features as their mouth opened and closed.

"But...wouldn't that burn yours, too?" They half joked, half didn't. At your lack of response, and clearly unimpressed face, Hange sighed, continuing.

"Alright, I'm sorry, but you don't need to be such a bitch about it," They brought the joint to their plump lips again, trapped between their ringed thumb and index finger, huffing on it before blowing it out, directly in your face. You would've kept staring at Hange's nice hands as they gracefully held the joint, if you hadn't just been disrespected by the amount of smoke that invaded your nose, and been called a bitch added on top of that. You were stunned into silence  for a solid moment before your anger reignited, scoffing at their audacity.

"Are you serious?"

"It's not been that bad..."

"Again—are you serious?!"

Hange didn't answer, looking at you blankly, which doubly pissed you off even more.

"You've kept me awake for the past month! Are you aware that people need sleep or d'you just not care?"

Hange ignored the pangs of guilt, although not really wanting to explain their inner workings to a pretty stranger. Initially, Hange thought there'd be a good friendship built upon that first meeting, it'd been cordial— thinking you were a cute, inviting person, even thought they lucked out with a pretty neighbour right next door. Unfortunately, Hange quickly realised you both definitely weren't on the same page as they felt the wrath of your glares every afternoon. Maybe they were more oblivious than they thought.

Hange didn't truly realise the walls were so thin and you heard everything, honestly they thought your banging on the wall had been… something else entirely. In hindsight, they now felt a bit silly with the realisation that it was a painfully obvious noise complaint—but it's not like they didn't have their reasons.

"Relax, man," Hange sighed, lifting themself off the doorframe and reached their arm out to offer you some joint, "You need some of this,"

Unbelievable, you gaped. Honestly, if you had to sit on a court stand to explain what happened next, you'd say you blacked out. Before you could even stop yourself, you plucked the lit joint from their fingers and let it fall down on the floor, making sure to aim for the small pool of water collected on the pavement from the rainfall earlier that day. Situation was made worse by the small hiss as the water murdered the flame, effectively soaking and ruining the entire zoot. You would've felt bad, realising they must've only sparked it a short while ago, as there was a considerable amount left— but if this was your one crime against a plethora of theirs, then so be it.

"Was there any need—"

"You're a dick, you know that?"

"I'm a dick? That was a peace offering 'n you thre-"

"Fuck your peace offering, keeping it down is the best gift you could ever give me."

Hange’s brows tilted up in mild amusement, blended with a healthy amount of irritation. That was the remainder of their stash, the very last zoot that they had saved until all their tasks were done, and no dealer would be active this time of night.

Hange studied you for a moment, your arms crossed and viscerally annoyed— your lips curved to the side as you blew out a single strand of hair away from your face that kept falling into your eyes. Undoubtedly, adding to your frustration. Still cute, they thought, even though you did just absolutely desecrate their last zoot. Hange paralleled your body language, folding their own arms up to match yours.

Now, Hange definitely knew better than to say something like this, knew this had a 99% chance of making the situation worse. Yet, could they help it? Evidently not. Words slipping from their lips before they could withhold it.

"Yes, mama."

Silence.

At their words, Hange's amusement grew as the hardness in your face fell. You seemed to be going through all the different stages of grief. Trying to mask the evident flustering that overtook your features, caught off guard by the sudden switch up of energy that hung in the vacant space between you. Hange would've regretted it, would've expected you to curse them out even more— deserved it, even, had it not been for the softening of your voice and the confusion glazing over your eyes. They could've sworn there was something else lurking in there, something subtly dangerous.

"I-I, you—"

"Won't do it again, dear," Hange muttered, ceasing, "You have my word,"

Hange seemed to have a proclivity for stressing you out, it seems. A crooked smile etched on the corner of their lips as they watched you, deep, brown eyes boring into yours— almost challenging.

"Right—well, I'm...gonna go home now,"

"Alright, then."

Stepping down from their front porch, you let out the breath trapped in your ribs. You had been geared up for a confrontation, not that. What the hell even was that? Hange's voice broke out from within the silence again, in almost a mockery of friendly neighbourhood conduct.

“Always lovely seeing you,”

—

From that point, the noise had considerably decreased. You were thankful that at least something positive came from that conversation. Though, it didn't exactly simmer the annoyance lingering in your heart for Hange. You thought they were an incredibly inconsiderate asshole. Yes, they may have stopped the noise, but you couldn't simply forgive and forget the way they spoke to you. Arrogant and disrespectful. Not to mention the cocky way they ended the conversation, you hated that you had faltered at their words. Cursing yourself for your lack of a quick response and staring at them dumbly. The grudge had remained, no hatchet buried. Even if they did look like that.

You were currently all wrapped up in your fuzzy blanket, burrito style as you layered up on fabrics. The weather had been harsher than most this winter—we have the rich and wealthy to thank for shitting all over the planet and ruining the climate. Winds had been howling, trees shaking trying to stand firm against its force as you threw on the local news on your television.

You managed to catch the late part of an announcement.

"—severe weather warning, as dangerous winds from the storm expected to strike around the area. It is advised that people stay inside their homes, charge their devices and stock up on canned food. Single-person households are heavily advised to house together during this time, to account for any potential casualties—"

The television cut out with a soft click, as the lights and electricals in your house switched off simultaneously, leaving you in total darkness. If there was ever any way to freak someone out, this would definitely do it. You gaped through your window at the heavily falling rain as it splattered against the glass. Shit.

Sighing, you blindly made your way to the drawers in your kitchen. You were a bit of a candle enthusiast, so at least you had some way of illumination. Lighting the wick with some matches, you filled the darkness with a candle in each corner. It was a bit of a haunting vibe, but you could manage for the night. What was worrying you more, was the way your phone was almost out of charge. You thought of a lot of things for times like these, yet a portable charger always seemed to evade you. It was one of those, i'll buy one next time, except next time never came.

Your thoughts went to Hange, you were both considered single-person households. Perhaps, it would be safer to band together. Maybe they have a portable on hand. Battling yourself, you considered the consequences of making your way over to Hange's, asking if they had any charge to spare. Would that be embarrassing? Technically, it's for safety, humans have an evolutionary tendency to stay together in times of crisis— it's the smart thing to do. Yet, you couldn't bite back the pain of succumbing first, they might use it against you. You made your peace with the fact that if life was a survival of the fittest, you likely wouldn't make it very far.

A decision seemed to be conveniently made for you, though, as a quick repetition of knocks blasted on your door. More eagerly than you'd like to admit, you stood and answered.

Hange was stood shivering, totally drenched in the five seconds that it took to travel from their door to yours, the rain had clearly won the fight. Glasses splashed with raindrops. Their slackened hair was sticking on their forehead and cheeks, no doubt lost the fight against the wind, too.

"You can say no, but can I borrow a blanket? Turns out houses get cold with no central heating,"

You bit back a chuckle, they were just now realising that?

Hange was stood pathetically at your door, the contrast of their drenched figure against your completely dry one, was almost funny. The expression plastered over their face wasn't, though, dark eyes held a seriousness you hadn't seen in them before. Almost fearful.

"I have a few you can take."

"Thank you,"

Hange took the cue to enter your space, feeling a sense of safety with the candles brightening up the room. Grabbing some from a pile on the arm of your couch, you handed them over. Hange gratefully taking them from your grasp as they made excruciatingly slow steps towards the door. They didn't want to go back into a dark house, embarrassingly unprepared for a situation like this, they hadn't anticipated buying some candles— heck, not even one blanket.

Noticing how slowly they were walking, you spoke,

"You could dry yourself off here? Maybe get warm again before you leave?"

A look of hope flashed across Hange's eyes, as you continued, trying to blurt the invitation out into the air as quickly as you could.

"The government says that.. single occupant households should stay together—so it's the smarter choice, anyway, really."

"Well.. if the government says so, right?"

"Right! Who are we to disagree..." You say this like you ever believed the government. No one needs to know the truth, definitely not Hange. It's not that you particularly fearful of storms, but the announcement had spooked you.

There was something intuitively nipping at your gut, that there was more to Hange coming over in such a panic for just a blanket. You didn't press it.

Snuggling into the plush fabric of your couch, right in the comfortable corner, you motioned your head to indicate that Hange could also take a seat. Seeing the awkward, stiff way they were stood against the wall in your living room, even made you feel uncomfortable.

Thunder cracked in the atmosphere, booming outside as the sky lit up briefly. You didn't miss the way Hange's shoulders jerked up before they hurriedly made their way to sit down, placing a fair distance between your bodies. As one would with someone they had an altercation with only a few weeks before.

"You alright?" You couldn't help but ask, feeling like an energy absorbing rock with how obviously uncomfortable Hange was. They grabbed the pillow they had sat on and nuzzled it between their legs, wrapping their arms around the soft fabric, fiddling their fingers around the cotton tag.

"Yup.."

Heavy silence filled the air amidst the thunder and rain, the wind filling the gaps in between.

Droplets of water dripped from Hange's loose strands of hair, splashing on the pillow, leaving wet blobs seeping into the dry.

"I'll get you some dry clothes,"

"You don't have t—"

"No arguing, I'm not letting someone get hypothermia in my house."

Hange nodded, their attention back to the tag in their hands.

You quickly came back from your room with a change of clothes. Hange being slightly taller than you, you weren't sure what was best for them, or what they'd feel comfortable in. Opting for a long pair of loose shorts you usually wore for working out, and an oversized tee with a faded Hello Kitty print in the middle.

"Here, I'll leave you to get changed."

"Wait!" There was that panic again, "Could you, uh, maybe, stay? You can just turn around or something.." Their voice lowering into a whisper as they muttered the last part.

Slightly odd, you thought, but you silently nodded and turned yourself around to give Hange some privacy. Only facing them again once they gave you a 'Okay, I'm done,"

"They alright for you?"

"Yeah—thank you, they're perfect,"

Nodding again, you placed yourself back on the couch, where Hange was already comfortably placed, legs crossed with a blanket thrown over. They looked pretty cute with your Hello Kitty shirt on, cozied in your living room, perhaps it was the warm flickers of candlelight on their skin.

The air was a little awkward, neither of you quite knowing how to interact with each other. Hange was antsy, shaking their leg beside you, causing the couch to slightly rock with their movements. They seemed to catch themself doing it and ceased the movements, glancing up at you to check if they had annoyed you with the rocking. They hadn’t.

"You've been really kind to me," they muttered, "Thanks,"

"Crazy what a good night's sleep does to someone's psyche," You joked, trying to lighten the mood, hoping it came across the way you intended.

Hange cringed at your words, face twisting, "I am sorry about that, I really didn't think the walls were that thin,"

You chuckled, looking down and plucking the balls of fluff that wear and tear does to a blanket, "It's alright, I appreciate that you stopped."

"Just a little confused why you came here, though, when you dislike me so much," Thinking about the way they called you a bitch, at the ease with which it escaped their tongue, perhaps you were acting like one and it was deserved, but you couldn't deny that it struck a nerve. Hange gulped, looking down at the wooden flooring, raising a hand to scratch at the nape of their neck.

"I don't dislike you," They answered,

"You called me a bitch." You stated, straight-forwardly, wanting to clear the air and actually communicate like an adult should, instead of running from confrontation like you usually do.

"I did, and I'm sorry for that, too." Hange didn't meet your eyes, sighing, "You were right about the noise, calling you that was uncalled for."

"Thank you," You let out a breath, a weight lifting from your shoulders, "I'm sorry about your throwing your zoot in the water,"

Hange laughed, rubbing their face at the memory, "I get it, I'd probably have done the same, so, y'know."

"So we good?"

"Yeah," Hange chuckled, "We're good."

Hange reached into the wet pocket of their damp jacket, left in a pile on the floor, feeling around for something.

"It might be too soon—I don't wanna ruin your hospitality and you can say no, but can I light up? I-it helps me calm down,"

You did consider saying no, perhaps in any other circumstance you probably would've. If Hange hadn't been so visibly on edge, their shaking leg and twitching shoulders with each crack of thunder, you would've said no. Yet, with the meekness in their voice and bashful look in their eyes, you couldn't find it in yourself to.

"Yeah, go ahead," You weren't sure what to make of the feeling in your stomach when Hange's eyes glimmered up at you at your response, "I don't have an ashtray, but I'll get you an old cup,"

Hange eagerly thanked you and pulled out a small tin from their pocket. Pulling out paper and some card to roll the contents ground inside of a grinder.

Sitting back down, placing the cup on the coffee table, you watched as they rolled the bud into the paper, folding it neatly into a tight cone with nimble, lean fingers. You couldn't look away as they brought the sticky part to their mouth, tongue poking out to lick at the residue to glue the paper down. You glanced away quickly as Hange caught your gaze, breaking eye contact as a wave of shame hitting you like you'd been caught doing something bad.

Clearing your throat, you took a look at your phone, checking the time, 9:08p.m with only 3% left on the battery. Great, you dropped it back into the couch, looks like you won't get much use out of that tonight. At least you were off work the following day, the weather deemed so bad that forms of transport were stopped, halting most workplaces.

Hange hesitantly brought the lighter up to meet the tip of the joint tucked between their lips, looking up at you as if to check if you had suddenly changed your mind before they sparked it. That's kinda sweet, you thought, that even with your permission, they still double checked.

Feeling satisfied that you didn't change your mind, Hange lit the joint, inhaling a few drags before releasing it out into your room. The thick smoke whirling in the air. They rested their head against the back of the couch. Allowing you to gaze upon their neck and the small exposed part of their collarbone poking out underneath the shirt collar.

Hange seemed to feel your eyes on them, tilting their head slightly to meet your gaze again with a curious expression.

"You wanna try?" Thinking that's why you had been staring.

"Uhm— I've never done it before," You rasped, truthfully you've never been against it, but living with your hard-ass parents, you'd had a pretty straight edge life, doing things most teenagers do whilst they grow their own— drinking with your friends in a park, clubbing when you were of age. The opportunity for a smoke hadn't ever come up, so you just didn't really think about it.

"No pressure, but the offer's there if you want,"

You nodded, mulling over it. Maybe you'd like to try, after all. It probably felt nicer than being drunk and messy.

"Maybe a little?"

"You sure?" Hange hummed, the zoot clearly taking effect, they were more relaxed, less jittery.

"Yeah, just don't laugh at me if I cough,"

"Oh, you definitely will cough," Hange chuckled, "But that happens to everyone, so, 's alright."

Hange passed the joint over to you, carefully placing it between your fingers so it doesn't get dropped on the couch, and ruin your blankets.

You looked at it for a minute, bringing it closer to your mouth, "Do I just breathe it normally?"

"Pretty much, just make sure you hold it in your lungs for a sec,"

So you did, pulling air through the roach as the weight of smoke hit the back of your throat. You tried to follow their instructions, holding it in for a few seconds before you couldn't anymore, letting out the smoke into the room with a few coughs. Hange muttered a gentle, there you go, saying that's how you know you did it right, before passing you some water.

"Ouch," You grumbled, feeling a hot wave in your chest and a slight burn at your throat, "It tastes like ass,"

Hange laughed, wholeheartedly amused at your baby lungs, "It does."

It didn't deter you enough, though, taking another drag and managing to hold it without coughing this time. You saw a proud look on Hange's face, that's it, they said, you blamed the weed for making your stomach twist at their praising words.

After a few hits, you began feeling lighter, joining Hange with your head rested on the couch. Hange looked at you, the white of your eyes bloodshot as they glimmered with the candlelight. You looked pretty, eyelashes curled upwards, casting shadows on the lids as you blinked up at them.

"You never answered my question," You hummed, fiddling with the blanket, rolling it into shapes. Hange took off their glasses, the weight of them becoming uncomfortable so they placed them on the coffee table.

"What question?"

"Why you came here, you were...scared." Your question was tentative, not wanting to ruin the amiable mood.

Hange took a second to answer, choosing to puff on the remaining amount of joint instead of answering straight away, plugging it against the ceramic cup to make sure it was dead.

"I'm—uh," a pause, "imscaredofthedark." They mumbled, timid voice coming out like they were speaking underwater. So barely audible, you couldn't hear a damn thing.

"Huh?"

"I'm... scared of the dark, okay? Storms, too, i-it freaks me out." Hange shyly huffed, crossing their arms over their torso, avoiding eye contact like the plague. Even in the minimal lighting, you could see the embarrassment tainting their cheeks.

"Oh."

There was a taut awkwardness that hung in the air at their admission, and you found yourself feeling slightly bad for them. Unsure of what to say back, not wanting to make them feel worse.

"Look—'s not a big deal, okay? But.. the darkness and the howling winds, thunder—together, doesn't help..." Hange tried to save themselves, try to make it seem like they hadn't been close to quaking in the pitch black rooms of their house. Their electric bill each month was ludicrously high, lights in the hall or the bathroom staying on each hour of the night until the sun finally came out enough to shine through the windows each morning. Their bedroom always illuminated with lamps and decorative Christmas lights all year round. Hange and their parents thought they'd grow out of it as an adult. That didn't end up being the case.

"Okay," You breathed out, "Well, I've got a lot of candles." You pointed at the flickering wicks placed in each corner of the room. "So we're not totally in the dark, thankfully."

Another momentary pause, Hange hadn't responded, so you added, "It's not embarrassing, you know?"

"Yeah—thanks."

"Is that you're always up at night?" That had been bothering you for a while, surely it wasn't healthy for someone to stay up so late each night. You wondered how often they slept.

"A little," The muttered, covering their mouth with a loose part of the blanket, "I've had insomnia since I was a kid, and frequent night terrors, doesn't mix the best, I guess." They chuckled.

"So I try to keep myself busy at night with tasks, drink coffee, anything to stop from falling asleep and have another one. Most people grow out of it—I just…didn't."

You hummed, the admission making you feel bad for having such a one-sided problem with Hange the last couple of months. You wouldn't have been so angry if you had known there was more to it.

Placing your palm over the back of their hand, you squeezed, Hange looked at you, the blanket shield falling down to their chest as they lifted their head, revealing their face to you once again.

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't have been such a bitch if I knew,"

"'s okay, I didn't exactly tell you, so."

You smiled at them, and attempt to be reassuring and maybe even comforting, Hange's lips quipped up, and you looked at each other longer than usual. Hange flickered their gaze to your lips, then back up to your eyes. You felt yourself doing the same. Chest growing heavy as the air fell tender, yet apprehensive.   Hesitation outweighing want, as you realised how close you both were. Barely inches in between, lips almost meeting.

You wondered how a friendship with Hange would've developed had it not been for the mess in between. The attraction to them was undeniable, you were intrigued as soon as you set eyes on them the day they moved in.

"I really wanna kiss you," You muttered, a fleeting moment of boldness, glancing down to their lips again, they just looked so kissable. 

"What are you waiting for, then?" The corners of their lips breaking into a soft smirk, challenging you to do it first.

"Fuck," You bit the bullet, fingers threading the hair at the back of their head as you brought your heads closer, connecting your lips together. Hange sprung into action, grabbing the back of your neck closer and humming with satisfaction into the kiss.

Lips melded against each other, you sighed as you felt how soft they were. Soft and plump. Tugging at their hair, you gently nipped Hange's bottom lip, jutting it out slightly, swiping your tongue against the reddened skin. Taking the hint, Hange's mouth split open, allowing you access to enter. Hange groaned as warm tongues connected, breathing heavily at the sensation.

Pulling the blankets off—they didn't need the extra heat anymore—their hands then wrapped around the supple skin of your thighs, placing you into a straddle over their lap as they held your sides firmly. Fingers digging into your skin as you placed kisses below their ear to the bottom of their throat, their head tilted back. Hange shivered at the contact, skin raising into goosebumps as your lips touched, soft moans from their lips with their eyes shut.

Hange lifted their head, chasing your lips to meet once more, one hand placed tight at your hips, the other coming up to rub the back of your neck. Kissing Hange was delightful, you discovered, finding that you would do this forever if it was physically possible. Eventually, your lips disconnected, forehead resting against forehead as you both breathed heavily, catching breath.

Hange gazed up at you, eyes almost doe and full of mirth. Holding on to every ounce of restraint they carried in their veins, to stop themself from acting impulsively and taking you right there. You were in a similar way, but you pecked their lips again, before nuzzling your head into the crook of their neck. A silent agreement that you both should stop, perhaps do things the right way instead of acting on instinct. Sighing as Hange wrapped their strong arms around your waist, pressing a kiss into your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other's embrace until you found yourself slipping into a sleep, the weed had suddenly made you feel tired and sleep was the only way out. You mumbled a quiet, "Sorry.." before falling asleep on them. Hange chuckled as they realised they were trapped in place until you moved, but it didn't matter too much as the thought of sleep was growing more enticing.

After a few minutes, Hange fell asleep, too, arms still wrapped around you—the storm was still raging on, thunder still thundering, but it was the first night in years Hange slept without a nightmare.

—-

AHHHH anyway— hope u guys enjoyed <3

[probablyasocialecologist]

The Brutalist’s most intriguing and controversial technical feature points forward rather than back: in January, the film’s editor Dávid Jancsó revealed that he and Corbet used tools from AI speech software company Respeecher to make the Hungarian-language dialogue spoken by Adrien Brody (who plays the protagonist, Hungarian émigré architect László Tóth) and Felicity Jones (who plays Tóth’s wife Erzsébet) sound more Hungarian. In response to the ensuing backlash, Corbet clarified that the actors worked “for months” with a dialect coach to perfect their accents; AI was used “in Hungarian language dialogue editing only, specifically to refine certain vowels and letters for accuracy.” In this way, Corbet seemed to suggest, the production’s two central performances were protected against the howls of outrage that would have erupted from the world’s 14 million native Hungarian speakers had The Brutalist made it to screens with Brody and Jones playing linguistically unconvincing Magyars. Far from offending the idea of originality and authorship in performance, AI in fact saved Brody and Jones from committing crimes against the Uralic language family; I shudder even to imagine how comically inept their performances might have been without this technological assist, a catastrophe of fumbled agglutinations, misplaced geminates, and amateur-hour syllable stresses that would have no doubt robbed The Brutalist of much of its awards season élan. This all seems a little silly, not to say hypocritical. Defenders of this slimy deception claim the use of AI in film is no different than CGI or automated dialogue replacement, tools commonly deployed in the editing suite for picture and audio enhancement. But CGI and ADR don’t tamper with the substance of a performance, which is what’s at issue here. Few of us will have any appreciation for the corrected accents in The Brutalist: as is the case, I imagine, for most of the people who’ve seen the film, I don’t speak Hungarian. But I do speak bullshit, and that’s what this feels like. This is not to argue that synthetic co-pilots and assistants of the type that have proliferated in recent years hold no utility at all. Beyond the creative sector, AI’s potential and applications are limitless, and the technology seems poised to unleash a bold new era of growth and optimization. AI will enable smoother reductions in headcount by giving managers more granular data on the output and sentiment of unproductive workers; it will allow loan sharks and crypto scammers to get better at customer service; it will offer health insurance companies the flexibility to more meaningfully tie premiums to diet, lifestyle, and sociability, creating billions in savings; it will help surveillance and private security solution providers improve their expertise in facial recognition and gait analysis; it will power a revolution in effective “pre-targeting” for the Big Pharma, buy-now-pay-later, and drone industries. Within just a few years advances like these will unlock massive productivity gains that we’ll all be able to enjoy in hell, since the energy-hungry data centers on which generative AI relies will have fried the planet and humanity will be extinct.

3 March 2025

[drowned-cypress]

I'm new, please interact with me!

So I'm a new Subnautica blog. Here's some stuff I wanna talk about:

Is it possible to apply real world physics to Subnautica, including things like how scuba diving works, and the risks of decompression? I think it is if Planet 4546B has less than a third the gravity of Earth. I have thoughts. I've been doing math! Edit: here's my thoughts.

Eating nothing but fish and raw vegetables isn't a great diet! What recipes can you make with the ingredients available in the games? Are there things that you could potentially eat with a little preparation that aren't available in the games? I've been coming up with recipes using real world analogues for game ingredients. This is much easier in Below Zero than it is in Subnautica, so that's where I've been focusing. Edit: Here's some initial thoughts about this. Here's some recipe ideas.

There's a certain point in the games where everything gets way too easy. I'm writing a story set in Below Zero where Robin experiences a series of catastrophes that leave her without fabrication technology. She has to homestead it. I've been trying to figure out the logistics of that.

There's a document in Below Zero which you can find in the Mercury II which mentions cooking with a jailbroken fabricator. Fabrication tech is really fascinating once you stop to think about it. It's an atomic rearranger. How would you go about cooking with one? What else could you do with it?

There's an entire conversation to be had about whether uploading brain patterns really preserves a person, or whether it just makes a copy of a person and the original person dies. (See also: the Star Trek Transporters are Actually Murder theory.) I haven't seen anyone talking about it! I want to hear Al-An's thoughts on it! Edit: Here's a mini fic I wrote about a conversation between Al-An and Robin on the subject.

And of course I'm always interested in worldbuilding: Architect society, Alterra society, further details about the biology of aliens, what living with an alien in your head is actually like, all of it!

I'm fifty pages into a Below Zero fic draft and my roommate is tired of me talking about it! Please reblog to help me find people to talk about this stuff with!

[blorbologist]

Architects of our Demise | Chapter 20

[ Age of Arcanum AU | Perc'ahlia | M | Updates every 2 weeks]

[ Vax is the Warden of Ravens, Vex is his Champion, Percival is the creator of aeormatons, and FCG is ~vibing~ ]

[Chapter 20: He's soooooo in love you guys! And there's a lot to do before the eve of the Calamity - I mean Apogee Solstice <3 ]

--

They’re soaked in water debating the merits of becoming frost. Vex almost crashed them into a crystal column. Percival almost barfed in her hair.

He’s practically dancing on their walk back to Scanlan’s hole in the wall. It feels like he’s still airborn, except without the wind brutalizing his face.

“What has gotten into you?” Vex’s eyes gleam in delight as Percy swoops and spins and skips. It’s gratifying that he’s putting on a better show than all the bold illusions around them. That he’s holding her attention in this city of too-much.

“Oh, a simple change of perspective.”

(That is, truly, all it is. It changes nothing, except it changes everything. The discovery of another law of the universe - as immutable as gravity, thermodynamics or arcane equilibrium. His world makes more sense, even if nothing about its workings will change.)

(She has a goal. As a result, so does he.)

His teeth clatter. It’s invigorating. “Vex! Someone else is handling the busywork of preventing catastrophe. You want your brother back; we have…” a quick spat of math. “Ten days, now, to get that done. Avalir is at our disposal, Champion; what should we do first?”

“We should get you -” Vex takes him by the arm, “- inside. Before you catch your death, darling.”

He strongly doubts that death could so much as graze him in such a state, in such excellent company - and besides, Death himself would not deprive his sister of such a devoted follower. Percy is quite sure of that.

--

Percy shivers pathetically, fighting off a sneeze. 

“I really thought the chicken soup would be enough,” Scanlan laments. “Can you fix him up, Pikey?”

“Psssh, easy!”

[From the beginning] [Keep reading on AO3!]

[utilitycaster]

Ok I'm probably going to regret reinventing 17th century European religious philosophy here but:

Ludinus's issue with the gods as stated to Imogen and Fearne (and I will state right now that we know he was lying or deliberately misleading at points in that conversation so I don't exactly take him at his word, but let's assume he does mean this) is that they did not prevent the Calamity. I have the following questions.

Does he have any loyalty/feelings about the Titans given that they would have killed all the people in the era of the Schism, ie, the gods averted that Calamity? My guess is no, which means that whole avenue of discussing the Titans was something of a dead end.

How should Calamity have been averted? The Prime Deities during the Age of Arcanum largely let people do what they wanted, which is what led to one of those mortals releasing the Betrayer Gods. Should the gods have struck down Vespin Chloras before he actually did anything, Minority Report style? Can the gods even predict based on the actions of a single individual or small group, because my guess is they can't, particularly since within the current stream of gameplay they absolutely cannot [ie, the reason the Changebringer can't tell FCG to stay or run is because Matt Mercer is the Changebringer and he doesn't know how people will roll; you do need to consider the medium here]. But if they could: so you think they should strike down mortals on the basis of thoughtcrimes? Or control them? In that case, why is Aeor a problem? There's a lot you can argue is justified once you permit the gods to override free will and kill people over mere potential for catastrophe.

On that note, Laerryn both was an unwitting architect of the Calamity (shorted on energy and then killed the Tree of Names, which served as a core planar defense system) but also averted the worst of it. Did the lives she saved by preventing the rise of Rau'shan and Ka'Mort outweigh the lives she took by destroying the Tree of Names? How should the gods have reacted?

Should, perhaps, the gods have all sealed themselves away earlier - perhaps post-Schism? If so, then the issue isn't the Divine Gate, now is it? Should the gods intervene or not intervene? Should they remove themselves or no? It feels like the issue isn't that they distanced themselves so that they can do less in the world, particularly if you wish to kill them, but that you really want to fucking kill them and they made that somewhat more difficult.

How do we know the gods (for example) didn't save Laudna? She was hanged and she's still alive; Morri would probably count this as saving her and I don't see the same desire to wipe out all Archfey. [real talk I find most discussion of Laudna specifically to be...incomprehensibly ignorant in its refusal to acknowledge that everything about it is player agency related, whether it's the story that the cast played out for Vox Machina or the decisions Marisha specifically made in creating the character, ie, do you think Matt should have said "well you can't play a Hollow One because that would mean the gods didn't save you" not to mention the fact that again, we are playing this within a game system where the existence Deus Ex Machina would in fact fucking suck ass; but even setting aside those reasons why this argument is stupid, it's still stupid. It's like a layer cake of stupid.] Again: do you want more intervention or less? Killing them guarantees less.

I'm assuming the problem with the Calamity is the vast loss of life, in which case, what's the math on how many people have been killed by the Vanguard or Imperium in the pursuit of unleashing Predathos? How many more will die?

If the release of Predathos doesn't result in the immediate demise of all the gods, and the Divine Gate is down, why isn't this a recipe for Calamity 2? What was the motivation for killing the gods again?

Should we kill mortal diviners who do not do all within their power to stop terrible things that may come to pass? If the issue is that some people have power without working for it, why haven't we killed all the sorcerers?

Should we be listening to a single word from someone who consumes random fey to live longer, and that's just the start of the CVS receipt of atrocities?

Is there a point where one's deeply held beliefs due to one's own personal trauma become invalidated due to one's actions as a result of that trauma? If so, why is the limit for Orym "is okay with killing people who are trying, directly, to kill you (which, frankly, isn't even a trauma response, that's just called not wanting to die, which I highly recommend as a personal philosophy), and gets upset when people defend those knowingly collaborating with his family's murderers" and the limit for Vanguard generals "family abandonment/just. buckets of murder of innocents./child soldier recruitment in multiple different contexts/eating fey as biohacking/destroying an entire city and the surrounding forest for hundreds of years (ongoing)/imperialism in multiple different contexts/I was going to make a gallows humor joke about how while neither exist in-world they've violated the Geneva Convention AND the IRB for testing on human subjects multiple times over but actually those both are in fact written in a lot of the same blood/probably some others that I'm forgetting"

[wigster07]

Tanthamoretober Day 22/23 Prompts: Kissing in the Rain & Soft/Tenderness

A surprise extended epilogue for Tanthamoretober.  Dedicated to @spybrarian

The Architect of Catastrophe - Chapter 25 - Silver85 - Willow (TV 2022) [Archive of Our Own]

[spybrarian]

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jade Claymore/Kit Tanthalos Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Rebuilding, Healing, A little heartache, A little cheese but no actual cheese, many kisses

Prompt: Home and family (found or otherwise)

Summary:

The deluge shows no sign of stopping. It lasts for days, but then, perhaps it needs to. The earth in the Immemorial City has been thirsty for a long, long time.

There’s a lot to wash away.

OR

Set directly after the end of The Architect of Catastrophe, Kit wrestles with the concept of her future.

[the-most-humble-blog]

Donald Juan Trumpington (DJT): The Deportation Demigod 🔥

The man, the myth, the orange-tinted terror who strikes fear into the undocumented and dreams of building walls taller than their hopes.

🌪 BACKSTORY 🌪

When the universe begged for chill, DJT delivered chaos on a platinum platter, trimmed with gold-leaf tacos no one could afford. A man with the finesse of a wrecking ball and the subtlety of a nuclear warhead, Donald Juan Trumpington didn’t just rise to power—he boot-stomped his way there, fake tan glowing like the goddamn sun.

His reign became a nightmare for anyone who even looked like they might not have a birth certificate on hand. If you were undocumented? Guess what: DJT knew. If your tamales tasted too good? He KNEW. If your cousin Pablo couldn’t stop posting party selfies on Facebook? Oh, he fucking KNEW.

🛑 THE GREAT DEPORTATION 🛑

DJT's pièce de résistance was The Great Deportation, an event so catastrophic even abuelas holding rosaries couldn’t pray fast enough to stop it. Entire families disappeared overnight:

The tias who made mole that healed your soul? GONE.

The primo who turned his garage into a second living room? GONE.

The drunk uncle who didn’t even have a passport? STILL GONE.

Even the tamales didn’t survive—steamed, wrapped, and shipped back faster than anyone could scream, “¡NO MAMES, GÜEY!”

And the cries? Oh, the cries were MAGNIFICENT: “I Black, I Black, plz no deport!” suddenly echoed from people who’d spent YEARS saying, “I’m Dominican, not Black.”

But guess what? The I.C.E. stormtroopers, mostly Black themselves, weren’t buying that bullshit. Years of fake accents and “I’m just visiting” weren’t cutting it anymore. Their collective mood: “Deuces, cabrones.”

💥 POWERS 💥

💀 Boot-to-Ass Syndrome: This man doesn’t just deport people—he sends their souls packing. DJT specializes in blunt-force deportation trauma with the precision of a bureaucratic surgeon.

🎯 Accent Radar: Fake a southern drawl? Claim you’re Canadian? DJT KNOWS. His finely tuned Accent Sense will sniff out lies faster than you can say, “Ay caramba!”

🏗 Wall Builder Supreme: Forget architects—DJT can summon walls faster than you can Google “cheap ladders.” His walls come preloaded with spikes, cameras, anti-rope tech, and a middle finger emoji.

📢 Twitter Sonic Attacks: DJT’s tweets aren’t just rants—they’re verbal frag grenades.

“Covfefe”? A nation stopped breathing.

“BUILD THAT WALL!”? Entire psyches shattered.

His social media is weaponized chaos.

❄️ Stormtrooper Deployment: DJT’s I.C.E. squads aren’t just enforcers—they’re goddamn hunters. They can sniff out an undocumented soul faster than your tia can find gossip at a baby shower.

�� WEAKNESS 🛡

NONE. 💀 When it comes to deportation, DJT is an unstoppable force of orange carnage.

Think you can hide? HA.

Hide in a cousin’s trailer park? Knocking on the door in 3 minutes.

Blend into the suburbs with some organic tortillas from Whole Foods? LOL, he’ll sniff out your salsa faster than a Karla sniffs out drama.

Even the Avengreros (The Avengers Undocumented Member Division) had to wave the white flag.

No tacos.

No nanas.

No hope. Even their heroic churro stand got dismantled.

🏆 LEGACY 🏆

Donald Juan Trumpington didn’t just deport people—he deported their dreams, hopes, and childhood memories.

His impact was so seismic that entire cultures became DIY YouTube tutorials. (“How to Make Tamales From Memory While Crying.”)

He is a hurricane of orange hair, loud ties, and unrelenting destruction. If you’re undocumented? Pray to whatever god you’ve got, because DJT IS COMING.

And he’s not just coming— HE’S TWEETING ABOUT IT WHILE DRINKING DIET COKE.

REBLOG OR BE DEPORTED (jk, probably) 🚨

🔥 Don’t let this masterpiece of unhinged chaos go unread. REBLOG NOW, or DJT’s Accent Radar might catch YOU next!

Tag your primos, your tias, or that one friend who thinks they’re safe because they took one semester of Duolingo Spanish.

💥 REBLOG THIS. DON’T BE A CABRÓN. 💥

[televised-uhhh-nerdistry]

currently thinking about how ages ago my friend sent me a long-ass explanation about why saltburn is an adaptation of the myth involving theseus, the minotaur, and the labyrinth.

nobody asked but here’s some of the fun proof that exists of this:

first and foremost, icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun. during the party scene, it is evident that felix symbolises this poor ill-fated youth, and the symbolism here is potent. he flew too close to finding out what oliver truly is. he discovered something he shouldn’t have, and dressing him up in icarus cosplay is the perfect showcase for his fate and his mistakes. it’s also brilliant in terms of what icarus actually did to “deserve” death. realistically, he was told not to go too high or too low, but in actuality, such cryptic instructions were difficult to follow mid-flight, and it resulted in catastrophe. felix is trying to navigate the responsibilities of being a good friend with his baggage as someone in a family of rich pricks. it’s hard, and in flying too far away from his background, he “flew too close to the sun” and discovered things he shouldn’t have. as a small nod to further the icarus imagery, felix’s body is discovered under bright and direct sunlight as he lays motionless in his winged costume.

secondly, saltburn is in the center of a labyrinth. the labyrinth lore runs deep in this movie, because not only does the labyrinth function as symbolism, it has lore that runs adjacent to the lore of the actual labyrinth. in theseus and the minotaur, the labyrinth is a construct of greek architect and inventor daedalus, who was conscripted by king minos to create the maze. in saltburn, the labyrinth is constructed upon special request from james catton, the owner of the estate, and a very wealthy man (almost like a modern day king).

the labyrinth (in the original myth) is dangerous to all characters that reside within it. it keeps all in within a chance for escape, and those that get close die tragically. in saltburn, the labyrinth functions as an ode to the ways in which riches and fame poison those that reside in the walls, keeping them locked within its dangerous talons, or in this case, cleanly trimmed hedges. it’s suburbia on a larger and more internal scale. even those that do not have riches themselves, namely farleigh and annabel, do everything they can to remain on the estate and in the good graces of those on the property with immense money. it affects how they act and how they are expected to act. farleigh, as a good example, is very stuck on the particulars of rich people’s behaviour. as mentioned above, those that try to leave the maze die tragically, and icarus is a prime example. felix, in his attempt to be better than the riches of the estate socially allow, flies too close to a possible escape from the confines of the labyrinth and is murdered as a result.

in the story of the labyrinth, it is unsolvable, unless you are clever and quick witted (manipulative), which theseus luckily is. the same is true for oliver. oliver, like theseus, gets into the heads of multiple characters, manipulating his way to the top of the food chain. the scene where oliver views the wooden counterprt of the maze through the head office in the estate, he is told that he shouldn’t be there, and a sense of ominous foreboding takes place. we feel that he has seen something that will change him. however, i believe this is simply symbolism for the fact that oliver has figured out the secret to the maze: a secret that he, an outsider and a poorer, less sociable man should not be aware of, as he is a representation of theseus, a character who has no right being king.

thirdly, oliver is juxtaposed with imagery if the minotaur during the party scene, and though this costume doubles as a reference to the changeling in a midsummer night’s dream, it is still highly important. in the original myth, people are sacrificed to the minotaur on a yearly basis. at first, felix fits the profile for the minotaur: a rich, wealthy man in a labyrinth who is regularly described as going through friends the way a young boy would go through toys. it is also true that the minotaur has often been seen as a controversial figure, one that begs the question “is a monster just a tormented creature fated to behave according to the will of the gods?”. felix’s behaviour, or namely, his attempted deviancy from the behaviour he is expected to show, is a major prt of his character arch. we expect oliver to be the victim of felix’s behaviour exactly because of this. but he isn’t. an easy explanation is that oliver is the minotaur, going through the family members as though they were victims in a maze. however, oliver is NOT the minotaur, as the myth is a lot more complex than the minotaur being the bad guy. despite what we expect, director emily fennel is leaning into the concept that the minotaur’s storyline is that of fate versus free will. the minotaur is cursed by the gods to fall into certain patterns and to be punished for its behaviour, despite it doing exactly what was expected. felix attempts to deviate from what is expected, but ultimately he fits in well with the rich and social, and his death is a punishment at the hands of a sort-of theseus who believes he is more deserving. rather, oliver is also seen to be theseus, who famously invaded the maze, manipulated its dwellers in order to navigate it, killed the minotaur, and then manipulated his way into becoming king as a result. sound familiar? it is because of this that the imagery of oliver as the changeling is particularly important. the horns can be evocative of the minotaur, offering us a red herring, where he is truly disguised as the opposite. it’s a fake out.

fourthly, king minos (owner of the labyrinth) did not die directly at the hands of theseus, he did eventually meet his downfall and was boiled to death in a bath. james catton, head of the estate, dies of a supposed suicide, also not directly by oliver’s hands, but still implicitly connected to the events of the story, much like king minos’ death.

the lore in this film is incredible, and though emily fennel has not said that the film is an adaptation of greek myth, the parallels are deliciously undeniable. saltburn is fascinating, and truly one of the best films of 2023. there is so much stuff jam packed into it, and it’s one of those films that takes a few watches to fully grasp its depth. i love it!

[shewolfofvilnius]

What is your tav’s….

(written from the perspective of post-reboot Dark Urge Tavaria, who will eventually regain and integrate both sets of memories)

Tavaria | Tiefling | F (she/her) | Ages: 24-26 (24-25 in game and Lia/Gale fic, turns 26 in farm fic) Parents: VERY complicated. (

favorite weapon?

Twin blades, a dagger and a shortsword, that she's drawn to in a mysterious chest aboard the nautiloid that have symbols of Kelemvor in the hilts. At first the enchanted blades hurt to the touch, but the dark urge was sated the first time the blades tasted blood, while after the blades were used to stop Orin, she rededicated them to Kelemvor. Both deal a combination of slashing and radiant damage.

style of combat?

Up close and personal as a hack-and-slash melee fighter until late in the game's events. Begins to incorporate low-level druid and bard spells and cantrips by the Netherbrain fight, and has significantly progressed her druidic talents by the events of the Gale x Lia fic and increasingly sheathes her blades..

most prized possession?

The day after Tavaria slays Orin and returns from the dead after Bhaal's murder of her, Rolan permanently gifts Tavaria his mother's cherished necklace with pendant, the same heirloom Tav had helped Lia recover from bullies in both 'good' versions of that childhood event that had led to their first kiss. It's the one moment that unifies both the Tav she was and the Tavaria she is.

deepest desire?

One, she wants to get the fuck out of Baldur's Gate for good. She knows that in this timeline she was the monster that nearly doomed the city to begin with, and in the non-Durge version of events had been one of it's most prolific thieves. She wants to get back to farming, wants to add life to the world rather than take it, and help feed and support that life already here.

She also really, REALLY wants kids with Rolan. Adoptive AND biological. One of her last thoughts before she took Raphael and the Gods' deal to resurrect the Elturians was her heavy with Rolan's child. Which, THAT is going to pose a major dilemma since she's stuck in the timeline where she is, biologically, a direct-line Bhaalspawn. Then again she also refuses to take parenting advice from Jaheira so.

guilty pleasure?

Smutty literature. Even in the throes of Bhaal's dark urge, Tavaria at her core is a sap and a sucker for a good love story. It's why when she proves resistant, that damnable butler tries to get her to kill her love. Of course, if the butler (or Bhaal) had read any of those stories she had been reading or paid attention to a single word they'd said, they'd have known how catastrophically stupid an idea that was.

best-kept secret?

Tavaria manages to keep her identity as a Bhaalspawn - and as the original architect of the Absolute plan in this world not quite her own - secret from Rolan until after she had helped depose Lorroakan and then freed herself from the Urge. She managed to keep it secret from Lia and Cal until Shar began to try to manipulate and twist and groom Lia into her new Chosen, but she holds back on telling either she was responsible for the Absolute, although Lae'zel eventually tells Cal in privacy, while Gale finally convinces Lia that she needs to know who this Tav truly is.

greatest strength?

She manages to hold on to her love for not just Rolan but all of the Elturian tiefling refugees through two reality shifts - with it even managing to leak through into what Orin did to Durge!Tavaria's brain. That love, that desire to protect them, even when she's protecting them from her, is so strong it destroys Bhaal's hold over this new her. It is soul-level, and it is resolute and indomitable, even against the gods themselves.

fatal flaw?

Her desire to protect them leads to her keeping far, far too many secrets even after she recovers the massive gaps in her memories. Lia learns her brother's future wife and childhood best friend is a bhaalspawn months after Tav and Rolan are engaged. Her desire to protect them also brings forth the Urge's second most brutal kill after that dragonborn bard named Quil - that of Lorroakan. In any other world, Dame Aylin's backbreaker would have been vengeful enough. But Tav was surgical, methodical. She kept him just alive enough to feel the pain of her blades slicing him to pieces. Tavaria went to the darkest and bloodiest place in her soul where Lorroakan was concerned, because it was the only time the Dark Urge and her urge to protect the tieflings (esp Rolan) were in total alignment.

favorite smell

The mix of a slightly earthy fragrance mixed with old tomes and scrolls, with just a hint of something more powerful, more primal. Rolan.

favorite spell or cantrip?

The one spell she held onto from her original life was Speak with Dead, and it was both incredibly practical and also very heartfelt to be able to offer a mote of closure to that body's life as it shared it's last thoughts. Post-Netherbrain she starts to develop an affinity for various druidic spells, and discovers the utter delight of permanently learning Speak with Animals - until then she had had to rely on potions, which weren't always practical.

pet peeve?

When someone says they 'can't' do something (usually an artistic talent or a skill that requires practice and repetition). It's not that they're incapable, it's that they haven't learned, haven't tried, haven't tried again, that they believe they can't. Occasionally, rarely, there's a limitation or exception, but when someone says to her they can't grow a plant or play an instrument or whatever it might be - that what they really need is someone to believe in them, and to teach them how. The wanna-be but easily discouraged 'farmers' of Reithwin bring this out a LOT early on.

bad habit?

Thinking a comforting lie or omission is better for those who she cares about - or who care about her - than the truth.

hidden talent?

Post-resurrection Tavaria has retained Durge!Tavaria's knack for indexing, cataloging, and recording data about whatever her object of study, experimentation, or curiosity is. She turns it, however, to more beneficial aims. She manages to improve upon even Rolan's attempts to reindex the tomes and scrolls of Sorcerous Sundries, and after their move to Reithwin she begins actively tracking data on what crops do and don't work on that land, what areas of the region have better luck with different things, how different animals respond to different feeds, and dozens of other data points. She ultimately suggests trying to selectively breed various crops - and animals - for specific traits.

leisure activity?

Besides reading (smutty literature) for fun, she turns her former musical inclinations as a bard as a child into her de-stressing, no-adventure-needed, never-work leisure fun time thing. Rolan considers it the one form of magic he had always struggled to learn.

favorite drink?

Coffee. No creams, light sugar. Future farmer Tav is also working on ways to improve fruit crop yields enough to work on non-alcoholic fruit juices (as Rolan cannot and should not drink) as she's found herself a massive fan of creating non-fermented and sweetened fruit juices from other fruits but it takes a lot of them to produce enough juice. She's especially fond of sweetened (and non-fermented) grape juice.

comfort food?

Sunmelon. She also likes to keep around a small number of salted emergency sausages as snacks - a tiefling usually cannot live on sunmelon alone. She's found the juice of this fruit also quite good, albeit it's a bit more watery than grapes.

favorite person(s)?

Rolan is the love of her life, and Lia is her best friend, and both of these statements have held true since Tavaria was thirteen, and were powerful enough to survive the meddling of gods and devils alike. Naturally, of the three, Cal is secretly her favorite.

favored display of affection (platonic and/or romantic)?

Wrapping her hands around her love's dominant hand, lifting it up, and kissing the back of it.

fondest childhood memory?

The entire sequence of events from helping Lia fight off / distract the bullies who had stolen Rolan's stuff and tormented him all the way through to Rolan kissing her (her first) that night, when she was 13.

free-response! Is there anything else about your Tav you'd like to share?

She knew that the Mind Flayer eventually known as the Emperor was deceiving her from the start, as it had drawn on the only remaining fragment of a memory she still had aboard the nautiloid - a shadowed and incomplete map of Rolan's features. Once she met the genuine article again, the purplish tiefling with the blue eyes and just-off-model voice could never, ever win her over. .

what was that timeline / complicated family stuff?

She was born into a non-durge timeline with perfectly normal tiefling parents. Ao 'patched' the universe however and irrevocably broke that world. Raphael was able to save Tavaria's "kind" timeline memories and personality due to her entanglement in several of his contracts, and thrust her into the reborn world, where she had become the instrument of Bhaal and had embraced the urge, killing everyone she'd ever cared about.

Raphael, on behalf of the other gods, then offered to reset the world back to something close to normal but with Tavaria still possessing the Dark Urge in that life. It would be up to her to save the Elturians and the rest, but at least they would have the chance to live. That opens up some genuine mess regarding Tav's parents and who is adoptive and in which timeline, as SHE ultimately gains her full memories thanks to Withers - but everyone else lives in a timeline where Bhaal is her father, he sampled some of Sofija's genetic material to create a baby with his essence, that child was left with Sofija and Mikolaus (bio parents in OG timeline, adoptive father and technically bio-mom in new TL). When they and her brother August die in both versions, Tav is taken in by the same farmers - who Tav either leaves behind (OG) or slaughters (Durge). In the OG timeline the farmers are killed on the day of the mind flayer kidnappings instead.

that was a lot. why do all that?

Two reasons. One, I realized I think I prefer Custom Durge x Rolan over Tav x Rolan, and this was the fastest way there with a character who had already had nearly 20 chapters of one fic with OG!Tav written as main and nearly 30 more with her written as a secondary. Hence why I put in the reset at the now-end fo the first fic, and why I rewrote the Gale/Lia fic around Durge!Tav. and Two, because I had the old version of my Tavaria save get corrupted at almost the exact moment in my fics where the universe reboot arc starts thanks to Larian's Patch 7 and my mod menagerie, and I decided to be obnoxiously meta about it. Also I like that it means we the reader know things about her that she herself doesn't, at least for a while.