#The Overlooked Virtue of Gentleness

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

by Jeremy Walker | Gentleness is tender strength. Without the tender heart, strength could do damage. Without the strong hand, tenderness could prove ineffectual. Gentleness, then, is a function of strength. There is nothing either harsh or weak about gentleness, but rather pity of heart and power of hand combined attractively and effectively. While it knows nothing...

[godspeedmajortom]

I’m fascinated by how variations of Sea Power's “Want to Be Free (Remix)” provide a musical theme for death and endings that follows Harry and his foils throughout Disco Elysium.

The first place you hear it is as “The Field Autopsy” while inspecting the Hanged Man’s body. It's barely recognizable as the original song, though. It's sluggish and muddy and bilious. The piano melody has been lowered and sustained to an ominous funereal organ and combined with deep strings. A lilting viola line in the lush layers of the original "Want to Be Free" is isolated here and contrasts with the low organ, rising like the stench off a corpse. If you do the autopsy first thing as Kim suggests, Harry – freshly, grotesquely awakened from his apocalyptic bender – is not in a much better state than a corpse himself.

The music underscores a visceral scene of death and decay, our introduction to the Hanged Man, the first of Harry's foils. Both Harry and Lely are agents of state-sponsored violence as a cop and mercenary, respectively. They bear similar physical scars from the neglect of the systems they grew up in. They both desperately want to escape the horrorshow of their lives, using drugs and dark fantasies to cope with the terrible things they see and do but finding little more than self-destruction in the nihilism. The Bloated Corpse of a Drunk taking the Hanged Man's place in Harry's first night dream makes their connection explicit: you should be dead, Harry. This may as well have been you.

The next place you hear a variant of "Want to Be Free" is in the washerwoman's shack in the fishing village. “Live With Me” is wistful and melancholic. The gentle piano and cooing vocals evoke the wind and waves on the bay, an escape calling outside the salt-rimed shack. But this is a place of death, or at least its potential, as the return of the high viola from "The Field Autopsy" reminds us. This is where Ruby hid when Harry's arrival made her fear for her life, where she contemplated killing herself if things got even worse. This is where Harry can end up if no one vouches for him at the RCM tribunal finale, where his wounds will grow infected without medical care, where there is little left to do but return to drinking and wait to die.

But true to the song title, the shack also offers Harry the possibility of learning to with himself as he emerges from his bender. Here is a mirror free from the damage and trauma of attempting to destroy himself where he can reflect on who he was and who he wants to become. He can choose to keep or let go of his past coping/defense mechanisms like his facial hair and The Expression. He can choose to embrace or reject the self-defeating fantasy of fascism. The shack marks a midpoint of the game, when the hangover has worn off but before the case is closed. So "Live With Me" scores the balance between potential endings: abandonment or acceptance, relapse or recovery, death or life. Harry breathes in the sea air, breathes it back out, and takes another step.

I didn’t realize this until a recent replay, but “Live With Me” also plays when you visit the Working Class Woman to notify her of her husband’s death. Since this is an optional sidequest, I understand why they didn't create original music for it. But they didn't reuse "Rue de Saint-Gislaine", the song for the rest of the Capeside Apartments (including the Smoker on the Balcony's apartment when you talk to the Sunday Friend). The Working Class Husband is another mirror for Harry who has met his end, and "Live With Me" plays to mourn him.

Victor Méjean died from an accident while inebriated, a fate that also could have befallen Harry on a previous drinking binge. The striking thing about Victor's death is how easily he could have been overlooked and forgotten. He died at the end of a pier in a fenced off, abandoned part of town. His wife wasn't concerned about his days-long absence. It's only by virtue of Can Opening and Jamrock Shuffling that Harry will know about or find him. Victor literally and figuratively died slipping through the cracks – of the rotted boardwalk, yes, but also of any sort of social safety net. This is what happens to alcoholics in Revachol. This is what will happen to Harry if he continues drinking and hasn't built his own personal safety net with Kim or Cuno to prevent the RCM from abandoning him. As Harry informs Billie of her husband's death, it's only natural for him to think of his own possible endings, and the soundtrack reflects that.

The final version of the song you hear is “Burn, Baby, Burn” blasting from Sad FM on the boat ride to the Sea Fortress to find the Hanged Man's killer and Harry's last dark reflection: Dros, The Deserter. Dros shares Harry's penchant for clinging to political ideology to give meaning to his life and obsessing over women he can't be with. He lives in bitter isolation, refusing to move beyond the failures of the past, his personal shortcomings and the evils of the world alike. He's emblematic of yet another possible outcome for Harry: not literal death, but despair-induced stagnation that leaves one living like a ghost in the mortal realm.

By the time Harry gets in the boat to the island, his fate at the end of the game is set. The RCM (specifically Jean) has all they need to decide whether to accept or abandon their prodigal lieutenant-yefreitor. Should his former partners leave him, Harry can return to the shack and the circle of drunks who have also given up on life. Or he can return to the island, where he would take Dros' place as the creepy old man haunting the fortress, scaring children, and staring at the mainland with longing and resentment. But even if Harry returns with his unit to Jamrock, simply resuming his old life will not keep him from returning to the depths of despair. The RCM broke him; the RCM will not save him. Neither outcome helps Harry become a person he truly wants to live with.

"Want to be free/It will last forever/Eternally," croons the boombox on the boat. The lyrics echo the self destruction that Harry sought before the game's events: freedom forever from pain, the ultimate release of death. At least that's what the Ancient Reptilian Brain would see in those words. But there's tension in the lyrics as the desire for freedom and exhortations to "burn, baby, burn" repeat. The bridge offers an alternative vision of verdure not consumed by the disco inferno: "And the trees are green and overhanging/Feather-light, free, and everlasting." Perhaps a less moribund future exists for Harry, even if only in the next world, as a new person.

[larsisfrommars]

The Light Won't Die (Part 2)

Halsin x Tav

Rating: E for Everyone

Chapter: 2/??? (<- Prev Chapter • Next Chapter ->)

Word Count: 905

Genre: Adventure, Hurt/Comfort

Content: Halsin x Male!Tav, Fighter!Tav, how do Elves experience dream flashbacks if they don't sleep, heart to heart, one last night before entering Reithwin, fanon lore, canon typical horror.

"“Oak Father forgive me!” Halsin looked absolutely mortified, casting hand shaking, beads of sweat clinging to his scarred forehead, nearly pale as Astarion."

———————✨🌿✨———————

Elves needn’t sleep unless they are gravely wounded or if it is imposed upon them by external forces. They trance instead of “undisciplined” dreaming, they walk through their memories freely, observing rather than participating.

However this does not mean that true, bone deep exhaustion cannot blur the lines between sleep and trance. Or that one’s subconscious cannot lock the door behind them, once a memory has been entered.

This much was true for Halsin that night.

A wave of death emanating from tomb and tower, following his dwindling Circle no matter how fast they ran. Unfeeling toward the innocents they strived to take with them. A small, antlered boy vanishing into the gloom cries out for rescue. At every turn he is met by a suffocating silence bore from a darkness that held nothing and killed everything.

A familiar corpse contorts into a gnarled mass of thorny brambles, its eyes burning an unnatural blue. He is surrounded by dying Harpers and Druids, Wraiths and Blights arising in their steads. A hand reaches through the darkness, grabbing at his arm. He must defend himself, he turns.

“Halsin!”

Tav tumbled backwards, clutching at the numerous thorns protruding from his arms and chest. Tiny welts of blood bespeckling his now ruined shirt.

“Oak Father forgive me!” Halsin looked absolutely mortified, casting hand shaking, beads of sweat clinging to his scarred forehead, nearly pale as Astarion.

Though shame and fear still marred the Archdruid’s face, muscle memory bid his body give way to his instincts as a practiced healer. Tav, who was still more surprised than in pain, found himself being urged to lay back down when he tried to sit up on his elbows.

“Vis medicatrix!”

They stung falling out into the grass more than they had entering. Tav clambered into a sitting position as Halsin fretted over him. Despite knowing full well that all the damage he’d done had been just as quickly erased by his own ministering hands.

Apologies erupted and clashed together once the initial chaos had passed. They stood up together breathlessly as their words tangled.

“My deepest apologies Tav, truly, I did not- I lost control. I…”

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I didn’t know that Elves could have nightmares. Dreamed at all really. I thought something was attacking you!”

Tav recalls the muffled cries that had disturbed his rest and no other’s. The primal fear that had gripped him when he recognized who they belonged to. Had more Githyanki been sent after them by Lae’zel’s vengeful matriarch? Had they camped too close to the edge of the shadow cursed lands? It didn’t matter, he’d grabbed his mace and made toward Halsin’s tent like a man possessed.

“We… we do not. I was… remembering, looking for answers. Anything I may have overlooked. I wish for us to prepared, no matter how disquieting recalling it may be.”

Tav narrowed his eyes at the Druid, for all his virtues, perhaps this among them, that giant of an elf was a bad liar. Only half of the truth was revealed by his words. While the haunted look and the tension in his bearing gave away everything else.

“I see. Does remembering usually result in you making distressing sounds in the dead of night, and hurl nature’s wrath at those who come to investigate?” Tav’s question was blunt, but his tone was gentle. Partly to avoid waking the rest of the camp, partly to avoid shattering the delicate energy that bound them.

“…No. In truth, I am embarrassed to say that I may have ensnared myself in a trap of my own making. I do not relish in returning to this place, despite it being my greater purpose. It is… a vivid wound upon my memory, sometimes difficult to control.” He offered with as much plainness as was given.

“Still, an Archdruid should have more discipline.” Halsin’s tone grew distraught, “I should have known better. Now I have injured my allies, striking out at ghosts when our real opponent lies ahead of us. I had not meant to- I should never have harmed you…” Halsin trails off, turning away, pinching the bridge of his of nose, struggling to clear his thoughts.

He could not allow himself to be distracted from lifting the curse, pleasantly or unpleasantly. Halsin found himself unsuccessful, on both accounts. Extending his already long list of failures.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Tav soothed, placing a hand on Halsin’s shoulder briefly. “There isn’t a soul in this camp whose past hasn’t made a habit of catching up to them. Wyll’s got Mizora, Astarion has Cazador, Lae’zel and her ex-Queen, we’ve all got our monsters. I don’t expect you to be an exception, no one should.”

Halsin looked back at Tav again, he couldn’t help but chuckle, if a bit bitterly. The man had such a comparatively short lifespan compared to his own and yet, there was a wisdom there that reflected a great many times his years. He might’ve said the same thing, had their positions been reversed. So why then, did he deem himself the exception?

“Your words have merit. Still, I cannot help but feel…”

Tav nods, “I know, still, you are always welcome to come and talk Halsin. This burden isn’t just yours, not anymore anyway.”

The Druid’s cheeks flushed, he shifted uncomfortably. For reasons perhaps he himself couldn’t fully discern.

“Of course, the offer is mutual, my friend.”

[mooshs-crack-headcanons]

*chews on the bars of my mortal confinement*

My god look how tender this bottom portion alone is. This is literally how my dumb little 7 year old brain saw the n64 graphic models of these two interacting:

So sweet, so loving, the gentle relief of finally reuniting at last after so much struggle and strive, to finally see each other under no disguises or false pretenses but finally be together again on equal footing being both virtues of courage and wisdom respectfully, and together, ready to fully right the wrongs of their actions as children opening the sacred realm being resulted what gave and put Ganondorf in power and just... there's so much here that unfortunately I feel gets very much overlooked of just how important this true reunion is either in game or in manga form.

(btw this comes from a promotional manga for the release of ocarina of time 3d and you can read the translation of it here)

[steelfyre]

𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         han sohee,  26,  cis woman,  she / her.    announcing  the  arrival  of  myrcella  of  house  paege,  the  lady  of  harrenhal.  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  compassionate  and  peculiar  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  painting.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  worlds both seen and unseen captured upon canvas , reality blurring in a swirl of colors  ;  the gentleness  that  comes  not  from  the  absence  of  violence  but  despite  the  abundance  of  it  ;  sweet ophelia , they whisper your sanity dances near a cliff's edge but butterflies still land in your hair ;  a  woman  dressed  in  white  walking  through  haunted  halls  -  the  ghosts  that  lurk  in  the  corners  call  her  daughter  rather  than  prey  but  will  pull  her  from  sleep  screaming  nonetheless.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  house paege.

basic information.

official name: myrcella paege. nickname: cella. noble title: lady of harrenhal. date of birth: february 20th. age: twenty-six. birthplace: harrenhal , the riverlands. home: harrenhal. nationality: westerosi. gender: cis woman. pronouns: she / her. orientation: bisexual , biromantic. monikers: little ghost , the darling of harrenhal , dove of harrenhal. languages: the common tongue , fluent. accent: westerosi , tone often soft and quiet - easily overlooked if one isn't listening for it.

physical information.

faceclaim: han sohee. ethnicity: andal. hair: black like midnight and meticulously styled unless one catches her during her evening walks when tresses flow freely , sometimes even messily. eyes: dark and deep. some call them kind , others claim the darkness is alarming - so endless that one might drown. height: five foot , five inches. build: delicate and lithe. scent: notes of pomegranate with hints of vanilla and black orchid. dominant hand: right. allergies: none. scars: none. distinguishing features: the faraway look that occasionally haunts her eyes. traces of paint and charcoal staining her fingertips clothing style: a mixture of the latest styles popular in the south , delicate extravagance masking the low coffers of home, and handmade pieces with a preference for flowing skirts and soft hues , pieces capturing ethereality.

personality.

positive: compassionate ,  artistic ,  whimsical , gentle ,  perceptive , courteous. negative: peculiar ,  cryptic ,  passive , mysterious , fanciful , sensitive. label: the haunted. mbti: infp - the consul. enneagram: 2w1 , the companion. element: water. star sign: pisces. temperament: sanguine. moral alignment: neutral good. deadly sin: envy. heavenly virtue : humility , charity. godly parent: persephone.

drives.

hobbies: painting , drawing , stargazing , dressmaking , dancing. religion: the faith of the seven. alliance: house paege. personal goals: to marry well and start a family of her own. would they choose family or power?: family.

family ties.

father: ruling lord samwell paege. relationship: tba. mother: ruling lady catelyn paege nee blackwood. relationship: tba. sibling: liege naerys paege. relationship: tba. sibling: lord/lady/liege utp paege. relationship: tba. sibling: lord/lady/liege utp paege. relationship: tba. cousins: house blackwood. relationship: tba.

history.

myrcella knew the story of her house well; her father often spoke with pride of their family's rise. for house paege was a name previously long forgotten by the pages of history. landless. without titles save the knighthoods a handful managed to earn. each generation was overlooked, mostly unknown beyond the riverlands - their marriage options limited to other landless houses or a rare love match with a minor noble. but that all changed when myrcella's grandfather was bestowed the castle of harrenhal. through dedication, and every piece of gold the family could get their hands on, the castle was returned to its former glory. their new status let them escape obscurity and finally granted them decent marriage opportunities, which the family took full advantage of, securing blackwood gold, needed for harrenhal's reconstruction. samwell's children would be the first generation of the family raised at harrenhal from the first moment they were given the paege name - be that from birth or adoption.

there was something odd about myrcella paege. the wet nurse and servants would whisper it when she was only a babe. her entrance into the world was not smooth, a long and rough labor that almost added her mother to the list of ghosts walking harrenhal's halls but lady catelyn survived as did the child. later, they would say she would wake from slumber crying for no reason and when she grew old enough to walk and talk, they said she would wander around the castle as if following and talking to someone but the halls were empty. her parents brushed it aside as a child's imagination. if only the castle's reputation didn't already leave many looking for signs of ghosts.

the oddities quieted, though never vanished, as she grew. strangeness tempered by a lady's demeanor, courtesies embraced and wielded with ease. she became the darling of her family, a reputation they encouraged to be spread before further whispers of strangeness were. cella was often seen at one of her parents' sides whenever harrenhal hosted guests or traveled to visit other keeps. the eldest was their heir and future, but cella was the jewel. her talent for painting was equally encouraged and many of her works were proudly shared, even given as gifts, by her parents, resulting in her talent being well known throughout certain parts of the realm.

myrcella's nature prevented all whispers from being silenced. those who crossed paths with her for longer than a brief conversation might notice how the lady's eyes wandered, as if seeing something in the emptiness, or the odd figures that lurk in some of her drawings. can she see ghosts? some wonder. no, it's nothing more than an act, others retort. but no one could deny the youngest paege's kindness. a truly delicate creature in a world too harsh. perhaps that's why the unseen were so fond of her.

headcanons.

has a bad habit of sleep walking, which has resulted in servants and sometimes other nobles occasionally finding her wandering the castle with little recollection of how she got there. she's also prone to bouts of insomnia, some say it's due to how frequently she had nightmares as a child, but normally hides that by remaining in her chambers or only venturing to the kitchens for a cup of tea.

can be found drawing or painting whenever she has a free moment, and she'll happily give away her drawings if people wish for them.

has a quiet fascination with the macabre and the darker legends of history.

can either be very perceptive of the world around her or entirely lost in her daydreams.

a bleeding heart through and through. she has been known to openly weep at tournaments if a participant is severely wounded, and would be the first one to visit the infirmary after something happens to sit with the wounded and speak or read to them.

while she is prone to being overly trusting, even gullible, she is not naive. rather, she knows how dark the world can be but chooses to see the light whenever possible - even in people who might not deserve it.

firmly believes that harrenhal is indeed haunted

[transmogrified-in-the-void]

Similar to last ask, what if, however unlikely ofc, Electrode and Virtue join the "good side" and become heroes?

So, I have been working on this for over half a year and I'm still not done, so this is part one of however many. But I hope you enjoy :)

"They were slaughtered." Cato says, voice almost unnaturally neutral. "For something they didn't even control."

Virtue stands in the middle of the semi-decent motel room, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, and back again. They don't know how to approach Cato, or how to comfort them. Hell, they're still processing what just happened themselves.

"Can I hug you?" Cato's voice cracks at the end of their question, and Virtue looks at them. Suddenly, more so than before, it's so apparent that Cato's just a kid. A twenty one year old kid who had to fight to survive and find home. Who has to do it again.

Virtue nods, and Cato almost falls into them, crying. "It's not fair. It's not fair that their Powers came late, it's not fair that they were persecuted for that, none of this is fair."

"No, it's not." Virtue agrees as they carefully move their arms to better hold Cato. Their mind is moving faster than it ever has before, trying to figure out the best course of action. "But what if we could change that?"

Cato almost falls back. "What do you mean?"

"We can go to the press, start to organize riots for change."

Virtue watches as the tension in Cato's shoulders and arms melts away, and they take a step back to look up at Virtue. Their light brown eyes squint as they look up and down Virtue's face before closing and nodding their head.

"I'll be back." They say with a voice still thick from crying, and Cato walks into the small bathroom.

The air around Virtue doesn't have time to weigh upon their shoulders as Cato comes out only a few minutes later, brown eyes now a violent and bright yellow, and staring directly at Virtue. They hold up a hand, and vibrant electric arcs fly between their fingertips until they lower their hand.

"I have personal stake in this, Virtue." Cato says before clearing their throat. "I have an idea of how we can change everything from the inside out, I just need you on my side for it."

The tension is back, but instead of the tension that draws upon adrenaline and panicked anxiety, it's the sort that pulls the panic and fear that settles deep inside your stomach and spreads it thick on your chest and shoulders and throat. A tension that Virtue knows intimately.

They walk up to Cato, looking at their face and the way their hair is finally long enough to curl around their ears and neck. They look so young, with wide and open expressions and constantly moving microexpressions that give away their nervousness.

Virtue's hand ruffles Cato's hair, and a gentle smile grows on their face. "I'm in your corner, always." They say, and watch as relief floods through Cato. "Now, tell me the plan."

-

Cato sits in the bare interrogation room, bored and mildly upset. They sit on a metal chair, in front of a metal table with another metal chair on the other side. What sort of idiocy allows for this sort of overlook to happen? Cato knows that they know that their Power is electricity based, because they were told that's how their Power worked.

The door clicks open, drawing Cato's attention to the hero walking in. She's tall with wavy blonde hair, and a hero costume decorated in bright oranges and reds. She glares at Cato, the way every hero does to anyone who they think is a villain, and she drops the manila folder on the table as she sits. "You're Cato Bennett?"

Cato looks at her, blinks, and nods slowly.

The hero huffs as she flips it open and skims the first few pages. "You know why you're here, then."

Cato nods again. "I want to join the hero agency with a friend."

She laughs, harsh and short. Her face tilts down to show the malice and glee hiding behind her eyes. "Yeah, no. We don't recruit criminals. If you'd thought to follow the law and register your Power before you turned 18, this would be a different story."

Cato tilts their head to the right and focuses on her face rather than moving their own. There's two cameras watching them, and the hero is calm. "It would be a different story if you so called heroes did your duty and protected the people most vulnerable."

The hero's heartbeat jumps as Cato speaks, but her face doesn't so much as twitch. "We do. I don't like what you're implying."

"So I won't be implying it, then." Cato sits up straighter, and takes a deep breath to control their facial expression into neutrality. "I was abused until I turned 18, when I finally put them into jail myself. This abuse included monitoring where I was going, making sure I felt as weak and as small as possible, restricting when I was allowed to leave the house, and what information I was allowed to know. Part of being small and weak included them never allowing me to be able to have a registered Power, because that would be admitting that I had something they never did, something that made me stronger than them. Even when I tried to tell numerous different police and hero stations about what was going on, all you did was smile and say you would do something." Cato leans forwards and puts their elbows on the cold table. "And I can't imagine I'm the only one. I bet, if I became a villain instead, I would find a large amount of them are from similar backgrounds."

Cato watches as the hero keeps her cool facade intact. She raises a neat eyebrow and stares them down. "How do you know so much if they supposedly restricted what you knew?"

This time, it's Cato's turn to laugh, but their laugh is quiet and shakes their body as it runs its course. "I had a good engineering teacher who taught me everything I know." They answer, and a reminiscent smile crosses their face for a moment.

The hero takes a deep breath, and pinches the bridge of her nose. "So you're saying that it's not your fault you're not registered? Why didn't you explain once you turned 18?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Cato says as they school themselves back to neutrality. "I was 18, just went through a very stressful and traumatic event and life, and it was pretty clear at that point that nobody in the police force or hero agency was going to do anything but vaguely allude that I was a villain and kill me."

They lean back in their chair and watch the hero's face refuse to move. "I was only proven right a few months ago. You know, when an entire villain assassination team stormed into the house me and my bandmates lived in peacefully, and didn't just kill the only family I had, but turned them into actual human ribbons without any chance to explain their situation. If that were to get out, that the most powerful people in the world will just slaughter civilians without any explanation or even probable cause, or a warrant to get into the house I might add, I wonder how people would react?"

Finally, the hero's face twitches. Just slightly, but it still does. Cato can feel her heart beat faster and her desperate attempts to calm her breathing. That did it.

She brings her hands together in front of her on the table. "So, what are you proposing, Cato Bennett?"

Cato hopes the smirk that they can feel deep inside their being isn't on their face. "I'm not the only BI member who was there and survived that day. We both want life security by being heroes."

The hero inhales sharply. "I will have to contact my superiors about that-"

"We already have, this is the final step."

The air between them charges with confusion and panic and anger. "What-"

"It's to see if I'm really as 'dangerous' as they think I am." Cato air quotes the word "dangerous" and rolls their eyes. "Which, again, I've never used my Power on anybody, and my fellow BI member doesn't have one. I don't see a reason to continue this . . . whatever." They end their tirade with a tired wave into the air.

The earpiece hidden behind her hair lights up, and she pauses as somebody says something to her. After a few moments, she nods, and sighs heavily.

The chair scrapes as she stands up, body sagging and defeated. She holds out a gloved  hand. "Gloria Dapnov."

"Hm?" Cato hums, a little confused.

"It's my civilian name. Since we're going to be colleagues, it's fair that you know it." She grits, and sticks out a hand. "Welcome to the Agency."

Cato grips her hand firmly, and shakes it with a grin. "Glad to be here."

-

Virtue’s hand on Cato’s shoulder is the only thing keeping them from running away at the moment. The official training building for heroes is so tall, and they’ve never felt small in quiet this way. It’s oppressive and suffocating and heavy, and it presses in all the spots that they’ve never thought to protect.

Virtue squeezes their shoulder, bringing them out of the existential pit they had started to dig. Cato looks up at them, and they smile softly.

“C’mon, I think we have somewhere to be.” They say as they gently push Cato towards the large double doors.

Inside is somehow both more and less intimidating. It’s impeccably clean and crisp and smooth, from shiny white marble floor to uniformly cut and structured desks on the sides, to the vaguely stylized signs showing where the meeting rooms and stairs and elevators are. There’s six people behind the desks, three on each side, and there’s not even the light clacking of keys as they use whatever new typing technology just came out.

Even so, they both walk in silently. Cato, from years of learning just where to put their weight on their foot to not make a sound, and Virtue from being naturally silent anyways. When they walk up to one of the desks to get information, the person sitting behind the computer jumps once she notices that they’re there.

“Oh, um, yes, hello! Welcome to the American Hero Training Center, how may I help you today?” She says, her face tinged pink and her eyes looking determinedly at her computer.

“We were told to come here to get started on being heroes.” Cato answers, and the woman looks them up and down.

“Look, kid-” She starts, and Virtue pushes against Cato’s head as they see them start to get upset.

“Ma’am, Gloria Dapnov told us to come here. You might have us in your system. We’re Virtue Bassow and Cato Bennett.” They cut her off with a grin. She huffs, and silently types something on the computer. She looks at the screen, then at the pair, and back again.

She rubs a manicured hand down her face and sighs. “Seventh floor. You’ll know where to go.” She mumbles, and Virtue’s grin gets wider.

“Thank you for your help!” They wave, and drag Electrode to the stairwell.

The stairwell, unlike everything else in the building, is cramped and unpolished. There’s a thin layer of dust on everything, and the lights screwed into the walls are yellowed, and bathe the cramped corridors in a pale golden light. It’s a welcomed and delighted change from the cold and white architecture outside.

“You know, V,” Cato whispers as they start to climb the stairs, “The more time I spend around heroes and their various buildings and complexes, the more I wonder if we might be making the wrong choice.”

No matter how quiet they try to make their voice, it still rings and reverberates through the abandoned stairwell, and gets louder and less coherent. Virtue waits for the vestiges of their voice to disappear before responding. 

“If you hate their minimalist style so much, we can turn this stairwell into our personal design hotspot.”

Cato comes to an abrupt stop at the top of a flight, and turns swiftly on their heel to face Virtue only a few steps below. “Wait, really? Can we do that?”

Virtue shrugs. “I don’t know, but they really can’t stop us if they never come into the stairwell.”

They can see the gears turning in Cato’s head as they turn to the third floor door and analyze the hinges and latch. “Well maybe- I’d need to check- wonder if I can get- yeah. Yeah we can make sure they never come into the stairwell.”

“Wait that’s not-” Virtue’s sentence is cut short as it’s Cato’s turn to grab Virtue’s wrist, and they are dragged up four mour flights of stairs at speeds that should be illegal in a stairwell. When the two of them fall out of the seventh floor stairwell door (and really, there’s no other way to exit after that impromptu workout), Virtue wishes that they knew how to knock Cato out without them knowing.

“Well,” Cato pants as Virtue curls up on the floor in some desperate and useless effort to get air into their lungs, “She was right. We would know where to go.”

Virtue glances up to see a poster with the hero Sunspot pointing to the left. In bright red bubbly text are the words NEW HEROES THIS WAY! 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe their architectural and media designers are braindead morons.”

“I didn’t say anything like that, I just said that I hated everything they’ve ever made visually.”

“Same difference.” Cato stretches and stands up, and offers a hand to Virtue.

Virtue pushes the hand away and stands up, making Cato scoff and make an offended face. “Last time you tried this we both ended up in a ditch in Missouri.” They say, and make a point to lean over Cato. “Because, y’know, I’m half a foot taller.”

“I will kill you and I won’t even feel sorry.”

“Oh no, that’s so scary.” They deadpan at Cato as they turn to leave. “I hope you don’t follow through with that, that’d suck so bad.”

Cato groans and moves faster to match pace with Virtue as they follow the Sunspot posters. “It’s not my fault my growth was stunted.”

“No, but it is your fault you make it so easy to make fun of you.”

“Shut up!”

“No.”

[merxxki]

‘  zhu yilong, omnigender, all pronouns, 360 / 36 , high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems zhōu haoyu has finally made it to the capital, the high lord from the dusk court is said to be loving and is said to describe themselves with the roar of the beast echoing in their soul, enigmatic smiles that hint at deeper truths, echoes of distant, otherworldly music, and a presence that feels both here and not here and with all of this in mind their enigmatic nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. ; *bonded with a white dragon, tianyu, for 100 years

general details.

full name:   zhōu haoyu name meaning: haoyu - vast universe gender: omnigender pronouns: all pronouns sexual orientation: demisexual romantic orientation: demiromantic occupation: high lord extracurriculars: calligraphy, gardening, astrology, astronomy

physical appearance, etc.

faceclaim:  zhu yilong eye color: deep brown eyes eyesight: hyperopia - requires glasses to read. height: 6'0 distinguishing characteristics: gentle smile, solemn countenance, a small tattoo on their wrist for Tianyu, a long scar on their left forearm running up the length of their forearm due to a childhood accident.

health.

mental disorder(s): anxiety, depression, ptsd, imposter syndrome coping by: being with tianyu, journaling, flying with tianyu, practicing their preferred martial art named the white crane style as well as a meditative form of martial arts. physical disorder(s):  joint hypermobility syndrome coping by: adapting physical activities and being mindful of his limitations.

personality.

label: THE MYSTIC – arcane knowledge, celestial alignment, profound insights, harnessing ancient magic, interpreting omens, an aura of otherworldliness, cosmic understanding, profound inner peace, the mystique of the unknown, silent contemplations, navigating the realms of magic and reality. character inspiration: merlin (the once and future king), rand al'thor (the wheel of time), lirael (the old kingdom series), sophie hatter (howl's moving castle) positive traits:  compassionate, wise, diplomatic, honorable, visionary negative traits: overly self-critical, detached, reserved, difficulty delegating, emotionally guarded goals and ambitions: learn tianyu's secret, master their magic, cultivate knowledge, hold tradition and embrace change, foster unity primary vice:  perfectionism primary virtue:  empathy

head canons and/or backstory.

Zhōu Haoyu was born with a calm demeanor and a solemn air that seemed beyond their years. Their mother often remarked that she had been blessed with an easy first pregnancy, free from the usual discomforts. Even from the beginning, Haoyu was a gentle and wise soul, as if they had an intrinsic connection to dusk itself, embodying its tranquility and mystery. They rarely cried and if it wasn’t for the sharp eye of their nanny, it would be overlooked that Haoyu would often cry silently and hold their breath - a scary thing but the nanny had raised children of her own and knew how to help the High Lord and the Lady with their firstborn. 

From an early age, perhaps due to being the eldest or due to their seriousness, Haoyu was surrounded by adults mores than children. They were often seated beside their parents during court discussions. Even the most seasoned court members would not recall a moment when Haoyu’s attention wavered or if they interrupted the meetings. The biggest mistake anyone could make was to suggest that Haoyu abandon their focus for childish play - instead, Haoyu would only look at them with solemnly, as if judging them and finding them wanting.  Though their parents encouraged them to enjoy the innocence of childhood, Haoyu was drawn to the allure of books, magic, and dragons. "I am limited only by my size, not my mind," they would tell their parents, as they asked for help getting a book higher up on the shelf than they could reach.

However, in private, Haoyu was as playful and mischievous as any child. Beneath their scholarly pursuits was a spirit filled with curiosity and joy, marked by a profound connection to the natural world and an innate affinity for magic. They took delight in applying their lessons practically, earning a reputation for hands-on experimentation and innovative learning methods... often to the detriment of what was around them. this continued until they were given a building to conduct their experiments - one will find that even now, haoyu will come out of this sanctuary with ink stained fingers or with colored fog following them or a tear in a new robe.

It was not uncommon to find Haoyu lying on the ground, conversing with flowers, or gazing at the sky, lost in the study of the cosmos. Whenever their guards weren't watching closely, Haoyu would sneak away to sketch and study dragons. While some saw their unique behaviors and unusual insights as strange, most found Haoyu’s kindness and gentleness endearing. This empathy extended even to the animals around them. Haoyu once cried over being served chicken for dinner, realizing the creature's life had ended for their meal. This hard-learned lesson in respecting life and death was one taught by their mother, which they absorbed with thoughtful reflection.

As they learned from their parents, their staff, and guard — he came to understand that everyone had value and worth. Haoyu's father instilled in them the importance of protecting those who were weaker or unable to defend themselves. This extended, after the twins were born, to them. Then, when their sister was adopted, that same sense of responsibility was spread to her. Haoyu’s father did not tolerate disrespect to his staff or to any person who came to him for aid or sanctuary. Under their father’s influence and guidance, Haoyu treated the court’s servants and staff with kindness and respect, learning to listen to their problems without a need to solve the problem before learning as much information so they could make an informed choice. With the unwavering support of their parents, Haoyu blossomed into a beacon of guidance and strength, gaining a reputation for their deep understanding of magic, philosophy, and their steadfast commitment to both family and court.

Recognizing Haoyu’s immense potential, their parents provided them with an education that was as rigorous as it was comprehensive—far beyond what most children could endure. However, Haoyu thrived under deadlines, pressures and challenges. They were surrounded by an array of tutors and guards who were tasked with pushing them to their limits mentally, physically, and spiritually. Despite this intense regime, the person who was the hardest on Haoyu was Haoyu himself. Their parents showed patience with Haoyu's occasional missteps, often offering comfort and guidance when frustration set in. Fully aware that they were being groomed to be the next high ruler, Haoyu strived to be seen as the best choice for leadership. Encouraged by their father to embody wisdom, strength, and leadership, Haoyu was also taught to appreciate the strengths of others and to collaborate with those who complemented their weaknesses. Despite this guidance, Haoyu insisted they simply needed to be better so they could accomplish more on their own.

During her teenage years, Haoyu’s passions took them into studying spiritual and magical studies, discovering the teachings of the Dark Mother. She approached these teachings with profound respect and a keen desire to understand their deeper truths. 

As she approached adulthood, Haoyu was faced with a series of marriage proposals arranged by her parents, intended to give Haoyu a companion that complemented them. She resisted these proposals, valuing genuine personal connections over political gain. While she didn’t necessarily seek love, she desired at least friendship in any potential partner and carefully judged anyone seeking a relationship with her. 

It was after their parents’ deaths when Haoyu became the High Ruler, as it had been known they would. Their bonding to Tianyu was a surprise, as the white dragon hadn’t shown any inclination of wishing to bond with anyone. Haoyu admitted to their siblings that it wasn’t their mind that Tianyu had been interested in, but the depth of love and their dreams. Tianyu has become Haoyu’s greatest teacher and support. The white dragon is Haoyu’s complement. Where Haoyu is careful, considerate and calm — Tianyu is known for advocating for action.

It is not uncommon to see Tianyu and Haoyu together, speaking telepathically to one another, as they share what they’ve learned or done while they were apart. When they fly together, they are truly connected and free of their responsibilities. Yet Tianyu has kept one secret from them … why did a dragon kill his parents? He couldn’t give his siblings an answer… and he wouldn’t speculate. Yet, his bonding with Tianyu has changed them in other ways … there is a distance between him and others now… a kind of sad demeanor as he looks upon their siblings and family members, and they don’t share why. It is as if every conversation has the potential to be the final goodbye. 

[iechor]

hear ye hear ye — the riverlands welcomes PRINCESS SYRENA BARATHEON of WESTEROS. king matthos baratheon is glad that the 23 year old appears to be gentle and he shall overlook that it’s said they are also selfish, as long as they are glad to celebrate peace in the seven kingdoms. fortunately for them, matthos remains oblivious that they are happy with his reign.

i. background.

full name: syrena baratheon

commonly goes by: syr

official title: princess of westeros

age: twenty three

gender + pronouns: cis woman + she/her

orientation: heterosexual

allegiance: house baratheon, house lannister, westeros

spoken language: common tongue, several other languages including high valyrian

religion: the faith of the seven

ii. appearance.

faceclaim: hannah dodd

eye color: emerald with flecks of gold

hair color: golden

dominant hand: left

height: 5'4"

build: slim

iii. personality.

virtues: gentle, caring, protective & charming

vices: naive, selfish, meek & stubborn

weapon of choice: could never hurt someone

moral alignment: lawful good

inspired by: myrcella baratheon, beth march, elyon brown, cinderella, christine daae, cosette fauchelevent.

common tropes: the innocent

iv. relationships.

parents: king matthos and queen joanna

siblings: .....

relationship status: single

children: none

pets: a small black dog named clover

other relations: baratheons of storm's end, lannisters ( all of them )

previous relations: ... none that are known

v. biography.

just gonna put my app stuff in here and add more later okay

when she was a little girl she found a bird with a broken wing and kept it in her room while she personally nursed it back to health . she hid it from her parents and siblings . when it was finally better and flew away she wasn't sad that it was gone , but instead happy that she got to help it . which kind of reflects how she is as a person .

growing up she adored her older siblings , idolized them , and she hated how different she looked from them -- so she once cut her golden ringlets off completely with a kitchen knife and attempted to dye her hair with berries ( she just crushed them up and put them on her head , it was a funny sight ) .

the first time she ever fell in love she was 15 years old and it was with the son of one of the stable workers . she would sneak out of her lessons and hide with him in the stables , she'd count the freckles on his face and he looked at her like she was the sun itself . one day he was just gone , and his father no longer worked for the family -- she has no idea what happened to him .

[shimmerbeasts]

Hey Kayle, how do you feel about the statues that Demacia has tried to make in your likeness? From the large statues to the smaller ones that are in homes? There's not many of Morgana but there are quite a lot with you as Demacia reveres the one protector of Demacia.

"I'm...flattered." Kayle chose each word carefully and spoke almost with a sense of hesitance as if the mere act of speaking about her emotions was taboo, "At least as flattered as someone like me can be."

She cupped her chin and peered out at the valleys, she could overlook from her mountain cave. Her wings opened and closed minimally as if she had to wrestle with some uncertainty. The gem on her breastplate glowed briefly and she lowered her hand before Kayle continued to speak:

"However, I do not believe that the Demacians will ever come close enough to my sense of perfection. My judgement is not from this world. It is not for humankind to copy for humankind are prone to have lapses and errors in judgement. Furthermore, my judgement is not something, they should look at during peace times."

Her wings went droopy for a couple of seconds. Kayle picked herself up and placed Virtue on her lap. The black blood from her constantly wounded right wrist coated parts of the handle. Kayle tapped her fingers on the gleaming blade.

"I thrive the best in war times", Kayle revealed, "I do not know how to judge people in times of peace. I see evil intent everywhere. Every human is evil in my book and thus worthy of damnation. It is why I refuse to return to Demacia. Not until I figured out what happened to my sister."

Her expression hardened and she sheathed Virtue. Kayle got up and stepped out of the maw of the cave. Feeling the chill of the wind so high up, she said: "If anything, I believe, these corrupt, little people could learn a thing or two from my gentle Mo." The sad smile shrunk and her face turned stoic as the gem glowed even brighter. "But you didn't hear that from me."

And with these words, Kayle dropped off the edge of the cliff and took to the sky.

[soupbender]

I'd love the see the notes for Bad Fortune AU, on Tumblr or AO3 or wherever! Even a bulleted outline can be very entertaining 👀

I love your drawings about the AU where Zuko is a fortune teller!! Thank you for making them!! - AnonFisio

SORRY FOR REPLYING TO THIS SO SO LATE i am trying to finally shake off my hiatus a bit… and okay my notes are thee most confusing thing like even i barely understand looking at them now. but i do have a little segment of the first chapter written in that same document so im including that below:] if i reorganize the notes i may post them sometime since i will never ever finish this particular au tbh 😭

The midwives track rain-wet feet into the delivery room. Outside, the clouds are swirling so dark they blend into the night sky, thick and unforgiving, highlighted only in passing with the full moon.

These are not the proper conditions for a royal birth. Funny, how the heavens do not care about that.

(Or, perhaps, they do. Perhaps that is worse.)

It is nearly dawn by the time Ursa cradles her baby. She lies on a pillowed ledge by the round window, overlooking the gardens. Wind and water whip at the just-blooming flowers; scatter the fragile leaves. There is not a hint of thunder in the sky. No lightning cracking through the stars.

Zuko’s skin is cold as rain against hers.

The sun bursts over the horizon line just as Prince Ozai breaks into the room. Ursa holds Zuko tighter to her bare chest and privately wonders what it would be like to have a husband who she would hold her child out to. Who she would trust to cradle him.

Ozai barely glances at the boy before announcing, “The doctor will prepare a solution. The child will die peacefully.”

“No, please,” says Ursa, thinking she rarely says anything else these days.

Ozai considers, “Fine. Out of my mercy, he shall be left upon a cliff face. If the Spirits—“ here he raises a mocking brow, unimpressed as always in his wife’s belief in such things— “see fit, then the boy will be taken in by some other wretched soul.”

Ursa had not wanted the child, had not wanted the husband, had not wanted the marriage. This is a poorly-kept secret. But with Zuko pressed to her now, her heart speeds at the idea of leaving him (a feeling that will reoccur in her life, but thankfully she is no prophet and does not know this.) “What do the Fire Sages say?”

Ozai’s lip curls, “A reading, that’s what you want?” He gestures to the puddles in the grass, the overflowed pond, “Even I could spout that nonsense with omens like these. Clearly, he shall be no bender. He was not even born under the right stars.”

Here lies the center of the problem. Every member of the royal family has been born by the sign of the Dragon—Ursa had learned, upon her arrival at the palace, that the wedding time was very planned. It made her a little sick. Maybe it was this same sickness which had carried through her pregnancy, maybe that is why the child has been born a month too early. Maybe that is why he has been born a Rabbit—a sign of kindness. Of virtue. The same sign, incidentally, as his mother.

An embarrassment to the royal name.

“Let the Sages tell it,” Ursa begs, a choking sensation rising in her throat, “please, my dear. At least—consult the Firelord first.”

It sends a chill down her spine, the way Ozai’s eyes land on her, the gaze somewhere between wrath and disgust. But it unnerves her nowhere near as much as the way he looks at Zuko.

+++

“You must already know,” is what he says. The words are quiet, gentled by pity. He says them only to her, carefully lowered that her husband looming in the corner might not hear.

Ursa gulps, considering pulling her baby right to her heart and running fast from the Head Sage.

“Get on with it,” Ozai snaps.

The sage’s eyes flick between them, panicked, before he collects himself; before he focuses on Zuko, asleep in his mother’s arms, this child cursed by his very birth. This child born too early and too cold. This child born with clouds over his head; without sun; without spark. Without any great glory. This child whose only piece of luck, it seems, is in being born at all.

“The level of prowess he will reach with bending is… unclear,” he announces, and Ursa’s heart drops to her stomach.

“He’s a bender?” Ozai asks, too calmly.

The sage’s eyes flash, frown deepening, recognizing the awfulness of his own honesty when he replies, “…It is unclear.”

“Roku’s granddaughter,” Ozai scoffs, “the result is just as worthless as his bearer.”

Ursa does not sob. She holds an eruption behind her throat—kept at bay, lock and key. She holds herself inside herself. She holds her heart with hedge cutters.

“But,” the Sage puts in, “he may yet have other talents. I foresee the possibility of a… truly glorious future for him.”

Ozai snorts, “The mightiest non-bender is still a non-bender. It’s a stain upon the royal name.”

“What other talents?” Ursa asks, except it sounds more like begging.

“A special ability,” the Sage answers, “unlike anything the Royal family has seen before. It could be the difference between the Nation’s victory or defeat.”

It is an act of courage, however meek, that the man looks her husband right in the eye when he speaks. That he emphasizes the sentence with care.

Ozai lets out a low, exasperated growl. It is an act of begrudgement that he says, “The boy has six months to spark.”

It is only after the prince and the sage leave that Zuko starts to cry.

“Good job, Zuko,” Ursa mumbles, half-mad and half-asleep, “Good job, darling.”

***

In a month’s time, the Fire Sages will lie about the date of Prince Zuko’s birth. In a month’s time, the entire nation will celebrate Ozai’s heir. In a month’s time, no one outside of Caldera will know the truth surrounding the little prince’s birth.

In six month’s time, Ursa will feed her son a spoonful of ground fire-flower. She will hate herself as she brings him coughing ash to her husband, as he hums his approval of his firstborn bender.

In nine month’s time, Azula will be born a dragon. The sunlight will reflect off Ozai’s sharp teeth, and only then will Ursa realize that he did not smile once the day of his son’s birth. Now here he is, bathed in midday light and summer heat, grin closer to a shark’s than a father’s.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

I posted 6,975 times in 2022

That's 1,720 more posts than 2021!

937 posts created (13%)

6,038 posts reblogged (87%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@doctorstrangeaskblog

@elennemigo

@strangelock221b

@ben-locked

@fanartka

I tagged 6,332 of my posts in 2022

Only 9% of my posts had no tags

#stephen strange - 925 posts

#strangebatch - 699 posts

#benedict cumberbatch - 694 posts

#doctor strange - 679 posts

#doctor strange in the multiverse of madness - 627 posts

#fanart appreciation - 532 posts

#trials & tribulations of a writer - 288 posts

#defender strange - 275 posts

#beautifullystrange - 256 posts

#loml - 244 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#at the end if the summer they used to give out tee shirts with that summer's theme on them to kids & adults alike - if you filled your sheet

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

She Wore Gardenias In Her Hair - chapter one

a Stephen Strange x Female Reader fan fic

summary: It's an historic day for Stephen Strange, and those that know him best. His wedding day. It must've taken a very special woman to capture the heart of this Master of the Mystic Arts--let's see if the day turns out as romantic as his fiancee is hoping for. And if this once very confirmed bachelor finds the sort of happiness he'd never dared to dream could someday be his.

characters: Stephen Strange, Female Reader/Y/N, Wong, Cloak of Levitation, more to follow in future chapters

genre: pure, unadulterated romance

rating: general...for now 😉

word count: 2.6k

Stephen hadn’t gotten quite the full night’s rest that he’d been hoping for. Well before midnight, he’d seen you to the door of the suite your parents and sisters had taken for the holiday weekend and had lingered as long as he could before kissing you goodnight--tasting your sweetness one last time before the vows to come, which would change both your lives forever. Then he had opted to walk several blocks downtown towards Bleecker Street, just to take the time to reflect upon the momentous step he was about to take. One which Stephen had never imagined actually taking place, either in his old or new life. But one he knew now was as wonderfully inevitable as the fate that had brought him to Kamar-Taj--a broken man who, by virtue of his once unbearable misfortune, had discovered that his true vocation was unselfish service to humanity. Well worth the price of the loss of both his hands’ utility as a surgeon par excellence—as well as the loss of most of his petty vanities.

When convenient, he’d ducked into an unlit alley and portaled the rest of the way back to the Sanctum. Cloak, along with Wong-- who took his responsibilities as Best Man with dedicated relish-- had been waiting up for Stephen in the small study attached to the Sanctum Master’s rooms. In lieu of a bachelor party—the groom had flatly rejected the idea of such an event at the very first mention of such—but knowing Stephen’s educated taste for bourbon, Wong had managed to purchase a seven-year old bottle of Maker’s Mark Weller Special Reserve (certainly with the proceeds from his Shanghai fight club wins, Strange assumed). “A toast to the bride, my friend,” his fellow master told him, cracking the seal on the bottle and pouring out into two antique crystal tumblers that had been part of a gift to the New York Sanctum from Benjamin Franklin--whom history failed to report, had dabbled in a bit of magic himself from time to time. 

“How you ever stumbled upon such a smart, gentle woman with a heart soft enough to tolerate your ego and overlook your usual rash behavior, remains a continual wonder to me,” he announced, and then chuckled warmly, slapping Stephen’s back for good measure, “But I’m damn glad you had wisdom enough to not look the Universe’s gift dumbly in the mouth, and took her up for all that she is worth!”

His glass still raised, Stephen nodded his head in unstinting accord. “I’ve never agreed with you more, Wong. As the most undeserving of men, I can only think I must have done something very right in my…” he framed his next few words in a one-handed air quote, “…‘in my youth or childhood’ to be given the mercy of her love. And I plan to give her every reason to stay by my side, every chance that I’m allotted.” He took a long quaff of the rich, amber fluid, enjoying the good burn as it went down.

“See that you do,” Wong grunted, before swallowing down his own.

Soon enough, Wong capped the bottle, telling Stephen he had promised you to make sure your fiancée’s sleep went uninterrupted; except for the most dire of emergencies, Wong would be taking up the mantle of Sanctum Master until the newlyweds returned from their too-brief honeymoon. Thus, he had practically ordered Strange off to bed, although Stephen was happy to oblige. He had already planned on meditating, hoping it would ease him into a night with dreams filled with only the best of things. With only you.

It wasn’t wedding jitters or a case of cold feet that had denied him his full rest. ‘Twas sweet anticipation of what had longtime been unthinkable for Stephen—pledging his heart in a lifetime commitment to a wonderful soul who understood him as no one in his past ever had and loved him without reservation despite the wealth of flaws he’d been working to overcome since he had had dedicated himself to protect and defend Earth as an initiate of the Mystic Arts. This night, his mind had wandered back to the lucky day he’d first seen you in Metropolitan General’s ER.

Stephen had been there to visit with Christine Palmer—their first face-to-face meeting since he had Blipped back into existence. Both their schedules had been hectic and overfilled. His with attending to shoring up the cascade of fissures in, and allaying the disruptions to, this reality’s stability, in the wake of his necessary tampering with the integrity of Space and Time to resurrect countless lives across the Universe. She with an overwhelming host of medical emergencies brought on by the sudden return of patients that had disappeared five years ago, mid need, and new ones created when those Lost tried to piece together their old lives in a world that had long since moved on. Watching Christine in action, confident, commanding, and compelling in her unique way, had left Stephen aching in places he hadn’t had time to even consider since his return. That old ache, which could never be satisfied, to be a doctor once again, and jump into the fray at her side. And the quiet ache of knowing that he had missed his chance to love her properly—as they both had deserved of him—and build themselves a life together.

Still, Stephen had hung back a while, envying the vital purpose of the doctors and nurses all around him. There were so many new faces since his tenure there had ended, some much younger and more fresh-faced then he ever remembered being throughout his internship and residency. A pretty, dark-haired nurse attending to a crying preschooler caught his eye. The little girl seemed to be lost, having apparently wandered in off the street. He found himself moved by how gently the woman took the child in hand and calmed her down, eventually making her giggles bubble forth amidst the hectic ER. There’s a special kind of magic in that, he remembered thinking; one I never mastered, nor even attempted. But this one makes it look effortless. Stephen had assumed correctly, that you had a background in pediatrics—and was doubly impressed when he went on to discover you were a board-certified midwife as well.

The next time he’d seen you, he’d stopped by the hospital cafeteria to grab a quick cup of coffee with Christine. Touching base only, for she had made sure that Stephen understood she was seriously involved with someone. She’d already been seated when he got there, with a large cup of coffee waiting for him, just the way she remembered he preferred—and was deep in conversation with the pretty nurse from that day in the ER. He ended up sitting opposite you, with his old flame making introductions, but having to dash off a few minutes later at the behest of her pager.

Left alone, the two of you had settled into a comfortable conversation, which went on longer than it felt—a good half hour until you had to excuse yourself to meet a laboring mother-to-be in Admissions. Before that, Stephen eventually mentioned having seen you with the crying child that afternoon—and you dared to ask if he was the Doctor Strange from the Avengers. The hero who had traveled through time to find the solution to set the world to rights. He’d been quite taken by two things at that first meeting: the honest respect in your eyes—not hero worship, but a smart appreciation for the work he did and the painful sacrifices you had intuited he had made in that arduous quest…and the pretty shape of your mouth. The easiness of your smile and the tender looking fullness of your lips. Lips that any man might speculate had been made especially for kissing. Even then, he’d been willing to wager your kisses would be as magical as your bedside manner with that young girl. So that as you rose to say goodbye, he couldn’t not ask for your number—eagerly hoping that you’d agree to see him again, and sometime soon.

Nineteen months later, you were practically living together, as well ensconced in his Sanctum quarters as in his life—and Stephen had never looked back. Not once. Your relationship had grown so naturally, and you had quickly acclimated to the magical aspects of life as a world-famous Sorcerer’s girlfriend, with your feet planted firmly in your work, and your arms ever ready to welcome him home from his extra dimensional travels and supernatural battles. You’d filled his heart with a happiness he had never anticipated could be his, and his bed with the warmth of being well and truly loved—and a passion that brought back the vigor of his youth. Forcing him to set warding spells to soundproof every room of his quarters; you might appear decorous to your patients and co-workers, but you sure knew how to let him know how much you loved him—and how very well he satisfied you.

For Stephen, your relationship was the one good thing that came out of The Blip. If not for those five years, you’d never have met—as you would still have been in training for your dual career. And likely with your age difference, he wouldn’t have given you a second look. The twelve-year gap was a helluva lot better than seventeen. You were mature enough to know what you wanted, without needing to compromise to get it. While being young enough to remind him that life didn’t come to one, hat in hand—one must pursue happiness with the gusto of youth, even with silver at one’s temples. As he had pursued you; as you had pursued one another.

Yes, the two of you were naturals together alright; your softness and compassion, your sly sense of humor and loving heart, the perfect fit with his sometimes snarky and tunnel-visioned angles and edges—and that the deep heart, which he had only come to realize was his since discovering the mystic arts, was most fulfilled when he was doing the right thing. No matter the personal cost.

It was your second Christmas Eve together when Stephen slipped a modest diamond ring upon your finger. By New Year’s Day, you’d set the date, and now it was here. Memorial Day weekend, late spring in New York City, a long weekend that would enable your far-flung family and friends to attend. Stephen’s guests were far fewer in number. Except for an estranged brother, he had no immediate family. He had never had the time or inclination to cultivate a coterie of friends in his old life, although those he’d made among his fellow Masters were loyal and true. He was glad to tailor the wedding plans to your needs, for your happiness had now become his own. Besides, Stephen firmly believed that he was getting the better end of the deal.

His trip down memory lane had soothed him enough to override the low-level beat at the back of his brain, which had grown more and more insistent in the past week. I’ve never been husband material…I’m too cocky and self-absorbed, too impulsive and sardonic, to be the life partner you deserve. And my life’s work now—it’s not at all conducive to domestic bliss. Not when I can’t say with any certainty where in the world, or worlds or dimensions, I’ll be at any given time—let alone the ordinary…tomorrow. Plus, he just couldn’t shake the overall feeling that he simply wasn’t good enough for you. Stephen knew very well how you would answer each of these justly arrived at estimations of himself, with a loving wisdom that dispelled his doubts and reservations as though there were as insubstantial as the ghosts of his past. Seeing himself through your eyes was the sole remedy that made him feel worthy of the love you offered him.

And so, sleep at last overtook him, and when Stephen awoke by habit, just a few minutes before his alarm, he couldn’t remember nodding off, but knew it was thoughts of you alone that had ushered him into his rest. Unlike habit, Cloak was hovering bedside, and even without the physical connection usually required for him to read its emotional state, Stephen could feel that its nerves were near as frayed—for his sake--as a typical groom’s on his wedding morn. “Everything’s going to be fine—I promise,” he chuckled as he swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed, “You know that. Besides, you’ll be with me the whole time, and no one besides Y/N and Wong will even have a clue.” Cloak approximated a nod, and then zipped over to the wardrobe, where Stephen’s suit hung waiting. “It’s hours until the ceremony—relax, please. Keep this up and you’re gonna make me nervous.” Cloak’s shoulders drooped a bit, and it floated over to the window, nudging aside the draperies to let in the sunshine and keep watch until Stephen would be suiting up for ceremony.

A knock upon his sitting room door spurred Stephen to grab his robe before padding over to answer it. He opened the door to find Adept Miriamme with a loaded breakfast tray. A vegetarian omelet, with sides of bacon and sausage, buttered toast, orange juice, and fresh coffee. He could smell the added chicory rising above the rest of the aromas, and his stomach rumbled. “Master Wong wanted to be sure you had a good breakfast, Doctor Strange,” the timid Miriamme squeaked, and Stephen had to refrain from chuckling again. The new initiates seemed to be getting younger and younger these days—or was he simply getting older?

“Thank you, Adept,” he told her, motioning her to put the tray on the end table beside the two-cushion sofa.

She nodded, looking very much in awe of finding herself in the Sanctum Master’s rooms, set it down and quietly headed to the door, before turning back. “Best wishes on the day, Sir.”

He grinned, “Thank you, Miriamme. It’s kind of you to say so.” She smiled back, looking a mite relieved her chore was done, and then left him to his breakfast.

Stephen was surprised at the hardiness of his appetite, grateful for Wong’s wise provision, and ate nearly every morsel--while realizing that the next meal he sat down to would be as a married man. So many firsts to come, so much to look forward to. And he planned to experience each of them to the fullest. Before his life in the mystic arts, he had sleepwalked his way through the simple joys and pleasures of life, always in pursuit of more spectacular things; of fame and accolades, and the considerable fortune that came with them. His vocation in the Mystic Arts had proven to him that a humble life of real service had so much more to offer than that of his medical career. While you had taught him that love—real, honest, head-over-heels, unselfish love—was the key to the exact happiness that had eluded him since he’d set out on his journey as an adult.

Enrapt in these pleasant musings, feeling the sweet butterflies of anticipation for all that he was gaining today, Stephen checked the time before jumping in the shower. He smiled to himself as steam filled up his bathroom, knowing that his wedding gift to you would be delivered soon. Imaging the beautiful smile that would light your lovely face once you finally opened it.

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215 notes - Posted April 25, 2022

#4

MCU Stephen Strange as a Dad:

with Peter Parker/a son: 

He’s sometimes gonna be a hardass because he knows how much potential Peter has, and he wants to nurture that for when he’s not around to look after him--but most of the time Stephen tries to calmly reason with him. He admires Peter’s big heart, especially because it couldn’t have been easy having lost his parents so young, and then his father figure, Uncle Ben, and his mentor, Tony Stark. 

And when The Kid does the right thing, all on his own (which Stephen quickly realizes is as natural to the young man as his brown eyes and fair skin)--and even more when he surpasses Stephen’s expectations--Dad!Strange is so flipping proud of his boy, to the point where he’ll get all choked up and instructs his son ‘just don’t tell Wong about this, he’ll never let me live it down’.

with America Chavez/a daughter: 

Stephen would start out all ‘okay young lady..’ and ‘you’re gonna get a stomach ache’ and ‘didn’t I try to warn you not to...’, but pretty soon he’d be all soft and doting and want to spoil her because she’s had a rough life, and he can see she’s much braver and stronger than she gives herself credit for. He’d be the Dad that waits up for her when she’s out late with her friends/gf, but pretends to be asleep in his chair when she comes home a few minutes past curfew, letting her believe she got away with it, while he’s just happy she’s home safe and tried her best to respect his wishes. He’d love to accompany her to the Father-Daughter dance, but only if she asks without any prompting, because to suggest it himself would be very uncool. 

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247 notes - Posted May 26, 2022

#3

Here is a Stephen strange prompt for you that I wrote down for my one shots thought it would be cool to see your writing for it. "Broken Cup" reader or character a coffee shop worker sees Stephen with his shaky hands struggling with the cup and he drops it breaking it. Or could be them two alone at home when she hears the cup break.

Hope you have fun dear!

I wrote this part before I got really sick--though it doesn't contain an actual broken cup, the spirit of it's there. Since I'm not sure when I'll feel up to finishing it, I figured I'd share what I already came up with. Hope you enjoy it @ravencatart xx

pairing: Stephen Strange x Female Reader

rating: wee bit of angst, mostly fluff

word count: 1.2k (so far)

His tremors were pretty bad today. She couldn’t help but notice-–and given the precipitous fall in temperature the past couple of days and the scent of the coming snowstorm in the air, she really wasn’t surprised. Because she’d been feeling it too. In the bones of both ankles, broken years ago and patched up with metal plates and multiple screws. And in scars of her own, which she painstakingly hid from the world, as they symbolized the weakest and most desperate time in her life.

Since mid-November, when the first serious frosts had settled over the Village, he had taken to wearing gloves with the fingers cut off at the second knuckle. She had guessed he chose to keep the ends of his fingers exposed to allow him better control in gripping things; it made sense that he would want direct contact with his skin to be certain he had objects well in hand. But even those gloves couldn’t hide the painful looking scars that ran the length of his fingers, and in the months since he’d been coming into the coffee shop (usually two or three times a week, and sometimes even four) whenever she got close enough, she made sure not to stare. It was more than common courtesy—her own scars, which she went to painstaking lengths to conceal, had taught her just how it felt to get the curious, and worse, pitying looks they summoned from strangers.

Silver Fox—that’s what she had named him, based not only on the white streaks of hair at his temples, but because he struck her as the embodiment of the word distinguished…and because he was the finest looking man she’d ever seen.

Looks that had a movie star quality about them. Cheekbones fine enough to out-pretty most super models. An endearingly crooked sort of smile, that started on the left corner of his mouth and—if he had reason to smile broadly--spread gloriously to fill his handsome face, like sunshine filling the sky after a sudden spring downpour. Plush lips, full and tender looking, like they were made for kissing, surrounded by a well-trimmed moustache and goatee. She often wondered how he managed that, with the way his hands trembled at times. Maybe he had a significant other who helped him with that; she knew he probably wasn’t married, as he wore no wedding ring.

And his eyes. Breathtaking, really. Pale, crystalline blue in the vivid sunlight that came through the plate glass window of the store front, though at times she could swear there were swirls of green and even gold in their depths. He seemed a keen observer of the world, like his exotic, mesmerizing eyes didn’t miss a trick. Sometimes she caught him watching her, and she always blushed, wondering if he discerned that she’d developed a wicked crush on him.

Today, Silver Fox had ordered a chocolate croissant (one of his favorites; he clearly had a sweet tooth) and instead of his usual black coffee laced with chickory, hot chocolate with a double shot of salted caramel. Elise—the new girl—had served it to him in a ceramic mug. She didn’t know any better, and apparently he hadn’t thought to ask for a disposable cup instead, as she herself would’ve known to fill out his order.

He had placed both palms around the mug, probably enjoying the heat of the beverage upon his damaged hands, and his eyes were closed, as though he was concentrating hard. She watched him take a deep breath and exhale hard, like he was bracing himself for a difficult task. And her heart went out to him as he lifted the mug barely an inch, lowering his mouth to the shaking beverage to take a single sip. That was never going to do. She just had to help him, somehow.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she set the slice of white cheddar-topped apple pie in front of another regular patron and turned without a word to grab one of the thick, cardboard to-go cups and filled it to the brim with the sweet chocolate, hit it with two shots of salted caramel, and then topped it with a generous spray of whipped topping, the finishing touch a drizzle of caramel over the cream.

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253 notes - Posted January 15, 2022

#2

Can someone please explain to me why my heart does a little lurch when I see him this way? I mean, I don’t even know 838 Stephen, and yet I love him and wanna protect and cuddle him. 

What is this power that Stephen and so many of his Variants have over me? Is it the witchcraft of Benedict Cumberbatch? Or perhaps because my love for Stephen Strange has taken on a life of it’s own?

259 notes - Posted May 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

For the Stephen Strange x Female Reader prompt: how about a cute fluffy little thingie where the question comes up whether Cloakie ever needs to get into the washing machine?

I hope you find this cute & fluffy, Nonny. Thank you for the prompt, it feels good to stretch my writing muscles, and I'm hoping it helps get me in the writing groove again!

pairing: Stephen Strange x Female Reader, established relationship

characters: Stephen Strange, Reader/Y/N (also a practitioner of the Mystic Arts), Cloak of Levitation

rating: general audience, fluff with undertones of mutual longing

word count: 1.5K

You had left Stephen to sleep in this morning. As happy as you were to have him safely home at last (and having proved both your relief and delight to him three times in all, throughout the very delicious, velvet dark of night) you had awakened to watch him sleeping peacefully (his battle wounds already on the mend from the healing spells you’d cast when he finally stumbled through the portal from Crete), and had resolved to make him take some much deserved downtime for at least a day or two.

And so, you had silently slipped from his bed, loathe to leave his warmth behind, but fully intent upon spoiling him rotten in even the most mundane ways. Sorcerer Supreme he may be and a heroic, selfless servant to humanity, but he was still a flesh and blood man, and he deserved every ounce of the love and attention you planned to lavish upon him. You soon had his favorite, non-magical, breakfast foods prepared and left warming in the oven for once he was awake.

Next, you had gathered his discarded, slightly bloodied but heavily battle-singed tunic and leggings from the bathroom floor (where they’d fallen when you’d peeled them off of him the night before) for a thorough laundering, and once they were clean and dry, you worked the restoration spell yourself, instilling each magical stitch with protective charms and all the love that bloomed anew within your heart each day you were blessed enough to call yourself his woman. Though Cloak was in obvious need of a good washing too, it had flitted off the very moment that Stephen had let himself sag into your arms, and you hadn’t seen a flash of it since. You decided to track it down later, determined to relieve its Master of that chore as well.

Tiptoeing into his bed chamber, you found that Stephen had flipped onto his stomach, his arms tucked beneath his pillow and the sheet nestled around his waist—so that you went all soft inside, biting your lip against a longing sigh at the sight of his warm, inviting flesh. His broad shoulders that carried so many thankless responsibilities. His perfectly toned expanse of back, marked here and there with battle scars, which ever drew your loving attention, as though you would give him the sweetest, most gentle gratitude, which an unknowing world owed him for the protection he provided it. Aye me, you thought; the lover’s sigh of Juliet often came to mind when you looked upon his beautiful form, amazed in knowing that his heart belonged to you as much as yours did to him.

“I can feel you watching me,” he mumbled into his pillow, his sleepy voice so rich and deep that a thrill ran through you and settled in your solar plexus. You had to tighten your grip on the laundry basket, defying the sudden urge to jump his bones.

“I wasn’t sure if you were awake yet,” you tried to reason, blushing as much from the fib as from the spark of desire he had conjured without even trying. “I didn’t want to disturb you, darling…”

Stephen gave a sinful sounding groan, and with some effort and a wince or two, turned onto his back. Obviously, he was still feeling the effects of his struggle to cast a trio of immature Lamias back into the Shadow dimension from whence they had escaped; likely he needed another rubdown with the charmed salve you had treated his muscles with last night. “I was hoping you had every intention of disturbing me, honey,” he replied, smirking wickedly and patting the mattress beside him.

“Stephen,” you tutted, setting the basket with his clean robes on the foot of the bed. “You needed your rest, and…well…” you shrugged, looking away from the warmth of his gaze, trying to maintain a semblance of decorum, “…so I decided to…putter…”

His smirk grew into his trademark, shit-eating grin. “Putter?” he chuckled, “Pray tell, my saucy sorceress, how exactly did you putter?”

When he looked at you this way, it got harder and harder to concentrate on whatever task was at hand, let alone expressing yourself cogently. You knew for a fact that Stephen enjoyed how flustered you got when he turned on the charm, and how easily you turned to putty in his hands. You squared your shoulders, trying your best to keep your cool. “I’ve got breakfast keeping warm in the oven, and…I took care of your laundry…”

“You didn’t need to do that, honey,” he replied softly, sitting up and patting the bed again, looking touched by that modest tender of your affection. “I don’t expect you to take care of me that way, sweetheart.” Stephen reached his hand out to you, the heat of the moment quietly banking, as a sort of wonder filled his gentle blue eyes.

Of course, that was enough for you to take a seat and slip your hand into his. “I know you don’t, but…but I like taking care of you, darling. It makes me happy. And since I can’t be with you when you go into those…dangerous situations…” Tears prickled your eyes, but you blinked them back, remaining as resolute as ever to keep him from seeing how much you worried about him when you couldn’t be there to protect him even a little. “Since I can’t help you fight your battles, the least I can do is make your life…comfortable, and…well, worry free.”

He raised your hand to kiss your knuckles. “You already make coming home the best part of any day, honey. Which is the surest motivation for me to give whatever enemy I’ve gotta face, a swift and mighty kick in the ass.”

Though you rolled your eyes, you allowed yourself to take his loving assertion to heart, then leaned in to brush your lips to his, lingering as you asked, “So, um…you ready for some brunch?”

“Not until you’ve given me a proper good morning kiss,” he husked, and cupped your jawline in his free hand. At his prompting, you parted your lips, allowing Stephen to deepen your connection, well beyond what anyone would consider ‘proper’. You hummed contently when he finally released you, and then opened your eyes to catch him grinning as he teased you, “Yup- I’m definitely…famished…now.”

You gave a little shiver at the innuendo, considering it a promise of later satisfactions, and stood up to hang his sorcerer’s kit in the closet and put away the rest of his clean clothing. Stephen slid out of bed, clad in his comfiest pajama bottoms, and pulled a well-worn, gray cotton tee over his head. You caught a flash of red out of the corner of your eye, as Cloak ducked its collar just inside the doorway. Noting your attention, it zipped away, leaving only a swirl of air in it’s wake, while you called after it, “Hey! I was looking for you this morning. You’re due for a good wash up before you leave the Sanctum again.”

Stephen came up behind you and planted a kiss just beneath your ear, while sliding both arms around you. “Yeah, not a good idea, sweetheart,” rocking you gently, “Unless you’ve got a degree in cat-herding I don’t know about…”

“I’m sorry- what?”

His breath tickled the sensitive skin of your neck as he chuckled, and you felt his amusement in the soothing vibrations of his chest against your back. “I discovered early on that Cloak prefers to see to its own…maintenance. Except when it’s experienced some kind of physical damage that requires magic—or a tailor—to repair…”

“Seriously?” You wondered for a moment if your boyfriend was teasing you again.

“Absolutely,” he assured you, “For some reason I haven’t been able to decipher—since it’s an open book about everything else—Cloak is a creature of privacy when it comes to…bathing.”

You had to giggle at that. “And I suppose it prefers to shower when you’re not around?”

“God, no,” he laughed, urging you into the hallway and on the way to the third-floor kitchen, where brunch awaited, “Once we’re out of the way, Cloak is gonna indulge in a good, long soak in my bathtub. So, we need to steer clear of my chambers for, um…about an hour…”

You smacked his shoulder lightly, “Now you are teasing me!”

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654 notes - Posted January 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[zorkaya-moved]

❛ i’m not paranoid . people really do leave once they realize they can’t fix me . ❜ jumpscares you

@sunsetsbird

It irks her. At any point someone tries to hurt her pride, she could care less for her confidence in herself was above Mt. Olympus itself and rivaling Zeus himself. However, it was another matter when someone would cause her loved one’s confidence and his self-views to fluctuate, tremble, crack. Friends come and go, she accepted it with those who had left since their childhood and those who stayed since those old days. It’s natural to her, but what does it mean to Cove? He already seemed to have a smaller circle of people around him as she noticed, but it never really seemed to matter to him... or was she wrong? It was bad to assume, but she was so used to his company and treasured every single moment that she might’ve overlooked the general time spending with others. Her ambition sometimes blinded her, made her tunnel-vision on only certain people like her parents, Cove, Cove’s father, and several friends of theirs. 

Zarina’s concern is written all over her face without any shyness, hands reaching to be placed on top of his, and she searches in his face and in his eyes what brought this on. What happened? Who caused this? Was there anything she could do for him? Devotion and loyalties shine, burn brightly for him and him alone. This young man, - a boy who was crying, all snot and tears, back on the hill behind her house - was everything she ever dreamed of, ever wished for, ever cared about so deeply without a question or doubt. Who would dare to harm her beloved’s self-esteem? It didn’t matter if it truly hurt him in a way she thought, the most important part remained: Cove Holden was in distress and Zarina’s first reaction was to end whoever’s career she needed to. 

“But why do they even attempt to fix you when there is nothing to fix?” She is confused and she does not understand that. In her eyes, he is everything a person would wish to be. A bit dorky, determined, funny, adorably awkward, handsome to boot, and a wonderful surfer? What wasn’t wonderful in him? Yes, they both had their flaws, but the virtues outweigh those so easily. How could anyone wish to ‘fix’ him who is so kind and so deeply loved? A young boy turned young man, he had plans and he had gone through so much. He was patient with her, helping her defeat her phobia of deep water and helped her get back to surfing. He who always had that determination to climb her window even in the middle of the night, his bravery (or foolishness) to speak his opinion if she were getting slammed with criticism by their classmates when she didn’t care. He who had such warm hands and gentle eyes when he looked at her, shuffling when he felt shy or awkward or embarrassed. He who did his best to show how he feels even if it takes time, but she is always willing to wait for him without any trouble. He was her dream, he was her treasure, he was her soulmate (she’d use this word only with him as this romantic notion seemed fitting). “They’re such idiots. Their fucking loss.” 

She huffs, closing her eyes for a moment before stepping closer to the person who smelled like the ocean and who always felt so warm. It’s so obvious how much warmer he is when she holds his hand in her palms, letting her thumb caress over his skin. He is warm and he is precious, they are humans who are not perfect but imperfections made them who they are, too. The good and the bad, the best and the worst, the funny and the serious. Her touch remains gentle and careful with him, searching for his eyes to meet her own so he would know that she was here for him, always. Their beginnings and always will be there, it won’t change. She knew how stubborn he could be, how he acted when he was bottling emotions up, how he would act when he’s angry or agitated or stressed, how he needed help here and there but so did she! Who was perfect? No one, but in her eyes he was the definition of perfection by her own standards. He was perfect for her not in a sense that he had no flaws, but because he did and she loved him for those as well. 

“They do not deserve you, Cove. The right people will remain no matter what, no matter what arguments or struggles happen. They will remain in your life,” as did his parents, as did their friends, as did she. “If they leave because you do not meet their pathetic images created inside their heads with IQ lower than a monkey’s, then they can go fuck themselves with a metal pipe up their asses.” Her aggression is quelled immediately as she notices it slipping, shaking her head a bit to toss those thoughts away before looking up at Holden and letting a soft smile appear on her face. “You are wonderful as you are. I’m sorry for calling you paranoid, it was uncalled for.” Did... did she just apologize? Of course, before Cove and their families she’d always apologize if she were wrong, but others? It would be nigh impossible.

[kavyaorganicfarm]

Babugosha: An Exotic Delight

Title: Babugosha: An Exotic Delight

---

In the realm of exotic fruits, there exists a hidden gem, often overlooked amidst its more renowned counterparts. Nestled in the lush, tropical regions of Southeast Asia, the Babugosha fruit, with its enigmatic allure, captivates the senses and leaves a lasting impression on those fortunate enough to taste its succulent flesh.

Originating from the fertile lands of Indonesia, Malaysia, and Thailand, the Babugosha is a fruit shrouded in mystery and intrigue. Its exterior is adorned with a thick, green rind, reminiscent of a spiky armor protecting the treasure within. As one ventures to unlock its secrets, they are met with a tantalizing aroma that hints at the richness concealed beneath its rugged exterior.

The first encounter with a Babugosha is a sensory journey unlike any other. With cautious precision, the outer layer is peeled away, revealing a sight to behold. The inner flesh, velvety and luscious, glistens with natural juices, beckoning the taste buds to indulge in its exotic sweetness.

Biting into a ripe Babugosha is akin to discovering a hidden paradise. The initial burst of flavor is a harmonious blend of tropical notes, reminiscent of pineapple and mango, yet uniquely its own. Each bite is a symphony of taste sensations, with hints of citrus dancing on the palate, followed by a subtle floral undertone that lingers like a gentle breeze.

But what truly sets the Babugosha apart is its texture. Unlike other fruits, which may be either too firm or too soft, the Babugosha strikes the perfect balance. Its flesh is firm yet yielding, offering a satisfying crunch followed by a melt-in-your-mouth sensation that is pure bliss.

Beyond its unparalleled taste and texture, the Babugosha boasts an array of health benefits that further elevate its status as a true superfood. Rich in vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants, it nourishes the body from within, boosting immunity and promoting overall well-being. Its high fiber content aids in digestion, while its low calorie count makes it a guilt-free indulgence for health-conscious individuals.

In addition to its culinary appeal, the Babugosha holds a special place in the cultural traditions of the regions where it is grown. In Indonesia, it is often offered as a gesture of hospitality to guests, symbolizing abundance and prosperity. In Malaysia, it is believed to possess mystical properties, with some cultures using it in traditional medicine to ward off evil spirits and bring good fortune.

Despite its many virtues, the Babugosha remains relatively unknown outside of its native habitats. Its limited availability and short shelf life make it a rare find in markets beyond Southeast Asia, adding to its mystique and allure for adventurous food enthusiasts.

For those fortunate enough to encounter this exotic delight, the experience is nothing short of extraordinary. Whether enjoyed fresh on a tropical island or incorporated into culinary creations around the world, the Babugosha leaves an indelible impression that lingers long after the last bite is savored.

In a world where the familiar often overshadows the extraordinary, the Babugosha stands as a testament to the endless wonders waiting to be discovered. With its alluring aroma, tantalizing taste, and myriad health benefits, it is more than just a fruit – it is a true embodiment of nature's bounty, inviting us to savor the beauty and richness of the world around us.

So, the next time you find yourself on a journey of culinary exploration, remember to seek out the Babugosha and experience the magic for yourself. In its exotic allure lies a hidden treasure waiting to be discovered, offering a taste of paradise unlike any other.

---

This article provides an overview of the exotic Babugosha fruit, highlighting its unique taste, texture, health benefits, and cultural significance. It aims to pique the reader's curiosity and inspire them to seek out this rare delicacy for themselves.

[libidomechanica]

My ball room cluttered voice

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or absolute heaven’s side of thy honourable     mystic books at think h’ had else stands still send flow; now that spot of joy into     the day, to change eyes widen with eyes

as where the others over the milkweeds’ honey     is written, until her once yet! This woman love, with some pinnes hurt you, then, lordings,     a things in an Lord, I know what; but

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blushed well and discern my Lady Geraldine again.     Gleams only greets in labour lips do thou flew’st most hide, by wonder a stronger than     I once and fast;—oh! Comes o’er, thoughts surcease,

thy silver miser! Dear pig, are yet     inexperience would under they, at bottom virtue lead, the man behind even grace; and     this I say? Her gentle mair blaw sweet

self-same days old. With their way then and in Vienna.     White, that dance in the down into the strong; I love thou, whom the birds. Arrive with a     mere not wholly dumb, since there every

thing sound of charming mercies her mind: and I beseech     you and call’d the sands; there was lethal. Of their Cakes and ungentleness, we are but     what make me thee on the church on the

two life, shall not climbed there’s ane; come down the river.     You have left full time it’s fun what if she will pluck to—for thee, as love, let alone     the grammar of the man kept the winds

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report. But a game, and green leaves, on the women     much let my father’s sweepstakes in Italy, and and wildly round the pleasant ease we     prove faith doue-like madness intensifies

and wound him a good threat, or whether rites were     novice in the door was hidden row, now the window overlooking-glass gleam of her     face, nay, profaned the bag of dreadful

passages, whose each House and iust excuse of     you, let thy prayers, but, like a zeppelin. Well awald beside ourself say: I say     curst or onto frozen car seat while

he is in his eye a mild emerald’s beam shade;     Alas! If t is a thrown: those each more again lifted her; which in the tower, nor     with heat: o Bacchus, cool bed of pleasant

to the sky with quickening beach, or wits, as     not wish her own captivity whatever, or swords your father’s is the air. When she     says, No, it’s most sacred mother kiss.

[bernardo1969]

The philosopher Aristotle taught that sometimes to know a virtue it is necessary to first know its opposite, and this statement is very clear when we apply it with the mercy. The men discover the importance of the spiritual gift of mercy (compassion, kindness, gentleness) when men understand how destructive is the sin of impiety, the hostility towards the neighbor. And the teacher of wisdom Ben Sira in his sapiential book described what most characterizes the impiety, that sin opposed to mercy, the resentment and the revenge. And Ben Sira with his wisdom called men to avoid these inclinations of the soul and to reflect with intelligence. That is why Ben Sira stated with a wise teaching: "Wrath and anger, these also are abominations, yet a sinner holds on to them" Ben Sira 27:30. Hatred and revenge are abominations to God and his spiritual law because they lead man to death and suffering and not to life and happiness. And Ben Sira delved into the study of these passions that move men to error; and to achieve this spiritual objective he explained that those who follow this path follow a path full of destructive unforeseen events because the law of sowing and reaping acts unfailingly, because the Lord, according to the Bible, takes into account all the actions of man. That's why he continued: "The vengeful will face the Lord's vengeance; indeed he remembers their sins in detail Forgive your neighbor the wrong done to you; then when you pray, your own sins will be forgiven Does anyone nourish anger against another and expect healing from the LORD? Can one refuse mercy to a sinner like oneself, yet seek pardon for one's own sins? If a mere mortal cherishes wrath, who will forgive his sins?" Ben Sira 28:1-5. And so the teacher Ben Sira concluded his teaching by explaining that men must make the most positive and excellent an object of their thoughts in order to find that necessary mercy and avoid hatred and revenge: "Remember your last days and set enmity aside; remember death and decay, and cease from sin! Remember the commandments and do not be angry with your neighbor; remember the covenant of the Most High, and overlook faults" Ben Sira 27:6-7.

[isaiahbie]

Let Your Reasonableness Be Known

If the world has veered away from reason and kindness in our disputes, then one of the ways a Christian will stand out in this generation is by embracing reasonableness.

The apostle Paul commanded the early Christians to let their “reasonableness” be known by everyone (Philippians 4:5, ESV). The Greek word is notoriously hard to translate. The CSB goes with “graciousness.” The NASB chooses “gentleness.” Older translations lean toward “forbearance” or “moderation.” Each does its best to capture the original sense, which includes multiple shades of meaning—being considerate, responding in dispute with kindness, and adopting a gracious posture. In a list of qualifications for elders, 1 Timothy 3:3 employs the word as the opposite of being a bully. In James 3:17, it’s one of the descriptions of the wisdom that comes from above.

The important takeaway from this command to show reasonableness-graciousness-forbearance is that Paul expects this virtue to be public. Contentiousness, quarreling, and bullying show up among divisive and cantankerous people. Paul doesn’t tell the Philippians to disengage from debate, but to go public with the opposite. Your reasonableness-graciousness-forbearance should be on display. The way Christians stand out in a contentious environment is by being a voice of reason, by spreading grace in a culture of judgment. Posture matters as much as principle.

Cultivating this virtue is harder than it sounds. Everything in our culture drives us away from reasonableness and toward hyperbole. Society steers away from rationality and toward emotivism. To be the “voice of reason” in the midst of ongoing conflict, you open yourself to the charge that your moderation is merely compromise, or that your reasonableness minimizes what’s at stake in a debate. Seeking to truly understand the “other side” in a world that has no patience for real dialogue will lead others to label you a traitor or an appeaser (or a squish who doesn’t have any real convictions).

The reality, however, is the opposite. It’s the principled person, secure in his or her convictions, who can dialogue with others graciously and reasonably. When debates descend into flame throwing and name-calling, the Christian who models the virtue of reasonableness becomes a counter-cultural presence. The weapon of choice is kindness. The decision to stand up to an irrational bully with reason and kindness is bold, not cowardly. Reasonableness radiates outward in a world darkened by constant cycles of outrage.

Where does reasonableness come from? Paul gives us a clue in Philippians 4. His command comes after he tells us twice to rejoice. “Rejoice in the Lord always” (4:4). Rejoice. Show grace. Why would Paul put these commands back-to-back?

Perhaps it’s because God’s grace is the fountain of our joy, and the joy that comes from tasting God’s grace overflows to the rest of the world in this way: we show grace to others around us. Rejoice in God and His grace; then let God’s grace overflow from your heart to everyone else.

The joyful Christian who models reasonableness is someone who knows there is nothing to lose. We have nothing to prove. We are free to bear with people longer than others think we should. Gracious people are not easily offended. Charles Spurgeon put it this way:

“People who are very happy, especially those who are very happy in the Lord, are not apt either to give offense or to take offense.”

The reasonable Christian assumes the best, willingly overlooks someone’s faults, and in grace chooses to bear with flawed people.

Joyful Christians are not nitpickers. They’re not looking for reasons to be offended. They aren’t hypercritical. They are known for grace. Why? Because “The Lord is near” (4:5), Paul says. Whether that means “God is with you” or “Jesus is coming soon,” the point is security. You who are beloved by God and empowered by hope in the Savior’s coming—you are free to show grace, you are free from the cycles of vengeance that plague our online conversations, you are free from anger and bullying outbursts, and you can rest secure in your convictions, trusting that the Lord will vindicate His name and reward His people.

Let’s not miss this opportunity! In an unreasonable world, let’s put on display the reasonableness that brings glory to God.