#again. but it’s a self fulfilling prophecy. if i say i can’t do it then iwont. it’s not enougu to just be aware of it i have to act on it

[rainecreatesstuff]

something I really really love is the difference between qFit’s and qPac’s reactions to qTubbo’s fears about morning crew.

Like, Fit still cares about Tubbo a lot, still considers him and Sunny family, still loves them, but is so so frustrated by Tubbo acting the way he is. Which makes sense for him. I think that Fit has experienced loneliness enough to recognize it in others, but has experienced the typical loneliness of being physically alone. For him, loneliness is having nobody to watch your back, and seeing others have connections and attachments and aching for that. So for him, when Tubbo starts acting out after he and Pac don’t hang out with him for one day, of course he sees it as Tubbo being childish and frustrating.

And then later, we hear him talking to Ramón about how a friendship needs to go both ways. If Tubbo wants to be friends, he needs to reach out too. He can’t leave all the work for Fit. He sees Tubbo’s loneliness, and asks why he’s not coming to them.

Versus Pac, who I think is much more familiar with the kind of loneliness Tubbo is going through. Pac has had those experiences of being surrounded by people and feeling like you’re in a glass cage, watching everyone else interact while you’re just stuck. He sees Tubbo lashing out and sees it for what it is — an attempt to lessen the hurt of them growing apart by pushing it himself. While Fit strikes back at Tubbo, downs him, Pac just watches thoughtfully. Talks to Fit and Bagi about how they can make Tubbo happy again.

I think Pac understands a little bit better why it’s so hard for Tubbo to be the one to reach out. Gets that, when you feel like someone doesn’t care, it’s a lot easier to leave them be than to try to force that relationship to continue. It’s a lot easier to just wait in silence, to be less of a burden or annoyance, and if they really want to be friends, they’ll come to you.

And Fit’s not, like, bad for not getting it like Pac does. I think, to some degree, Tubbo needs to have somebody who’s not gonna let him stew in self-pity and try to rescue him every time. He needs somebody who’s gonna force him a little bit out of that comfort zone, that’s gonna make him realize that he’s constructing a self-fulfilling prophecy by hiding himself away.

And he also needs someone who’s gonna knock on his door at 10AM and wrap an arm around him and say Hey! We’re going to do this thing! And you’re coming too! I am specifically inviting YOU because I want to spend time with you! He needs someone who’s gonna see his rejection sensitivity for what it is and tell him he is loved and appreciated.

he needs both these things in moderation, and Fit and Pac are gonna be there to give him that. Maybe not perfectly, right now, because the emotional tide’s still high and they are trying to navigate the shift in dynamic.

But eventually, they’ll get there.

[gayeddie-saved-me]

it’s a selfish thought and arthur knows it because merlin has spent so much time hiding a vital part of his existence, his very being, all because of arthur. so he presses it down into the deepest recesses of himself and focuses on doing everything he can to support merlin, to give merlin the world he deserves. a world where he is free.

but sometimes, when he’s alone in his room surrounded by his endless responsibilities, he will think to himself, i am nothing.

merlin and the old religion hold him as this once and future king, but no matter what they say, he can’t understand why they think any of this is about him. it was never him. everything he’d done, every accomplishment and fight he’d won had never been his to claim. he was a fraud. he was a lonely king with nothing to his name beyond the blood on his hands, the blood staining his every crevice.

he isn’t the once and future king. he doesn’t deserve any of the praise. he is the moon, a piece of rock in the sky that shines only because of the sun. without the sun, the moon is worthless. without the sun, no one would have ever looked at the moon twice.

arthur had never been proud of his mistakes and his inaction when it came to his father’s slaughter, but he had been proud of the things he had done to keep his kingdom and his people safe and healthy and happy. he has fought and fought and fought only to discover he had never even landed a punch. every knockout, every victory he had held up to hide the ugly nothingness of his true, empty self was never his to hold. with the discovery of merlin’s magic, any worthiness he thought he’d earned had slipped through his fingers like sand through a sieve.

merlin is beautiful and powerful. merlin is a god amongst men, a gift given to this world, given to arthur, and for what?

this prophecy for arthur was always about merlin. he carried the weight, he fought and fought and fought and he won, merlin was the one who had carried this kingdom on his back until they reached the safety of the golden era of the current day.

it’s a selfish thought, to be thinking of himself in relation to merlin’s magic when merlin has suffered every single day because of arthur. and yet, in those moments, he can’t help but wonder why he was born at all, why he was named savior of a group of people who would’ve never died if only he had stayed unmade, a whisper of nothingness in his mother’s womb.

his first breath caused a massacre, a genocide, and yet he was given an angel and a title and a prophecy of greatness he could never actually fulfill.

he would never tell merlin about these thoughts he had. merlin would end up feeling guilty somehow, would carry the weight of arthur’s worthlessness even more by taking on the deserved revulsion arthur had for himself.

no, he couldn’t tell merlin about this. merlin would tell him he was wrong, would try to talk him up and fix it. would use that endless kindness to tell arthur endless stories about his own importance. merlin would shine his sunshine on arthur until arthur forgot he was just a lump of rock. he wouldn’t rest until arthur loved himself, until arthur took all the credit for merlin’s own accomplishments again.

no, he would keep this to himself. he would give merlin the attention and love he deserves. this story isn’t actually about arthur pendragon. it never was.

[misskattylashes]

Alex post 2018 – some ruminations

I have been doing some thinking about the change in Alex from pre TBHC to post TBHC and I have come up with the following ruminations;

Yesterday (1 October) two things happened. The audiobook of The Unfinished Harauld Hughes by Richard Ayoade was released, and Louise posted a very awkward photo of herself and Alex, with some weird reference to an anniversary that makes no sense (but I’m not going to speculate about that). Alex provided the music for the audiobook of Harauld Hughes, and yet I don’t know one person who has listened to it, instead what are we all talking about? (me included) The photo of him and Louise.

I was there from the beginning when little Alex was being hailed as this wonderkid, a little Yorkshire tyke who wrote like Alan Bennet or Jarvis Cocker. The word ‘genius’ was banded about often. Even in the subsequent years, with all the high profile ‘romances’, the speculation about Milex, and all his image changes, people still spoke about what a great musical talent he was, but it all seemed to stop at AM5.

I’m not going to talk about TLSP because that is an equal endeavour with Miles, this is focusing purely on AM.

It was as though Tranquillity Base Hotel and Casino was like Alex finally dropping all the pretence and revealing to the world exactly what kind of genius he was….and no one liked it. From then on something in him changed. We get dramas in the press about him being a love cheat, whereas up until then he had been portrayed as a romantic who went from monogamous relationship to monogamous relationship. Suddenly he becomes this lothario, breaking hearts and causing lots of fans to become more invested in his love life than his musical output.

By the time of The Car, he had practically given up. We get a handful of studio interviews and some written pieces, and that was it. Until it has got to the point that nowadays Matt is the group’s mouthpiece. Alex can’t be bothered at all. He seems more interested in taking part in awkward pap walks and photoshoots with Louise, than he does promoting his own music. How lovely it would have been when AM was voted one of the greatest albums of all time, to hear him reflecting on it. He didn’t have to give away his secrets about subject matter, but he could have spoken about the recording process and what was happening with the other boys at the time. But nada. Matt had to do it.

It is like Alex has become his own self-fulfilling prophecy. The fans didn’t like TBHC (‘puncturing your bubble of relatability with your horrible new sound’) and it wounded him deeply, so he’s giving them little in return except things to gossip about. Let’s face facts, lots of stars have messy love-lives, but they also have high court injunctions in place that stop anyone talking about it. Even Taylor, if she’d had the threat of the law coming down on her, wouldn’t be able talk about Alex. But she’s allowed to and fuels the flames of interest in his love-life rather than his talent. Then of course we have Louise and her strange behaviour, and their weird relationship, which once again fuels speculation. Again, she could be instructed not to interact with fans, but she is allowed to come after them, creating controversy, which Alex becomes involved in without saying a word, but he gets tainted with her brush.

I always thought his troubled 2018 was down to problems with his relationship with Miles, but after a little digging around and finding stuff out, him and Miles were perfectly okay by 2018. I think their troubles were in 2017 after the intensity of EYCTE, but those two can’t stay apart for long, and that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that TBHC was the first album where Alex finally bared his soul, his ‘this is me’ moment and when people rejected it, he was hurt. Let’s not forget that Alex doesn’t know anything but being famous. AM is his world, and it’s like he loses perspective. Yes, people don’t like the new material and the direction the band is going in, and yes, probably half of the people who went to see them on tour went to scream at him, but none of that matters. Time is going to move and so are the AM fanbase. I am sure both TBHC and The Car got them new, different fans who aren’t interested in heartthrob Alex and his messed up life, but instead the beautiful music he makes and his genius with words, which is still the same as it was when he was 19.

I have a sneaky feeling AM8 will be AM5 mark ii, purely to please the fans, which is a shame because AM5 suited the time and space it was in, but not now. He should be able to make the sort of music he wants to, either solo, with Miles or AM.

Anyway, they are just the ruminations from my flu-riddled brain. In a nutshell, after TBHC Alex lost sight of himself and to quote his own lyrics, I would quite like to grab both shoulders and shake him and tell him to snap out of it.

[diyasgarden]

it’s definitely head-cannon that Patrick is a certified lover boy

-he defs cuts his hoes off once he knows he’s emotionally invested in someone

People assume that he’s a fuck boy because of his high body count & the activities he’s done when single but relationship Patrick? He’s ALL IN & it lowkey hurts his feelings that people can’t think of him as a serious boyfriend or being committed to someone that he truly loves & cares for

AGREE AGREE AGREE!!! I have some thoughts on this too

I think if you’re friends with Patrick when he realizes he likes you, he gets a bit distant from you at first. His feelings are a bit overwhelming and he needs time to process what he is feeling, but he can’t do that when you’re around. When he finally feels comfortable being around you, he doesn’t want you to realize how he feels. He’s afraid that these feelings could change the whole dynamic. What if you didn’t like him back? He starts to tease and annoy you more than usual to make everything seem normal. Naturally, you find this weird itself.

If you were friends with benefits or just casually seeing each other, he also gets distant. He ends up ghosting you, and tries to get with some other people. Of course it’s not the same. He thought having sex with other people would help him get his mind off you, but It takes longer for him to get off. When he finally does he ends up saying your name and the other person slaps him for that. This happens multiple times. You’d also notice his distance in this situation.

In both situations, you’re the one who has to confront him about his odd behavior. Mostly because it’s confusing and you know something is up. And either way, his behavior kinda hurts your feelings.

He doesn’t even admit it when you do. He panics and acts like you’re overreacting, which just upsets and annoys you even more. After that, now you’re the one who starts avoiding him. This really freaks him out. He feels guilty but also scared he’s lost you completely, but he isn’t surprised. Everyone leaves him eventually. What else could have been expected from you?

If you’re not able to talk about your feelings, Patrick becomes the one who got away. (He feels the same way about, although he wouldn’t admit it)

If you are able to do so, you do end up contacting Patrick again. You guys get into an argument again. He still claims you’re the one being weird, but you maintain your position. Eventually the tension turns sexual and you end up making out with each other. One thing leads to another and you’re both in bed. He finally tells you how you feel about you when you’re laying down next to him. At first you think he may be saying it because of the sex, but you quickly realize he is being honest when you see his expression.

You both agree to try dating properly. He cuts off everyone else he was seeing without a second thought. He isn’t the best boyfriend at first, not really sure how to behave with you. If you were friends before this, he is still worried about what could happen if your relationship doesn’t work out. He’d lose you as a friend then too. If you were friends with benefits or casually dating, he is worried that you preferred just sex with him and may want to go back to something like that. In either case, he thinks losing you as a partner is very possible, and it stresses him out. It can make him somewhat clingy, which is annoying but eventually you’re able to set some boundaries (or you just get used to it). He’s also a bit self destructive, and sometimes it’s clear that his thoughts about your relationship falling apart is more of a self fulfilling prophecy than anything. He may find reasons to pick a fight with you, even when nothing is wrong. It’s up to you to deal with this.

Your friends make fun of your relationship every once in a while. It’s a joke, because they know Patrick’s past, but this just upsets him too. He isn’t one to care about what other people think about him, but this feels different. It’s not about just how they see him, it’s about how they see your relationship. He starts to wonder if everyone is just assuming is waiting for you both to break up. He rants about this to you, and again you’re left to deal with it.

You have to do a lot to show you actually love him. That your relationship isn’t just about sex (which is what he thinks he is best for). You do this by actually telling him how you feel, but also through your actions. Like showing up for his games and practice. He is also a big physical touch person, so you’re always touching or holding him in some capacity to show how much you love him and appreciate his presence. He is also constantly holding on to you in public. Holding your hand, hugging you. Squeezing your ass every once in a while. Sometimes you catch him twirling your hair around his finger. (You love it)

[infiniteeight8]

I’m thinking about the “can’t find out” miniseries again- may I request another?

I have one more “Can’t Find Out” prompt in my queue after this, and there are 3-4 more parts left in the mini-series, depending on how they break down. Do with this knowledge what you will. 😀

Edit: I keep forgetting to link previous stories. Most of the series is here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3953044 The last instalment before this one is here: https://www.tumblr.com/infiniteeight8/762927748146774016/so-i-just-reread-cant-find-out-and-i-cant-wait?source=share

-

Asking Tony to leave after his heat is very nearly the most difficult thing Stephen has ever done. Especially when he is so transparently willing to stay, to hold Stephen the way he wants, to be there for him. But he has to, he has to send the alpha away before the part of him that whispers, How strong can his bond to Pepper really be? gains strength. Stephen’s an asshole, but he won’t be that kind of asshole.

After Tony is gone, Stephen goes down to the Sanctum kitchen for food. He’s starving. Tony had gotten some sustenance into him during his heat, which was a vast improvement over his heat alone, but it still wasn’t enough. Of course, Wong is waiting for him. He gives Stephen a critical once over. “You look better.” 

Better than last time, he means. “Tony helped.” Stephen pulls some leftovers out of the fridge and focuses on heating them up. They’re Wong’s leftovers, of course, but he won’t object, not when Stephen is straight out of a heat. He might even have saved them for that very reason.

Wong doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ Not about this. “He left abruptly,” he observes instead.

“I needed to remind myself of reality,” Stephen says shortly.

“Don’t turn this into a self-fulfilling prophecy.” 

Stephen frowns and turns to look at Wong. “What do you mean?”

“You’re afraid that sharing your heat will change things between you,” Wong clarifies. “If you focus so hard on reality that you shut him out, you will be making that happen.”

Wong has a point. Stephen sighs. “I’ll try.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to try very hard: Tony meets him more than halfway. His visits go from occasional to regular. He texts Stephen so much that he ends up writing a whole new speech recognition system just to make it easier for Stephen to text him back. And he keeps bringing food. Stephen isn’t sure if Tony’s forgotten about the implications or if he just doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t tell Tony to stop.

On three occasions, lunch with Tony is actually lunch with Tony and Pepper, which ought to be horribly awkward. Stephen agrees both because it’s polite to get to know his friend’s mate and because the awkwardness will be an excellent reminder of his place. 

Except it isn’t awkward. Stephen ought to be the third wheel, the outsider, the omega co-opting Pepper’s mate. Instead, he and Tony fall in their banter as easily as ever and Pepper sits back and watches them with a small, amused smile, like she’s only there for the show. Like she’s the spectator, not Stephen. Stephen doesn’t kid himself that she isn’t aware of the dynamic; Pepper is too socially savvy for that. But she doesn’t seem to mind. No, instead she seems quietly pleased.

Stephen can’t help but think that he’s missing something.

[kinnporsche]

what is this? another kinn & porsche rec list by tumblr user kinnporsche? it’s more likely than you think! it seems that i literally can’t stop—it’s been an entire year since the finale and i’m still stuck in my self-imposed 24/7 kinnporsche lockdown. so, here’s a bunch more fics that are currently making life worth living for me. once again, this list is ordered according to length (from longest to shortest), and each fic is by a different author (to spread the love)! all fics that are not yet complete have been marked with (wip). lastly, make sure to read the tags, and show the authors some love, because they’re doing the lord’s work! god fucking bless. [part 6/?]

— self-fulfilling prophecy by lazulialekto – explicit / 119.4k words

Porsche stepped forward, dragging his eyes from Kinn’s chest, immediately concerned, “will things go sideways?”

Kinn grimaced, grabbing his glass of whiskey and taking a large swig of the amber liquid. “They often do, especially lately.” His glass clinked as he set it back down, then his hand was running down his face, stressed.

Porsche moved closer, sitting beside him, ignoring protocol completely. “If it’s that dangerous for you to go, can’t you just… not, or change the venue, or something?”

“And let them know I’m worried?” Kinn laughed bitterly as he let his hand drop down to his thigh, the Theerapanyakul family ring glinting in the light of the lamp in the corner. “I can’t do that. In this business a great deal rides on appearances. If I look weak to them, I won’t be the only target.”

— the situationship by verses – explicit / 105k words (wip)

“What about kissing?” Porsche asked, and his heart did a weird thing where it twisted all the way around his lungs and then plunged to his stomach.

Kinn raised a brow at that. “What about kissing? I feel like as the resident straight boy here, you should take the lead on this conversation.”

Porsche swallowed. “Well, do you kiss your boyfriends? In front of your friends and family?”

Kinn shrugged, and for once, the movement didn’t seem entirely effortless. “Sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” Porsche said, licking his suddenly dry lips. With tingly fingers, he added to the contract: ‘Non-sexual kissing allowed to fool participant K’s brother.’

(Or: Kinn, under pressure from the patriarch of the Theerapanyakul family, entices Porsche to enter a fake, contractual relationship with him. In return, Porsche gets money, a sexuality crisis, and a headache.)

— be the best you ever tasted by martynax – explicit / 90.9k words

“What’s your name, darling?” he questions.

“Jom,” Porsche replies after a moment, it makes a snort pass through Kinn’s lips.

“You don’t look like a Jom. Forgive me for repeating myself but you’re a shit liar,” he says once more. He still looks amused, like Porsche is telling jokes. Porsche presses his lips together stubbornly, which makes a small smirk appear on Kinn’s lips; he looks delighted for some reason. “Tell you what, darling, you tell me your name and I will end the session now. How about it?”

(Or: AU where Porsche’s life is shit so he shakes his perky little butt for strangers at a strip club and Kinn books him for a private show.)

— tiger bite by verbana – explicit / 54.7k words

Kinn leaned in, raking him over with his eyes. It felt like hovering over turbulent waters, daring a wave to come and sweep him down. “What are you gonna do to make me remember?”

Porsche reached up and slid a hand through the gap in Kinn’s shirt. Two fingers traced under his left collarbone. “I’ll tattoo my name here. Then all your hookups will have to stop and ask, who’s this?”

“And what should I tell them?” Their faces were too close. Porsche’s fingertips felt like they were plugged directly into his nervous system, lighting up every cell in his body. Red warning lights started flashing in the back of Kinn’s brain but he didn’t care, couldn’t care.

— twelve, twenty, almost thirty by just2wings – explicit / 34.2k words

Kinn is twelve when he falls for the boy with the bubbly laugh and fiery brown eyes, the only one who’s ever been able to pin him to the ground during taekwondo practice.

Kinn is twenty when he runs into him in the school gym, and then again in some shady alley. He falls in love all over again on a golden-lit pier, and then remembers all the reasons he shouldn’t.

Kinn is pushing thirty when he falls into a familiar, handsome bartender’s orbit again, and finally learns to ask for what he wants.

— insatiable by thewayside – explicit / 22k words (wip)

He squints to get a closer look at it and the faintest aroma hits his nose; soft and delicate like cherry blossom petals and cloying like simple syrup they keep in the bar.

(Or: Porsche steals a watch and gets kidnapped by a stinky alpha who maybe isn’t an alpha at all. What should be a one-time thing becomes bigger than either of them realizes.)

— the shape of you fitting me by nuwildcat – explicit / 18.5k words

They say that a person’s scent is a mark of compatibility. The better someone else smells to you, the stronger a bond between you will be. Porsche has smelled a lot of people working as a bartender, and many more intimately in his free time. But he’s never smelt something like this before. The scent of this omega calls to him, tempting and consuming. It’s the kind of scent that makes him inclined to think the aunties were right about destined mates.

And then he meets the omega tied to that scent, and everything just fits.

— he wants more than a tip, i’m not talking about guidance by haeseolar – explicit / 18.1k words

“Everyone, get out.”

The temperature in the room suddenly drops, everything turning still at the sound of Kinn’s voice ringing out, stopping everyone dead in their tracks and slicing right through to them. It’s so silent that you could hear a pin drop, nobody daring to make a move just yet.

“Didn’t you all hear me? Out!” Kinn shouts, nostrils flaring and voice devoid of any of the previous calm he had.

Everyone goes into motion then, even Chan who takes the hint and goes to join the crowd in leaving the gym. Porsche straightens himself up, still clutching over the left side of his chest as he joins the rest in filing out through the doors.

“Not you, Porsche. You stay here.”

— off to the races by mirrorofprinces – explicit / 17k words (wip)

“So, what is it that you do?” Porsche asks. “Have you always been attending the swanky events I bartend at, and I just never noticed?”

Kinn chuckles, the deep timbre of it going straight down Porsche’s spine. “Trust me, if I had ever seen you before, I would have introduced myself earlier.”

— like a serpent coiling around your throat by darkknight – explicit / 9.8k words

“Will I have to beat you into submission?” Porsche said, his voice raspy as he pinned Kinn under him.

Kinn spat at him, specks of blood coating Porsche’s face. “You can try,” he said, turning on his side to take Porsche with him as he kicked out his leg, hitting Porsche in the thigh.

The other man groaned, but quickly punched Kinn in the throat, making the breath leave him as he stood up and pressed a foot down in the middle of Kinn’s chest. The hard leather of Porsche’s shoes digging uncomfortably against his bare skin.

“Khun Kinn, always needing to be in control, but wouldn’t it be such a relief if you. Just. Let. Go?” he said, stressing the last three words by pressing his foot down harder against Kinn’s chest, making his breath come out in a harsh wheeze.

“Fuck. You."

(Or: AU where Porsche is a Yakuza boss and Kinn hates his guts.)

— consider the hairpin turn by concernedlily – explicit / 9k words

“I’m starting to think you like being punished,” Kinn says, sitting primly on his pristine couch, legs crossed.

— i always know by reason_to_write – mature / 8.3k words

His words stuck in his throat. He barely forced it out.

“Kinn…”

Immediately, even with the terrible reception quality, he could sense the shift in atmosphere on the other end of the line. In his mind’s eye, he saw the fearsome mafia leader stop mid-stride and heard the sharp intake of breath. When the voice spoke again, it couldn’t have been gentler.

“Tell me where you are.”

(Or: Porsche gets kidnapped, but Kinn is coming.)

— on the nature of trust by fortunehasgivenup – explicit / 6.1k words

They don’t stop clutching at each other right away.

Even if Porsche had tried, Kinn doesn’t think that he would allow it. He needs to be pressed up against as much of Porsche as he can.

If Porsche is holding on, he stills loves Kinn.

(Or: The aftermath of the iconic bathroom scene—set between episodes 7 and 8.)

— i’ll never surrender (my control over you) by luckydragon – explicit / 5.9k words

Bottoming doesn’t come naturally to Kinn, but he knows how to get what he needs.

— second skin by vesna (mrsronweasley) – explicit / 3k words

By the time they make it back to the house, accompanied by Pete and Arm, Porsche should be exhausted. All the alcohol burned off in his system from the adrenaline of Kinn blowing into the bathroom with a gun and backup, leaving him with a crystalline sort of clarity. That, more than anything, makes him feel wide awake.

[diangelosarmy]

So I think it’s be interesting to see Will and Nico react to them both being kind of right and kind of wrong regarding Nicos place in camp.

Will has had a crush on Nico for years (at least in my head) and felt disappointed each time Nico disappeared before Will could get a chance to get close to him. Will is a year rounder that seems to be well liked or at least respected as a healer by everyone at camp. His whole world for the most part is camp half blood. He can’t imagine anyone at camp shunning Nico simply for being the son of Hades. Nico saying he won’t be accepted seems ridiculous to Will.

Nico has always felt out of place and alone. He’s been excluded, mistrusted, and abandoned so much that it’s become natural to assume rejection. It’s a defense mechanism at this point, he assumes the worst so he won’t be hurt when it happens again. Will acting like it’s all in Nico’s head seems naive to Nico.

Once Nico is settled in at camp, they’re both shocked to realize they’re both a little wrong.

Some people do mistrust Nico as the son of Hades. For the first time Will notices the wary glances and quiet whispers around Nico. He notices campers get up and hurry away when Nico sits near them. He notices some refuse to be near him as if he’s some sort of biohazard. He’s shocked to find maybe camp isn’t as welcoming as he thought.

Nico is shocked to find that, yes, some campers are afraid of him and still treat him coldly, but many don’t. Most don’t. He bonds with Lou Ellen & Cecil along with Will. He plays chess and discusses books with some Athena kids. He listens to techno pop with some of the Aphrodite and Iris kids. Clovis is a surprisingly good conversationalist when he’s awake. The Apollo cabin adopts him wholesale. Despite some continuing sideways glances, Nico has friends. A support system. People who seem happy to see him. He’s shocked to learn that maybe his assumption of abandonment was a self fulfilling prophecy.

Neither will admit this to the other, but they both kinda know.

[physalian]

On Writing Theme (Or, Make it a Question)

An element of story so superficially understood and yet is the backbone of what your work is trying to say. Theme is my favorite element to design and implement and the easiest way to do that? Make it a question.

A solid theme takes an okay action movie and propels it into blockbuster infamy, like Curse of the Black Pearl. It turns yet another Batman adaptation into an endlessly rewatchable masterpiece, seeing the same characters reinvented yet again and still seeing something new, in The Dark Knight. It’s the spiraling drain at the bottom of classic tragedies, pulling its characters inevitably down to their dooms, like in The Great Gatsby.

Theme is more than just “dark and light” or “good and evil”. Those are elements that your story explores, but your theme is what your story *says* with those elements. 

For example: Star Wars takes “dark vs light” incredibly literally (ignoring the Sequels). Dark vs Light is what the movies pit against each other. How the selfish, corrupted, short-sighted nature of the Dark Side inevitably leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom—that’s what the story is about.

A story can have more than one theme, more than one statement it wants to make and more than one question to answer. Star Wars is also about the inevitable triumph of unity and ‘goodness’ over division and ‘evil’.

Part of why I love fantasy is how allegorical it can be. Yes I’m writing a story with vampires, but my questions to my characters are, “What makes a monster? Why is it a monster?” My characters’ arcs are the answer to my theme question.

Black Pearl is a movie that dabbles in the dichotomy between law-abiding soldiers and citizens, and the lawless pirates who elude them. Black Pearl’s theme is that one can be a pirate and also a good man, and that neither side is perfect or mutually exclusive, and that strictly adhering to either extreme will lead you to tragedy.

Implementing your theme means, in my opinion, staging your theme like a question and answering it with as many characters and plot beats as possible. In practice?

Q: Can a pirate be a good man? A: Jack is. Will is. Elizabeth is. Barbossa is selfish and short-sighted, and he loses. Norrington is too focused on propriety and selfless duty, and he loses.

Or, in Gatsby.

Q: Is life fulfilled by living in the past? A: Mr. Buchanan clings to his old-money ways and is a sour lout with no respect for anyone or himself. Daisy clings to a marriage that failed long ago, to retain an image and security she thinks she needs. Myrtle chases a man she can’t ever have. Her husband lusts after a wife who’s no longer his. Gatsby… well we all know what happens to him.

The more characters and plot beats you have to answer your theme’s question, the more cohesive a message you’ll send. It can be a statment the story backs up as well, as seen below, questions just naturally invite answers.

—

Do you need a theme?

Not technically, no. Plenty of stories get by on their other solid elements and leave the audience to draw their own conclusions and take their own meaning and messages. Your average romance novel probably isn’t written with a moral. Neither are your 80s/90s action thrillers. Neither are many horror movies. Theme is usually reserved for dramas, and usually in dramatic fantasy and sci-fi, where the setting tends to be an allegory for whatever message the author is trying to send. That, and kids movies.

Sometimes you just want to tell a funny story and you don’t set out with any goals of espousing morals and lessons you want your readers to learn and that is perfectly okay. I still think saying *something* will make the funny funnier or the drama more dramatic or the romance more romantic, but that’s just me and what I like to read.

When it is there, it’s right in front of your face way more often than you might think. Here’s some direct quotes succinctly capturing the main theses of a couple famous works:

“He’s a good man.” / “No, he’s a pirate.” - Curse of the Black Pearl

“What are we holding onto, Sam?” / “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.” - LotR, Two Towers

“Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.” - LotR, Fellowship of the Ring

“A person’s a person, no matter how small.” - Horton Hears a Who

“You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” - The Dark Knight

“Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!” - The Great Gatsby

“Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.” & “Life finds a way.” - Jurassic Park

"Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind." - Lilo & Stitch

“But… I’m supposed to be beautiful.” / “You are beautiful.” - Shrek

“I didn’t kill him because he looked as scared as I was. I looked at him, and I saw myself.” - How to Train Your Dragon

“There are no accidents.” & “There is no secret ingredient.” & “You might wish for an apple or an orange, but you will get a peach.” - Kung Fu Panda

*If any of those are wrong, I did them entirely from memory, sue me.

Some of the best scenes in these stories are where the theme synthesizes in direct dialogue. There’s this moment of catharsis where you, the audience, knew what the story has been saying, but now you get to hear it put into words.

Or, these are the lines that stick in your head as you watch the tragedy unfold around the characters and all they didn’t learn when they had the chance.

When it comes to stories that have a very strong moral and never feel like they’re preaching to you, look no further than classic Pixar movies.

“Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.” - Ratatouille

“I’m not strong enough.” / “If we work together, you don’t have to be.” - The Incredibles

“Just keep swimming!” - Finding Nemo

Ellie’s adventure book, to live your own adventure, even if it’s not the one you thought it would be - Up

The Wheel Well montage, to slow down every once in a while, because in a flash, it’ll be gone - Cars

The entire first dialogue-less section of Wall-E, to stop our endless consumption or else

The real monsters are corporate consumption - Monsters Inc

One cannot fully appreciate happiness without a little sadness - Inside Out

With enough loud voices, the common man can overthrow The Man - A Bug’s Life

A person’s worth is not determined by their value to other people - Toy Story

These are the themes that I, personally, took from these movies as a kid and later in life. If I remembered the scripts any better I could probably pull some direct dialogue to support them, but, sadly, I do not have the entire Pixar catalog memorized.

—

After you’ve suffered through rigorous literary analysis classes for years on end, the “lit analyst” hat kind of never comes off. Sometimes you try to find a theme where none exists, coming up with your own. Sometimes you can very easily see the skeleton attempt at having a theme and a message that came out half-baked, and all the missed opportunities to polish it.

Whatever the case, while theme isn’t *necessary*, having that through line, an axis around which your entire story revolves, can be a fantastic way to examine which elements of your WIP aren’t meshing with the rest, why a character is or isn’t clicking, how you want to end it, or, even, how you want to approach a sequel.

Unfortunately, very, very often, a movie, book, or season of TV has a fantastic execution of a theme in its first run, and the ensuing sequels forget all about it.

No one here is going to defend Michael Bay’s Transformers movies as cinematic masterpieces, however, the first movie did actually have a thematic through line: “No sacrifice, no victory.” They didn’t stick the landing but, you know, the attempt was made. Where is that theme at all in the sequels? Nonexistent. They could have even explored a different theme and they abandoned it altogether.

Black Pearl’s thematic efforts fell away to lore and worldbuilding in its two sequels. Not that they’re bad! I love Dead Man’s Chest, but to those who don’t like the sequels, that missing element may be part of why.

Shrek and Shrek 2 both centered on their theme of beauty being how you define it and no one else. Fiona finds true love in her “true” form, then strengthens that message in the sequel when she has the chance to be “normal” and conventionally attractive, and still chooses to be an ogre, to be with Shrek. Shrek 3’s theme is…? 

When it was never there, that theme is missing isn’t so obvious. When it used to be there and got left behind, it leaves a crater in its wake everyone notices, even if they can’t pinpoint why.

—

TLDR: Theme is more than just vague nouns and dichotomies. Good, evil, dark, light, selfishness, altruism, beauty, ugliness, riches, poverty, etc are what your story uses. Your theme is what your story has to say with those elements, using as many characters and plot points as possible to reinforce its message. Is it necessary? No. Is it helpful and does it lead to a richer experience? Yes.

[lemonhemlock]

the fact that as of right now, Alys’ role in the story is to be Daemon’s hype man 😭 I almost can’t get past it. The sanitization of Daemon as a character eats up both her and Helaena, because they have to function as beacons to prove Daemon is on the right path in supporting the right ruler. Which now means that like so many other characters, it is very unclear what Alys does next without him. How do you do her relationship with Aemond when she has spent a season fixing Daemon into a better person who understands the part he has to play (in ultimately killing Aemond???) You can repeat the visions and have them make him worse, but I almost don’t believe the show cares enough about Aemond to actually do that. It feels more likely she’s going to be blatantly playing him the entire time, which is the most boring option they could go with. A shame!

I really, really liked the Harrenhal sequences, because I thought its purpose was to be an interesting character study into what makes Daemon tick. But the ending felt so flat, ultimately pointless and very much disruptive to future plot points?

Daemon had a very fatalistic approach to his death in the books. The breakdown of his relationship with Rhaenyra was very much brought about by his own boredom / disillusionment with her, by his lack of conviction in her cause or even by disappointment or shock that she should overreact to Nettles in such a way. When he left to fight Aemond, he felt that there was not much else left for him. Which, again, betrays a very self-centered view, as he still had two daughters and a son left to raise, but that's Daemon for you. I think it's fair to say that he must have felt that taking Aemond and Vhagar out would prove advantageous to his remaining son, at the very least.

But, in any case, he was in a complicated state of mind that could have been interesting to explore on screen and one that was still true to the core of his character. Daemon is a trickster! He is never fully in or fully our of anything. He is unpredictable and considers himself the master of his own destiny. He is the last character to acquiesce to some notion of predestination. He is a schemer to the core and, while I do think he loved Rhaenyra in his own way, his marriage to her always retained a strategic element to it.

Having him unquestionably bend the knee to her is so bizarre. Why? That's his arc in S2? It also undoubtedly turns him heroic, because he has relinquished his egocentric pursuits (wanting the Iron Throne for himself) in favour of fulfilling a prophecy that basically gives indications on how to save the world in the future. So, now, fighting the greens is not a personal, petty vendetta, it's literally ordained by the gods, because otherwise the entire Westeros is doomed if his bloodline doesn't continue. For real? 😩

And, coming back to Alys and Helaena, of course that the women have to aid Daemon, because they know that the blacks are on the right side of history and they are ultimately peacemakers, one and all! 😭

I don't have a problem with Alys blatantly playing Aemond and leading him on, as I've always thought that it would make the most sense for her to be out for herself, but it's a ridiculous demonisation of the greens. And in service of Daemon, the least virtuous of all characters. This conflict is no longer petty squabble between nobles, it's literally occult shit at play now. And none of them even know about this stupid prophecy in the first place. Just anything and everything to make Alicent look bad, I guess.

[housethemd]

hi!! i really love ur writing, u have written some of my fav house fics :3 if i may.... could i get some of ur thoughts on house navigating sex after the infarction? i love the exploration of sex as not just getting off, but as an emotionally intimate, deeply vulnerable act. something to be explored and practiced, something imperfect and deeply personal and unique. lmao anyways sorry for blabbering, i just think u have very good ideas about house and wilson's sexual relationship. u understand them so well

Ahhh thank you anon!! ☺️

So I’m going to start with my thoughts immediately post infarction and work up to Hilson because I have many thoughts!

Okay so I think immediately after the infarction and for a while after House had very little interest in sex. The pain and the drugs he would have been on would have had a negative effect on his libido, but also his tanking self esteem and body image likely would have killed his desire for sex. I think if in the year or so following the infarction if he did have sex, it was likely because he felt he was “supposed to” want sex, not because he actually did. I also personally headcanon that he probably would have started taking viagra or another type of ED medication to help because again, pain and emotional issues have a detrimental effect on sexual performance.

I think that plays into why he starts hiring prostitutes. He feels terrible about his body, insecure about his ability to perform, and he knows a prostitute won’t care. The lack of emotional connection makes it easier for him to set aside his anxieties. He is also literally paying them to cater to him, so it’s easier to ignore the fact that there are positions he just can’t do anymore. I think it would likely be vary hard for him to be on his knees for more than a couple minutes, especially when combined with thrusting, which means a lot of more common sexual positions (missionary, doggy, etc) are now out of the question for him. With prostitutes he doesn’t have to worry about them asking him to take a position he can’t, he simply says he wants them to ride him and they do it without question.

That all to say that from the infarction to whenever he and Wilson get together (whenever you personally like to headcanon that to be) House avoids the emotional aspects of sex like the plague.

Now when House and Wilson get together, House suddenly finds himself with a regular sexual partner who he cares about very much, and who cares about him in return. House can’t avoid the emotional aspects of sex anymore. He worries about what Wilson thinks of the infarction scar during sex, about what if Wilson wants a position House can’t do, House is worried about Wilson finding out he sometimes needs pills to get it up, and it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy.

Wilson I think would try to get House to talk about his limits, requirements, etc early on but House would refuse because he’s built up so many walls he can’t figure how to let them down. Eventually though I think House would be so stressed about Wilson’s thoughts and his own performance that he wouldn’t be able perform at all. This probably makes him angry, convinced Wilson won’t want to be with him anymore because House sees himself as “broken.”

I think once House has had time to cool down, Wilson would finally be able to coax House into talking about it. Wilson probably went into his relationship with House knowing House would have limits, but also knowing House wouldn’t want to talk about them. But when he finally gets House to open up he feels so special. House would admit to needing the pills sometimes, about how he finds some positions hard and some downright painful, about how every time he takes off his pants he worries Wilson will be so turned off by his scar that he won’t want him anymore.

From there they start to explore what House can do. They find new positions, they try out new forms of pleasure when House is having difficulty getting it up (prostate orgasm, anyone?), Wilson kisses House’s scar to show him it doesn’t bother him, that it’s just another part of House. Yeah, Wilson has to prod still to get House to be honest but after a while the honesty comes more easily. House is able to reframe sex in his mind as being a journey instead of a goal. Together House is able to learn whole new ways his body can feel good.

I’m working on writing a fic with the working title “5 times House and Wilson had unconventional sex, and 1 time they didn’t” which explores the fun new types of pleasure these boys get up too, as well as House’s emotional journey regarding sex and how he feels about it and himself. So a bunch of the things mentioned here will be thought out more in depth in that.

Sorry this got so long! But I hope I answered your question and thank you so much for the ask!

[tiedtothetraintracks]

The other night I went to a Halloween party my butch was having at her house. We had been excited about it for weeks. I planned the perfect costumes for us— vampire & victim. For the week or so leading up the party, she started to get worried. What if she’s overcome by lust and unable to maintain her gentlemanly reputation amongst her friends? I would always tell her, “abandon shame”. I say this often when she gets shy or embarrassed. Every time we’d talk about it I would tease that it’s going to become a self fulfilling prophecy. And… yeah, it did.

We start getting ready for the party. My usually flannel clad butch was wearing my flowy low cut top (with a real bra!) and corset. I styled her accessories, stacked necklaces and an askew belt with chains. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her… the best part, is when she’d bend over I could see the waistband of her boxers which was so sexy and gender I couldn’t contain myself and had to cover my smitten grin. She saw the look on my face and laughed at me. Well deserved.

Then, she wanted me to do her makeup. Without saying a word she knelt on the floor in front of me, I was sat cross legged at the edge of her lofted bed. This brought us face to face. Again I avert my eyes and fight a blush coming on. The height kink within me was going wild. And with her on her knees in front of me… the power dynamics felt shifted if even just for a moment. I held her face and smudged black eyeshadow around her eyes. Telling her where to look and when to relax her eyes. When she opened them to look me right in my eyes I knew I was going to be in for a long night.

So the party kicks off, we’re socializing, I’m making impressions on her friends, being my regular social butterfly self. And people keep asking, what’s my costume? I say, a little too eagerly, oh no I’M not a vampire. I motion to my “I ❤️ Vampires” tank top and the “bite marks” on my neck. I’m a willing victim, of course! I’m really into it. It’s like a symbiotic relationship. I say this all with a smile, and I can see her hearing me tell people this… all night, enthusiastically declaring my consent and devotion for my vampire master. This drives her crazy.

Now, she’s having fun at the party. It’s a party full of HER friends. And I’m happy for her you know but, deep down I just want her so bad. I pull her aside and ask if she wants to smoke alone on the porch. We go out there and I say look, you’ve been hyping up for weeks how bad you want me at this party. I want you to want me. Cuz I want you. I think that made something click in her brain because we went back inside and sat on the couch for probably less than 5 minutes. She’s all over me. Hand on my thigh, arm around me, holding me closer.

And you know, I just can’t take it. Her lofted twin bed in her room that’s in the middle of the apartment wouldn’t do. I ask her, looking innocent enough, how busy is your street at this time of night? Oh not busy at all? Great! Let’s go fuck in your car. She agreed immediately. We made a swift exit maybe muttering some kind of excuse of having to get something from the car. I teased her for how easily convinced she was. She had no rebuttal. We got the car, she pushed the seats forward, I got in and hiked my skirt up, she got in on the other side and then she was on me.

Biting into my neck, I moaned loud to let her know how badly I wanted her, how I painfully waited, how I had been so good for her. She wouldn’t let up. Lying me down on the backseat her hand moved down to pull my panties to the side and I was already dripping wet for her. She remarked on this, and said how she heard me declaring myself as her victim all night and now she can’t help herself. I just grinned and leaned back to encourage her teeth in my neck. She sunk them in again, then started slow down below, rubbing my clit lightly and gently but even then I was already going crazy grinding against her. I needed her bad. She always tells me, I’m barely touching you and you’re so needy? Whining for more, she sped up. It didn’t take much and I came so quick, my legs shaking hard. But I still wanted more.

I totally lost count eventually. We were in the car for around an hour and a half. My brain switched off probably halfway through. Finally I sat up and— oh. I had soaked completely through her jeans on her thigh. This was an accomplishment for me! I had a major case of fuckbrain at this point and could really only giggle involuntarily and say incomprehensible nonsense. My makeup was smeared, my hair had come undone, and my neck was covered in hickeys. Despite this, we returned to the party and “acted normal”. Deep down, I loved that it was so obvious. I want everyone to know I’m hers. 💘

[nellyofthevalley]

truths, ch.1

astarion x fem!tav rating: explicit

content: piv sex, fingering, biting/blood drinking, emotionally repressed losers who can't communicate, angst I guess

summary: this fic is mostly an excuse to write a bunch of dialogue bouncing around in my head. astarion is a sad little idiot who turns his fears into a self-fulfilling prophecy because he never learned how to love. it may or may not turn into a tragedy

“As I told you—you broke my cold, dead heart. Of course it was cruel,” Astarion says, melodramatic, hamming it up for her. He wants her to feel guilty for it; he wants her to stop being so tiring and play right into his hand. Make it easy for him.“I don’t believe you,” Tav says. “Everything you say sounds like a pretty lie, and you all but told me that’s what it is. Pretty lies. I’m not interested.”

chapters: ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 | ch.6 | ch.7 | ch.8

read it on ao3 or below the cut

Camping in the Underdark is unsettling, to say the least. The party hears noises in the distance, reminiscent of the howl of wolves or the songs of birds on the surface, but here, the sounds are warped and unrecognizable, and when they travel, they never meet the creatures that match the sound. Their party travels lighter with fewer bodies, having stricter lookout shifts with more on nighttime patrol. Tonight is Lae’zel and Shadowheart on shift, and Tav can imagine that’s going well. After all, it was only a few days ago they’d been at each others throats. 

At least they are speaking to one another—Astarion hasn’t talked to her for days. Not since she turned him down at the tieflings’ celebration at camp, back by the grove. It would be fine, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s so obvious and awkward; he is clearly avoiding her, and she doesn’t know how to handle it. Avoid him? Act normal? What is normal anymore, anyway? 

She hadn’t meant to let him down so callously; how smug and fake he sounded finally got on her nerves. She didn’t expect him to seem so wounded by it. He was so good at putting on a fake face and fake words, so why was he surprised that she’d rejected him? What did he expect?

‘I’ve gotten on my back ten thousand times or more and forgotten half of them,’ he’d said after. ‘But you... you I’ll remember.’

The words linger in her mind like a parasite, fighting for space with her tadpole. It bothers her that she can’t let this go. Were they just more pretty words he spouted to get her in bed again, or something else? For a moment, it almost seemed like his facade had cracked when he said it. For all she knows, that could've been a performance as well. 

This evening, Tav finds herself in Halsin’s company while she works at her braids, discussing the road ahead. It won’t be long before they’re met with the shadow-cursed lands, and out of them all, Halsin knows the most. He recounts his studies on the curse and tadpole, eager to head off to their next destination despite the danger. Halsin clearly feels a certain responsibility to the cursed lands, though he’s also struggling with leaving the grove behind. 

“They’ll be fine without you—they’re tough,” Tav offers, doing her best to provide some kind of comfort. “You’ll be missed, I’m sure. I’m glad you’re with us, we’re lucky to have you.”

“I remain optimistic that Francesca will strive in my old position. Still, it is difficult to leave my home behind,” he says. “I’m afraid the city will be an even harder adjustment for me. The busy streets and crowds are a far cry from the comforts of nature.”

“There, there, Halsin,” Gale chimes in, joining the group by the campfire. “You might be pleasantly surprised. I admit, the city park has nothing on your lovely grove, but, well. You share the pursuit of knowledge, I assume? Baldur’s Gate is home to many wonderful things—the best of which being an extraordinary bookstore known as Sorcerous Sundries.”

Gale likes to hear Gale talk, so Tav backs off and lets him engage with Halsin in her stead. Her attention turns toward the campfire on this particularly cold night, stretching her arms and hands out in front of her, taking in the warmth it provides. Her own tent is dull and cold, so she can find sleep only once the boys have talked all they can talk and finally leave, allowing her the silence needed to rest.

Tav glances over at Astarion’s tent, and unsurprisingly, he’s nowhere to be found. Likely off hunting, she thinks. Ever since the party and their strange little silent treatment pact started, he’s been getting his fill elsewhere. She used to provide for him—to help him be ‘stronger, fight better,’ as he’d argued. Now, things were too tense to invite him back. 

She finds herself wondering if he’s chasing animals or people. It’s none of her business who he feeds from, but she can’t deny the slight twinge of jealousy eating at her, at the thought of him having his needs met from another ‘thinking’ creature. 

‘Truth be told, you were my first,’ he’d said. Tav felt shame as her cheeks flushed. His first. Something about that sounded so… personal.

Her attention snaps back to the present, settling into the bed roll by the fire, watching the flames frolic. As her eyes start to drift away, the need for sleep washing over her, the sounds of the wilderness become duller, drowned out. She didn’t realize how tired she was, how exhausting this day had been. Her muscles relax, sight fades, and thoughts morph into concepts as she drifts away to the warm comfort of sleep. 

Tav wakes in a sweat. Her skin feels like it’s melting, like she’s being boiled alive; her hands rush to her face, and when she touches herself, the skin oozes off her bones, flowing down her fingers and arms. She tries to scream, and nothing comes out, her mouth a gooey mess dripping onto the ground beneath her.

She tries to stand and flee, but her ankles are already turning into liquid fire. Her body lowers, slowly liquifying into the ground below. She’s helpless, a lost cause; an existence destined to fade away and be lost forever. A voice—her voice—tells her so, tells her ‘give up’.

Tav wakes again, this time with an audible scream. She instinctively jumps out of bed, rising to her knees; hands rush to touch her face again, relief and surprise coursing through her body as she realizes she’s still there. All of her, in one piece; not melting away as her dreams try to convince her. 

She sits upright and tears flow from her eyes, frustrated—these dreams keep happening to her, and she doesn’t understand it. The campfire is all except gone, hardly any flame or heat remains. 

“Tav!” Shadowheart calls to her, running and kneeling beside her. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine, I think,” she gets out, looking over her fingers and feet again, as if she has to remind herself they’re still there, still real. “Just… having nightmares.”

“Chk. If a dream bothers you that much, I question your sanity,” Lae’zel comments in her typical, apathetic tone, approaching the duo. “Soon you may develop a fever, grow tentacles, become ghaik at last—the moment you do, I’ll be ready to strike.”

Tav rolls her eyes, prodding at the campfire, hoping to reignite the tiny flame. Despite her dream, the air is cold, and her bedroll isn’t enough. Shadowheart and Lae’zel head off in separate directions to resume their patrol, and Tav catches Shadowheart glancing back at her on their way out. She seems genuinely concerned for Tav, and it’s nice to know someone does. The others are either sleeping peacefully in their tents or pretending to. Tav wishes it’s the former, hating to make a scene. 

The campfire crackles again, a little flame rising from the wood. It’s a much needed comfort, though not enough to relax and find sleep again. Tav lays on her bedroll, looking up at nothing besides a dark abyss and the faint glow of mushrooms growing far above. 

“Well, didn’t you cause quite the scare?” says a familiar voice—Astarion.

Tav jumps in surprise, leaning up onto her elbows to see him walking over from his tent. The last person she expected to see tonight. 

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” she replies, a bit more haughty than intended. 

Knowing sleep will escape her for some time, she concedes and rises from the bedroll to sit on the log bench by the fire. It’s a silent invitation, how she leaves room for Astarion to join, and he accepts. The atmosphere is quiet, save for a few indescribable sounds in the distance, the very same type they’d learned to accept in the Underdark. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Tav says, willing to make the first move. 

“Darling, I’d say you’ve been avoiding me,” he answers, and it prompts Tav to realize he might be right; maybe it was all in her head and she played a one-sided game. “Tell me about your dreams.”

“What? Why?”

“Can’t I simply wonder what troubles you at night? Our ‘fearless leader’, who shows no weaknesses—yet you wake with a scream, and you weep because of it,” he says, revealing he’s been listening to it all. “Call me worried if it makes you feel better about it.”

“Are you worried about me?” Tav asks, staring daggers at him, challenging him to take off his mask. 

“Possibly,” Astarion answers with a dramatic shrug. “Or maybe I’m curious and you owe me. I told you plenty of my past, of my nightmares, and then you kept your secrets and so cruelly denied me your company. I think you can spare me a sentence or two, dear.”

She can’t tell how much of this is an act and how much isn’t. He’s putting on his usual theatrics, his dramatic tone and way of storytelling, but it’s hard to see beyond it this time. She’s certain he wants to know; she’s not certain if it’s because he’s worried. Or if he is serious about perceiving her rejection as cruel. 

“There’s not much to tell,” Tav offers, now looking away, down to her fingers and the soil beneath her feet. “Tonight, I dreamt my skin was melting off—that’s it. Sometimes, I dream that I’m drowning. Stupid, right? It’s different from other dreams I’ve had. Feels more… real. I feel the pain as my skin turns into lava, I feel my lungs fill with water. Harder to acclimate to reality when I wake.”

She pauses to let him comment, and he says nothing. He’s not even looking at her anymore. He’s staring at the ground too, like they’re looking at the same thing. There’s nothing there besides the dirt and weeds. 

“Did you really think I was cruel?”

“As I told you—you broke my cold, dead heart. Of course it was cruel,” Astarion says, melodramatic, hamming it up for her. He wants her to feel guilty for it; he wants her to stop being so tiring and play right into his hand. Make it easy for him. 

“I don’t believe you,” Tav says. “Everything you say sounds like a pretty lie, and you all but told me that’s what it is. Pretty lies. I’m not interested.”

“It’s not all pretty lies,” he rebukes, almost sounding like he’s taking offense to her skepticism. It’s frustration that he has to work so much harder with her.  “Some of them are ugly, others are pretty truths.”

“Oh? Enlighten me, what truths have you told?”

“That I miss petty vanity,” Astarion answers, keeping it simple; refusing to give more, what she wants him to give. “How it’s hard not to have fun with you.” That one is merely a consolation prize. 

“Is that all?” Tav asks, wondering if ‘fun’ he means that he enjoys himself with her, or if it’s how he so evidently enjoys messing with her. Toying with her emotions.

“For tonight, yes. That’s all you get. You can continue guessing at the rest.”

Astarion meets her gaze now, giving her those sad, red eyes. It might be an act, it might not be—he doesn’t even know himself. It reminds her of the look he wore when she turned him down, and she questions whether that was an act as she’d initially thought. He finds himself entranced by how the orange light from the flames bounce off her pale lavender skin.

He leans into her, watching to see if she recoils or pushes him away. Instead, she keeps staring at him, wide-eyed, and he senses her heart pace a little faster. She smells faintly like blueberries. He can’t resist moving in closer, nose nearly touching her neck and taking in her scent, thinking of how he’ll never get to taste them again; he’ll have to settle for the aroma.

Tav is convinced he’s going to bite her, and she knows she should stop him, but she doesn’t. She braces, waiting for it, and it doesn’t come. Astarion pulls away, and before he can decide where to go from here, she’s taking the initiative and pressing her lips to his. 

His hand instinctively raises to cup her face, deepening the kiss, pushing his mouth to hers like he wants to bruise her. It’s not him, he thinks; it’s something else, something he can’t control.  His tongue seeks entry and she doesn’t deny it, parting her lips with a little sound that he swears makes his stopped heart start again, for only a second. 

When he turns to unbutton her night shirt, movements methodical and practiced, she stops him and pulls away. 

“You don’t want this?” he asks. 

“I do,” she says, that defeated look in her eyes that he can’t tolerate. “Not like this.”

It unnerves him that he knows exactly what she means. How she saw right through him, how she could so easily read his hand movements, experienced and suave; understood another way. How he can’t even bring himself to deny it. She really isn’t like his other conquests. She is special.

She is difficult. 

Astarion moves to leave, to go think about this, or at least think about how to avoid thinking about it, but she grabs his wrist to stop him. He looks back at her, astonished by her audacity, her ability to bother him so.

‘Stay?’ her face asks, and he doesn’t know how to say no or yes. He just sits right back where he was, mind swimming; though not a single one of the swimmers composes a coherent, tangible thought. 

“Darling, you’re freezing,” he observes, picking up on the goose flesh spreading across her arms, and shakes so small, Tav hasn’t even noticed them. The campfire burns away; somehow it’s still not enough to warm her.

“I suppose I am,” she says. “I’d better get used to it. I find it difficult to believe that our journey will be getting much more comfortable anytime soon.”

Astarion sheds his coat, placing it around her shoulders, wondering what he’s fucking doing the entire time.

“It’s always cold for me,” he offers, like he has to justify himself, “and you wear it better.”

[psychewritesbs]

Chapter 219: Bath, part 4—Inner evil

Cursed JJK Sunday. There’s only two types of JJK Sundays--cursed or happy. Today is a cursed JJK Sunday and this has been the week from hell.

Let’s taco about it under the cut.

Anyways. Here comes a tangent!

Megumi this chapter.

Man, I was wondering how Gege was going to move the plot along back into tragedy and deep angst territory, and there you have it. I have to admit that, while some in fandom haven’t liked how he’s been manipulating the mood, I’ve quite enjoyed it. 

It’s just that, in retrospect, what’s happened and the absurdly comical way it’s been executed so that it culminated with one of JJKs Top Depresing AF Moments, is something that I vibed with a lot.

The journey of utter ridiculousness, as per usual, served a purpose for my brain. After all, what’s more depressing than unnecessary tragedy?

So it hit really hard to see Megumi in a state of shock and in the fetal position. I literally shed tears when I saw the panels.

I may be totally projecting here but ever since chapter 216, Megumi has been shown as increasingly infantile. Almost as if his ego is regressing to early stages of emotional development or as though certain emotions experienced in his early life have been triggered.

So when I see Megumi curled up in a fetal position, I can’t help but think of Megumi metaphorically going into a womb-like space, the mother in all of her unconscious glory.

Learned helplessness

And this is such a relevant pose for a character like Megumi who already had to overcome his own limiting idea of himself.

I don’t know how to put it into words without turning this into a conversation about how emotional trauma gets stored in the body (the unconscious) and how it severely limits our sense of self without our conscious knowledge of the fact.

But anyways, watch me overpsychologize the whole thing by saying that learned helplessness is an insidious emotion that directs our thinking and behavior in the form of self-fulfilling prophecy.

So, again, to see Megumi like this, it almost feels like he’s being held back by his own sense of self and that he’s given up on himself.

In other words, he’s not even trying to win by dying, but rather gave up fighting by metaphorically dying.

What’s interesting is the idea that “after taking his sister Tsumiki’s life, Fushiguro’s soul sinks into the abyss”. Perhaps it really just comes back to seeing his body act without his conscious will in ways that are harming others, more specifically the one person he wanted to protect most.

But I much prefer the idea that Megumi can’t tell the difference between Sukuna as evil, and the evil within--Megumi as evil. Whatever that looks like and however Gege executes, if he indeed executes like this.

Anyways, Spooky wrote about it and I wanted to add some thoughts to their post because there’s so much symbolism and Jungian shadow metaphors at play with Megumi right now... Spooks, I promise I am on it.

But all of this brings me full circle to...

The Gospel of Sukuna

Sukuna continues to appall me with his inhumanity and his cruelty. 

And this is so weird to say as the weirdo who infamously published an ode to Sukunaism and the gospel of Sukuna, and then went ahead and hailed it as the way of the highway.

It’s just that, from my perspective, this whole battle sequence against Yorozu has been nothing but an attempt at traumatizing Megumi. Like, yes, it’s obvious because he said he was after Tsumiki’s life in order to sink Megumi. 

What I mean more specifically is that the latest chapters showed us the lengths Sukuna will go to in order to achieve his goal and I wonder whether Sukuna could have killed Yorozu from the start but instead delayed doing so because he knows Megumi is watching. So he toyed with Yorozu to hurt Megumi and like... I love Sukuna but he’s such a selfish and cruel bastard.

And this is the thing... I want to reject Sukuna’s evil so bad ever since he took  Megumi and left Yuji behind in shambles. 

I hate it. 

He’s just an awful, inconsiderate and right out evil being. That’s the whole point of Sukuna, right?

So I want to denounce his selfishness and say “no, fuck him, I’m leaving the church of Sukuna, he can find another social media manager! I will not stand by his cruelty”

But I can’t because to denounce Sukuna is to denounce a part of me. There is, after all, a little bit of Sukuna in everyone. Every single human being has a propensity for evil inside of them and I am, of course, not the exception.

Sukuna is the kind of mind free from reason to the point that it is divorced from personal responsibility to the collective. True evil. The completely pathological and utter lack of empathy for another living being and their suffering in favor of self-gratification.

Recently I watched a documentary about a girl who would have grown up to be a serial killer as a result of the abuse she experienced as a child. The abuse, the documentary argued, resulted in her inability to develop empathy for others, which in turn translated in anti-social behavior like hurting her brother and defenseless animals.

But I think it’s also easy to think of evil in grandiose terms such as something we encounter in extreme cases like the example I mention above, or even hell or something that other people do. Not us, never us. 

It is far easier to look at evil as some distant trait that is foreign to our sense of self than it is to accept that the many micro-aggressions we commit on an everyday basis can also be considered evil. Micro-aggressions that are pure instinct devoid from reason.

Like, for those of you who play around in twitter, how many hateful posts are you exposed to on a daily basis? Name calling, putting other people down, hating... how is that any different from Sukuna? 

Oh, of course, most people aren’t mass murderers.

To denounce Sukuna is to denounce the totality of your Self. It means to repress inner evil so deep into your shadow where all it can do is fester until it takes a mind of its own and seeks an outlet--like harassing others on twitter over a disagreement of opinion.

So anyways, Gege’s brand of hurt and self-hate is something else entirely.

He’s worse than those women from CLAMP if I’m honest.

For those who’ve read CLAMP, then you know their stories can be very depressing and that Okawa Nanase, the group’s writer, hurts her characters with calculated abandon.

It’s fascinating to say the least.

But not Gege. 

Gege is cruel and perhaps no one reflects that quite as well as Sukuna does.

Anyways...

To anyone who reads, thank you as always and looking forward to your thoughts and comments if you have any that you’d like to share. 

If you’ve sent me an ask I promise I am working on answering you and thank you as always for your patience.

[keanureevesisbae]

endeavors #13 - torture

Summary: August takes the sex toys outside of the safety of their apartment.

August Walker x Grace Stanford (asian ofc)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Warning: Nipple play, vibrating egg, orgasms in public, sex in their apartment. Male and female orgasms

Masterlist // endeavors masterlist

After this morning fuck to die for, August and I are under the shower, rinsing off the sweat and other bodily fluids. ‘August,’ I ask him, ‘what would you like to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s always about me. What do you want? There must be something?’

He shrugs, pushing some of the hairs from my face. ‘This is perfect for me.’

‘But you have to have a fantasy. Something you desperately want to do.’

‘I’m not sure you are there yet.’

‘I’m there,’ I tell him. ‘Come on, look at all the things we’ve been doing these last few months.’

He cocks an eyebrow. ‘True. Okay, maybe I have something.’

‘What is that?’

‘I’m not telling you. Not yet at least.’ He grabs some soap, puts in on the loofah and lathers my body. ‘I’ve got plans for tonight though.’

‘Oh, what is it?’

‘You and I, a nice meal and your favorite toys stuffed in your cunt.’ He snickers and says: ‘You know I like to see you suffer.’

﹌﹌

Oh, I am suffering. Suffering big time even. One thing is fore sure, I will never show my face here again. I know I have an magnificent and enviable poker face, but the whole idea of ever going back to the place where August just dragged my first orgasm out of me…

I can’t handle that. 

We’re seated next to each other, looking out of the window over the city. His hand rests on my leg, as he continues to pretend like nothing is wrong. My leg nervously moves up and down and as he takes a sip of his drink the vibrations start again. I clench my thighs together and thankfully the music is pretty loud, meaning it drowns out my soft whimpers and the vibrations of the toy. 

This of course is such a dirty little secret.

‘How are you doing?’ August asks, like he isn’t torturing me. 

‘Fantastic,’ I whimper, taking a bite of my side salad. ‘Could you maybe let me eat?’

He takes a pity on me, but I could’ve known that it was a trap. Giving me a minute of peace and quiet, is followed by more intense vibrations. 

August had strict instruction for me and the clothes I had to wear, meaning I am wearing a very flimsy dress. While the material around my breasts is thick enough to hide my hardening nipples—that scrape against the fabric—it does not hide the heaving of my chest. I know August is having a field day.

And then it happens. 

I cum again. My legs tremble and my knuckles turn white as I hold onto the fork a little too tightly. Finally he does stop and whispers in my ear: ‘While I like to fuck you in the privacy of our apartment, there is a certain beauty to see you restricting yourself here. I kinda wish I could hear you screaming my name right now.’

Two can play this game. I turn to the side a little, placing my hand on his upper leg, my fingers close to his slight bulge. ‘I could be screaming your name from the passenger’s seat of your car, but you prefer to sit here in this crowded restaurant.’

He smiles. ‘Be careful with what you’re doing. No matter how gorgeous and irresistible you look, I will always one up you.’ He smirks, causing him to be deviously handsome and irresistible of his own. 

I take a shaky breath, realizing I’ve overplayed my cards. Because it is true. He will always one up me. But I still steal a kiss from him, knowing I’m in deep trouble already.

During the rest of dinner he teased me, but didn’t push me so far for another orgasm.

Somehow—don’t ask me how—I made it to the car without sinking down to the dirty floor and August chuckles, telling me: ‘Let’s see how many orgasms we can drag out of you on our way back.’

The actual motherfucker turned on the vibrations and placed his fucking phone in the standard, not touching it at all. At first I try to make it seem like I can handle this, but my own self fulfilling prophecy of falling apart is coming true. 

I am a sobbing, screaming and withering mess on the passenger’s seat and my mind is foggy by the orgasms and I have no idea how many times I came. After August parked the car, he turns off the vibrations and I lean back in the seat. ‘You know we’re no where from done,’ August chuckles.

‘I know,’ I whisper. I turn my face to the side and smile. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

﹌﹌

Within seconds of entering the apartment, we have gotten rid of our clothing. Somehow we made it to the bathroom and as August is standing behind me, his hard cock sliding in after pulling the toy from my cunt and spreading my legs apart. I hold onto the bathroom counter top, his fingertips digging into my sides. ‘You’re fucking drenched,’ he mutters, once he totally bottoms out. 

August is desperate to chase his own high, his hand in my hair, gently giving it a pull so my back is against his chest. 

‘Fuck, August,’ I whimper, especially when his other hand slides down my stomach, rubbing my sensitive clit. The way his cock is angled is perfect and so different than what the toy did. The constant pull of my hair, how he’s stretching me out and the way I am with my head on cloud nine, all works together.

Fluids squirt passed his cock, down my legs and land on the tiles. 

‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters, roughly pounding in me, which only makes me moan louder than I did before. The pull on my hair is a little tighter now, his fingers abusing my clit is borderline painful, but in such an addicting way, I don’t want him to stop. 

Watching myself in the mirror, tears ruining my make-up, sloppy kisses on my temple. 

From his erratic thrusts, I can tell he’s close and I watch and listen to him riding out his high, his cock buried deep in between my wet and semen coated walls. His hand rests on my stomach, while I try to catch my breath.

‘You okay?’ August asks.

‘I am,’ I whisper.

His cock softens and once he exits me, cum streams down my legs. I hold onto the counter, not trusting my legs anymore. From behind me, I can hear August turning on the shower and once the water is a nice temperature, he says: ‘Come on, Grace.’

However I can’t move, not without him holding me. My legs feel like jello, but my lips are unable to form words. 

August chuckles darkly, hoisting me up in his strong arms and whispers: ‘You’re lucky I like to hold you, Grace,’ followed by a gentle kiss on my lips.

﹌﹌

endeavors taglist: @diegos-butt // @thelastsock // @liecastillo // @mis-lil-red // @sofiebstar // @abschaffer2 // @crazybutconfidentaf // @summersong69 // @gearhead66 // @xobriellaxo24 // @kebabgirl67 // @eldarwen333 // @kingliam2019 // @cherry-gemz // @sillyrabbit81 // @enchantedbytomandhenry // @lyrarodriguez // @islacharlotte // @sunshine96love // @oddsnendsfanfics // @xuxszx // @omgkatinka // @pterodactylterrace / @peaches1958 // @pandaxnienke // @teamfan7asy // @raccoon-eyed-rebel // @geralts-yenn

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, a Malevolent x TMA crossover - chapter twenty four: Fogged

Tim Stoker x the King in Yellow, because why not?

It's only a matter of time. It strikes Tim, suddenly, what an incredibly cruel thing that was to say. It was like the guy was trying to create a self-fulfilling prophecy for them; like he just wanted them to suffer before they had to, before the inevitable doom lands on their faces like peculiarly aggressive bird shit. AO3

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

This is a problem.

The ship is absolutely spooky, and there’s no sign of Lukas. Obscene fog coats it, like a skin, slick and chilling. There should be noise—engines, ocean, shouts and cargo and men—but there is none. And all of this leaves Tim so angry he can barely move, and he doesn’t even know why.

(He knows it’s that Desolation—rage and delight in destroying it all, pushing back against the numbing and depersonalizing fear of the Lonely—but damn, it's strong.)

It floods him the moment he climbs aboard, steals his words, teases a strange, burning pleasure along the fringe of his nerves. He could kill them all. Burn the ship. Melt their floating world. But why in hell would he want to do that?

Breathe with me, says Hastur, who understands.

Tim does.

He's angry about something else, though, too: he hadn’t realized how much he felt like himself under Myrddin’s protection, and he feels like he’s been robbed. Robbed of peace by the Desolation. Robbed of reality by Myrddin. And that latter is not fair, because Myrddin was helping, and it sure did help, because there would not have been a sweet and scary moment of flirting on the beach if Tim had been feeling like this.

Tim no longer feels like himself, and he wants to weep. That infection is going to get him, says Tim’s memory. Going to eat up that goodness, burn that wholesome charm like kindling. It’s a matter of time.

Devil pants isn’t here. Raging won’t help. Tim exhales slowly.

In, two, three, four, five, six… out, two, three, four, five…

“Have a lot of experience domming, don’t you?” Tim mutters.

Yes. But this is about anxiety and internal peace, not sex.

“What a pity,” says Tim, but he doesn’t mean the flirt. Not right now. Not feeling this way.

Hastur seems to understand. In, two, three, four, five, six….

Jon has, evidently, made it his mission in life to ignore flirting. “I'm going to explore the ship,” he says.

Tim exhales again, a controlled and slow choice. “Sure that’s a good idea? Can’t even see where the edge of the deck is.”

“I can see the gunwale just fine, thank you,” Jon says primly. “But you are right. Parts of this place keep being hidden, somehow, in the periphery. If we’re going to be stuck here however many weeks, the least we can do for our own safety is learn the layout of the ship.”

Tim wants to burn the layout of the ship.

In, two, three, four, five, six….

You're going to lose him.

It strikes Tim, suddenly, what an incredibly cruel thing that was to say. It was like the guy was trying to create a self-fulfilling prophecy for them; like he just wanted them to suffer before they had to, before the inevitable doom lands on their faces like peculiarly aggressive bird shit.

Tim licks his lips. Devil Pants can go to hell. He will not lose himself that easily. “Right,” he says to whatever Jon was talking about.

Jon nods. “I’m glad to hear you agree.”

Wait, what had he said? “Oh, uh—”

Jon disappears. Melts away, into the fog, short and hunched and stalking, and Tim hesitates just a moment too long to follow, and Jon is gone.

“Shit,” says Tim quietly, peering. He moves into the gloom.

Whatever gift for seeing Jon has, Tim doesn’t share it. Nothing is clear; he feels like he’s walking in the essence of fog, in its heart of hearts, its truest, murkiest self. People are here, technically, loads of them working, moving things, doing whatever with ropes and equipment, but he can’t reach them. He tries, but no matter where Tim wanders, they evaporate when he nears. Shapes in fog, manipulating other shapes in fog, doing foggy things. It’s utterly dizzying; it’s weirdly sickening. It feels like the sharp anxiousness of one’s chair nearly going over backwards, yet somehow achieving the shapeless and illogical horror of a nightmare.

“That captain is nowhere to be seen,” Jon complains, swooping out of the gloom like some kind of ghost.

Tim startles. “Oh?”

“I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” says Jon, who doesn't seem to realize he suddenly became real. Somehow, Jon carries sight with him, like some indie game with a mere circle of visibility around the player. 

Tim rubs his face. He feels clammy. “Yeah, I’m thinking rational fact isn’t so pertinent on the Good Ship Spookypop.”

Jon huffs and leaves again, melting at once into the fog.

Tim suddenly can no longer see the deck under his feet. He shudders. “I’m not sure how long I can take this,” he murmurs.

I’m with you.

“It feels like madness,” says Tim.

My wheelhouse, says Hastur with a dire laugh.

Yikes. “Right, creepy commentary aside, I keep swinging between feeling like I’ll never see or know anyone ever again, and feeling like I just want to burn the whole fucking ship down.”

And yet somehow, you make even that seductive.

Well. That is a third option, isn’t it? It's certainly a feeling he’d rather feed. “That’s what does it for you, is it? Murderous rage?”

Passion, rumbles Hastur. Intensity. Focus. Perhaps I would like to burn to ash with you, Tim.

Holy shit, this third option was wild. “May not have a choice.”

It's not over yet.

"Yeah, it's not. Sounds like your acceptance of inevitable doom has faded a bit. Is that hope I hear?”

Hastur seems to be putting a careful answer together. Tim, I know what’s coming. I’ve lived through… so many years. And you’re so young.

“I’m not that young.”

To me, you are.

“Bullshit. We’re consenting adults,” says Tim.

Hastur chuckles low, and his hand rises without his permission and gently touches his lips. I do like you, Tim.

“I like you, too,” murmurs Tim, and the awful loneliness of this place feels a little less keen, and the anger a little less hot. “Maybe more than is wise, but hey, at least I know my proclivities. No denial here.”

It’s too late, anyway. You see, Tim… I'm not letting you go, either.

That was one hell of a delivery. Was it threatening? Incredibly sexy? Both?

Both. Tim is suddenly very glad for the thick, obscuring fog up to his waist. “Promises, promises. Gonna be dangerous when you have a body.”

You have no idea.

Tim has some idea, but there’s no way to tell right now what’s fantasy and what’s real. “Nothing wrong with my imagination.”

Good. We’ll need it, where we’re going.

“Way to kill the mood,” Tim mutters. “Right. The mission. Sannikov Land.”

“It’s imaginary,” says Jon, stepping out of absolutely nowhere.

Tim jumps. “Geez! Will you stop doing that?”

Jon manages to blush in this color-stealing fog. “Sorry. I don't know what I… Anyway. It’s a phantom island. Cartographers Yakov Sannikov and Matvei Gedenschtrom swore they saw it in 1811, and then Baltic-German explorer Baron Eduard von Toll thought he did in 1886, but that was it. No one’s ever found it, or been able to locate where it was. It doesn’t exist.”

It exists sometimes, is the answer, says Hastur. It belongs to the Spiral; it is a place of impossibility, of intellectual contradiction. It’s designed to make you doubt your senses—fully solid, yet mirage, completely fictional, yet where we are to walk. What better place to hide the flesh of a god?

“Up my butt,” says Tim, because he’s desperate for this to be lighter, because he’s desperate to stop feeling angry, because he’s desperate to stop feeling afraid.

Jon stares at him.

Hastur starts laughing.

After a moment, Tim has to, as well. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t have a clue where that came from.”

“Yes, well.” Jon has a look that clearly says one of us is being an adult, and clears his throat.

Tim laughs again. It hasn’t erased the anger and the fear, but he does feel better. “Sorry.”

Don’t be. You surprise me, Tim. I like it.

“Well, you know,” says Tim. “Push me too hard into spooky-town magic shit, and something’s got to blow.”

Up your butt, apparently.

They both laugh again. The sound is so, so strange here. It goes flat, carrying nowhere, weirdly thinned like it’s being bled the moment it leaves Tim’s mouth.

“I'm glad someone is having fun,” murmurs Jon.

“Somebody has to,” Tim agrees, still smiling. “What is my life? I should start a journal.”

“I think an autobiography is the least of our concerns,” says Jon. “Just try to keep your head about you.”

Tim snorts. “Sure. No problem. I'll just be sane, and everything will work out fine.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Weeks of this facing us, and even then, we’ve got no guarantee of anything actually being there.”

Jon sighs. “At least we aren’t likely to encounter Larson out here.”

Tim levels a finger at him. “That’s a good point.”

Either way, we're in for an interesting adventure.

“Why?” says Jon.

Because we don’t fit in the Lonely. You and I can’t be separated, Tim. We cannot feel isolated here. And you, little priest… you’re seeing far more than you should.

Jon pales. “What does that mean? How?”

Hastur paused. If I were to guess, I'd say your Beholding is… fond of you. It's empowering you far more than it should.

It’s an odd tone. Tim’s not sure how to read it. “Are you saying we’re giving a fear-god indigestion?”

Yes.

Tim laughs. It’s flat again, but he suddenly understands it’s a sound that can’t be killed; as long as he’s living, breathing, burning, he will bloom laughter and love and loudness, and the Lonely will not overwhelm him.

“That was upsetting, and I'm exploring again,” says Jon. “I’ll, uh. See you at lunch.” And he disappears into the fog.

Tim shakes his head “He’s got to be driving them crazy. Think you're all stealthy and hidden in lonely fog, and oops! Up pops a nerd with x-ray vision.”

You're not wrong. Let's hope they don't decide to throw him overboard.

That is considerably less funny. “Guess we’ll have to be so obnoxious that if anyone's going over, it’s us. At least we have magic.”

But at least he'd see coming.

“Another salient point,” says Tim. “Mister Madness God.”

There is a pause. An interesting title.

“Oh, no need for humility. Isn't that the whole Cthulhu shtick, anyway? Also, ‘My wheelhouse?’ Ominous. Anyway, maybe we can at least balance him out. So let's talk! You’ve got to have some good stories. Wild gossip. The dirt on famous figures.”

A few, in fact, says Hastur. How about the time I crashed an orgy starring Pope Alexander VI and far too many of his own family members?

“Oh my gods,” says Tim. “That’s rank. By all means, continue.”

Hastur does.

#

Time feels impossible to keep track of here, but eventually, dinner rolls around. It's weird as hell.

The captain, Lukas, never shows. No one wants to talk to them. Tim tries, and gets stared at in silence until he goes away. Jon tries, too. But Jon gets answers.

Exactly what is happening isn’t clear to Tim. Exactly why Jon picks certain crew to sit beside isn't obvious. But suddenly, in this silent and eerie ship’s mess, there are voices—mostly the voice Jon summoned from his target. As Jon’s chosen speaker speaks, the other deckhands move away, making it feel even less natural than it already does.

“This all seems fine,” Tim mutters.

Incredible.

“What is? His lack of social awareness?”

No. Tim. Let me show you.

And Tim’s vision changes. Goes stark, bicolor, everything and everyone white and drained and deathly cold… except for the pillar of brilliant terrifying sci-fi green, piercing through the upper decks and centered on Jon and his current… victim?

It was hard to see the guy any other way. While all outside that green were blank and personless faces, unsmiling mouths and unseen eyes, within that green, all was seen. Revealed, exposed, in high definition. The detail was incredible. From the other side of the ship’s mess, Tim could see every wrinkle and hair and pore, every micro expression and shudder and grimace. And saw that Jon was—

Jon was somehow utterly still, not even breathing, terrifyingly inhuman… and yet vibrant, a rushing river of energy (no, information, Tim knows that is information), a planet-size current and enablement of—

Tim’s eye suddenly stings and waters, and he makes a small sound, closes it, turns away.

Sorry, Tim, says Hastur sounding breathless, says Hastur sounding, ah, intense, and chuckles. I overwhelmed you.

Tim takes a moment, his breath loud, wiping at tears to the backdrop of that stranger's statement. “So. That. That’s how gods see?”

I do.

Tim can't decide if it's pleasant or horrifying. “So… what's Jon doing?”

His Eye is doing it through him. As expected for a priest of It Knows You.

The recitation tattered on, ragged and unwilling. “Right, right.” Tim takes a breath. “Not really an answer, but anyway. Should we stop him?”

This is a challenging question, Tim. I'm well aware that your morality might say, stop. That man is being victimized. But I don’t see it that way.

Oh, good. It's been a while since Tim had the reminder this guy was not at all human. (Rage swirls, eager, seeking an entrance, a single crack in Tim’s armor, but he ignores it.) “Tell me how you see it, then,” he says evenly, refusing wrath’s entry.

We are on an enemy ship. These people have sacrificed numerous innocents, and had they their way, they would sacrifice us. Indeed, whatever loneliness we’ve felt has only strengthened them.

“So that means—” Tim stops, resettles. “So in your view, that means they deserve no trial or proper justice.”

What would proper justice do here, Tim? What even could anyone do? Lock them alone in a cell to be strengthened by their god, in a facility full of those cut off from their families?

Burn them, says a foreign thought, and yet perfect imitation of himself. Tim ignores it. “Maybe community service?”

Hastur laughs, low and dark. A sweet idea. However, this isn’t my only reasoning. There is also the fact that the little priest is on our side… and what he is doing is increasing his power and his connection to his god. Exponentially, in fact.

Oh, that's probably bad. “So we definitely should stop it.”

Why?

“Because… it’s changing him. Without his consent.”

What he’s doing is a consequence of his consent.

“But he doesn’t know that.” This is important. This is personal. This is what might mean hope for him, or its lack. “He should at least know.”

Would you feel better if you tell him?

Hastur’s amusement feels like mockery. Condescension.

Or does it? Am I overreacting? Tim thinks. “Maybe.”

Then do. I only ask you be aware that you could be weakening one of our only weapons.

“He’s not a weapon. He’s a person, and our friend,” says Tim firmly.

And if he chooses to continue?

“Then… at least he’s doing so on purpose,” says Tim quietly. “At least he’ll have a choice.”

You think he has a choice?

“I have to believe he does.” Tim knows how his voice came out there: dark. Angry. Very angry.

Hastur falls silent.

Yeah, Tim thinks. Take that. Not so easy when it’s your guy who—

It's only a matter of time, echoes the memory of Devil Pants’ prediction.

Tim can’t do this. Not now.

He gets up and leaves, heading for the tiny closet-like berth they gave him, and lies face-down on his coffin bunk.

Hastur waits a while before speaking. Tim?

“Mmmph.”

Come back to me, Tim. I know I’ve upset you.

“And you don’t like not getting attention, I know, I know,” Tim mutters, and immediately regrets it.

Another long silence.

“Sorry,” Tim says.

Don’t be. You’re right.

So. That feels like either a breakthrough or a trap. “Am I?” Tim asks his pillow.

Silence again. Maybe it isn’t a trap. Maybe it actually is a breakthrough. Sure, says the instinct-that-is-not-Tim’s. He’s just manipulating you again.

I… 

Tim rolls over. “Yeah?”

I am what I am, Tim. You understand that, don’t you?

Oh, where was this going? “I understand who you are.”

That… isn’t what I mean.

“It is, though. Unless you weren’t about to go on some bullshit about being inherently wicked, or selfish, or something.”

Hastur goes quiet.

Point to me, Tim thinks. “Doesn’t bother you that I might not agree with you about Jon?”

No, Hastur lies.

“It’s all right not to agree on everything,” Tim says. “And it’s a little weird explaining this to someone ancient, but there you are.”

You don't understand, Hastur says, a pinch snappish. That's not how it works for me!

“All right,” says Tim evenly.

I have lived thousands upon thousands of years. My word is law. My decisions create morality. When I tell my priests, my acolytes, what is and is not right, they believe me! They hear me, and understand the wisdom of my words!

In a flash of inspiration, Tim gets it. “So this is new. You never just had… a friend, or a lover. Someone with their own opinions who could still respect yours.”

It does not happen.

“Hasn’t happened, you mean,” Tim says softly. “But that's actually great. I mean, all these years, and now there’s a new thing. You just said you liked it when I surprise you."

You don't understand.

Editing all those psych books is finally coming in handy. Who knew? “I think I do, actually. This is messing with your identity, isn't it? I’m not going to worship you, so you don’t know what you are to me.”

I know exactly what I am.

“You’re someone I’m coming to trust. That’s who you are.”

Hastur falls silent.

Is this really happening on a ship belonging to the Lonely, in the middle of the North Sea, bombarded by sentient rage? Yes. Yes, it is, and Tim leans into it, because the same instinct he’s listened to all his life says this is all going to speed up soon, moving too fast to have discussions like this, and they need to have this conversation now.

I…

“So think of it this way,” Tim says. “I’ve never dated a god before? Though you’re hardly my first narcissist.”

Your first what?

“So it’s new for us both,” says Tim. “Learning curve. We’re on equal footing. And no, I know, I'm mortal and you're not, blah blah blah… but can you see that here, now, we're at the same spot in the road? Neither of us can see what's around the bend, but we'll face it together.”

Hastur is quiet for a while.

Tim makes a bet with himself. What will the King go after? The narcissist comment? The dating remark? Or will he dive back into should and am and new?

I would have broken you back in my great court, says Hastur instead.

Yikes. “Now that’s pillow talk,” Tim blurts, but Hastur isn't done.

And it would have been the greatest mistake of my life.

Oh.

Oh.

“Hastur,” says Tim, low.

I need to tell you something, says Hastur as though coming to a big decision, and Tim holds his breath. The book. I was in there for—

Somebody bangs on the door, hard, a violent knocking that shakes it damn near off its hinges.

“Shit! What?” Tim calls.

And there is no answer at all.

“Oh, that not spoky is it?” says Tim.

Ignore it. They probably just wanted us to stop talking about our feelings.

Tim snorts. That’s probably true. And yet…

That instinct is niggling, bugging, bothering. Tim gets up.

What are you doing?

“Something's wrong.”

Quietly, Hastur curses.

Quietly, Tim agrees.

#

The silence of the ship has changed.

It feels… expectant. It is a bad, sucking feeling, as if the awfulness of being left behind and forgotten forever could coil to pounce.

Reason says there’s nothing wrong. It’s all as it has been. Instinct screams hurry. Tim takes up his bag. Why? He doesn’t know. There’s a knife in there, at least, but he suspects he’d have more success whaling people over the head with Hastur’s book.

Tim. What are you doing?

Can't you feel it? Tim thinks at him. Something hungry is here.

Within him, the god trembles.

Tim creeps onto deck.

The moon is out, full, reflecting almost blindingly on a sea of fog that covers the true ocean. It surges and subsides in its own current, a lostness given soundless form. At the other end of the deck, a group of silhouettes works, bending and standing, while over them, two long, thin lines jerk and shudder.

Tim's sure that's a lifeboat. He sneaks closer, and—Well, he thinks. There’s the bastard.

Peter Lukas really is a large man. He stands there, a broad, tall figure in dark clothes and white hair, watching with disgust on his face as his men do something with that lifeboat.

Tim. Be careful. Something is happening here. I think they're making a sacrifice. We don’t want to get caught up in this.

And suddenly, Tim knows who they're loading into the boat, who is being sacrificed, and though he has no idea why Elias would do this, he knows this is how Lukas was paid.

There is no stopping this rage. It explodes, fills him, replaces his blood with magma and the monochrome night with red-hot light. “Hey!”

His shout billows out from him, eats the air and spits out heat, and the space between him and those men suddenly and shockingly clears. The deckhands cry out and stagger backwards, details fading as if on stage and backing out of spotlight. Peter Lukas looks up. His expression is unchanged—amiable, a little humorous, as if nothing in the world could surprise him.

One dark hand hangs limp over the side of the lifeboat.

Tim breathes like an angry bull. Reason says to stay calm, to approach this with caution, wisdom, charm. He could charm their way out of this.

Or he could rage and burn the damn boat down.

The anger finds the crack of guilt that Tim hadn’t stopped Jon tonight, finds the crack of loneliness and anger born from Danny’s brutal and unanswered murder, and Tim suddenly doesn't feel bad anymore.

He takes a step, and the night turns to day. Brilliance and heat, blasting tarps so their strap-downs rattle, whipping Lukas’ coat back. Lukas catches his hat and tucks it into his coat like nothing is happening.

“What the fuck did you do?” Tim says, and it is not a snarl, not a roar. It is said with a smile. (They did it, they crossed the line, my reaction is justified—)

“What I was hired to do,” says Lukas, and around him is a white haze, an obscurement eating away at his edges, as though it requires will for him to remain visible all.

“Let him go!” Tim says, and he is smiling, smiling so wide it hurts, and he knows and Lukas knows that letting Jon go will not stop what’s coming. (Finally, finally, freed and powerful and unhurtable forever and now it’s everyone else’s turn to hurt—)

“None of this is necessary, you know,” says Lukas like they're haggling over a day-old loaf of bread. “Your passage is safe. He’s the trade. Just go back to your room, and we’ll get you to your imaginary island.”

Tim takes another step. Paint blisters around his feet, boiling away. The deck beneath begins to blacken and crack. This feels so good (is going to feel so good will forever feel so good)—

Tim.

Hastur. Tim’s not mad at Hastur. Yeah?

What do you think will happen to Jon if you burn everything down?

Hastur’s voice… wow. Had he always been capable of doing that? Tim could hear that voice even over the whistling wind and the cracking of the deck. It was rich and deep and literally buzzed through Tim’s whole body, centering low and warm and pleasant like a familiar hand in places that craved such touch.

But wait. The question. He’d burn. Because everything should burn. (Freedom freedom flight power cleansing pain—)

“I mean, if you really want to go with him, I’m certainly not going to stop you,” says Lukas, coat billowing, showing absolutely no fear of any kind (and some tiny, reasonable part of Tim wants to scream about that because it’s suspicious as all hell).

Do you want Jon to burn?

Oh. Hm. No… no, Tim didn’t actually want that.

A nearby rope singes completely through, snapping, and a crate breaks loose to crash onto the deck. Lukas finally looks annoyed, just a little. “I don’t suppose Elias is going to cover the mess you’re making,” he says, gesturing at the wrecked decking around Tim’s feet.

“Your insurance is going to have to cover more than that,” Tim warns, but does not step closer. He doesn’t want Jon to burn. And Hastur…

Come back to me, Tim. Follow my voice. You’re mine. It’s going to be all right. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Whether any of that is contradictory does not matter. It’s Hastur—deep and sexy and intimate and soothing—and Tim slowly, painfully, realizes what he’s doing.

What's controlling him.

Maybe it shows on his face. Maybe Lukas was waiting for a distraction, or maybe the timing is just bad. Whatever the trigger, this is the moment Peter Lukas is done. “Elias can bite me,” he says, and Tim discovers why Lukas was not afraid.

The billow of fog is so cold it aches, and it swallows Tim with such immediacy and ease that for a moment, he can’t even breathe.

Of course, he thinks in a surprisingly calm manner as he flips through nothing, empty void so lonely it cannot exist. Lukas has been doing this forever. I’m just a baby monster wizard, and I don’t know what I’m doing. He’s swept off his feet, tumbling in nothing, in the aether, apart from everyone and everything, his fire suffocated and gone.

#

The thunk of oar on wood is so weirdly loud.

He recognizes it, but it’s annoying; so close to his face, for one, and he was deeply asleep, for another, and wants to stay there.

Another thunk.

“Quit it,” Tim murmurs.

“Tim?” says Jon.

It all comes back. The ship, his anger, the Desolation nearly making him kill them all. Tim gasps. He sits up too quickly, overbalances, and lands in Jon’s lap.

“Oof!” says Jon.

Tim stares up at him. Jon is bundled; he’s wearing what looks like four peacoats, one on top of another, all of them worn and hole-ridden. His nose and hands are red.

Beyond Jon is icy-grey sky, daylight hidden in frost.

Tim looks down. He was wrapped in an oil-cloth, thick and greasy, and though it’s hardly as good as a blanket, it seems to have kept his body-heat in, because he's a lot less cold than he should be. “What?” he says, sitting up.

They’re in a lifeboat in the middle of nowhere. Ice floes rise and fall around them, edges disturbingly sharp, much larger than their small wooden vessel. There is no sign of land. There is no sign of people. There is no sign of anything except empty, cold doom.

“Oh, shit,” says Tim.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” says Jon. “Hastur is a terrible conversationalist.”

Go to hell.

Oh, good, so they’ve been getting along just fine. Tim looks at Jon. “What happened last night?”

You lost yourself. I… found you.

Tim swallows. He reaches and takes Hastur’s hand. “You did,” he says. “You did. But, ah, I meant Jon.”

Hastur huffs.

Jon winces. “The captain found me—came and knocked on my cabin door. He said, ‘this isn’t personal,’ and dragged me onto the deck.” His brow knits. “This is about where they chloroformed me, but he was on the phone with Elias.”

So… Jon hadn’t actually prompted this? (Well, thinks Tim, he probably didn’t help the situation.) “Shit.”

“Apparently, that’s why he wanted me on board.” Jon’s bitterness is still fresh; it hasn’t hardened yet, its edges still malleable from shock. “A sacrifice to the Lonely, which would then pay for your passage. When I woke, for a moment, I was so alone, like I'd never be near anyone again—but then you were here in the boat with me.” He indicates a small footlocker in the stern. “There were supplies in there, and they've saved our lives. As you can tell.”

“Not sure how saved they are just yet,” says Tim, pulling the oil cloth closer. It crackles, clearly not rated for ass-freezing cold.

“Ah,” says Jon. “You were so hot initially that I kept all the coats. Here you go.” He begins to struggle out of one.

“No… no, thanks, that’s okay,” says Tim, staring at his shoes. The soles are burned back and slightly misshapen. “Hastur? I… fuck.” Tears are coming, and Tim didn’t give them permission. “Fuck.”

I’ve got you. You weren’t all gone. You’re all right. You’re still yourself.

But Tim knows, though it doesn’t show in Hastur’s voice, that this was… a bad blow. A bad moment. A terrible slip. A promise of what is to come. An unavoidable fate. Maybe.

Tim wipes his face. “I hate this.”

Hastur raises his hand to touch Tim’s jaw. I know.

“Well, we at least have water,” says Jon. “I suppose we wouldn’t feed the Lonely very well if we just died in the first three days.”

“They gave us water?” Tim says.

“And hardtack,” says Jon, voice cracking. “Enough for quite a bit. Maybe enough to find land.”

Tim looks at him. “You don’t know what happened with me, do you?”

“No. I woke, and you were here. Hastur was hardly forthcoming.” Jon sniffs.

It isn’t my story to tell. Hastur’s voice drops and goes so soft.

“To think,” Tim murmurs, “all this comes on the heels of a lovely flirt-walk on the beach.”

“I don’t really need to know that,” Jon volunteers. “However, you should know that he never took over your body.”

Tim blinks. “What? You didn’t?”

I didn’t.

“Why not? Not that I want you to,” says Tim.

Hastur hesitates. Just a pinch. Because that breeze—which I tried to describe to you before—was stronger. I feared if I did, you’d lose more of yourself. Or maybe… I’d lose you.

Tim grips Hastur’s hand again. Oh. Oh, this is getting serious. Oh, this is maybe more serious than Tim has ever known before, and it’s happening so damn fast. “Thanks.” He has to say something.

“I’ll say this,” says Jon, using an oar to push them away from a looming floe. “If Sannikov Land is ever going to make an appearance, this would be a good time.”

“Yeah,” says Tim weakly. “But I mean… we can get out of here. I can, uh. Leap. Or portal us, or something.”

“Possibly into the ice-cold sea without a boat,” Jon points out. “I think I’d rather save that last resort until it is a last resort, or until you can somehow control it better.”

Tim makes a face at him. “I mean, you’re right, but you didn’t have to say it.”

“Ha.” Jon switches the paddle to port side and tries to keep them straight.

“I can do that,” says Tim. “If you like.”

“You are stronger than I am,” Jon says without self-hate, “but I’ve got it for now. You still seem a bit woozy, and I’d rather not risk losing it. We don't have another.”

He was woozy. “Fair. Where in fuck are we?” Tim says. “This doesn’t look like the North Sea.”

“It isn’t.” Jon swallows. “We’re in the Arctic Sea.”

Tim stares. “We should be frozen to death, and also, whaaaat?”

“I don’t know. We woke here. And, ah… you produced more than enough heat to keep us safe until about an hour ago.”

That’s just upsetting. "It followed me into unconsciousness?"

Your body is… changing, says Hastur. I don’t know fully how much, but I’m certain that if not for your heritage, you’d already be made of wax.

“Made of… fuck me,” Tim breathes in horror.

“I think maybe we’re here because it’s where you wanted to go?” says Jon, trying to keep the focus on better things. “Lukas' people certainly weren’t trying to be helpful.”

“I guess?” Tim feels utterly out of his depth, and also very cold. “How do I… fuck, we need warmth.”

We do. Be careful. If you burn the boat, we would be in far greater trouble.

“We could at least move onto the ice floes,” says Jon. “Though that’s what Baron von Toll and three unnamed companions tried in their final attempt to locate Sannikov Land, and they were never heard from again.”

“How helpful,” murmurs Tim, beginning to shiver.

Careful.

“Here,” says Jon, struggling with one of his coats again.

“No, you keep that. I need to figure this out,” says Tim. “Warm breeze. Yes—nothing crazy, no big storms, no wind so strong it can stir up the waves. Just… slightly warmer air.”

“What are you doing?” says Jon slowly.

“Trying,” says Tim.

Jon clutches the paddle.

Easy. Steady. I can help you.

“I have to do this,” Tim insists, maybe because it’s all gone so wrong already, and concentrates. “Barely anything. Hardly a change. A warm breeze, just enough so our eyelashes don’t frost over. Warm—”

“Oh!” Jon cries.

Their view to starboard as changed. It was floes, endless dark sea and frothing, briny ice, no sign of life and chunks of frozen water big enough to crush them. Now, it’s all open, a clear path, and a straight shot to a tropical island.

They all stare.

It rises from the waves as if it has a right to be there. Ice bumps along its edges as if confused. Palm trees grow at weird angles, slightly curved this way and that, as if painted by someone aiming for surreal, or possibly on acid. The island climbs up into dense forest, rising like a volcanic protrusion. It’s just sitting there, vaguely insulting in the middle of all the cold.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out his hand. Wordlessly, Jon puts the paddle into it.

Tim gets to work. They reach the impossible island in less than twenty minutes.

[songofthesibyl]

Continuing my journey to Tamlin Week mode, I wanted to post the first fic I ever wrote (for any fandom! ever!), in January of last year (a Tamlin POV fic):

Because it brings up what I think is one of the central themes with the character—something I can relate to  (as well as many people with depression, but not only people with depression, of course)—and that is the idea of having sovereignty—having agency—in your own life. It is what is often called “victim mentality,” but that term has such negative and judgy connotations that I’d prefer not to use it. 

In my fic, I began with the idea of the Goddesses of Sovereignty in Celtic Britain and Ireland (of which the Morrigan is one); these goddesses represent the land, and choose a male to lead it, consummating this partnership with marriage and/or sex, very similar to the idea of the Great Rite. In the fic, Feyre represents this goddess (metaphorically), who chose Tamlin and—similar to stories of sovereignty goddesses—abandons the male when he proves himself unworthy, and allies herself with another. The fic takes place during ACOSF, just before he confronts Nesta, and attempts to get into his frame of mind during that time. It was very personal and somewhat difficult to write—but ultimately reflects what I believe Tamlin’s perspective might be—everything centers on the feeling that he has no say in his life. That he can’t change anything himself, that he will ultimately fail. 

This starts early with him not having any desire to be High Lord—it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter he’d rather play the fiddle and be left alone. Even before Rhysand, he had felt he would just fight and do what he felt it was his duty to do, and that was it. And then he meets Rhysand, and perhaps there was the dream of something better—and that goes horrible wrong, and becomes the inciting incident for the course the rest of his journey has taken. The belief that he will ultimately fail the people he loves. That he is the same as his father and brothers, the same as Amarantha. When he had his big test; say, in standing up to his father for Rhysand—whether through torture, pressure, however you believe it went down—he ultimately failed to stop it. Failed to protect his mother. And this dynamic gets repeated again and again. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Why bother, when he is just going to fail anyway? He says as much to Rhysand in ACOFAS—what’s the point of apologizing, when he can never make up for what he did, in his mind (doesn’t help that Rhysand confirms this, but whatever). Even how he snaps at the last minute; sending his sentries out for the curse, pulling Feyre aside the last night UTM. Sending her away the last minute. Something in him freezes, falters, feels he won’t be strong enough—or is strong enough, but then falls apart like he does in ACOMAF, like he does in ACOFAS. 

So it makes sense he could be manipulated by Ianthe, when he just desperately wants someone to tell him the right thing to do. It makes sense he wouldn’t think he had any say in deciding if someone was High Lord or High Lady, when he didn’t even choose it for himself. When he has to perform the Great Rite whether he wants to or not, or people will starve—and when he doesn’t, he’s seen as failing in his duty, just as he is seen as being a monster for performing it. When it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t want Amarantha—she’ll torture, and murder, everyone that he cares about, she’ll have his mask off when he’s in his beast form, so he knows he’s just like her, so he won’t have anyone or anything else but that. He is a body to fit into the ceremonies of his Court; to fight, to kill, to take orders. And nothing more. It’s indicative of his depressive state, and a reason for his anger as well, which often comes from feeling out of control. His challenge, and what I would write for his story going forward, is for him to take back sovereignty in his own life; to not wait for permission or acceptance from the Inner Circle, or anyone else, to live. No redemption through suicide, or being someone’s father, or lover. Simply being enough, on his own. The sovereign of his own life.