#and also the origin of the phrase “the writing's on the wall”

[litany-writes]

belshazzar's feast

[r3starttt]

LA DÉDICACE

PAIRING: Princess! Abby Anderson x reader

SUMMARY: Where abby falls for the woman she met at a mascarade.

CW: angsty asf but also lots of yearning and happy ending. It's a request ♡ thanks anon

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @imagoddess @lovelyy-moonlight

A.N: Inspired on Renee Vivien's poems. I enjoyed writing this request so much.

I was originally doing this for Caitlyn but ended up working with Abby. Either way... it's pretty good, me thinks.

I will beg for u, pretty amazing reader to please leave a comment or reblog this or both if you liked it even the tinniest bit. Please and thanks ♡ hope u enjoy.

It was a rare affliction, a peculiar and persistent condition that ran through the veins of the noble bloodline, one that neither healer nor sorcerer could eradicate. For two decades, no remedy—no enchanted herb, no mystical fruit, nor sacred flower—could cleanse it, as if the hand of God itself had decreed this fate. For nearly every noble child born in that time had been gifted—or burdened—with the biological form of a woman.

This had become a growing concern, a burden for those aware of the little time the King had left. What would become of the kingdom when the king passed? Would the throne remain empty, or worse, be claimed by someone unfit to rule?

Even so, Abigail had come to embody the very heart of her father’s reign. There could be no missteps, no flaws. Every moment was a calculation, for any slip would cost her dearly. With every five steps forward, one misstep could undo it all, leaving her at least six steps behind.

Her father’s affection for her was evident, but she knew it could only stretch so far. He could not afford to show weakness, even in the face of his own daughter’s love. His affection was tempered by his duty, by the crown’s expectations. She was aware that, despite the love he had for her, it would never grant her complete freedom.

Yet, Abigail remained soft-hearted, her nature too gentle for the hardened world around her. She was born to love, to represent the purest form of royalty—one that transcended power and wealth.

Her speech was carefully honed, polished with elocution and intelligence, words flowing with a cadence so refined that only the most learned would comprehend them. Consonants and vowels twisted into intricate phrases, a vocabulary that demanded respect, reserved for those worthy of understanding it. And so she adapted. She humiliated with her words, She wielded her intellect as both a shield and a sword—using it to humiliate, to elevate herself above those who sought to diminish her.

Abigail reveled in the confusion, for it was their inability to understand her that made her presence all the more commanding.

And the thought—faint at first, yet persistent—began to root itself in the deepest corners of her mind: that perhaps, somewhere beyond the stone walls and polished silver of her upbringing, there existed a man whose tongue would not stumble over flattery, whose gaze held clarity, and whose heart could mirror her own in strength and tenderness. A man whose hair bore the color of summer grain like her father’s, and whose nobility ran not through lineage, but through his deeds.

-

You weren’t supposed to be here.

A favor, a borrowed mask, and a friend in the castle kitchens had slipped you past the guards. It was foolish—dangerous even—but something in you longed to see how the other half lived. Just for one night.

The palace shimmered under golden candlelight, each chandelier catching the gleam of masked faces and embroidered gowns.

And then you saw her.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, tall and composed, a detailed mask made with the most expensive materials, the only one who worn color. Raming eyes and golden hair coiled back with precision. Her dress was different from the others.

When your eyes met, she didn’t look away.

She approached.

You spoke of nothing and everything—books, cities you’d never seen, dreams that didn’t belong to your class. She was clever and soft-spoken, but there was steel in the way she carried herself, like she’d been taught to command even in silence. Still, you didn’t question her name, nor did she offer one.

Hours passed unnoticed. At some point, she took your hand, guiding you through a dance you didn’t know. Her touch was steady. Gentle.

You expected mockery when you stumbled over a step, but instead, she leaned close, her breath brushing your ear.

“Follow me,” your body understood the rhythm better than your mind ever could. The rest of the world blurred. Your feet moved not with grace, but trust. It was enough.

Laughter and music spun around you like a spell. You couldn't remember the last time you felt so light, so seen. When she smiled—soft, private, meant only for you—you realized the knot that lived in your chest had loosened.

She didn’t ask about your dress, which was borrowed. Or your speech, a little too rough to pass for nobility. She didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps… perhaps she already knew.

As the night wore on, the candles melted lower. Midnight loomed, and with it, the unraveling of fantasy. You felt it before you heard it—distant bells from the outer ward, signaling the change of watch. A quiet reminder that time was not yours.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still in hers. “I should go.”

Something flickered across her face. Regret? Frustration? She didn’t argue, but she also didn’t let go.

“One more minute,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “May I have your name?"

You hesitated. Your eyes drifted to the crowd, to the towering ceiling, to the place you knew you didn’t belong.

Her lips parted slightly—just slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile. Not this time.

“Let me see you,” she said, as if taking your mask off with her voice.

But you couldn’t.

You slipped away. And she let you go.

You didn’t know her name.

And you would soon haunt her thoughts.

-

When the moon weeps,

illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,

my memories creep

back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.​

Love, if only you would come again—

My hands could hold your fragile wings.

But time slips like water through my fingers

And my soul remains thirsty, empty.

— A. A.

-

Abigail found herself longing —selfishly, perhaps—for such a intimate encounter like she had with you. For someone who could shield her without binding her, who could love her not despite who she was, but because of it. Someone as soft as you felt that night.

She prayed. Quiet, hopeless prayers to a god she was not even sure she believed in, hoping that if divinity ever listened, it might listen now. And though the desire was delicate, even innocent at its core, it was also indulgent. For a woman born into power, even dreaming of such things was its own form of rebellion.

Still, she clung to the thought like one clings to warmth in winter, and eventually, it drove her to act. With uncharacteristic nerve, she asked the king—her father—for a rare permission. She wished to leave the palace walls. Just once. To see beyond the curated beauty of rose gardens and marble columns. He agreed, reluctantly. And so she went, dressed in garments that barely clung to her body, coarse fabric draped in a way no noblewoman would dare be seen. A cloak of shadows sewn by her trusted maid, who accompanied her closely.

The streets were crowded with the hungry and the poor. The scent of ash, sweat, and desperation lingered in the air like a curse. But she was not broken by the sight. She had always known this world existed—her education had not spared her such truths—but it had remained a distant concept until now. Weakness, her father once said, is a luxury afforded only to fools. And she had taken that lesson to heart.

Still, it was in this moment of carefully guarded defiance that fate began to stir.

She thought her journey would remain uneventful—a quiet, dangerous indulgence.

The same path that had led her through narrow alleys and cobbled streets now brought her to a modest marketplace. Here, the world was loud and alive—vendors shouting prices, children pulled tightly by their mothers' hands, food exchanged for coin in desperate urgency. She moved with care, slipping between the crowds, eyes wide and curious.

And then she saw it.

A small wooden stall, nearly hidden among the others, bore a collection of books. Old and weathered, but dignified. One, in particular, caught her attention. Its spine was cracked, its edges softened with use, but the author’s name glinted faintly beneath the dust—poetry, surely. She reached for it, compelled by a hunger she could not name.

Before her fingers could graze the cover, a hand snatched it away.

“It isn’t for sale,” came a voice—calm, firm, feminine.

Startled, she looked up to meet the eyes of a young woman, perhaps no older than herself. Her hands were ink-stained, her gaze sharp.

Abigail’s brows furrowed, not in fury, but confusion. She was not used to being refused.

For a moment, the princess simply stared—no words, no breath, no pretense. Just awe.

A woman… with a book.

Abigail straightened, smoothing the front of her coarse, borrowed cloak as if it could somehow conceal the nobility in her posture. She reminded herself that here, in the dusty stalls of the outer market, she was no more than another traveler with a few coins to spare.

"I apologize," she said, her tone soft but poised. “I thought it was part of the selection.”

The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze was lowered, careful, her body turning slightly to hide the book from further view. Not defiant—guarded. As if hiding something more dangerous than poetry.

Abby tilted her head, her curiosity blooming faster than she could contain. She knew what that kind of secrecy meant. That book hadn’t been purchased with ease. It had been fought for—perhaps traded for meals, hidden under floorboards.

The round eyes of the princess flicked over the rest of the stall—stacks of worn leather covers, the delicate crinkle of pages long loved or long forgotten. Titles that ranged from crude farming manuals to religious texts, even a faded volume of sonnets with gilded corners. Her fingers hovered over the bindings like someone choosing which star to pluck from the sky.

"How much for this one?" she asked casually, selecting a thick, obscure volume she already owned in triplicate back in the palace library.

The woman hesitated. Named a fair price.

Abby smiled, polite, distant. “And the rest of this row?”

That drew the woman’s eyes upward. Suspicion. Curiosity. She named another sum—one that no commoner would offer so easily. Abby didn’t flinch. She placed the coins on the wooden table, deliberately overpaying by more than half.

She didn’t say why.

And as she turned to leave, she caught the briefest glimpse of the woman watching her—no thanks, no smile. But her fingers had softened around the book, her shoulders ever so slightly less rigid.

Abigail walked away feeling like she had read something more intimate than poetry that day. And she would return.

-

Abigail approached the book stall quietly, her eyes scanning the crowd. She'd already passed by it twice before finally deciding to stop, half-hoping the woman wouldn't notice her hesitation. Her cloak fluttered lightly behind her as she moved through the throngs, a deliberate, purposeful walk to the stall that had caught her attention so many times before.

It had been a week since their last encounter. She had meant to return sooner, but her duties had held her captive.

As she reached the stall, the woman looked up, their eyes meeting with the briefest flicker of recognition. There was a coolness in the air between them. The woman’s eyes spoke volumes of the caution she held.

“You're back” The woman’s voice was guarded, but there was a faint curiosity hidden beneath it. A statement and a question at once.

Abby nodded, glancing at the books displayed on the rickety wooden table. She ran her fingers over the leather bindings as she spoke. Her fingers gripped a small, intricately bound book she’d picked up from the royal library.

It caught your attention. That was clear. But after having received a huge amount of money from the woman in front of you, all you could think of was to not trust her. You knew better than to fall for money, but hunger had made you take it.

The nobles where selfish, and as much as you desired to allow their charity, you knew the consequences of it could go as far as ending with your life.

“You’re generous, but I’m not in need of charity.”

"Who said anything about charity?” She set the book down gently on the table, pushing it towards you. “It’s a trade. Nothing more.”

As far as you could tell, her tone was as honest as it was sophisticated. You hesitated, your fingers brushing the book before returning your gaze back to the woman in front of you. “You’ve been very generous with your coin before. A little too generous for my taste,” your tone cutting yet with a layer of genuine wariness.

Abby glanced down at her hands, feeling a flicker of guilt. “I don’t want your distrust.”

You leaned forward, just enough to get a proper look of her face. “A woman like you has no need for my meager books. And yet… you keep returning. That’s more than I can understand.”

And after a small pause, you reached for the small pouch of coins the blonde had placed beside the book. You allowed your fingers to brush the velvet fabric, giving the woman a quiet appraising look.

“This is more than I could ever ask for,” your tone tinged with both surprise and reluctance. “You’ve given me far too much.”

Abigail smiled again, though this time it was softer, more genuine. “I will come back." Her lips curved up into a subtle smile, and for the briefest of moments, the tension eased.

-

Ever since that first exchange, Abigail kept returning. At first, it was infrequent—perhaps once every few weeks, when the weight of royal duty would lift long enough for her to venture outside the palace walls, wrapped in the guise of a mere commoner. She was careful, always cautious not to attract too much attention.

Abigail never brought more than what was needed. She was always respectful in her exchanges, never forcing the conversation beyond what was comfortable.

For the first few exchanges, you kept your distance, aware that life could be changed by the mere presence of a noble. Abigail would offer her a few extra coins, always polite, but never asking anything of it beyond the books. Each time, you would glance at the coins, as though calculating their worth, and then slip them into your pocket, still with some doubt.

But it was the books that spoke more than anything. With every new volume that Abigail brought, a part of her own story unfolded for you. She brought not just simple novels or works of fiction, but the classics—poetry, philosophy.

What intrigued you most, however, was that Abigail never expected anything in return—at least, not explicitly. She didn’t press for anything other than the books in exchange. There were no strings attached, no promises of wealth or favors. She had all of that already.

But over time, something changed. It wasn’t just the books. The more Abigail returned, the more she lingered, sometimes even engaging in brief, innocent conversations. She asked about the books and your opinions, what you'd learned from them, and sometimes, if she was feeling bold, about your life outside the stall. At first, you had been hesitant to share any details. Your life was full of hardship, days spent scraping by. You wasn’t someone who had the luxury of talking about dreams or aspirations.

“Do you ever think about leaving?”

It was an innocuous question, one that any other noblewoman might ask in passing. But there was no pity in her eyes. Only curiosity.

“You can’t leave. Not when you’ve nothing to your name but this stall.”

Abigail nodded, understanding. “But surely you have dreams, something you long for?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of each of your unspoken desires.

“I dream of reading more,” you admitted, not honestly but enough to suffice her curiosity.

Abigail’s gaze softened, but there was a quiet intensity in her eyes, as though she could see the layers beneath your words—those that you had not said aloud. She didn’t press you, but she was patient, allowing the silence to linger between you.

“You dream of reading more…” Abigail repeated your words, her voice gentle but knowing. There was no judgment, no disbelief. She simply allowed the truth to unfold in its own time.

“Books are a start,” she said softly, her tone warm. "But there's more than books in life."

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes for a moment, but her soft expression never wavered. She wasn’t asking for anything more. She was simply… acknowledging.

"Not for everyone," you said finally, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Abigail was silent for a moment, but then she stepped a little closer. “You could have more than just books.”

You looked at her then, the magnitude of what she was offering beginning to settle over you. You had always been taught to rely on yourself, to take what you could from life, no matter how little. But here was someone offering to change that, offering something you’d never dared to ask for: a chance.

And the strangest thing was, you didn’t know whether to be skeptical, to distrust her offer because of who she was—or to believe.

But fear is bigger than hunger some times.

“I don’t know what you mean," you said softly, avoiding her gaze as to end this conversation.

Abigail’s gaze softened. She would never give empty promises, and less ask for anything in return. She was simply offering what she could.

-

It happened swiftly.

A nobleman—one you’d only ever seen from afar—had spotted you lingering at your stall too long. Perhaps it was the way your fingers turned the pages with too much familiarity. Or maybe the way your eyes scanned the titles like you knew them. Whatever it was, it drew attention.

They returned at dawn with two guards and a parchment bearing the royal seal. You tried to deny it, claimed the stall was someone else’s. You were simply helping. But a quick search unearthed your notes hidden beneath the crates, your writing—your handwriting—and books you’d copied by hand. Evidence, they called it.

A woman. Reading. Selling books. Writing.

Unheard of.

You were dragged through the streets, past jeering stares and hushed murmurs, your skirts muddied, your lip bloodied where a guard had lost patience.

You were being held in a cold, stone chamber. You hadn’t spoken, keeping your eyes low, your body still.

Until the doors burst open.

And there she was.

Not in her common cloak or with dirt on her cheeks—but in velvet. Dark and royal. Her golden hair braided up and away from her face, her spine straight as a sword.

“Release her,” she said. Her voice didn’t raise—it didn’t need to.

The guards glanced at one another. “But, Your Grace—”

“She stands accused of treason. An accusation of such gravity must be handled with care, not brute force,” Abigail said coolly, a tone laced with sharp authority as she stepped forward. “I shall escort her to His Majesty myself.”

You stared at her, betrayal and awe mixing in your stomach. Her Grace?

Abby didn’t meet your eyes. Not until the guards obeyed, not until your wrists were cut loose and your trembling form collapsed against her without meaning to.

Then, and only then, she looked at you.

“I apologize,” she whispered.

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

But when her hand slipped gently into yours, guiding you down the echoing halls of the palace, you didn’t let go.

-

The palace corridors were colder than you had imagined—colder even than the cell. The air hummed with stillness, untouched by wind or warmth. Each step echoed too loudly, your muddied skirts whispering shame against the polished stone. Behind the impassive masks of the guards, behind the glint of helmets and spears, you could feel the eyes. Watching. Judging. Knowing.

Maids lingered in corners, nobles passed at a distance, halting ever so slightly as if they sensed something was amiss. A peasant woman, bruised and bleeding, being pulled through the halls by the hand of the princess. You caught their glances—curious, disgusted, afraid. Perhaps some pitied you. Perhaps they remembered once standing where you stood now. Or perhaps they simply watched the spectacle unfold, as people always did when someone beneath them stumbled.

And still, she didn’t look back.

Abigail’s hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm despite the chill. Only when the heavy doors closed behind you, cutting the world away with a soft thud, did she stop.

Her chambers were suffocating in their beauty. A great fire flickered in the hearth, gold and amber licking the carved stone. Velvet curtains billowed faintly over tall windows that framed the last light of the sun. The furniture gleamed with polish and expense, everything arranged not for comfort, but presentation. It was the kind of room that could silence a person.

And it silenced you.

Because here, now, surrounded by the spoils of her life, the truth became unbearable. With one of her rings, she could buy a year of your survival. One of her shoes, a month of bread. With a single necklace—forgotten, perhaps, at the bottom of a drawer—she could pay off every debt you’d ever inherited.

It was obscene. It was staggering.

It was her.

She turned to face you then, and for the first time since the cell, the mask cracked. Her poise faltered—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. Enough to know it cost her something.

“I am sorry,” she said, not softly this time, not like before. Her voice trembled with something deeper, something close to shame. “More than I can say.”

“You lied to me.”

It came out flat, brittle, like a blade dropped on stone.

“I did not lie,” she answered carefully. “I withheld the truth.”

“That is a lie.”

She flinched—not visibly, but internally, something shifted. She stepped toward you, paused, then held herself still with deliberate restraint.

“It was never my intention to deceive you. I swear it. But revealing who I am—it would’ve placed you in more danger, not less. I thought... if I stayed silent, I could keep you safe.”

Your chest tightened, the words catching like thorns in your throat. “It was never going to be safe,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Not for me. Not for people like me.”

She said nothing. Because she knew.

“You,” you continued, your voice growing steadier, harsher, “You can wrap a scarf around your head and walk through the market like it’s some kind of game. Smell the rot, hear the cries, pretend to understand. But I live it. I bleed for it. I stood there every day until my legs gave out, until the guards tore my stall apart and dragged me through the filth for daring to read. And you—”

Your voice cracked. “You disappeared. And I paid for it.”

Silence settled, thick and suffocating. Abigail’s eyes dropped for a moment, her jaw tight with guilt.

“I would give anything to go back,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate, every syllable weighted with remorse. “Had I known what would happen, I would have torn down the palace gates to stop it. But I did not know. And now all I can offer is this: let me make it right.”

She stepped forward, slow, her hands open at her sides. “I will speak to the King. The charges will be erased. I will see to it myself.”

You stared at her. “And then what?” you asked. “You think I can just go back to the ashes of my life and start again?”

“I don’t expect that.”

Your voice dropped. “I have nowhere to go.”

She winced again, and you knew then she’d never considered what having nothing truly meant. Not until she saw it stitched into your skin, bruised into your lip.

“You can stay here,” she said, quieter now, but with clarity. “Not as a servant. Not as a prisoner. As my guest. Protected. Free, for as long as you choose.”

You let out a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow. “Free? Under a crown? Under your watch?”

Abigail’s expression didn’t change. But her voice, when it came, was fiercer than before.

“I will not pretend that I can erase your suffering. Nor will I insult you by asking for your trust. But know this: no harm will come to you while I draw breath."

And still, you didn’t speak. Because it didn’t feel like a choice—it felt like surrender. All that you had built—small, fragile, secret—burned down in a single morning. And in its place, stood a stranger wrapped in velvet, offering a different kind of cage.

Yet what choice did you have?

With your heart bleeding in your hands, with pride worn thin and dignity stripped bare, you nodded.

-

The door creaked open long past midnight.

You were more than awake. Sleep had long abandoned you in this place—where the sheets were too soft, the air too still, the silence too unnatural. You sat at the window, knees hugged to your chest, the fire burned low behind you.

Your eyes were still red, body and face bruised and covered in dirt and sweat.

When she entered, Abigail looked heavy. It was clear the news would not be nice. Not for you.

Her braid had started to come loose around her face and her hands were held tight. For once, you allowed yourself to stare back, to look every inch of skin that defined her face. Until she spoke.

“He’s allowed it,” she continued. “You may stay. You won’t be tried. The charges are to be forgotten.”

For once today it felt like maybe your life was worth it. Like the rage in your stomach could be forgotten if you just let out a breath you've held since she left you in the overwhelming of expensiveness.

“But,” she added, and you held your breath again. “It comes with condition.”

Of course it does.

You said nothing. She waited, but you didn’t speak, and so she did instead.

“You’ll have to work. Officially. Be assigned a role—maid, laundress, kitchen help. You’ll be paid. Fed. But you won’t be free to wander. And you will answer to the steward.”

You scoffed—barely more than a breath, but she heard it. Her clothes moved beautifully as she dragged herself closer to you. “I begged him to let you stay as my guest. But he wouldn’t allow it. Said no woman without title or trade stays under his roof without purpose.”

She continued after you held your words.

“I accepted,” she said, precise. “Because the alternative was your death.”

That shut you up. Any single thought on your mind erased at the pronunciation of such word.

“I’ll see to it that you’re given the lightest duties. You won’t scrub floors or clean privies. I’ll speak to the head of the linens or the kitchens—”

“I’ll do what I must,” you cut in quietly. “It’s more than most get.”

You stood then, brushing your hands down the plain clothes you've worn all day.

“I can’t promise I’ll be grateful,” you murmured.

Abigail’s voice was softer than before. “I don’t need your gratitude.” She meant her words, and you could tell.

You looked at her then. Really looked once again. She was oddly beautiful in an impossible way—too poised, too noble. But her eyes were tired, red at the corners. Her jaw was tight. You wondered how many people had ever dared speak to her without bowing.

You stepped past her to the bed and simply stared at it. Not like something to be used, but something to be earned.

You just stood there—fists curled, muscles drawn tight, like you might still be dragged away at any moment.

“When do I start?” you asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

You nodded once, like it hurt.

Abby hesitated. Then stepped closer—slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a frightened animal. Her voice gentled. “You’re still bleeding.”

You blinked.

“I saw it earlier,” she went on, eyes catching the cut at your lip, the ugly purple swelling along your cheekbone. Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly. “Please. Let me help.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence wasn’t a refusal. Just… stunned stillness.

“There’s a basin in the side room. I’ll draw water." Her tone became more formal, more deliberate—like she was giving you a choice no one else ever had. “You can bathe in privacy. I’ll send for clean cloths. And I have balm for the bruising—rosehip and myrrh. It’s gentle.”

You stared at her, your throat thick. No one had ever offered you softness after pain. Not like this.

“For tonight,” she added, a little quieter, “let me make it less unbearable.”

Still, you hesitated—until you caught the way her hands shook slightly, clasped in front of her. You weren’t the only one wounded here.

-

When the moon gazes upon my face,

I think of you.

When the night holds me in silence,

I hear your breath.

Your name is the last thing

I speak before sleep takes me.

— A. A.

-

The sun had barely begun to rise, and already the garden was alive with fresh smells. You found yourself there—on the edge of the palace’s sprawling grounds—fingertips brushing over the cool leaves of the herbs. There was something oddly peaceful about the place, about the quiet hum of the early morning. No jeering, no judgment. Just earth beneath your feet and the scent of thyme and rosemary in the air.

The task was simple—gather what you could for the kitchens. But in a place like this, simplicity felt like a fleeting thing. Everything about the palace weighed heavily on your chest. The duties you now had, the role you played. Even if it was a “gift,” the reality of it felt more like a gilded cage than sanctuary.

You bent down to pluck a few sprigs of parsley, the cool soil soft against your hands, when the quiet hum of footsteps reached your ears.

Abigail.

She didn’t announce herself.

You didn’t even see her approach, but you felt her presence the moment she stood just behind you, a space between you but still close enough for you to hear the rustling of her silk cloak as it moved with her.

“Should you be here?” you asked without looking up.

Yet, before she could make any sound, one of the older maids had come around the corner and froze at the sight. “Your Grace,” she whispered, blanching. “You shouldn’t be—if the steward finds out—”

“I’ll speak with him,” Abigail said simply, without turning. “And if he has concerns, he may bring them to me.”

“But—”

Abigail turned around, the sternness in her frown being enough for the woman to duck her head and vanish.

“You’ll get us in trouble,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand from your task. “They think I’m not suitable. If you keep showing up, they’ll start treating me worse, not better.” Your tone had grown quieter since you arrived.

Abigail wasn't only here for you, but you were indeed the main interest.

She had slept in worry about how would you adjust. If you would be in any danger when she wasn't around.

That you didn't know, and for your eyes she was a selfish princess who thought knew better.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she said softly. “I made myself clear the night you arrived. You are to be shown dignity, same as anyone else in this castle.”

You blinked at her, struck silent. Each time she spoke it only got you confused. You simply won't ever trust her. It was impossible to comprehend such a woman. She couldn't actually care about a stranger. And if so, it had to do more than just a shared love for books.

-

"Would you allow me to help?" her question made you jump at the sudden if sound other than breeze and women yelling in the kitchen.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Sure."

She had insisted for weeks now. Not with words but with the way her eyes stared at what you'd gathered or how she wandered in the kitchen even after being begged by the women there to stop doing so.

She knelt beside you, her fingers delicately brushing against the leaves, almost like she was afraid to disturb the stillness of the space. You couldn’t help but notice the ease with which she worked, how even something as simple as this seemed to become something of grace when she was involved.

The two of you worked in silence for a while.

It wasn’t the silence that struck you, it was the subtle closeness that had grown between you, the quiet understanding that was slowly building with every small gesture.

Maybe you could eventually trust her.

"Do you know my name?" she asked suddenly, her voice laced with a kind of quiet amusement, as if the question was an invitation.

You blinked, not entirely sure where this was going. "Abigail," you said, your voice hesitant, as if testing the waters. "That’s all they say."

She paused for a moment, leaning back as her expression softened at the sight of a bee dancing over lavander. She stared at you then, looking at your hair, your neck. Your eyes and nose and lips. "What may I call you?”

She looked with innocence. A genuine interest.

And as you spoke your name, it all made since.

-

There is no garden where I walk,

But a world of roses

That you have left behind.

Each step I take upon your name,

Each breath a memory you have given me.

— A. A.

-

You eventually grew familiar with the castle.

Not comfortable—never that—but familiar. You memorized the rhythm of the guards steps, the scent of the kitchens before noon, and the way the light warmed the stone differently depending on the time of day. You came to understand its mood. And more than once, you found yourself lost in it—on purpose.

After all, it wasn’t the first time you’d walked those halls.

But now, your steps took you beyond the scullery and the washroom. Beyond the garden paths where you pretended not to notice the woman who always found you there. Abigail. Princess. Her Grace.

She had made it a quiet mission to gift you books—slipping them into your hands when no one looked, pretending they were forgotten things, unwanted. But her eyes always lingered a beat too long, her voice always softened at the handoff. At first, she gave you simple stories. Then poems. Then banned texts again, bound in worn leather or too-new covers that meant she’d taken risks for them. For you.

Her shame was as small as her restraint. She invited you to her alcove again under the guise of reading. Then to the library, with a confidence too casual to be honest. You never said no, not once. But you never let yourself stay long, either.

Still, she had not once left you alone for a whole day. Somehow, she always appeared—ghostlike and golden—on the edge of your hours. In the garden with some excuse. In the kitchen asking about herbs she already knew. Sometimes, knocking at your chamber door, only to say she’d forgotten what she meant to say in the first place.

Abigail wasn’t sure when it began. The unraveling.

Only that it had. And that now she was helpless against it.

She thought of you more often than the laws she was born to uphold. More than her duties, her gowns, her name.

She didn’t know how to bear it.

In the solitude of her room, when the moon hung heavy and she was left with her thoughts and too many luxuries, she thought of the first time she saw you.

Not in chains. Not bloodied.

But in silk.

Under the soft light of the masquerade—when your mask had been simple but your laughter louder than music. When your hand had brushed hers for a moment too long, and she’d thought, foolishly, that she’d never forget the feeling of it. That was the night she’d wanted to kiss you. When she still didn’t know your name but already wanted to learn it.

Now she did know it. She whispered it into her pillow when refused to allow herself pleasure.

And it only hurt more. It tore at her to remember who you had been before she failed you. Before her world and its rules pulled you into a prison. And she hated herself for having the power to save you and still not being able to give you freedom.

She couldn’t kiss you now.

Couldn’t touch you.

Couldn’t even stare for too long without fear clawing its way into her throat.

What if you hated her for it? What if you saw her as nothing more than your keeper, your chain disguised in shiny velvet?

What if someone saw?

So she suffered in silence, and soothed herself—ironically—with the very thought that burned her.

You.

And meanwhile, you did everything in your power to keep yourself away from thoughts like those.

She was the princess. A tender built of stars and stained glass. And you—now—were just another girl who worked beneath her roof. One of many.

You folded linens and scrubbed your hands raw and didn’t dare speak her name aloud unless required. That was reality.

And anything else was more than foolish.

It was dangerous, even.

You would not dream. Could not afford to.

But god, at times… when you let your guard slip—when she tilted her head just so, or smiled too softly, or touched your wrist under the guise of handing you a book—your eyes betrayed you. They slipped to her mouth. To the freckles dotting her cheekbones. To the scar by her cheek she never spoke of.

And you would hate yourself for it.

You would remember that night at the masquerade. You would remember how she’d held your waist without trembling, how you’d felt like a secret worth keeping, how you’d nearly leaned in—

And you would regret.

Regret leaving. Regret not kissing her. Not touching her longer. Not letting her look at you like you mattered.

And worse still, you would feel guilty for missing a fantasy, when she had granted you a reality—life.

She had let you live.

And you were squandering it on daydreams. On sighs.

You told yourself to forget.

But your body remembered. Your heart

It remembered everything.

-

There is no place I belong

more than the space between your hands

when you braid your hair in the sun

and forget that I am watching.

You reach for thyme in the garden—

fingers brushing mine,

and I pretend it is the wind

that leaves me aching.

It looked like a profanity to you. The words you've written on the paper, now hidden between the pages of a book you were meant to return soon.

Yet your heart could wish for nothing but them profanities to reach Abigail.

You needed her to know.

Needed her love even if it killed you.

-

She hadn’t meant to read it. Truly.

She hadn’t even seen the small piece of paper until a servant noticed it.

At first, she thought it a recipe perhaps. And her respect for you held her from reading it.

It was her hands holding the thin material– reluctant to let it go and return it to you–that had her eyes reading her name. Not written but confessed.

Abby froze. The silence of her alcove pressed in close, thick with breath she forgot to take.

Her fingers trembled as they unfolded the rest of it, and her lips parted without a sound as she read.

The paper felt too fragile in her hand, like if she blinked it would disappear, like it had been meant only for the moment her heart cracked open and not a second longer.

She read it again. And again. Each time slower.

And then she was moving.

The book slammed shut. She left her alcove without else but her thin white sleeping clothes, her heart thundering louder than her steps as she moved through the hallways. Past guards. Past a maid who startled at her pace. Past the kitchens and their fire. Into the shadowed servants' wing.

She didn’t hesitate. She knocked until you opened the door.

"Abigail?"

She crossed the room before your breath could catch. She held the paper—the poem—shook in her fingers.

“You wrote this,” she stated in a tone similar to a plead. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was low, as if the walls might echo it back too cruelly. But there was wonder in it too. Terror and reverence.

You looked down. Shame bloomed in your throat. “No.”

“You wrote this.” She said it again, softer. She was trembling now. “And it was me you meant. Wasn’t it?”

The breath she exhaled was sharp, close to a sob. Her hand came to her chest, clutching fabric that meant nothing now.

“The masquerade. I never forgot.”

Only there you looked. She was breaking beneath you. And there was no point in denying it.

“I remember,” you said.

Silence. But not the painful kind.

“I have longed for you in silence,” Abigail said. “And hated myself for it. But if there is truth in these words…” She raised the poem slightly. “If there is even a sliver of hope—then say it. Please.”

Your breath caught, and for the first time, you didn’t look away.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came. Nothing except a soundless ache, the shape of a yes that wouldn’t yet rise to meet your lips.

And Abby’s eyes—God, her eyes—searched yours like she was drowning and looking for shore.

She moved.

Not a question.

She kissed you like she’d been waiting her whole life for the moment to arrive.

Her hands rose, hesitant at first, until she cupped your jaw and cheeks, and her mouth met yours like prayer. Like poetry. Like your poem.

Like her poems.

The paper drifted from her fingers as if it, too, knew it was no longer needed.

And your body—your body betrayed you beautifully. It leaned into hers before you could even think, lips parting to meet her, your hand rising to rest just above her heart, where it beat frantically beneath silk and skin.

The world hushed.

It didn’t vanish, not entirely—but it softened. The walls receded. The rules and roles and titles dulled to distant echoes.

There was only the warmth of her mouth, the way she trembled against you, the faint salt of a tear neither of you dared name.

When she pulled back, it was barely an inch. Her breath was on your skin.

And all you could do—all you wanted to do—was pull her back in.

So you did.

You kissed her like you were finally allowed to breathe.

[noxiatoxia]

There's something small I want to share with you guys.

Like many posts of mine, it has to do with Komaeda. I love all of DR and all the characters, but it seems Komaeda comes up the most often when discussing translation. I wonder why that is?

Anyways, it's about this line. While not a mistranslation per se, there's a lot of nuance in the original line. I don't know if the differences are large enough to matter to most people, but being obsessed with little details is basically my whole thing, haha.

それはちょっと傷付くな...日向クンには親近感を抱いていたからさ。

We will be talking about the highlighted parts. I find it a quite interesting case of careful word choice and script usage.

それはちょっと傷付くな can indeed be translated as "That stings", but...I feel it's more complicated, personally.

Normally, when writing about getting your feeling hurt, it's written as 傷つく. The second part is written in Hiragana. This word literally means "to be afflicted with a wound", and can be used literally, but also metaphorically to just mean "it hurt my feelings."

While the literal sense can also be written in Hiragana, the Kanji usage of 傷付く more often carried the nuance of being physically injured (both are pronounced the same).

So, I find it interesting Komaeda says 傷付く and not 傷つく. He is not physically injured, but he is using the Kanji form. Since this is a written work of fiction, I tend to take script choices like this as deliberate intentions to convey a special feeling. In this case, it would imply Komaeda is emphasizing his pain - implying his hurt feels like a literal, actual wound.

But...it's kind of funny, because the word before that is ちょっと, which means "a little".

それはちょっと傷付くな means, literally, "That cuts a little", hence "that stings"...just a little cut.

But pairing "a little" with such an emphatic word creates this contradictory tone - to me at least.

Something like, "That kind of cuts me deeply."

Now, the thing is, scripts are obviously not seeable. They only exist in written language. So, from the in-universe perspective of the characters, all they heard was Komaeda say ちょっときずつく. I can imagine, then, all the people there obviously heard it as ちょっと傷つく. Komaeda's talking about his feelings after all, and he's even downplaying it. 傷つく only makes sense.

But us - the audience, who does not exist in the room with these characters - can see what Komaeda is really saying. It's like looking into his thoughts, almost - a privilege that only we, the reader, get. I think that's so cool.

Now...it is up for debate if that part is intentional. If we did write the line as "That kind of cuts me deeply," we would be getting rid of the fourth-wall aspect and instead interpreting the usage of Kanji as an actual, spoken thing...which it might actually be, as this is fiction. That's what can be so tricky about translating. Maybe Komaeda is just saying "that stings" out loud, but he's actually hurting a lot more inside - or maybe he's being contradictory and downplaying his spoken true feelings, saying "That really hurts me a little". We wouldn't know without direct confirmation from the writers.

Let me move on to the second part.

日向クンには親近感を抱いていたからさ。Does mean "I felt you and I were quite similar" ...sort of.

親近感 is a tricky word. The Kanji literally translates as "basically feel as if [we're] family", and is used to describe a sense of closeness and familiarity, of affection or affinity.

It absolutely can be used to say you feel you and someone are quite similar...but in my opinion, that would be 親近感を持つ. See the verb change? That's because you can use multiple verbs with 親近感 that all mean "to have" in some way.

What makes 抱いていた an interesting choice is that this is the most positive form the phrase can take (to my ears, at least). 抱 is the Kanji to hug or embrace, and is often used as such, while 持, by contrast, simply means to posses or to own. Both describe the act of "holding" something, but one is much more emotional and warm.

By saying 親近感を抱いていた, Komaeda is attaching this warm, positive feeling to the word.

I personally would write it as "feeling close".

And don't forget the さ particle at the end, which adds emotional emphasis.

So in all, I would write this as:

"That sort of cuts me deeply...I felt rather close to you, Hinata-kun."

Neat!

[followthebluebell]

Hello! I was wanting to hear more about non-purebred brachycephaly in cats. This is my seven year old tuxedo girl, Miss Morgie, (shes biologically male but the rescue agency mislabled her). She was a rescue from Kuwait. I have no info on where she was found or if she was the product of a kitty mill or backyard breeder there. Do cats like this breed freely anywhere? I wouldn't say that her smushed snout impairs her as much as other cats that I've seen. She will make a honking noise when upse (it's extremely cute) but I've never seen her grow tired or wheeze when playing. She was active when she was young. She still play fights with our other cat.

Im also not sure if this is a "breed" characteristic linked to the mutation or nurture but she seems more... docile and even-tempered than other rescue cats I've had. She will let strangers pet her belly, she tolerates my gf's mom's hyperactive pom puppy and used to let the little doggy /h*mp/ her when we used to dog sit (I cut that out DW). I've also noticed she has next to no practical hunting instincts! Our other rescue who is just A Normal Kitty Guy chatters and gets murder crazy about birds while she just windmills her gigantic paws and meows. 😭😭 it's entirely possible that she's just a special lil gal, but I've heard the mutation affects intellect...? I wouldn't say she is a dumb cat by any stretch, she understand some basic commands and I've inadvertently trained her to recognize when I'm having panic attacks. She also seems to intuitively pick up on creative ways to get her humans to do her bidding (like slamming cabinets open and shut precisely when we are on zoom calls).

I included photos so you can see the extent of her brachycephaly. We call her a half-smush. I wanted to write a lot in defense of my girl's intellect because people said she looks "wall eyed" and like she has "no thoughts" and thar just made me really sad!!!!

I want to dedicate my cat ownership from now on to rescuing abandoned cats with brachycephaly bc of how much I adore her. I even adore brushing and washing her and all the other nonsense we cursed these poor, cute critters to need. She's just a joy. Ty ty ty for reading !! 😭😭

1. Picture of her at 2 years old 2. Her and her "prey" (my socks) 3. Tino (my gf's cat) and our dame 4-5. Mlem.

Aww, what a beauty!! She's gorgeous!

"Do cats like this breed everywhere?"

Yes, absolutely! tbh, every trait exhibited by a specific breed is naturally occurring within feral cat populations. By this, I mean someone, some hundred years ago, picked up a squishy faced cat from a naturally occurring cat litter and went, "oh, wow, I want more of this :)" and then set out to breed that particular trait consistently. But the squishy faced trait still exists within that original cat population, and cats are spread widely.

In addition, cats are beloved pets all over the world. They are present in EVERY continent except Antarctica (and probably some islands). I think Kuwait in particular has hosted a few cat shows.

While many cats are very beloved in Kuwait, it also has very... non-existent animal protection laws. Many cats are abandoned. It's entirely possible your girl is a Fancy Girl who was abandoned or got lost.

it's entirely possible that she's just a special lil gal, but I've heard the mutation affects intellect…?

To an extent, yes. It's a bit complicated. The mutation that gives brachy cats their unique look also affects their skull. Their skull shape puts pressure on the mesencephalon portion of their brain and this can cause issues with sensory, motor controls, reflexes, and impulse control. As a result, many owners believe their brachy cats are a bit slow to react to things, extremely tolerant of nonsense, and tend to fall off of furniture.

I can't say if this affects your cat.

This doesn't affect a cat's emotional intelligence, for lack of a better phrase. They are still very much in tune with their owners.

Thank you very much for loving her. Her coat is absolutely immaculate. It's clear how much you care and love this cat. It's reflected in everything she is. Thank you for sharing her too.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Cliché

A cliché is an expression that was once innovative but has lost its novelty due to overuse.

Tips on How to Avoid Clichés in Writing

Clichés play such a big role in how we communicate that it may seem impossible to avoid using them in your writing. However, clichés can often be rephrased to convey the same meaning as the original expression. Here are some steps to take if you find clichés in your work:

Think about the meaning of the cliché. Use a dictionary to identify synonyms that could replace the word or phrase that is cliché.

Decide whether or not you need to include the cliché. Often, clichés are unnecessary placeholders in writing and can be deleted.

Rewrite the sentence with new words in place of the cliché. For example, if you’re describing a musical with the cliché “comes full circle,” the description could be changed to say that the musical “returned to the themes with which it started.”

Common Clichés to Avoid

There are a number of clichés that are so overused that they should be avoided like the plague (including that one). Here is a list of clichés you should avoid.

“The wrong side of the bed.”

“Think outside the box.”

“Loose canon.”

“A perfect storm.”

“Can of worms.”

“What goes around comes around.”

“Dead as a doornail.”

“Plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Ignorance is bliss.”

“Like a kid in a candy store.”

“You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Take the tiger by the tail.”

“Every rose has its thorn.”

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“In the nick of time.”

“If only walls could talk.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“The pot calling the kettle black.”

“The grass is always greener on the other side.”

“Beating a dead horse.”

Example: “As red as a rose” —a universal descriptor for the color red that is now commonplace and unoriginal.

Other examples of clichés include demarcations of time, such as “in the nick of time” and “at the speed of light.”

Clichés also include expressions about emotions, such as “head over heels” to describe love, and the phrase “every cloud has a silver lining” to express hope in difficult situations.

The word “cliché” comes from French.

It was first used to describe a stereotype: a metal plate used for printing an image.

Both the words “cliché” and “stereotype” derive from printing jargon but now have negative connotations.

Why You Should Avoid Clichés in Writing

Overused clichés can show a lack of original thought, and can make a writer appear unimaginative and lazy.

Clichés are often specific to language and cultures and may be a communication barrier to international readers.

Some old clichés have been repeated for so many years that the original reference is archaic and irrelevant.

When it’s OK to Use Clichés in Writing

There are a few instances in which the use of a cliché as a literary device is acceptable, but clichés should always be chosen wisely. Here are some examples of admissible usage:

To sync with a readership. Clichés of idiomatic phrases and slang words can work for specific audiences. If you’re writing for a baby boomer audience, the cliché “back in the day” would make sense. By contrast, millennial readers would be familiar with the cliché “the struggle is real.”

To simplify. Clichés can be used to explain beginning level concepts. For example, a how-to guide for expectant mothers might use the phrase “Remember, you’re eating for two!”

For characterization. Writers might have a character use clichés to demonstrate that they are not an original thinker.

A thought-terminating cliché is a phrase that offers a reductive answer to a complex idea.

The term was popularized in the 1961 book Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism: A Study of ‘Brainwashing’ in China by physiatrist Robert Jay Lifton.

They are also known as semantic stop signs or thought-stoppers.

Here are some examples of thought-terminating clichés:

“To each his own.”

“You win some, you lose some.”

“I’ll cross the bridge when I get there.”

“Take it or leave it.”

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[love-and-deepspace-fanfic]

Zayne - Collapse of Multiple Deepspaces

Time to drop another #delulu for Zayne! It’s my first time writing about Zayne and all “thanks” to my friend all my ideas recently stem from *tragedy*.

So yeah sorry Zayne boi, you’re first!

I hope you enjoy this version!

What happens if Zayne and Dawnbreaker meet each other....

Collapse of Multiple Deepspaces

"You are no different from a weakling."

This phrase had echoed relentlessly within Zayne ever since he witnessed his friend transform into a Wanderer right before his very eyes.

If others were given a chance to judge, they would tell Zayne that his hesitation or fear, his inability to act, was entirely natural; no one could stand firm in such a dire circumstance.

To witness someone you know slowly morph into a beast and then have to end their life with your own hands? Who in their right mind would willingly undertake such a horrifying act?

But Zayne knew that the "shadow" that disdainfully uttered those words of criticism through its scornful gaze was no longer a normal person.

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

How long had it been since Zayne last felt this rush of anticipation, as if he were about to enter a battle?

Before him were blood-red eyes that forced Zayne to instinctively channel energy from his right arm as a defense mechanism.

It was this very power that had been the source of many of his tragedies.

But compared to the shadow standing right in front of him, Zayne could sense that the pain he had endured was nothing compared to the anguish reflected in those judging eyes.

Though shrouded by the night, Zayne recognized the person before him, for the power surrounding that figure was familiar to him. It was the power of ice—the same power he wielded.

In other words, the person before him might be none other than himself.

It was as if he were the embodiment of the Grim Reaper he had always feared.

Zayne also realized that the person in front of him not only possessed his own aura but also harbored an unpredictable emotion he couldn't quite grasp.

This emotion was like a drop of poison, ready to overflow at the slightest disturbance, spreading its lethal intent throughout the icy energy. It was this realization that helped Zayne recognize that the figure before him and he were separate entities. He would never allow himself to be consumed by such murderous intent. He was a doctor, committed to saving lives, not taking them. This was his life's principle and the oath he had sworn to uphold.

Yet, the eerie resemblance between them conjured images of two opposing reflections in a mirror, similar yet different, creating a sense of dual existence. If one of these images were to vanish one day, what would happen to the remaining one? Would it also dissolve, mirroring the original?

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

While Zayne was observing the shadow, it was silently scrutinizing Zayne in return.

A weaker version, blessed with a life he craved.

Is this yet another part of the dream? But if it is a dream, then why is she not here?

Could even the fleeting dream of being with her be interrupted and dissipate like this?

Or perhaps…

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

As Zayne pondered the bizarre occurrence before him in the dark space, he sensed a shift in the atmosphere between them.

A sudden, piercingly cold wind enveloped him, as if trying to freeze his entire being.

This chilling gust, like a raging beast, seemed determined to devour him whole, mirroring the fury of its creator.

Why had the shadow suddenly become so enraged?

Before Zayne could react, crystalline shards of ice hidden within the snowstorm hurtled toward him, catching him off guard.

The surging murderous intent warned Zayne of imminent danger, compelling him to instinctively unleash his own energy.

A formidable ice wall sprang up, separating Zayne from the lethal ice shards.

Yet, the relentless assault and overwhelming malevolence forced Zayne to retreat.

He panted heavily, striving to regain control over his chaotic emotions and energy. Why had the shadow, just moments ago in a state of observation, suddenly sought to end him?

This remained a mystery to Zayne, causing his hesitation to strike back.

Perhaps the gentle world he had come to know had softened his heart, infusing his decisions with the compassion and magnanimity expected of a doctor. But facing the figure before him, such ideals held no meaning.

Clearly, in this struggle for supremacy, in terms of both resolve and strength, Zayne was losing.

As the blizzard engulfed him, with icy spears closing in from all sides, Zayne realized the figure before him wielded far more power than he had imagined.

Arrows of ice began to pierce through his ice wall, embedding themselves in his body, inflicting excruciating pain and a chilling wind that froze him to the core. The agony was so intense it felt as though a curse had been cast upon him, rendering him immobile and leaving him at the mercy of the storm.

This sensation… why does it feel so familiar…

As Zayne struggled to rise, the shadow approached, revealing a familiar face.

The Grim Reaper… the Grim Reaper Zayne had seen before… the one who had look at him with an implication that he was merely a weakling.

With the same face, the same demeanor, the samepower, Zayne saw his own reflection in those blood-red eyes.

Is this… really himself?

Before Zayne could process his shock, the Grim Reaper moved closer, looking down at him with disdain:

“In the end, you are just a useless fool, incapable of protecting the one thing you were fortunate enough to have.”

These words felt like a curse, tightening Zayne’s heart in agony. He knew what his one lucky possession was, for he had felt this same heartache in his dreams countless times: the pain of not having her by his side…

Could it be…

Before Zayne could grapple with the implication, a shard of ice materialized in the Grim Reaper's hand. Its purpose was clear.

But what stunned Zayne more than the imminent threat was the Grim Reaper’s next words:

“If you are now useless, then it’s my turn to protect her.”

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

“Zayne… Zayne!!”

Zayne jolted awake at the familiar call.

He sat up, gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat as if he had just escaped a horrifying ordeal.

Fear clung to him, but a gentle touch on his back, mirroring his racing heartbeat, offered solace.

Looking up, Zayne’s eyes met the worried gaze of a familiar, tender face.

Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a glow on you and making you appear angelic, which had greatly soothed Zayne as though he were in heaven after wandering in endless darkness.

Unable to contain himself, Zayne pulled your close, seeking your comforting warmth. Only then, with your voice laced with concern, did his surroundings come into focus. The familiar scent of medicine, not the metallic tang of blood, filled the air.

A lingering sense of malevolent energy persisted, a stark reminder of the dream's icy grip. He touched his neck, the phantom pain of the ice shard a chilling echo. Dream or reality?

As he began to lose himself in his thoughts again, a warm touch on his cheek grounded him.

“Are you okay? Why do you keep zoning out? Did you sneak sweets before bed again, making it hard to breathe and sweat so much?”

Like sunlight dispelling the cold, Zayne's heart began to calm. Perhaps it was just exhaustion, a figment of his overworked mind. He clung to this hope, desperate to ease her worry.

Zayne looked at her lovingly, then embraced her once more, yearning to hold onto the warmth only she could provide.

“Thanks for being by my side.”

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

“Zayne, promise me you won’t try to bear everything alone or make decisions by yourself, okay? Always tell me first.”

Seeing her cheerful yet concerned expression, like an old lady fussing over him, made Zayne chuckle—a rare sound for him.

Perhaps the dream was merely a manifestation of his fear, a fear of someday regretting his own "weakness." But what truly defined this weakness? Was it the lack of courage to destroy what could harm her, even if that meant it had once bear the form of a… human?

As Zayne began to drift back into his thoughts, the alarm on her hunter’s watch went off, accompanied by a warning:

“Alert… alert… Wanderer monsters detected… Level A… coordinates X Y… please evacuate residents from the danger zone.”

Both Zayne and you knew what needed to be done in such situations.

As he instructed you on the tasks and cautions for your mission, a rift opened before Zayne, followed by a Wanderer bearing a striking resemblance to…

William…

In an instant, as Zayne stood frozen, the Wanderer lunged, swinging a deadly scythe-like arm at him.

William… is it really you?

Zayne felt his heart stop, memories from that day flooding back.

At Mount Eternal… where the secret he wished to bury lay… where he had once been weak… William… I’m so sorry… turns out, even now… I’m still useless…

“ZAYNEEEEEEE!”

A piercing scream echoed as Zayne snapped back to reality. Before him lay the image of her, shielding him with her body. Blood spurted from her back, splattering across Zayne’s face.

In his arms was the girl he loved, falling.

The blood on his hands was warm…

But this…

Was not the warmth he wanted to feel…

In a heartbeat, everything around Zayne was swallowed by an endless night.

A night filled with murderous intent…

And amidst this darkness lay a path, lined with the bodies of countless fallen.

Zayne didn’t want to tread this path, but it seemed fate had already chosen it for him.

A voice echoed within him, as if from a distant past…

“If the law is a curse… why perfect it… just… destroy it all…”

That's right... destroy everything... only then can I... protect you...

Like a skeleton approaching its tomb, Zayne walked heavily past the rows of piled corpses, heading straight into the endless darkness. And at the end of the road, what Zayne saw was the throne with its many icy blades.

Zayne saw another figure resembling him dressed in an ancient sorcerer's garb... as if he had been sitting there for a long time... just waiting...

Waiting....

"For that daisy..."

As if echoing his heart, the voice of the Grim Reaper opposite him, now replacing the figure holding the staff, sat on the ice throne.

So who was who? He himself no longer knew and no longer cared. Because at this moment, he knew that he and the figures before him had only one thing in common, and that commonality was what all his beings cared about and wanted to have.

You... the daisy we've always sought...

In the quiet night, the cold voice of the Grim Reaper rang out like a warning bell:

"You... are the exception, because only you can have her."

Zayne understood what the Grim Reaper had said.

He sank weakly to the floor, realizing how lucky he was but also how powerless.

"But... you too... are the weakest..."

He knew... he knew... he was weak.

"So... if you can't become strong..."

Before his words could end, Zayne’s chin was grasped, forcing him to face the blood-red eyes right in front of him.

"If you can't do it, then it's my turn. There's no room for the weak."

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

The blaring sirens of rescue vehicles… the screams of the townspeople… only you… seemed to be lying still… in firm arms…

You tried to get up but were held back by those strong arms, preventing any movement.

It seemed that the wound on your back no longer pained you, only a soothing, cool sensation remained.

It looked like Zayne had tended to your injury.

You knew what you had done was dangerous, and you would surely be scolded by him, but you still felt warm inside knowing he was safe….

These past days, seeing his exhaustion, you wanted to do something. But the more you looked at him, the more unsure you were of what to do, as if he was fighting a battle within himself, silently enduring.

That was when you saw him in danger, and you immediately shielded him without a second thought, just to spare him from more pain.

Thankfully… he was unharmed…

As you nestled in Zayne’s embrace, you couldn’t shake off a strange feeling, an unnamed sensation, like you had felt it long ago when you looked into his eyes…. as if… you were seeing a different Zayne…

While lost in thought, Zayne’s hand reached out to touch your cheek.

Fearing he would reprimand you for acting impulsively, you scrambled for excuses in your mind, avoiding his gaze to escape his scolding.

But when you met his eyes, you knew…

Without giving you time to think, the unfamiliar man who resembled Zayne looked at you and smiled, sending a chill through your body.

“Nice to see you again.”

[ilovetheriddler]

Ehehe, I loved the Arkham Eddie fic! I would love to see a sequel where they sleep together, and other than that I’d just leave it up to you! The fic is your oyster, anything you’d like and I’ll love it!

:)

Smiley! I'm glad you liked it! It was really enjoyable to write, and I'll happily do a sequel! I hope that you enjoy it!

Fulfilled Desires.

(Arkham Games) Edward Nigma x F!Reader.

Word Count: 1,610.

Contents: 🔞NSFW 18+! Slight degradation, praise, slightly rougher sex.

It had been a few months since you were put in that position where you had to work alongside him, and he had only gotten worse in that time. Originally, he used to harrass and torment batman nonstop with riddles and puzzles, but now he was focusing on you instead! It baffled you. Did you really piss him off that much with what you said back then? You couldn't have, not to the extent of his determination to seemingly trap you.

Why? You weren't sure. Perhaps to humiliate you, mock you, insult you, heck, maybe even just outright kill you! Eddie was incredibly difficult to predict and read sometimes, and it terrified you. But it also turned you a bit on as well, much to your frustration.

Yes, that's right. You'd found yourself somewhat drawn to the grease covered, stained shirt wearing, question mark motif, riddle loving menace himself. As a hero, you'd honestly rather die than admit it outloud.

And now here you were, tangled up in a net that was a part of his latest scheme. You let out a frustrated sigh as you noticed the man of the hour himself walk in, the same smug look he always had on his face.

"Well, it seems you've gotten yourself.... a bit stuck in one of my puzzles again, doesn't it?"

"Oh, shut it, Eddie, I'm getting sick and tired of your puzzles! Can't you just go back to bothering Batman instead?!"

"Unfortunately, I can't, The Caped Crusader is incapable of giving me what I want, what I desire...."

You gave him a somewhat curious yet also still annoyed glance.

"And what exactly is it that you want?"

"Oh, it's very simple.... I want you."

"E-Excuse me?!"

Your eyes went wide as Edward slowly and carefully approached the net you were trapped in, leaning against the wall nearby as he took in your current state. An amused chuckle slipped past his lips before he spoke again.

"You heard me, I want you, and to clarify further as to not confuse you more, I mean sexually, carnally, physically, whatever way you want to phrase it!"

You soaked in his words for a few moments, your thoughts running wild at what they meant. On one hand, you should be appalled by them as a hero, on the other hand, you really wanted to be fucked by the riddler. The latter won out, though, after some thought.

"....Alright then, I'll have sex with you."

"W-wait, that actually worked?! I mean, of course it worked! There's no one who could resist my irresistible charm!"

Edward immediately got started on cutting you out of the net. You watched him closely, observing the way that the sweat dripped down his decently strong forearms. Damn, this became a better and better decision the more you thought about it. The moment the net was loose, he quickly picked you up in his arms, carrying you through his lair and to his rundown bedroom with a quickness that was honestly kind of terrifying.

He set you down on his bed and stood there for a moment, a focused expression present on his face.

"Um... Eddie? What are you doing?"

"Quiet, I'm thinking! I've thought about how this would go several times before, yet I want to make sure that I have it perfect in my mind beforehand!"

You moved back on the bed to lie down, shrugging off your jacket and tossing it to the floor as you did. Eventually, he seemed to work out whatever scenario he had in his head because he removed his button-up question mark shirt, moving up onto the bed, crawling on top of you.

"Now, my dear.... before we start, I want you to tell me something."

"Okay, what?"

"Tell me that I'm better than every one of those so-called heroes that you work alongside, that I'm superior in every conceivable way!"

You sighed a bit in annoyance, rolling your eyes.

"Fine, oh Eddie! You're better than all those stupid heroes. You're so intelligent and superior to them in every way! ....There, Happy?"

"Overjoyed, now... I suppose there's no time to waste, hmm?"

You were about to respond, but your words died in your throat as his lips crashed onto yours, in a rough and messy entanglement. His hands yanked on your hair, causing you to moan as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring the area with a mixture of methodical interest and frenzied passion. After a few seconds, he pulled away, leaving you gasping frantically for air, a small trail of saliva just barely connecting your mouths.

"Look at you, you're already a mess, and I haven't even really done anything yet. It's frankly pathetic!"

You felt your face heat up in humiliation as a needy whine escaped you. As much as you didn't want to admit it, you loved his mocking tone, his harsh words. they turned you on more than they should have. His eyes seemed to light up as he realized how much you enjoyed it.

"Oh, I see. You like being degraded, don't you? Or is it only when it's me degrading you? Hmm?"

"Perhaps I do. Is that a problem?"

"Absolutely not, my dear! It's perfect...."

He slowly kisses your jaw before moving down along your neck and to your shoulder, leaving harsh kisses and occasional bites. You let out a surprised and slightly alarmed yelp as he tore off your shirt. Tossing the remnants of it on the floor.

"Damn it, Eddie! W-would it have killed you to just unbutton it?!"

"It would have taken too long, I don't want to waste my time on pointless efforts! However, I do have to appreciate the fact that you didn't wear a bra today. It saves me a few seconds of time."

His mouth moves down to your chest, one of his hands reaching up and cupping one of your breasts, giving it a firm squeeze as he watched your face to take in your reaction, your cute gasps and sounds. You move your hands to the edge of his filthy tank top, attempting to pull it off him. He graciously lifted his arms to help you as you pulled it over his head and threw it off to wherever it ultimately landed.

You could feel your mouth practically watering as you gazed upon his bare chest. The sight of his unkempt course chest hair causing you to feel more aroused than you hypothetically thought it would. Your eyes drift down to the trail of hair leading into his pants. Of course, since your eyes were already glancing down there, you couldn't help but stare at the already extremely pronounced erection straining against the front of his pants.

"...Are you really that desperate sweetheart? Your mouth is practically watering.... do you really need it that badly?"

"S-shut up! I..I was just distracted..."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both your pants and underwear and pulled them off quickly, discarding them in the floor. Firmly grasping your thighs and spreading them apart, licking his lips slightly as he took in the sight of your dripping sex.

After a few moments of staring, he dipped his head down, burying his face in between your legs, eagerly lapping at your arousal. A loud whine escaped you as his tongue dipped inside.

"A-ah... Eddie....."

Your eyes went wide as he added one of his fingers along with his focused efforts of devouring you. Pleased and needy groans occasionally, leaving his lips and sending shivers up your spine.

A desperate and frustrated whine left you as he suddenly stopped and pulled back slightly. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with his desire and lust for you in this moment.

"Aw... Are you unsatisfied? Do you want more?"

"...Y-yes.... please...."

"Good girl.... do you need my cock? Is that what you need so badly?"

You nodded eagerly. If he didn't stop teasing you, then you were going to lose it. He chuckled at your needy and frustrated state as he quickly unbuckled his belts, pulling them from the loops and yanking his pants and boxers down, his hard cock springing up as it was freed from its previously constrained fabric. He wrapped your legs losesly around his waist.

"Now... Riddle me this, What is wet, whiney, and in desperate need of something hard?"

"... Is it me?"

He let out an amused chuckle before harshly thrusting into you.

"That's correct!"

He set a brutal and unforgiving pace that left you breathless and practically overwhelmed with pleasure. The addictive feeling of his cock hammering in and out of you has you already near the edge. He hisses out in between moans.

"F-fuck!...you feel so good, like you were made just for me...."

Your nails dig into his back as you try to hold onto him, a melody of moans, whimpers, and whines escape you, only serving to add to his ego. His breath fans over your ear.

"It feels good, doesn't it? Being so full of my cock? I'm the only one that could make you feel like this, aren't i?!"

You nod frantically as you're pushed over the edge, screaming out his name as you climax, his own following shortly after, with a tight grip on your hips and a broken moan he empties his cum into you, slowly starting to slow down his frantic thrusts as he comes down from the feeling.

He pulled out of you and rolled over to lay next to you, catching his breath as he presses a few surprisingly gentle and sweet kisses to your forehead, holding you close to him.

[haru-dipthong]

Ep 12 of my Utena fansub is out!

私たちも今までいろいろやってきた、疲れたわね

We've been so busy the last few episodes. I'm pooped.

A juicy little indulgence on my part here - the fourth wall break here by the shadow girls does not actually exist in the Japanese (explicitly). I’ll explain why I added it.

Here’s a very literal translation of the individual words above with no thought given to context or adjusting for grammar.

We (also) | until now | various different things | have done up to this point

I believe いろいろやってきた (lit. we’ve done various different things up to this point) is referring to their various performances in a sort of meta way. If we take each appearance of the shadow girls as a semi-in-universe mini stage play, this line is referencing the presence of previous plays within the current play. They’ve played pirates, plate spinners, cowboys, an educational program, and more! Acknowledging these things is tantamount to a performer acknowledging the fact that they’re an actor rather than a character while on stage, so the fourth wall break felt appropriate.

Anya was also happy with the fourth wall break and added that it emphasises the episode as a turning point and helps close out the arc, which I really agree with!

-----

また黙秘するわけね。今のウテナってかっこ悪いよ。何か取られた腑抜けみたい。なんだかわからないけど、取られたら取り返しなさいよ！

Are you clamming up again? You look pathetic right now. Like you let someone steal from you! I don’t know what it was, but if someone took something from you, take it back!

Couple of little things to discuss about this line:

かっこ悪い is often translated as “uncool” or “lame”. This can sometimes be accurate, since it’s the opposite of かっこいい (lit. cool), but in this circumstance those words don’t hit hard enough. This かっこ悪い is more barbed than usual, so I kept the barbs by choosing a different word: pathetic.

“Clamming up” was an off the cuff choice because I felt I’d used “be quiet”, “not talk”, etc too many times in the previous scene to reuse them here. I think it fits with Wakaba’s personality and the current situation pretty well! 黙秘 is defined by jisho.org as “remaining silent; keeping secret”.

腑抜け means “coward” or something similar. I tried phrasing this line a few times to get that word in somehow, but in the end the whole rant just read so much better without forcing it in. Also cps (characters per second) was a concern here.

-----

元気な友達がいるね。

Your friend has quite the personality.

元気 (genki). What a word! Often translated as “energetic”. So often in fact, that even before I checked, I knew that the ohtori.nu translation would have used it, and sure enough!

Your friend is very energetic. (from ohtori.nu)

Along with “eyesore” and “confession (of love)”, this might take the bronze medal for common Japanese words that consistently get translated into very uncommon English words.

Of course, 元気 can literally mean “having a lot of energy”, or simply “well” (as in the opposite of “unwell”). But “energetic” is just such a bad translation for it 90% of the time. I wish I could convey why in words, but in most contexts, the word 元気 and the word “energetic” just feel so different.

Anyway, 元気 has quite a positive nuance, which emphasises the passive aggressiveness of Touga’s comment. The intent with this line is that he’s giving a vague compliment to Wakaba, indirectly (talking about her as if she’s not there), and making it clear that he wishes she wasn’t around. Everything else about the line should be secondary, including the specific meanings of each word.

I think this is emblematic of my general approach to translation — to identify the author’s original intent of a line/scene/work and then write it in a different language with the same intent in mind. Every line, every scene, is trying to do something — I believe it’s the translator’s job to identify what each line and scene is supposed to be doing and preserve that, so media literacy is very important. Sometimes that line is doing exposition, in which case a literal translation of each word is often ideal. Sometimes that line is trying to evoke a feeling, establish a character, or make the audience remember similar experiences, in which case the individual words used matter much less. In this case, the line is attempting to invoke memories of similar experiences of passive aggressive, dismissive comments. And frankly, “Your friend is very energetic” does not do that, so I consider it a poor translation.

-----

Thanks as always to my ride or die @dontbe-lasanya for their awesome editing this episode (and every episode!)

Make sure to follow the blog for episodes as they're released. Go here for all previous episodes:

[d1xonss]

Desert Rose

Chapter 1 ~ Introductions

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Rose

✧ Era : Season 1

✧ Word Count : 4.2k

In this chapter ~ In a life full of unexpected turns, this one by far hit Rose the hardest. A disease begins to spread when the dead are somehow brought back to life, that alone being the tip of the iceberg of what she remains to be faced with. When it all leads to her fighting for her life in Atlanta, she meets a group that ends up saving her from what she thought was the end of her rope. But when they bring her along for their great escape out of the dead infested city, she's faced with a decision that seemed to be more difficult than she first realized.

AN ~ Hi! So this is my very first post and series on tumblr and I’m still very much trying to get the feel of things lol. I originally uploaded the first two seasons of this fanfiction to wattpad and am still uploading frequently there, but I also wanted to give this a try as well. Just putting it on a different platform for more people to see:)

I will admit before you read, I started writing this story a little while ago so the phrasing and writing might be a little rusty at first seeing as I was just starting out. But I promise it gets better as it goes on, trust me! I hope whoever reads this grows to love it as much as I do. I will be uploading here as much as I can and adjusting to the new feel of things on here as quick as I can.

And I think that’s all for now! I hope you enjoy!

Fear.

That's the only emotion anyone ever feels anymore, or that's at least what I believe. Considering I've been on my own since the beginning, fear is something that I've had to grow accustomed to. And the world going to shit only made me realize how alone I truly was. How little I had to rely on as I saved myself time and time again. Though I had a family, the people whom I was bonded to by blood, they were nothing but a memory to me now. Reminding myself I was on my own for a reason.

I always knew how to take care of myself, simply because that was all I ever knew, and I was always silently thankful for that. I couldn't imagine living in this world and not knowing how to fight, or fend for yourself, so I considered myself lucky. I caught on quickly when it came time to start killing the dead, the very first time I had taken one out still haunts me to this day. The first feeling of fear I had felt in a very long time. I've learned the hard way that you never quite shake the feeling.

I had a day off from work, which was rare, just sitting in my apartment painting while the T.V. played quietly in the background. But then the whole atmosphere changed, nearly in a split second it felt like. My ears perked up when I suddenly heard blood curdling screams coming from the hallway just outside, instantly sending me flying to the front door to press my ear up against the surface. The desperate pleas and cries only seemed to worsen as the seconds ticked by, causing me to cautiously open my door to see two disgusting looking corpses going after a few of my neighbors. I froze at the scene before me.

They were trying to fight them off with random inanimate objects clutched tightly in their hands, flinching away as they tried desperately to fight back, screaming in utter terror. A part of me was torn, not wanting to step in and actually kill these things that looked exactly like us. People. But these things were no longer human, anyone could see that from a mile away.

I quickly snapped back into reality as my mind was made up, rushing back into my apartment to grab a large steak knife from my kitchen drawer, the blade glistening under the florescent light. My legs sprinted back through the corridor only moments later, stepping in as I shoved the thing up against the wall to get it away from the small group of people that had formed around it, causing the thing to growl as it looked directly at me. Goosebumps formed on my skin at the sight, quickly twirling the knife around to stab it in the chest, but it only continued to flail around in my grasp. My eyes widened as the monster didn't seem the least bit phased, trying again and again desperately to get its clawing hands away from me.

But finally, it a fit of aggravation, I took the blade and stabbed it right in between its eyes, silencing it completely as it fell limp out of my hold and onto the carpeted floor. My breathing was ragged as the others continued to panic loudly from just behind my frame, but I stayed completely still as I couldn't take my eyes away from the being I just murdered. I felt disgusting, horrified, and dazed. Though one thing I knew for certain, I couldn't stay here.

I didn't hesitate then to storm back into my home and pack a larger duffle bag full of my stuff to evacuate, knowing that this couldn't have just been happening here. Curiosity got the better of me as I flipped through the T.V. channels, landing on the news which showed utter chaos and live footage of these things attacking more people in many different countries. My heart seemed to stop for a moment as I watched, seeing that the world was nearly coming to an end as countless military machinery were flooding down the streets, attempting to put a stop to this before it spread. 

I didn't know what to do, where I would go, but I wanted to get as far away from here as possible. Looking into the dead eyes of the monster really didn't sit too well with me.

Though after that day, life was never the same. The dead slowly took over everything, killing off anyone they could get a hold of and silencing the planet completely. Leaving everyone who was left alive, utterly terrified and alone.

Two whole months had passed since the dreaded outbreak, and I found myself to be moving constantly. Never staying in the same place for too long, before packing up to move on and stay alive. That's truly all that mattered anymore.

Without having a real clear destination in mind, I somehow ended up in the city of Atlanta Georgia, just passing through the large structures hoping to gather some supplies before moving on all over again. But what I didn't expect, was to see hundreds of corpses filling the streets. My eyes widened at the sight as soon as I turned the corner, hoping to just silently slip away as I backed up from the giant swarm. But a few of their heads turned as they somehow spotted me, and the numbers only grew from there.

I practically sprinted in the other direction as fast as I could, slipping in between a few buildings to try and outrun the many that chased me with outstretched hands. But somehow, I ended up right in a dead end, the alley being blocked off by a giant wall in which I couldn't escape. My heart pounded as I slowly turned back around to face the dead, seeming to accept my fate as I had nowhere else to turn.

And that brings me to today. No, I didn't die...but if I'm being honest, a part of me wished that I had.

Instead of feeling the corpse's dead fingers tearing into me, a few living people came out of nowhere from the tall building to my right and began killing off the dead one by one, right before my eyes. I stood completely still as I thought at first I might be dreaming, but one of the men quickly grabbing my arm and pulling me along like a rag doll told me it was far from that.

Anyone else would be grateful for these people being at the right place at the right time, but I unfortunately didn't work too well with others, so grateful isn't really the word I would use.

So, currently you could say I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place as I racked my brain, trying to figure out how to get out of the situation I was put in. One of the men that had saved me was wearing a God awful hat that made me want to walk back in the herd of walkers. His name, I learned, was Rick Grimes and he and his group were the ones that helped me get out of the pickle I got myself in, along with dragging me with them as they too escaped from the large city of Atlanta. From what I overheard the others talking loudly about, they had just managed to save Rick as well, who was having just as bad of a day as I was, an hour before they saved me. To me it looked like we were both just random strangers that they decided to pick up like lost dogs.

Though I was weary of them, the rest of the group seemedto be nice enough, except for this asshole Merle who was this racist, sexist, piece of shit. Spewing out slurs and insults from his lips every five minutes and only pushing my urge further to walk towards the flesh eating monsters. Wanting to just end my suffering. Though, to make a very long story short, we ended up leaving him handcuffed on the roof of a building where we were once trapped. And much to my surprise, it wasn't on purpose. Rick eventually had enough of the man's bullshit and took his fancy, shiny handcuffs to lock him in place on a metal pole, and a man named T-Dog accidentally dropped his key to freedom down a drain.

But when the time came, we had no choice but to leave him when the dead had broken into the building we were holed up in. The only option we really had now was to maybe go back for him later. Maybe. But to put it into perspective on how uncomfortable I was, riding in this truck with them to their camp...I would rather switch places with Merle.

I was suddenly pulled out of my thoughts when the vehicle we were riding in stopped abruptly, assuming we were at the sanctuary these people had been talking so much about. I took a moment to lean forward and glance out the windshield at my surroundings, not liking the feeling that was forming in my gut at the thought of meeting anyone new. But Rick caught me scanning the area, reading my expression from where he sat in the passenger seat and clearly sensed my nerves.

Though he eventually caught my eye, "Don't worry too much...we're in this together." he assured, flashing a half smile at me that made the corners of his eyes wrinkle.

I raised my eyebrows at his attempt. Oh, thank God we're in this together. 

The man who was driving, Morales, told us to come out and meet everyone with a nod before he jumped out of the truck to run to his family. I shared another uneasy look with Rick before slowly following his actions to see for myself what I would be dealing with. My gaze scanned through everyone that was gathered around and instantly all their attention was on me once they heard my door slam shut. I grew uncomfortable at all the watchful eyes boring holes straight into my forehead, but the kid named Glenn eventually stepped in when he sensed the obvious tension.

"Guys, this is Rose. We saved her back in the city. She's cool." he assured with a smile, silently telling all of them to back off.

I shifted uncomfortably, forcing a small smile though it couldn't have been more fake. It seemed as though after Glenn said something, everyone relaxed a bit, thinking that I wouldn't be much of a threat. Though I could be. But they didn't need to know that. I didn't plan on hurting these people or taking their fishing poles unless they tried something with me first. But by the looks of it, some of these people looked like they couldn't even kill a fly, so I made the assumption that I was somewhat safe.

Though all of a sudden, the whole atmosphere seemed to change, everything happening in slow motion as a few people stared at me wide eyed. A man, a woman, and a kid. Confusion crossed my face as I wondered what I did to make these people stare daggers at me, until I heard a small gasp from behind. I looked over my shoulder to see Rick standing there in awe, wearing the same expression they did as he processed the situation in disbelief. I soon realized that they had been looking just behind me the entire time and quickly stepped off to the side as fast as I could.

Well, that's fucking embarrassing.

The little boy then took off in a flash towards Rick, screaming "Dad!" as he cried, and then it all seemed to click. This was the family Rick briefly mentioned to the group. The family he had been trying desperately to find. They had been here the whole time.

Everyone watched as they reunited with laughter and tears, the heartwarming scene almost causing me to smile. Though I snapped out of it with a shake of my head, my eyes now lingering down toward the ground as I crossed my arms around my middle.

After the moment had passed, that only came time for very long and boring introductions as Rick and I seemed to meet everyone else in the camp. I nodded towards everyone somewhat politely as I learned each of their names that I would surely accidentally forget. Although one seemed to really stick out to me amongst the many others.

Someone briefly mentioned the name Dixon, and I couldn't help but ponder over it for longer than necessary. The familiarity left a bad taste in my mouth. Apparently, Merle had a brother. And here I thought one was enough.

However, I had yet to meet him because the older man, Dale, informed me he was currently out hunting somewhere in the woods just ahead of us. But the truth was I didn't need to meet the man to know that he was an asshole just like the one we left behind. I mean, they were related after all.

The entire group then sat around a fire once the sun finally set, eating something small they cooked for the night, while discussing some random things that people would occasionally bring up. But the hot topic currently was what would they say to Daryl when the time came to tell him about his relative. In my mind it was pretty simple, but it was clear these people didn't want to be too harsh about it.

"How do we break it to him?" Dale asked.

"We just tell him the truth," Rick stated simply, "I'll tell him, I mean I was the one who cuffed him."

"No, I'll tell him...I'm the one who dropped the key." T-Dog gently argued, the guilt clearly getting to him.

Glenn sighed as he picked at the food on his plate, "I don't mean to bring race into this but...it might sound better coming from a white guy."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes hearing them going back and forth about the sensitive subject, hearing the same things being said over and over again. I stayed completely silent during the debate as I felt it was far from my business to put in my input, slowly tuning their conversation out. It was then I came to the realization that I couldn't stay here. Stepping even a foot into this camp was clearly a big mistake, I didn't belong with the rest of them. I was always better off alone.

And what seemed to annoy me the most was that I didn't have a choice, they just dragged me back here without even asking, without a care in the world. To me, that alone was a good enough reason to flee the moment I got the chance.

As the hour grew late and the sun disappeared from the sky, they all collectively decided to call it a night as everyone went their separate ways. I planned to head off into the forest to sleep, unprepared to trust the environment here as I felt I always had to keep my guard up. It made me feel safer, more secure, and it gave me an easier escape route for when morning came.

I jumped at the opportunity to be alone, grabbing my things and stepping over the few logs in my way to head toward the tree line for some much needed silence. Though just as I was about to receive the smallest taste of freedom, a voice calling out behind me caused me to stop.

"Hey, Rose!" I recognized Dale's voice softly shout.

My chest raised up and down with a deep sigh, turning around to face him as I looked at him expectantly. "I know you don't have a tent of your own or anything, but we do have some extra room in the RV..." 

I continued to stare, hardly showing any emotion on my face at all as I tried to read him, figuring out what his intentions were.

"Look, I know you're new and clearly don't feel too comfortable here just yet...but I just want to make sure you have a safe place to sleep. Now, you don't have to, I just thought I would offer." he said, finishing with a smile.

It was no secret to me that Dale was a good person and a decent man. There were definitely some people in this group that gave me a bad feeling right off the bat, however, Dale wasn't one of them. But I needed to get away. I only wanted this group to be a distant memory in the back of my mind and nothing more.

So, with that I shook my head, "I'm okay." I said as politely as I could before heading off into the forest.

I could hear him sigh from behind me as I walked away but I didn't let it bother me. I needed to go. A part of me didn't even want to sleep so I could get a head start to put some distance between me and this place, but I was fairly tired from running for my life throughout the day. So, I figured I should sleep for a couple of hours and leave before anyone else woke to head off to...well, anywhere but here.

My eyes groggily peeled open the following morning just before the sun began to rise over the hills, looking at it made me guess was it was around four or five in the morning. I yawned and stretched tiredly before standing up to my full height and placing my bag securely on my back, ready to head off in the opposite direction of the camp as the dirt crunched loudly beneath my feet. Although I didn't get very far, maybe about five steps before something suddenly stopped me in my tracks. I stood frozen there for a minute, just thinking. For some reason there was a certain hunch I had, an inkling of sorts. Something telling me to stop.

My mind started to spiral with many different thoughts, enough to give you a headache, but then that's where I stopped myself. My whole life whenever I had a gut feeling about something, I needed to trust it. My little intuition was almost never wrong. And although most impressions like this were like warnings about uneasy feelings, this one was different. Like a magnet was pulling me back to the group. A strong ass magnet.

I found myself plopping back down on my ass, my back up against the tree with my knees to my chest, just lost in my own thoughts, debating and arguing with myself for what felt like hours when in reality it was probably only a few minutes. But a golden flicker of light appearing out of the corner of my eye is what made me look back up, seeing the sun beginning to rise higher in the sky enough to kiss my cheeks. Okay...so it really had been a few hours.

But even after clear hours had passed me by, I was still left very torn about to do with myself. My head was screaming at me to just get out of here, to be on my own without any limitations or responsibilities. But my heart was calmly telling me to stay, to see how it would work out in the end if I went against my better judgement. I hadn't had a real group at all since the outbreak first happened, but in my mind, I never wished for one. I always believed it was okay to be alone, watching out for yourself rather than anyone else dragging you down. That was the logical way to survive...wasn't it?

With that I let out an aggravated groan and slowly stood back up to make my walk of shame back into camp, knowing it would eat me alive if I didn't give it another chance. One more day, I promised myself, and if nothing changed, I'd leave tonight.

As I walked back into the grounds, I noticed some people were already awake in the early hours of the morning much to my surprise. Carol and her daughter Sophia were sitting up on one of the logs talking quietly to each other, the woman's gaze glancing up as she noticed my movement. She sent me a sweet smile with a small wave, to which I nodded to her in return.

My eyes then looked away from her for a split second when I caught a brief glimpse of Rick walking away from the campsite, a certain determination in his step and his head low. I stayed in place as I watched his figure disappear, before I found my feet slowly moving forward to follow him. I didn't know why I did. I just grew curious, I guess.

When I caught up to his long strides, I found him sitting on a larger rock, seemingly talking to himself though I couldn't make out the words from where I was standing. It was all too hushed and quiet. But then my eyes panned over a bit to see a device in his hands, his mouth lowering closer as he spoke into it. Good to know he wasn't batshit crazy or anything.

Though as I shifted my weight and prepared to leave him be, I somehow accidently stepped too far to the right and directly onto a branch that snapped loudly under my boot. My eyes closed the second it happened, silently cursing to myself. Rick's head seemed to whip around the moment the sound hit his ears, his hand hovering over his gun in its holster, but his body instantly relaxed when he realized I wasn't a walking corpse.

The man then flashed me a small smile as he recovered from the mini heart attack, "Hey...you're up early."

I lifted my arm to check my imaginary watch, "No shit." 

He nodded slowly, "You're not a morning person...noted." he spoke before sighing to himself as he stared at me, "You know, I can tell you've been alone for quite some time. And I know you're probably scared, but-"

"I'm not scared of anything." I was quick to correct, my harsh tone even surprising myself.

His brows raised a little, whether it was because of my words or the fact that I interrupted him, I wasn't sure. But one thing I knew for certain was I wasn't going to stand here and listen to him accuse me of the things I was feeling when he didn't know anything about me at all. Everyone around here might've been scared of this new world, but I sure as hell wasn't. Maybe that was another reason I shouldn't be here; these people didn't know what the hell they were doing. Too scared to have a steady head on their shoulders. 

"Okay, maybe you're not scared... but you are alone." he spoke again.

I didn't open my mouth to respond as my eyes narrowed at him further. Thanks, captain obvious.

He continued, "Look, I know you don't trust us, but all I'm asking for is that you give us a chance. I saw the way you were looking at everyone last night, like you were ready to pounce any minute in case anyone tried anything. But I can tell you need us as much as we need you-"

"Okay," I interrupted with a wave of my hand, "Let me stop you right there before you break out into song and dance. I'm going to make something perfectly clear. I don't need you, or your parade of assholes back there for anything. I have always been just fine on my own, and last time I checked I didn't even ask for you to save me and bring me back here. You just did it. So don't tell me I'm scared, or I need any of you because that is far from the truth, asshole." I spoke harshly.

He stared at me for a few seconds not knowing how to respond, but he clapped back quicker than I expected, "Alright, fair enough. You're right... I don't know you. You didn't ask me to save you, and you don't look like you need anyone's help. All I'm just saying is it's nice to have other people watching your back. I felt completely alone until I found a man and his son while looking for my family, and now I can be a part of this group...and so can you. You just have to trust it...give it a chance."

My brows furrowed as I opened my mouth to retaliate, but it was apparently his turn to cut me off instead, "I can understand if you want to leave. Just know that...everyone in camp likes the idea of having you around."

His response was far from what I expected, finding I didn't say anything in return mostly because I couldn't find the right words. How could he be so understanding over someone he didn't even know? It honestly blew my mind a little.

When he saw I wasn't going to argue further, he turned back around to watch the sun continue to rise. And after debating in my head for a minute or two, I decided to walk over and sit myself next to him on the giant rock. He glanced at me when I sat down, probably expecting me to say some smart ass comment in return to his statement, but I didn't. We just sat in comfortable silence until the sky was no longer orange and pink, but now turning into more of a pale blue with clouds slowly filling up the remaining space. It was somewhat refreshing.

I could tell he was about to move and stand up to his feet, probably to head back to camp, but I said something that stopped him.

"I never wanted to be alone." I confessed, not taking my eyes off the sky.

As soon as the words left my lips, I closed my eyes for a moment as I regretted what I said almost instantly. I didn't want to admit defeat to anyone, let alone a stranger, but I figured I should in this case for him to truly understand what I was feeling.

I felt his eyes on me as he said nothing, expecting me to continue, so I did. "I was already alone before the world went to shit...and I guess I've just gotten used to being by myself. It's kind of exhausting looking out for other people."

He still remained silent.

"My point is, I don't know if I'm staying." I said, finally turning to look at him.

He nodded, "That's okay. Just...make sure to think about it before you make any rash decisions. Who knows...maybe you'll change your mind." he said almost suggestively before finally standing up to head back in the opposite direction.

I turned my head and watched his frame retreat away from me for a few seconds, his words echoing in my mind, before returning all my attention back to the sky. A part of me still wanted to go, the fear of the unknown creeping back up on me, however I did tell myself that I would give it another chance. But if I couldn't find a reason to say by tonight, that was that. I would leave this group behind.

~ Thanks for reading!

[profoundlyfaded]

And a further addition to this post - romantic head canons for EmmRook - specifically around Rook’s time in The Fade.

As per all these little snippets, this involves Yaryna Ingellvar; Mourn Watch Reaper. This one contains slightly more explicit spoilers so be warned, it also contains footnotes…

In the immediate aftermath of Rook being pulled into The Fade, there isn’t much time to process what has happened as Elgar’nan rains enough fire down on Tearstone it turns to glass*. It’s Davrin and Taash who all but drag Emmrich to safety but once back in the Lighthouse he walks back to his rooms without a word, shutting the door, shutting them all out.

The silence is an echoing yaw across the Lighthouse because it’s not just Rook, Harding is gone too, dead in a blaze of bravery. Bellara too, ripped through a mirror. And Emmrich feels those losses deeply too; Harding had become an unexpected but firm friend and Bellara was akin to what he imaged having a curious niece might have been like. But his mind swims back to Rook; beautiful, vibrant Rook whose last words to him were cry of relief that he was alright after Ghilan’nain managed to entangle him in Blight. Beautiful, vibrant Rook whom he had told the night before that they probably needed to end it because he’s far too old for her and their future limited. Despite it, however, he woke to her in his bed after she snuck in after he fell asleep.

He stands in his lab, hands on his mortuary slab, bracing himself against the torrent of emotion. The feeling one he remembers as a small boy upon the realisation that his parents are never coming back. But Rook isn’t necessarily dead; she vanished in a blinding flash of light and the taste of the Deep Fade lingered before Elgar’nan rained down his fury.

She could be in The Fade; transported there by factors unknown**. An idea starts to form - he’s looking at his equipment. When he first arrived, Rook had asked him to help them navigate the Crossroads, to try and chart the Fade so they could traverse it. His role expanded, of course, but it was his deep knowledge of the Fade that brought him here. He’d also been studying the prison Solas created, having identified both the one Solas had originally made and the new one he created having found them through readings and valances that were not consistent with surrounding areas.

But he needs something tangible of Rook’s; a deeply personal item with which to give him a baseline of her presence. So he goes to her quarters; as their relationship progressed he spent many an evening here, relaxed with Rook, contemplating the aquarium that he still hasn’t found time to study. In his minds eye, there is moment after moment flooding into him of them kissing, making love, slipping away to the bedroom***. The room smells of her and all the little touches around the room remind him of the things that delight her; the Nevarran Urn, an elven lamp lit with Veilfire. The last set of flowers he left for her sit in a vase, slightly wilted now, it’s been a few days given the rush since Elgar’nan pulled the sun and moon into its diabolical eclipse. Books line one wall - mediations on battle, instruction manuals on hexcraft that he’s afraid to open because she writes in the margins, he finds a couple of the books he’s written in metaphysics in The Fade and he flicks it open to find her handwriting on the page, underlined passages, circled phrases… it’s awful and beautiful at the same time.

There’s also a journal, it bulges, it looks so tantalising. He’s seen her write in it many times. He wants to pick it up, decern something of Rook’s nature just by holding it. Emmrich places his hand on it as if he could feel the beat of her heart through it or the thread of her thoughts. In the back of his mind, he expects Rook, Yaryna, to burst through the door.

In the bedroom, her bed is made because she didn’t sleep there last night, but her cosmetics are strewn across a dressing table. The clothes she wears when they are just at the Lighthouse are thrown across the arm chair in the corner, her velvet day coat on top. A book is on the table beside the chair, open but pages down, and it’s another of his - she’s working through his entire body of published works. There��s also a folded newspaper beside it, the headline reveals it’s actually one of the serials the team all end up sharing - this one is Bellara’s favourite about ghosts.

On the bedside table is what he’s looking for - her hairbrush and hair. Something that contains Rook and all that she is to give him the signature he is looking for.

Lucanis is the first to visit, the following day, with food ‘you can’t keep doing whatever it is you are doing without eating.’

Periodically, the team check on their resident necromancer and then there is news from the Veil Jumpers - Solas emerging from within the ancient ruins of the capital. They tried to question him, but Solas turned them to stone. Emmrich travels to the ruined city, Neve with him along with Davrin and Assan, taking measurements. Here the plan to replicate the knife is born; Emmrich can get a sense of the enchantment well enough to inlay magic into it that it would buy them some time to swap it with the real dagger so they can attempt rescue Rook.

Taash and Lucanis, and to an extent all of them, want to go after Solas but he’s temporarily gone to ground and both Rook and Bellara are out there somewhere. Elgar’nan is nursing his wounds too, clearly deciding on his move now Ghilan’nain is dead. As the dagger comes together, Emmrich continues his search of the Fade and each night returns to Rook’s room to be close to her, one night opening her journal because it’s been days, nearly two weeks and not even a glint.

The flowers he’s given her over their courtship are pressed among the pages, notes about when he gave them to her, what she loves. She’s kept all the ribbons as well. The words speak of love, a connection deeper than can be fathomed, all the things Emmrich has felt but expressed in Rook’s looping handwriting.

And he cries. A deep echoing pain because how could his last words to her have been ones of separation. It should have been love.

Then a few further days later, there’s a glint. The briefest flash. Emmrich doubles down, to his companions he’s become a bit of a mess, the refined clothing, pushed back hair even his speech holds the air of a desperate man.

A few days later again, more flashes of activity, a flurry but not in a location that could be transposed to the real world. Not somewhere they can travel without Solas’s dagger. Elgar’nan makes his move and no one is ready. They don’t have enough resource for an out and out battle on the home turf of the Venatori anyway.

And more flashes of activity; real tangible evidence this time and a location to match - the ritual site where it all went wrong. And they can get there quickly because the location is ‘stored’ within the mirror. The team suit up, hopeful but also scared because what happens if Emmrich is wrong and they’ve not been able to retrieve Solas’s dagger to use.

Blind faith drives Emmrich, more than he had when he retrieved Manfred’s spirit, that Rook can find her way out all he has to do is find the right spot. The weakest point of the Veil. The last thing he hears before he plunges his hand into that tiny gap is Taash saying he better be sure.

And a hand grabs his; warm, familiar. He must say something because the team grab his arm and they pull in a loud shout pulling through Rook. She promptly collapses to her knees and vomits, then a mix of laughter and crying, pressing her forehead to the stone.

‘Darling?’

It’s the most cautious way he’s ever said it. Pausing, Rook wipes her mouth, then looks up, shielding her eyes from bright reality of the world compared to the Fade.

‘I knew you’d find me, my love.’

—

*I think it’s Taash who can tell Rook that Elgar’nan rained so much fire on the island in fury that it turned to glass. You have to interact with them a couple of times during the ‘last conversations’ before going to the final fight.

** I don’t necessarily think that Solas came back through The Fade immediately. I don’t think he returned via Tearstone Island as it would have been too dangerous. I don’t think the gang know Solas escaped for a couple of days or so.

***Look Rook isn’t sleeping on that sofa every night, and Emmrich does not sleep standing up like a horse. I’ve given each of the companions a proper bedroom behind like a hidden door in their respective dens - expect Davrin because that boy has his shit together.

[constantfragmentation]

Uhhhh, just read the makeout scene in Bend and Not Break and

How? Just how do you write such sinful smut? I mean the freaking hand sex in the piano chapter, followed by the dance and cockblock (fu sevika!) adn then that sizzlinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng hngh kiss in the next chapter. I mean its been building, building, building. I've never read so great slow burn. shit.

AND THEN! The scene with Blanch (that made me mad but also I was like HO! they are kinda hot together too)

AND THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNN you go FULL throttle in the secret passageway? Like it wasn't even p in the v and I was SHOOK.

I have a few more chapters to go but i had to drop a line and say

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Their is smut and then there is SUPERB smut.

Never read Jane Eyre and I don't care. This is my Jane Eyre now.

I wanted to stay Anon because I don't want people to know that I'm like dying over reading your fic. Fucking Bridgerton WISHES it was this good.

I don't even know what to say? I'm glad you liked it? Never received a comment/compliment like this before.

It's weird because when I write smut, I do feel a bit embarrassed. As if, I'm crazy for writing it? I don't know how to phrase that correctly.

I've actuallly never seen/read Bridgerton. I know it's popular. So I'll take that as a compliment.

Well, I love Bronte. I do admit my retelling/version is definitely more Arcane driven and yes majorly smutty considering the original inspiration.

The piano lesson in Ch. 8 is one of my fav scenes ever to write. I love everything about it. It's not even smut but someone left in the AO3 comments to the likes of "sexy hand holding" and I loved it.

Of course, the follow up is Ch. 9 where we get dance lessons and yes, Sevika (I love you gurl) majorly cockblocks. I LOVE the heated/angry/possessive kiss in that chapter too.

Someone also made a comment that I should write a one-shot on Silco/Blanche (if there was no Jane) since they do have chemistry and she's a bit nasty we learn :D

I love the secret wall scene too. So much built up tension, jealousy (because Silco IS an asshole but I love him for it) and it all hits hard leaving our "Jane/Reader" completely a mess.

You're in for more smut in a few chapters.

I'm writing the newest chapter right now. And I will say it will be a big rollercoaster from here until the end.

[sophie-frm-mars]

Black to Techno by Jenn Nkiru

I went to an exhibition 2 days ago about music and there was 20ish minute film being shown in one of the rooms called Black to Techno.

I don't usually like films in galleries, though I do admit it's definitely disproportionately negatively shaped by the gallery viewing experience. I really fucking like this one though. I want to say so much stuff about it, and I also want to say just watch it.

"The industrial machinic decay of Detroit" is a phrase that is now permanently haunting my brain. The use of a story about a machine called Ginny that refused to hurt the storyteller's grandfather. The recording of a NOI street preacher. The deeply unsettling scenes of a man playing dead in a dead mall or the mythology of the underwater undead babies. The fucking autoworkers* spinning vynil in the middle of the plant that goes SO FUCKING HARD.

(*DJs dressed as autoworkers? idk, idc, that's the point)

I wanna watch this a bunch of times and maybe write about it more properly but right now I'll just implore you to watch it

"By using the untapped energy potential of sound we are going to destroy this wall, much the same as certain frequencies shatter glass. Techno is music based in experimentation. It is music for the future of the human race"

[project-sekai-facts]

What is your favorite commissioned song for each character? (Sorry if you've already answered this before)

this has been sitting in my inbox since december because I was waiting for all characters to get their 4th song... so minori has 5 songs now screw waiting it's not massively likely that Ena4 or Toya4 are gonna beat my top comms for them.

Ichika: either the WALL or Ryuusei no Pulse. I keep changing my mind on which one I like more. I don't really have much to say about them because I don't have either ranked particularly high, but Chiirurin is always a good vocalist, her high note in the WALL is really good.

Saki: Stella. This has been my favorite L/n song since I started playing. I'm not entirely sure why, it just really struck a chord with me. I love the lyrics as well. I'm actually listening to it while writing this lol.

Honami: STAGE OF SEKAI. I really love the emotion in this one, especially in the final chorus. The instrumental is really good too and you honestly can feel the emotion in the song through that alone. Regulus is really good too.

Shiho: Voices. It's just a total banger. The guitar solo is probably my favorite part of the song if I'm being honest. I hope they recommission yuyoyuppe at some point.

Minori: Tenshi no Clover. All her songs are really good, so this was hard to pick. I love energetic idol songs like that and it fits Minori really well. Zenshin zenrei MORE MORE JUMP!

Haruka: IF. rip haruka for not getting her 4th song. I'm not massive on any of her comms to be honest. I do like IF and Float Planner, they're just quite low on my ranking comparatively. Also I keep going back and forth on which one I like more but right now it's IF.

Airi: MORE! JUMP! MORE!. This was my original favorite MMJ song. It's super catchy and fun. Even if the lyrics are nothing to do with the event or Airi, I still think it's a great song.

Shizuku: Metamo Re:born. My favorite MMJ song! Really catchy and has a nice beat to it. I like how 'sparkly' it sounds as well.

Kohane: Hitsuji ga Ippiki. The instrumental is so good, and this is probably one of VBS' best songs vocally. Akina especially sounds amazing.

An: Awake Now. We had to wait so long for this but it was so worth it. Again the instrumental is great and Jiena sounds so good in this song, I love An's solo version. I have this ranked just above Hitsuji on my tierlist lol

Akito: CRaZY. This song made my change my top 5 songs for the first time since spring 2022. It's just so good and all of VBS sounds amazing as always. I also like how it reflects Akito's character development from the event. My favorite rotation 4 song so far.

Toya: RAD DOGS. My original #2 song and current #3. I love the combination between classical and EDM, and HachiojiP did such a good job considering he didn't have any experience with classical. Also the Bad Dogs rap section is so good.

Tsukasa: Mr. Showtime. If I'm being honest I don't usually like showtunes like this a whole lot, they can be very hit or miss for me, but this is very much a hit. Daichan did really well in this song. My favorite part though is the lyrics, I love how Yama used different meanings for certain phrases in parentheses.

Emu: Hoshizora Orchestra or Niccori Chousa-tai no Theme. Again I keep changing my mind and they're pretty much tied for me. I like them for completely different reasons as well; Hoshizora Orchestra is pretty melancholic despite it's cutesy tune, and Niccori is just really fun to listen to.

Nene: Hoshizora no Melody. Easy pick for me, I love the instrumental a whole lot and listened to the preview over and over at the time. Also the lyrics are so good, I love how they tell the entire story of Wandasho and show how much they mean to each other.

Rui: potato ni Natte iku. Still my favourite song in the game, I'm really never moving on from this one. I just really like the instrumental. Showtime Ruler is an incredibly close 2nd place though (really close. guitar solo at the end goes hard and also "I will never feel lonely ever again")

Kanade: Samsa. It's just an amazing song, but I also appreciate how teniwoha managed to connect the novella to Kanade and Mafuyu's story. Probably my favorite song from rotation 3.

Mafuyu: Bug. I know it's a boring choice but it's a good song, it's popular for a reason. Also RUIRUI'S SOLO VERSION. She's such a talented vocalist and is really good at conveying Mafuyu's emotions.

Ena: Kagirinaku Haiiro e. I've actually always liked the instrumental of this one. Also the lyrics fit Ena's story really well. However the final chorus totally steals the show, I loop that part of the song specifically a lot. Favourite Niigo song.

Mizuki: IDSMILE. I actually didn't like this song much at first because it's not the sort of thing I usually like. The lyrics are what got me to like it as much as they do. I've mentioned before that Mizuki is my favorite niigo member, so I'm slighly biased in that regard, but they really struck an emotional chord with me.

If anyone's interested my top 10 is potato ni Natte iku -> Showtime Ruler -> RAD DOGS -> CRaZY -> Beyond the way -> Cinema -> Kagirinaku Haiiro e -> CYBERPUNK DEAD BOY -> IDSMILE -> Gekkou

[banqanas]

HIGH&LOW EASTER EGGS: MERCY’S HOUSE

In another post, I highlighted that most graffiti in the movie’s backgrounds is a reference to Exile Tribe songs, but in this post I want to focus on easter eggs that’s actually related to the characters in the series.

In Mashii Takehiko’s character profile from the official website, it says:

Suzuran Boys High School 3rd Year student who is also known as Mercy. He lives in a small rundown apartment together with his mother in Toaru city. He has been best friends with Raoh ever since Jr High School and one of the few people Raoh can open up to. Academically smart, Mercy is more than capable to apply to a better school but decided to follow his instincts and enrolled in Suzuran with Raoh. Peculiar guys started gathering around the two, and before they realised, the elite Raoh Faction was formed. He is known as the calm and collected No.2 of the faction. His personality is alike to Housen’s Odajima. The two get along and sometimes exchange information with each other.

The picture above is the scene where we are introduced to Mercy’s home.

If you look closely, the room on the right is full with graffitis, and if you look closer, you can see Mercy’s name written on the walls.

TL note: One point breakthrough is something from Sun Tzu’s Art of War. It has no relevance whatsoever. The person who wrote it probably just wanted to write the most sophisticated phrase they knew and it’s not even the full phrase.

BUT!

In the next scene, we see that Mercy’s house is the one next door, 102.

Which brings the question, why are all those threats and graffitis written at the wrong house?

My personal headcanon is that the Mashii family originally lived in Room 101. They probably had some financial problems and started getting harassed for the owed money. So instead of directed to Mercy, the graffiti around their front door were probably threats for the Mashii family in general. At one point they decided to run away to a different city (or so they say), except that they just moved next door. Notice how they make it look deserted with random things and accumulated trash in front of the house.

I also think that the broken doorbell for 102 is a way to make outsiders doubt that anyone lives there and only Mercy’s the one who answers the door (in case their cover is blown, he could somehow manage whoever that comes).

But I don’t think that the ‘Die Mercy’ graffiti was written by the money lender, instead its probably done by a different party (someone who got their ass beaten by Mercy in the past) who just thinks that he still lives there.

Tl;dr: high&low real lores are stored in the background walls 👍

[zahri-melitor]

Reading Digger Harkness as an Aussie: why he’s specifically written to wind me up, the undercurrents of many of his appearances, and why he’s voting No in the Voice referendum.

(Okay if you know ANYTHING about Digger and about the Voice you already knew that, but making this current-relevant!)

George “Digger” Harkness is Captain Boomerang. He’s traditionally written by DC to be specifically, deliberately annoying and disliked. Due to this he’s simultaneously quite cleverly written while also being the laziest character stereotype imaginable.

One of the things that drives me up the wall every time I read him in a book is that due to a clash of a few things in his character design, the subtext he’s evolved over time is remarkably complex, but also geared to make me despise him. Also I can’t tell how much of it is deliberate on the writer’s part.

The first thing you need to understand is that Harkness is very specifically putting on a level of Australianness for his audience (the usually American characters around him). The fascinating thing in this is that, unusually for this trope, his writers are often aware he’s doing this. The common term for this is ‘ocker’. You can notice this in the language he uses: it’s specifically peppered with ‘Australian’ words and phrases.

Now this is a pretty common thing for writers to do to demonstrate a character is Australian. It sounds like someone trying to write Crocodile Dundee or Steve Irwin. However, to my ear (and years of putting up with this), the way it’s done for Digger is…off. It’s not the standard terrible way it’s used in American media, but it’s equally not written naturally for how an Australian who natively speaks ocker/broad would use it. Digger’s playing it up, and he’s playing it up badly. (the closest comparison I can make than an Australian might understand is he sounds more like Russell Coight than Steve Irwin, with all that implies) He wants people to think he’s an Australian stereotype.

Heck, let’s break down his name for a demonstration of this.

Captain Boomerang: this is a very, very, loaded name. Digger’s specifically racist, and he’s racist in a very White Australia Policy sort of way. The writers are aware he’s racist. He uses a boomerang as a symbol as he’s Australian (surface level) but they’re also specifically drawn as white a lot of the time, both in his costume and in the weapons themselves. They’re not plain wood or decorated with traditional art. They’re white. He has a history of making boomerangs and promoting them in Australia for sale, as a white guy, which is uhhhh Not Great. He’s assumed a traditional piece of Australian Aboriginal weaponry and culture as his own, and he’s painted it white. He’s asserting that it’s his culture now and has stripped it of its traditional meaning. (Also his boomerangs often don’t come back, and have sharpened edges and are used wrongly). He doesn’t like Black People ™ but also uses a weapon specifically associated with an oppressed minority in his place of origin. The white supremacy attitude is very much coded in.

“Digger” as a nickname: oh the way this clashes and interacts with the fact he uses ‘Captain’ as a title! Digger as a term is a general nickname for Australian Army soldiers. It comes from the Gallipoli landings and the trenches of World War I. By using it as his nickname, Harkness is evoking a whole HOST of imagery and specifically nationalist cultural imagery surrounding Gallipoli as a ‘birthplace’ of Australian identity, something that’s been weaponised particularly by the Australian political right for the past 30 years as a national symbol. In the stories that a country tells itself about who they are, Harkness is evoking a very major one and also one that can read as quite toxic if not done carefully. (if you need a quick entry to the way the nickname makes me wince, look up ‘Cronulla Riots’. That’s the sort of person his name is evoking for me) The other problem on top of this – this is a soldier’s nickname. Harkness has never been in the Australian military (as far as I can tell). Combined with the fact he uses the title of ‘Captain’, he’s suggesting he’s got a military background that he 100% does not have. He’s a giant hypocrite. Now being part of the military in Australia reads differently to being part of the military in the USA, in how society sees it, but this is still not on. It’s not a natural nickname for an Australian to have, in his circumstances. It doesn’t even make sense as a traditional ironic nickname given by his friends. Which means he picked it himself. And for that style of nickname…choosing your own? That’s considered to be poor form and trying way too hard. (And nicknames are culturally important! For the personality Harkness is trying to present to his audience, he SHOULD have a nickname like this. My father’s is ‘Bones’, for instance. But choosing your own, and choosing one that implies traits that are not yours to display? Really really bad form)

Basically in summary, Harkness is very much coded in a lot of ways to essentially be the Australian equivalent of someone who stormed the Capitol on January 6, 2021. With that sort of view of his home country.

What is fascinating is that when Harkness interacts with other Australian characters, they do not like him, so the writers are aware that he’s been written to be this level of objectionable.

Now, some of this coding in his character has just accumulated over 60+ years as stereotypes have evolved and things have become ever more socially unacceptable. But the interesting thing here is that the writers ACKNOWLEDGE that unacceptable behaviour from Harkness.

I hate him so much. And I also want to fix his dialogue, which suffers from being written by Americans, to include a bunch more extremely country ocker sayings. He NEEDS to be saying things like “stone the flaming crows” and “fair shake of the sauce bottle” and “flat out like a lizard drinking” and “I didn’t come here to fuck spiders”. Because he’s putting it on. And these are the sort of things he’d lean in to to convey that level of “oh I’m not from around here, I am quoting Crocodile Dundee at you but you didn’t even realise” that he’s written to have.

[lohstandfound]

wait sorry can you answer this anon ask instead. richjake + 11 <3

This is so much more than I expected to write, oh my god. It feels a little jumbled, I have not proofread this, it is 3.30am and I am tired. But here we go

11- things you said when you were drunk

Rich was never one for alcohol. He had his reasons. Bottles that littered the living room. The voice in his head persuading him not to. He was always vague when giving his reasoning, and no one really pushed back.

He had that sort of reputation.

But sometimes, sometimes he'd find himself sitting on the floor in Jake's bedroom with a bottle in hand.

(Something stolen from the locked liquor cabinet).

(Is it really stolen if the original owners never came back?)

Rich wasn't a big drinker. One or two, enough to shut the voice up for a while. Enough to leave his mind quiet for a moment. Never drunk enough to lose himself.

(Had he already lost himself? Was cruelty something he wanted to cling to? It was a nice defense mechanism. But was he cruel? That's how everyone saw him, that's what he had to be to keep everything he had built for himself).

(Did he really do this all by himself? Was it all him when he was following orders from the supercomputer in his head and using Jake's status as a way to pull himself to the top?)

Maybe the overthinking was another reason he didn't drink. Without the extra voice in his head, it was way too quiet. And he was left to his own thoughts.

Jake on the other hand, had just finished his... He didn't know. Or care. He'd finished another bottle, that's all he really cared about. It was just a distraction. Something to occupy his mind. He couldn't stand an empty, quiet house.

His room was his only sanctuary in this house, it was the only part that was really his. Everywhere else, he felt like he was a stranger. Like he wasn't supposed to be walking down the hallway, making breakfast in the kitchen, doing homework in the living room.

Anyway, all this to say Rich was only just starting his second drink and Jake was well on his way to being drunk.

Rich sat on the floor, his back against the wall and an arm resting on the case of beer. Jake had laid back on the floor after discarding his empty bottle. The sun was setting, and Jake was glowing in the last remaining rays of sunlight.

Rich's cheeks went red as he realised he was staring, his mind drifting to thoughts his SQUIP would certainly not allow. If Jake asked, he could probably pass off the redness for the alcohol. It was summer, Rich could also blame it on the heat. But Jake would be far too wasted to even care.

He looked away from Jake, gazing around his room. The walls filled with awards and trophies and medals, constant reminders of who Jake was supposed to be.

(And, in a few months time, Jake won't be sad to see it all crumble around him. If anything, he would be free).

Rich only turned his attention back to Jake when he heard him let out a breathy laugh.

He raised an eyebrow, putting down the bottle he had barely touched. "What're you thinking about?"

Jake let out a lazy hum before he pushed himself up. For a moment, all Rich could see was a shadow with the last golden rays shining behind him. Rich didn't need to see clearly to know that Jake had that dopey grin on his face. The same look he always had before he told a bad joke, cheesy pick up line, or some utterly stupid phrase that he knows will start an argument.

(The week prior he had a debate with Brooke on the status of centaurs and gryphons. Did centaurs count as insects? Were gryphons birds or mammals? It lasted until Chloe told them to shut up).

"You," Jake said.

Rich blinked for a moment.

"Me?"

"Unless you're telling me you're not my Richard Goranski sitting in my room."

My Richard Goranski.

Rich tried not to blush harder and looked away again. "What's your point, man?"

Jake hummed again before crawling over to Rich to steal another beer from the case. "I've been thinkin' a lot lately. 'bout you."

Rich looked back at Jake, only to see that he was suddenly a lot closer than before. And he could swear his face was getting much more red at such close proximity. Jake still wore that stupid look on his face.

"Isn't that crazy? Been thinking about you a lot in ways that I shouldn't."

Rich frowned. "How do you mean?"

Jake looked at Rich for a moment. "I wanna kiss you."

Rich, mid-sip, almost spat out his drink. Out of anything Jake could have possibly said, those were not the words that he was expecting to come out of his mouth. Rich didn't know what he had expected, something goofy or stupid. Not... Not vulnerable. Not this.

(Did his SQUIP know?)

"What-"

Jake immediately looked away, the grin fading from his face as he fumbled with the beer case. Rich noticed how he seemed to deflate. Jake always guarded his emotions. No one else was allowed to see what he was thinking or feeling.

Apart from Rich.

Jake didn't know what it was, but he always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking or feeling. Maybe that's why he always felt so compelled by Rich. Rich, who knew him better than anyone.

The same Rich who strode up to him, shamelessly, and almost demanded to be his friend. The same Rich who made him want to hang onto every single word he said. The same Rich who had him wrapped around his finger and they both knew it, but Jake couldn't help himself.

(Rich wouldn't admit it, not until much later, that it was the SQUIP who helped him with these things. That prompted the right thing to say, the right way to act. The thing that helped him see the subtle change in Jake's demeanour).

(It was something that he had picked up, with the amount of times his SQUIP pointed out any minor change in the way Jake spoke or the way he carried himself. Something he could still notice now without the voice prompting him, telling him that almost spitting his drink out was the wrong response).

(He had no idea what the right one was).

"Nah, nah. See- I told you. It's crazy. I'm not- I'm not s'ppsed to, y'know? We're not- You're probably not-"

Jake stopped when Rich held his wrist. The touch felt electric. In his hazy mind, that was the only thing he could focus on. Rich was the only thing he could focus on- the only thing worth focusing on.

Rich didn't know what to say. The voice in his head wasn't active. It would be a while before it would show up again. It would review this interaction and tell him all the ways he fucked up, how he should have done it. It would review this interaction between him and Jake and then adjust how it was going to do things. Would it keep Jake close? Would it push him away? Would it separate them? The amount of things his SQUIP could hold over Jake's head to make him behave. Rich didn't want to be that person, but the SQUIP would make those words come out of his mouth if it had to.

But right now, Rich's mind was his, and his alone. No extra voice guiding him through this conversation. One wrong thing and Jake would close himself off for the rest of the night. Jake would refuse to speak, so Rich would retreat to the spare room down the hall. The one that had all his stuff in it. He would lie in bed and think and think and think and worry and think.

"You're not supposed to be anything..."

Jake's eyebrows furrowed. That went against everything that he had ever been told about his life- a life that didn't even feel like his own. He was just there, doing what he was told his purpose was.

He stared at Rich for a moment. The way his curls fell over his eyes, the bright red streak in his hair, (Jake loved the colour red). The freckles that dusted Rich's skin, (if he was focused enough, he could make constellations on his skin, his own galaxy to chart and memorise), those green eyes staring into his own.

Jake's eyes flicked down to Rich's lips. He felt stuck, frozen. He couldn't move until Rich gave him permission. Until Rich let go of his arm or pushed him away or pulled him closer. Until Rich did anything other than search his face for who knows what.

"I really want to kiss you..." Jake said softly. "Is that so crazy? Is that so wild? I shouldn't- I can't- but god... God, I want to kiss you so bad..."

Rich searched Jake's eyes for a moment. They were close, so close. Rich could smell the alcohol on his breath. He could give in, and he wanted to. He really wanted to.

He didn't want to string Jake along more than he had to.

Rich let go of Jake's arm and pushed himself up. "It's getting dark... You're wasted, man..." He carefully moved around Jake, who was still frozen. "I'll see you in the morning."

He watched Jake for a moment before he walked out of the room.

"Right..." Jake said softly. "Crazy... I'm crazy..."

(ao3 link)