#and even his machiavellian machinations

[mihrunnisasultans]

Look, look! Blood is dripping from this dome! Even rivers and oceans cannot clean your hands from all the blood.

Happy (belated) birthday Plami! @mc-critical

[welcometogrouchland]

I think the disconnect between canon Belos and (a certain genre of) fanon Belos is that in canon he is pathetic (in the dramatic sense) not sympathetic.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

WHAT IF I TOLD YOU NONE OF IT WAS ACCIDENTAL?

dazai x reader

the first night dazai saw you, he knew nothing would stop him.

for his birthday!

inspired by mastermind

osamu dazai, for all his life, had not felt the warm bliss of love. he did not have a mothers arms to lay in, or a fathers protection to shield him. he didn't have the privilege of a second family through friends, or even the comfort of loving himself. osamu dazai was not given love, not even for a moment, so he taught himself how to gain it. he was only cryptic and machiavellian because he cared, more than he wanted to admit.

so the moment he saw you, he felt a desire stronger than ever. you wouldn't require just a simple trick or a con- no, you deserved more. he laid out the groundwork, equations in his a mind a labyrinth of desperation only you could suffice.

osamu dazai wanted you.

and he knew how to get you.

honestly, who could blame him?

dazai was a master of people. he knows how to play people like puppets to get what he wants. none of it was accidental when it came to you. the coincidental run-ins at your favorite coffee shop that was at least a 30 minute cab ride for him. the times you conveniently forgot your umbrella when you swore you packed it, and dazai just happening to be passing by on your walk home. even the time you had just been dumped by your ex-boyfriend over the phone, and dazai just happened to show up at your doorstep just checking in.

maybe you should have noticed how fabricated it was at first. but you didn’t. dazai wanted you. and he made you want him.

dazai made you want every part of him. his silky hair his deep brown eyes, his honeyed voice and his suave way of walking. he made you want all of him, the good and the bad, his charm and his want for death, his desire to be good and the deep dark past of who he once was. dazai played love like a puppet show. whenever you laid on his chest, snuggled into his warmth, or when your lips were hopelessly pressed against his, dazai knew he had you. he knew he made you want him.

whether you find out or not isn't a concern to the brunette. you love him unconditionally anyway- you're his belladonna, his love, his everything. when he kisses you, the planets and stars align as if all of the pain in his life had led him here. the empty core in his heart aches at the thought of being eased, as if afraid of being happy. but your touch melts it away. you see that he is so touch starved, so deprived of love that he just had to assess the equation of you. he did this for as much for you as he did for him, knowing that he could live through even just one more day if it meant he could love you.

he needs your fingers to intertwine with his the way a chess player needs the queen. he needs your warmth like the largest gear needs the smallest gear in a machine. he needs your reassurance like the way water needs oxygen. because osamu dazai understands a lot of things well- chess, machinery, chemical compositions, and the way you love him. he knows its a need. he knows he needs your love not like his inner child wanted candy, he knows he needs your love the way the flower needs the sun.

his eyes stir awake, sunlight filtering through the curtains of your bedroom. his skin tickles, his cheek being peppered by your kisses. a smile tugs at his lips as he stretches his arms over his head and then around you, greeting you with a "good morning" in the deepest morning voice you have ever heard. dazai was usually light sleeper, but with you he could truly rest and escape into the sheets with you.

"happy birthday, 'samu." you hum, tracing your fingers down his abdomen. every contour of his bandaged yet muscled chest screamed at you to love him with everything in you. you would kiss every inch of him- starting from his hair to the very depths of his soul if you could.

"hm?" he quips, coffee eyes slightly widening.

you chuckle. "its june 19th."

"oh."

in all honesty, his birthday is the last thing on his mind, especially when you're in front of him. you are so, so, fucking beautiful he isn’t even sure you’re real. not just beautiful in your absolutely angelic complexion, but you're beautiful simply when you're you. when you're on top of him, the new sunlight on the earth dancing on your skin. lips bruised from the night's fleeting passion, hair messy and soul absolutely smothered in him. you drove him crazy, and he'd gladly lose his mind for you.

"thank you, bella." he hums, lazily draping an arm over you, as if there was anyway he could possibly pull you closer. dazai would find a way if it meant loving you harder. never, in a million years, did he think his partner would drag him out of bed and to the living room. he rubs his eyes, finding the agency standing in your apartment, an excited atsushi and a begrudging but willing kunikida, surrounding a cake for him. he never thought it would turn out like this, this good. he's stunned for a moment- a rare emotion for the young prodigy. was... this also apart of his plan?

maybe not. but as he kissed you and whispered a passionate "thank you" into your ear, he decides that this wasn't planned- it was luck. and he loved it. funny how sometimes you just find things.

[foursaints]

“I don’t care what [Barty] says, Dumbledore’s not stupid”: On Barty as Machiavel

i think we're all forgetting the moment where harry explicitly draws a parallel between barty & remus and i wrote the world’s longest post about it 

under a close reading, moody!barty operates in a manner that is SO distinct from canon!moody, and i think it’s made especially apparent in the way he interacts with students & the virtues he emphasizes in his lessons. even when disguised, barty has a machiavellian tendency that comes through consistently in several different moments. 

i think this quote is a weaker example, but “very tactful” is NOT something that would be used to describe canon!moody under any circumstances. c!moody’s lack of social tact is a known characteristic, and barty uses his tactless reputation to get away with his machinations (see: the dustbin excuse, breaking into snape’s office, even the ferret to an extent).

on the other hand, BARTY is clever and subtle and manipulative, and we see this coming through in how he handles neville. the biggest difference between him and c!moody is the way that barty!moody tends to openly value or praise Cleverness & Craftiness above more moody-ish virtues like bravery, loyalty, or Taking Care of His Students’ Safety… but i think the most interesting part of all this is the way that harry reacts to it.

the hp books notoriously do this clumsy thing where the morality is starkly Black/White (as ursula leguin rightfully criticized). but seemingly arbitrary categories like “gryffindor” or “slytherin” are also conflated with this strict Good/Evil dichotomy. which results in these random-ass traits like “brave 😎🦁” and “cunning 💀🐍” also taking on moral associations within the world of the text (jkr has also done this with physical traits & racial stereotypes, which is vile) 

but an overarching theme in hp is harry grappling with this dumbass in-world black/white morality & unlearning part of it (ex: snape, the epilogue w albus severus about slytherin). but i think it’s sooo interesting that one of the few characters (aside from snape & dumbledore) to demonstrate & valorize a machiavellian tendency AND be admired for it (by harry) is LITERALLY barty jr. 

like! barty’s tact is not a good thing in-canon! he uses his tact to get away with murder & torture & elaborate terrorist plots (he’s part of a group of death eaters described as having "managed to talk their way out of azkaban” p. 527) but i looove that the same trait which allows him to do all sorts of Dastardly Evil is cast as positive and remus-like in this moment. obviously i don’t think jkr was doing of this on purpose, but i love how these little things are unintentionally more compelling than whatever the hell she was trying to do with snape. and it goes deeper!!

this moment is especially telling of barty’s character, to me. subbing out the names, “I don’t care what [Barty] says… Dumbledore’s not stupid” is a CRAZY line. 

it’s lowkey THE barty!moody thesis in comparison to c!moody: nothing we’ve seen from c!moody would even remotely suggest that he’d EVER imply that dumbledore is stupid. (c!moody adopts the “it’s imperative that we blindly trust dd’s mysterious plans” attitude that most of the adults in harry’s life take, that hermione re-emphasizes here). but barty’s attitude is something that harry heavily fucks with in this moment!! 

that’s all i really have to say about The Implications or whatever. but i want to call more attention to moments in canon where barty’s tendencies shine through his disguise because (unlike most marauders characters) his personality is really fleshed-out. especially this aspect of it. my silly 

i. "mind works the right way, granger"

barty speaking about dumbledore like he’s stupid (💀) is enjoyable for several reasons up to & including how big-dicked it is of him, but most importantly i think it’s symptomatic of an overarching theme of his character. in GOF, barty has a tendency to take stock of the people around him, according to what appears to be a really concrete & consistent set of internal values: he values cleverness matched with a certain degree of ruthlessness. 

this bit with hermione is fun. there are about ~6-7 other instances where he praises cleverness, but that’s not really a unique or noteworthy thing to value? but the phrasing in this quote is my favorite. i know that it’s in reference to the skillset required of an auror, but the phrasing of “mind works the right way” can be applied to so much of barty’s character if you reach hard. i love that barty’s language almost casts the mind as something rote & mechanical which can function right or wrong. 

but anyway it only becomes interesting when placed in context of THIS earlier interaction: 

there are endless ways barty could have gone about guiding harry to use his firebolt here, so his specific phrasing holds a lot of weight to me. (keep in mind: he’s prompting harry to feel that he came up with the firebolt/accio idea, but this whole plan was concocted by barty himself much earlier. he’s on the “convince harry to do my broomstick dragon thing” step of his overarching scheme) 

in a sense, by “inspiring” harry to do what HE already independently decided was best, he’s sort of… giving away his own reasoning, a little? the italicized emphasis on enabling oneself to “get what you need” feels… unnecessary, in context? i love that THAT is where emphasis slips into his voice because it betrays his values. 

barty’s Revenge Scheme is insanely fucking convoluted, but at every stage i think that logic is there. in his villain monologue where he rehashes the deranged level of micro-managing he was doing to get harry to resurrect voldemort, at every individual step he was following his own advice. to barty, sometimes murder is just the Simplest Spell to Get What He Needs. 

according his own advice, barty sees the clearest path between two points, and generally has 0 ethical qualms about closing that distance by the Simplest means possible. he later confirms this by describing harry’s morality introducing complications as “contend[ing] with [his] stupidity” (676) 

ii. “good boy,” growled [barty]. “i can make good use of this…”

the scene where barty acquires the marauders map is CRAZYY.. for a moment, barty is so excited & taken aback that we see a few of his genuine reactions. i love that absolutely nothing manages to faze him EXCEPT genuine delighted shock over an interesting new tool he can implement in his schemes. (sidenote: he probably recognized the marauders’ nicknames, which is so funny)

that fact that we have a canonical barty crouch jr “good boy” makes me claw at the walls. anyway. i feel that i don’t need to explain how “i can make good use of this… this might be exactly what i’ve been looking for” supports characterization of barty as a scheming little machiavel because it’s pretty much explicitly stated right there. 

but this quote stands out for his genuine preoccupation with it. from the instant that barty sees the map, his eyes don’t leave it— his eye “whizzed over [it’s] surface” (491), he questions harry about how his name appeared when he searched snape’s office (”’Crouch,’ he said. ‘You’re— you’re sure, Potter?’” (491))— all while harry is sinking into a trick staircase & getting concerned that moody is ignoring him.

“penetrating glare” ← top barty rights! 

the image of him getting new information, questioning harry about it tactfully, and then spending A FULL MINUTE silently integrating it, is one of my favorite instances of him in the book… it’s like you can hear the gears in his head whirring. i like that we can see this type of assessment that he does extends to other people, when he turns it on harry and “size[s] him up”. 

AND ALL OF THIS IS WITHOUT EVEN GETTING INTO WHAT HIS LESSONS WERE LIKE

this post is long enough as it is! but all that’s left to say is that barty will always be at his most interesting when you pay attention to canon… there’s another longpost that could be written about barty!moody’s differences in disposition. the jokes he cracks, his relative lightness, and the sheer number of times he was openly like “FUCK the law i do what i want” (while literally masquerading as a literal wizard cop) are so intriguing. but that’s for another time 

[carmenberzattosgf]

[sorry this is so long....time got away from me and in an hour and 20 mins i was possessed by the writing spirit that SHOULD BE INSPIRING ME TO DO MY HOMEWORK....ahem ahem...anyways. yea :) habby valentimes day :) a fic for youe :)...!] having a relationship with carmen was like breathing in prophetic future tense. you know, from the moment you wake up in the morning to an empty bed, that by the time your head hits the pillow the coming evening, carmen will have had at least one full uninterrupted hour of pawing at your flesh till satisfaction. you know that, when he’s stressed and overworked, by the time you two fuck it out of each other, you will have had sweat beading in every crevice of your skin, and pinned by his dead weight, you will have had to whine and plead and squirm just to get yourselves into the shower.

so, when the start of a new year, the stagnation in uncomfortable weather, and a clawing mind fuck of your circadian rhythm going out of wack all set in like sisters to give you a hellish week, you just force yourself to move between pulses of blood. you are stressed. you will be better. you will have been stressed, and he will have already made it better. you were pained and you were better. it has all already happened, even as it’s happening, even as it is yet to happen. it’s not a matter worth questioning, and it’s as sure as thought happens in your mind. you are already going to be made better.

carmen is meticulous and particular, though at this point, your mind is tinged, and it can only come up with conniving, mean, Machiavellian. your partner is a wicked piece of filth for how he treats you, for how he plays your body, for how he steels his willpower when he wants to. an orgasm for every layer of clothes between his touch and your flesh, to melt away that prissy little furrow in your brow you brought home with you.

for the first build-up, you’re entirely still frustrated, still annoyed with the professor who keeps leaving you notes about diction, who nitpicks your theories in class and turns to nod along to another student who’d be better situated in a junior high review course. shit, you need to stop being so mean, you tell yourself, maybe you're the one trying to take this course too seriously. but carmen, eyes calm, words clear, creeps his fingers through your mind to find what he needs to get done. so as he guides you to grind over his knee through the fabric of your skirt, he reaches over to massage your wrists, all click-y and sore from expo markers and flat keyboards. you can’t relax into him, not yet. no draped cuddles and sweet moans, no soft kisses on the neck, sloppy and saccharine, not just yet. all he’s looking for is that soft huff at the exhale of your breaths. just physiological for now, he knows what he’s working towards, he knows your mind isn’t quite here yet. the ice machine on the counter is making an odd noise and you want to go fix it. you’re close to cumming, carmen’s thick cock is chubbing up in his old sweatpants and you’re trying to figure out if that’s the sound the machine makes when it’s empty, or when the ice is stuck. yeah, we’re not there yet.

the second orgasm, stockings stretched taut over your legs, pulling a slight little divot into your stomach from where the elastic band reaches up, and to make things fair, carmy will shed a layer too. his ears are pink in that sweet little way he gets when he likes something he doesn’t want to comment on. your slick seeping through your soaked panties and into the seam of your stockings, writhing over his cock strained against his boxers is seemingly really doing it for him. your mind is working it’s way towards that single-track pleasure state he’s drawing you into, and it’s definitely making the burn in your thighs worth it. you can allow yourself to get closer now, chest brushing against his, arms draped over his shoulders, soft little pants against the collumn of his throat, toes curling and tensing as the sound of your arousal becomes faintly audible. and, for all your kvetching earlier, carmen isn’t entirely sadistic, so he wedges one of his hands between the crux of your thighs and his lap, working his fingers over the fabric, a tense exhale pulling from his lungs as he finds a searing heat even through those layers. but he’s patient. he can be patient. he will be, he already has been patient. this one comes quicker, with affectionate kisses smeared over his jaw and cheeks, his lips finding their own trail at the cozy softness of your neck, and one of his favorites, that little hollow under the lobe of your ear where the bone of your jaw starts, a little nibble that always makes your breath go funny and your fingers twist up into little fists.

no, you haven’t done your math wrong. carmen is finally allowed to peel off his boxers, but you’re still stuck in an uncomfortably soaked set of underwear. but carmen, sweet carmy, darling carm, is entirely gracious, is sweet to you. baby, he knows you, of course this is how it’s gonna go. he shepherds you quietly to your bedroom [unplugs the ice machine on the way. you think you’re going to swoon], and finally, as a relief to your stiffened muscles, you get to lay down. blissful relaxation for a full breath, in and out, and you even get in a delicious little yawn and stretch, as carmen crawls over the bed to hover his way over you. smiling now, both of you. he’s smart, honey, he knows what he’s doing, he knows why he’s doing it. and he knows that it’s going to drive you entirely fucking mad and whiney when he settles into a rythmn of smoothly pressing and dragging his cock over your entirely empty, blood-flushed, swollen, needy, clothed cunt, with an utterly enamoured warmth on his face as he looks down at you. he loves you, so, so bad. you want to bite him and kick out at the mattress and throw an absolute fit. it’s not fair. it’s entirely not fair. he gets you all sticky and gross and needy and heaving like an animal in heat, just so he could watch you squirm with those pretty half-lidded eyes? carmen berzatto can actually go fuck himself.

you need to trust him more, you really do. halfway between the third spiel you were about to give on reciprocal affection and half-whined complaints and insults, carmen just sticks his middle and pointer fingers into your mouth, watching silently as you sputter for a moment, a chest-fluttering sigh leaving his soft lips as he strokes gently at the wet muscle of your tongue, something sickeningly affectionate in his eyes. and once that mouth is occupied, off come the panties, and you practically claw at his arm in anticipation. an inexplicably sweet gesture, carmen’s fingers slip out of your mouth, to be replaces by his own tongue, as he guides himself into your warmth, that sore, empty stickiness, a garbled whine he pours into your mouth when he goes as far as is comfortable. and then, blissful movement. and you remember why you stuck through this whole game. carmen, beauteous carmen, one spit-slicked hand holding the side of your face, the other pawing at the softness of your stomach, is fucking every thought out of your head. he’s perfect and warm and strong and he reminds you to breathe when you space out, eyes unfocused as you let him drive into you until you’re limp. limp, but not having cum yet. no, you’re just perfectly fucked stupid for him, just like you needed, just like you came into your home, pouting and stamping and begging for. you’re not sure what day of the week it is, but you think the weekend is something that’s happening soon. you’re not sure what color the sheets are, but you know they’re sticking to the small of your back. and carmen, carmen throughout all of it. in your mind, in your face, in your skin, in your hair, pumping in and out of your sweet clutch, pulsing so perfectly, just for him. in the end, it really is more simple than you think it would be. one last orgasm for you, brought upon by a few slick swipes over your clit as he nudged up into the soft patch of heat that punched breaths out of your lungs, and instead of a sweet little keening whimper, climax comes with a low, rasped-out groan from your kiss-bitten lips, and carmen pulls out to jerk himself to finish, knowing that you were undeniably already sore from how much tedium he’d put your poor muscles through. but this quiet now, your eyes closed, the backs of your knees weirdly sweaty, your hands feeling limp, this is good. all you need to do is breathe, just breathe, and you feel good. a thump onto the bed next to you, and a heavy arm drapes over your stomach loosely, a slightly clammy hand rubbing softly over your ribs. he doesn’t expect words out of you, but his heart is entirely warmed by the imprecise little kiss you mush against his cheek. this is good. this is just plain good.

-🫒

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY TO ME. I HAVE NO WORDS NO NOTES THIS ATE THE FUCK DOWN. I’m properly tagging this so more people can see this masterpiece. I LOVE YOU ��� THIS IS A LOVELY GIFT

[sideysvault]

𓍼ོ Ad Astra Per Aspera 𓍼ོ (PT. 3)

Preservation

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

wc: 1015k

Tags: [sfw] Arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, mentions of dead, mature themes, enemies to lovers, hurt, comfort.

full series masterlist. read part four

────────

“You must indulge me and carry a weapon with you. You are my wife now. That implies risk in these circumstances”.

The Princess couldn’t help herself, she blurted out a laugh as she playfully —not without a hint of cruelty, of course— added “Are you having delusions of power again, dear husband? We are not the ones responsible for the royal lineage, remember?”.

Aemond snapped his tongue in annoyance, forgetting everything he was taught on the matter of manners and polite diplomacy. It was always the same with her, the constant bickering, her vain mockeries. He was sure it was some kind of delusional defense against the act of political marriage, because he had seen her be nothing but sweet towards Heleana and his niece. Despite knowing that fact, he still felt that their differences and her inclinations towards confrontation constituted an act of personal defiance. 

On the other hand, his wife was tired of his constant oscillation between coldness and strange tenderness, he had been cruel to her about their lineage, and now was he seeking to protect it? 

Whatever spell had been cast upon them on that dreadful night, whichever feelings were discovered, however warm their touch had felt to one another, it was now undoubtedly broken. 

She knew that despite being feared and undermined, Prince Aemond was also passably seasoned in the art of war, and of civility at court. She did not consider these traits to be of great merit, as even a chimpanzee would be considered to be formal and of considerable intelligence if it stood directly beside The King.  The Princess was not entirely sure where his urgency was coming from, but, knowing of The Queen's Dowry’s great cunning expertise in Machiavellian machinations, she was not sure if she should be afraid.

She scoffed out loud without meaning to. His paranoia must be rubbing off. Aemond seemed offended, as he exclaimed with irritation “You of all people must know what happened. We ought to do what we can to protect ourselves against the enemies of the crown“.

While it was true that the white cloaks wasted the entirety of their time drunk on wine and whores, the truth was that she felt safe with her husband. She would have never said it out loud, of course. Much less to Aemond himself. But she simply could not deny that he was fairly capable with the sword, childishly paranoid and positively ruthless. The Princess really felt no need to arm herself like a scared lamb. And she told him so. “Such displays are in bad taste”. 

This was his time to mock her with a snort. 

“Being precautionary is in bad taste now?, I had not yet been enlightened with that information” The Princess frowned. She was still getting used to her husband biting back, instead of his usual annoyed and quiet nature. 

“It merely functions as a cry of desperation, not to mention it announces a lack of control within the own walls of your home”

The Prince, clearly tired of the back and forward, tiredly stated “Well, let it be small then. Conceal it if you wish, but we must start being careful”.

She felt a pinch of guilt. On some days —such as this one—, she wondered why she always had to put her worst face forward with him. She naturally had her reasons, but most of the time, when he was not ignoring her, she could tell he was making an effort to be cordial. 

“Why are you so suddenly preoccupied with my well-being?” The change of tone in his wife's voice confused him. The serious ring to it was suddenly replaced with a playfully lighthearted one. Noticing his discomfort, The Princess tries a new strategy, while exaggerating her inflections slightly, she dramatically sits on the arm of the chair in which her husband rested and grabbed his cup. “Oh! Husband. You must stop drinking that tea immediately” It was wine “If I knew you loved me that much I would’ve never poisoned it” Evidently charmed by her own ingenuity, The Princess laughs at her own joke as he rolls his eyes with a small smile on his lips. 

He took the opportunity which her proximity granted him to look at her. On a good mood, with that smooth and resolved attitude of hers, and the smile, and the way her hair ran through her slightly exposed shoulders… He stopped his sequence of thoughts before it was too late, and he lost all ability to do so.

His strong features recovered their sobriety soon enough though, as he whispered to her “Heleana and Jaehaera will suffer greatly if something were to happen to you”

The Princess, unable to control her body's reactions, rapidly felt her face feverishly enraged with embarrassment. Not knowing what to answer, she simply instinctively began to fidget with the baroque embroidery of her dress's sleeves. It was certainly true that she has not been any careful about her new-found relationship with the queen. She knows that if he ever uses it against her, there is no one to blame but herself for it. 

She gazed at her husband. He was strikingly handsome, especially under the dim lights which always seemed to highlight his cheekbones, especially when his silver hair reflected the moonlight of the marital chamber, especially when he was being kind. The Princess sighed.  

“If you are so bent upon the matter, I suppose I ought to comply. But it must be discrete”.

A wide grin appeared on his face; Cunning, triunfant. He carefully put his wine cup on an improvised protective cover her wife had made In an effort to stop hearing his winning about dust and marks on the table. She smiled.

Prince Aemond got up, ceremoniously bowed towards her, and buttoned his garment before making his way to the door. Before he left, he slowly turned around to see her one more time, just once. He gazed at her and proudly stated “I promise. As small as the pen you write your stories with, dear wife.”

Dear Gods. He could be such an annoying bastard. 

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Notes: THANK YOU! The comments and re-blogs really do bring me so much joy. Here is a short but sweet chapter in order to celebrate that i got into one of my target unis! I am beyond happy. During these moments of stress being on tumblr has been a safe heaven. Anyways, as always, take care! -Sidey xx

Dedicated to the sweet @immyowndefender and @theresalwaysquotes whose comment really made me smile

[the-ate-show]

00:05

Machiavellian Wc: 4.3k

A knock resonated on your door, and with his kidnapping, you half expected to see 7. You were mistaken. 6 smirked and pushed past you, before you could protest he pointed his bat at you.

“What’re you guys doing to him?” you asked, eyes flickering between it and his face. He ignored your question to smash your little intercom machine, and your jaw dropped. 

“What’re you doing?!” you sprung forward and he pushed you harshly with the bat.

“You’re little boyfriend is safe, 5 is taking care of him real well,” he winked. You scowled.

“Somehow I don’t believe that, wait also he’s not-”

“Shhh, you talk a lot,”

. . .  

You marched your living room space again and again, trying to recite your speech from memory and continuing to fail. Your cat watched you innocently from your coffee table, in the sweater your boyfriend bought him despite his insistence on the stupidity of cats in sweaters. It was an ugly little furry thing, but the material was soft, so you let it slide. 

“We as the people deserve a right to know,” you said firmly, “While we are striving and working hard only to feed into the hopeless something something capitalism something something stand up for ourselves. When I asked-” a knock threw you off, and you opened the door to reveal Yu with his little takeout bags. He smiled, hair wet from the rain and glasses askew.

“Hey- dude,” you took the bags from him, making a ‘tsk’ noise as he took off his shoes. “Do you have no sense of self preservation?” you handed him a towel.

He sniffled, “Sorry, needed to see you,” he pecked your cheek and padded to your bathroom to change out of his damp clothes. You offered him a t-shirt you’d got as a gag gift a while back, then began to unbox the food. “Could hear you from outside,” he snickered to himself. “You talk a lot,”

“What can I say, I’m good at it.” You sniffed it before you opened it, “Sushi, you really do know how to make a girl feel special,” you mused, taking it out of the brown paper bag.

“Pfft, more of a self indulgence, work has been a disaster,” he joined you, taking his suit and stuffing it into your drier, now only in shorts and a shirt that had some corny superhero on it with some stupid text. He joined you on the floor in front of your tv, giving your cat the finger before literally anything else.

“Stop! You’re teaching him bad things! Muffin this man is a bad influence,”

Yu rolled his eyes, taking a bite with his chopsticks. You started.

“So… why does work suck?”

“I’ve been having to fight tooth and nail to get a spot to talk to this fancy producer guy, all for him to blow me off for some kid who got up here because of nepotism,” he spoke between bites, sighing heavily.

“Maybe it’s for the better,” you tried and he groaned loudly. “If he’s so easily persuaded by a little cash then maybe he’s not as desirable, you said something about wanting to get to the top ethically, no?”

“But it doesn’t seem any better, this would've been huge for my career!”

“Have you tried pitching it elsewhere?”

He took off his glasses to wipe his tired eyes with his forearm, “They’re not taking me seriously anywhere. I don’t know what it is about me that screams ignorable,”

“Hey c’mon, don’t say-”

“I can be self-deprecating if I want to,” he deadpans, and you narrow your eyes. “I can’t make my mindset get me anywhere,”

“You’re right,” you shrugged and he raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it? No speech? No ‘you’re better than that’?”

“No, you’re a big boy I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Plus, your industry’s super competitive so, what would I know,” you took a particularly big bite and he smiled at your inflated cheeks.

“Yours is pretty competitive too… So tell me about that new article,”

You dropped your head on the table.

. . . 

You couldn’t help but pace at the bottom of the stairs. You couldn’t even join the group until 2 tugged on your arm. You all stood by the intercom, but your mind was clearly elsewhere until 1 touched your shoulder gently. 

“Why would they take an unconscious man?” 3 asked no one in particular.

“Maybe they’re trying to recruit him. 7 is a high number,” you reminded and a look of contemplation passed him.

“If they have him on their side… that would be really bad news. He was the only smart one out of all of us,”

“Hey,” 2 raised an eyebrow, “I’m smart,”

“Sure,” 3 nodded. “I mean, 7 seemed like a nice guy. We smoke together and stuff, he worked hard to make sure we all do well,”

“You’re close to 7 too,” 1 spoke to you directly. 

You avoided his gaze, rubbing your arm to keep yourself warm, “You could say that,” you looked up at the room, “I hope they aren’t hurting him too bad,”

“You think they’re torturing him?”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised,” you pursed your lips, “6 told me 5 was taking care of him,”

“Oh, then he’s in good hands,” 3 assured and nods were exchanged.

With no meal kits received, no one could really rest. Until..

“What on earth?” 2 mumbled, and you all stared up at the descending group. 

What really disturbed you, 6 had his arm around 7.

“7, are you feeling okay?” 1 asked. Your eyes lingered on the cuts he had on his face from his previous fall. The circumstances didn’t allow your proximity right now, but he looked so… helpless next to them. Innocent almost. Like a kitten amongst tigers.

Until of course, he spoke, and his disguise fell in shreds, “I’m going to announce how things will be from now on. Now we have one hundred and sixty hours, until our agreed upon end date, your goal is to maintain this number by earning twenty four hours a day,”

“What do you mean your goal?” you asked, a knit between your brows. He stared at you, eyes holding an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

“What, are we supposed to earn time while you guys weasel out?” 2 asked.

“No way, 7 that isn’t it right?” 3 asked, 7 didn’t look at him.

“You can refuse if you wish, but meals won’t be provided,”

“We starve, the game ends.” 2 bit back.

“We won’t let that happen,” he replied, and what he had literally told you prior, he had turned into your own personal reality.

He briefly explained a coin system to you, have a coin every three hours you earn, use a coin to buy meal kits or water. Don’t earn time? No coins, no food, no water.

“You crazy bas-!” 2 yelled out, until a taser was aimed at her. 

“One more step and I shoot, careful, this one was made for cops,” 6 grinned, like a little kid with a lollipop.

“What did they offer you 5?” you stared at her, “What could they possibly have given you to turn your back on us?”

“She’s here as medical support,” 7 replied, and you glared at him.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” you spat back.

He raised his eyebrows and 8 giggled. 6 smirked, “Do you ever know when to back down 4?”

“5,” you pleaded. “I can understand the two-timer over there, but not you. You’re better than this. Better than them,”

“Watch it,” 

5 kept her eyes on the ground, ashamed.

No amount of bargaining could help, not the pleading words from 3, and definitely not the threat that came from 1, which landed him a kick square in the stomach. You gasped, 2 shot forward to attack 6 who immediately tased her. You sank next to her quickly, trying to figure out what to do. You pulled out the little string things from her, looking up to find 1 joining you. Your face was a mosaic of hurt, both for 2 and from 7. 6 stepped on 1’s ankle, and didn’t stop no matter how hard the man screamed. You got up to attempt to push him, but were stopped by him harshly grabbing your arm. 6 pulled you closer to him by your upper arm, and you scowled.

“If you played nice 4, I would’ve put you up here with us. But all you're good for is,” he gestured with his taser vaguely at your body, “7 told me all about it,” he smirked.

Your eyes narrowed, pooling with betrayal, humiliation, and most of all; palpable anger. 7’s eyebrows twitched slightly, almost like he too was shocked by this revelation. 6 didn’t miss the look in your eyes, shoving you back harshly. 3 made sure you didn’t fall, but the silence in the room was suffocating. You refused to meet that traitor’s eyes again.

They lined you up like lamb, staring at 7 who was explaining that you pick a game, and only the winner escaped punishment.  He picked 3 to choose the first game.

“Hide and Seek,” 7 read out loud. “But first, pick between eyes, tongue, arms, or legs,”

1 chose arms, and you were going to say tongue but 3 beat you to it. You picked legs, and 2 picked eyes.

Pulling out a very gross set of items for sexual purposes, you found out the pick was your handicap. You sighed out a profanity as 6 tied your legs together.

“No smart ass comment?” he asked, you clenched your jaw, resorting to just shaking your head. “Use your words princess,” he winked and walked away. You felt dirty.

Thus, 6 began the countdown, blasting deafening music too.

You took a few deep breaths in, and began to hop. You didn’t get far before you fell, and decided to kind of use your arms to crawl. You didn't get very far even doing that. You used the slide to stand back up and hide behind an object.

The countdown ended. From what you could hear, he caught 1 first. He didn’t scream, and somehow that was scarier. Unfortunately, you were next. A rush of white hot fear flooded your system, and you tripped prematurely.

He gave you a little grin, amused by your look of terror.

“What happened to all that fire?” he pouted theatrically, “C’mon, let me hear you scream,”

The thing striked you across the stomach first, you groaned, biting your lip to hold back a scream. The next one came to your arm, then your head. Tears singed the corners of your eyes as he hit you so often you lost count, and began seeing stars. He then stopped.

“Don’t cry,” 6 teased, leaning down to see you face to face. “You’ll win next time.”

You tried closing your eyes, to leave this nightmare while he searched for the others. You felt the burning sensation of eyes on you, and you opened yours to see 7’s in the distance. You couldn’t even find it within yourself to flip him off, or to roll your eyes. All you could muster was to whimper quietly, the pain unbearable. Though in comparison to 2, who’s screams echoed, you got off easy. 7 only held your gaze for a moment, then his vision dropped to his shoes, swallowing down a breath of air. He maneuvered himself between 6 and 2 to prevent further escalation.

3 won this game, they wrapped all your faces up in clear plastic, and tied your arms and legs, 3 spun a few times and swung. You shrunk in on yourself, but the blow never came. He hit 1, judging by the male sounding groan. 3 got the tape off of him, then held his head. You know this because 5 untied you guys. You were quickly by 1’s side.

Now for the reward, for 26 hours you’d all earn 9 coins because 7, ever the gentleman, gave a mere one extra out of gratitude.

Without discussion, you all write on a piece of paper what you want your share to be, if it goes over, you all get nothing. 

You stared blankly at the sheet of paper, you felt sick to your stomach. How could one even eat in these conditions? How could one sit here and feed into their games? You looked over to 3, who seemed to have a very similar dilemma. You opted for writing two.

You all fed the little piece of paper into the box 7 held. Everyone except 3 had written two. You received your water and meal kits, but you just chugged half of your water, then wrote a small note on one of the boxes.

‘Take the half water and meal kit 3, I have no appetite anyways. Love, 4,’

That night was brutal, and sleep didn’t come easy. Even when it did grace you, it came ridden with nightmares and your blood boiling.

The following morning, a peaceful game, twenty questions.

. . .  

“No, three left,” he smiled softly, taking a sip of the alcoholic beverage he held, uniform disheveled.

“Hmmm, god this is so hard,” you groaned, leaning back on the sofa. “Is it… in this room?”

“Yes, two left,”

“Is it…” you tapped your lip, then pointed at the keychain on the table, “This?”

He groaned loudly, nodding, “Whatever,”

. . .  

“Does it refer to an action?”

“An action… Yeah you could consider it an action,”

“Do you do it alone or as a team?”

“You can’t do it alone, you need at least two,” 8 did little bunnies with her hand.

“Is it painful or pleasant?”

“Very pleasant,” 

You scoffed out loud, tilting your head back. The look 8 gave you indicated she knew what you were thinking of, but she’s not innocent either.

“Could it be… something sexual?” 3 asked.

“This isn’t sexual. What’re you thinking of?” 8 teased, he dropped his head.

“Is it something we all know?”

“You’d be stupid not to know by now,”

“Is it… game?” 3 asked.

“Nope,”

You tried to think, but your lack of energy made your brain barely work. The look 3 gave you told you he had a plan in mind. 1 made a guess, likely to make it more obvious to 2, who guessed it right.

Like clockwork, you were all tied up, she swung and hit 3. They rushed to his aid, but even when united, your body stopped cooperating. Without food, with only just enough water, and the lack of sleep, you were nothing more than a zombie. That night, you very begrudgingly ate, picking at your food for a while to regain your energy in order to endure more assault.

A few days of this cycle repeated. Playing, getting beaten, and then eating through a nose bleed. You’d gotten hit by the bat once, and been  on the other end once as well. That night you had hit 2, and the guilt you felt ate away at you for the duration of the coming days.

When catastrophe struck, you didn’t find it in yourself to speak. The coins had gone overboard. You all stood still, no fight left to argue or flinch when 6 yelled, or 7 bargained. All you could do was watch 7 through the vacancy. Giving him a slow once over, he didn’t seem to have any signs of struggle, so probably no physical threats into this. But this reward system was his idea. What cruel person would turn on his own girlfriend? You furrowed your eyebrows, mentally kicking yourself for even referring to yourself in that way- not only were you not his girl, but you also didn’t have to be for him to not torture you. Still, no one moved. Not even when 6 offered a glistening 10 coins for whoever decided to step up.

You couldn’t take your gaze off of 5, who had her head casted down. She was diabetic, she mentioned briefly before, she couldn’t join your side because it would've killed her. You didn’t blame her, the coward next to her was the only one to point fingers at. Glasses, and yet still, he couldn’t see clearly. You wondered distantly if you could ever come back from this.

1 told everyone to stay put, 2 affirmed it, citing that nothing will change.

“After one minute, I’m sure you all understand we’ll have to resort to force,”

“You’ll have to?” you said hoarsley. “Or you want to?”

“Have to,”

You gave him an unimpressed look, and he shook the bag of coins, like you were some puppy about to play fetch with him. You clenched your jaw.

There was a standoff, a battle of dominance, a fight for superiority. Despite the clear upper hand, the upper floors were losing, because no one moved. Not a singular breath.

When the minute ended, 6 picked his bat up, and began to swing to hopefully instill fear. You all just stood there blankly. 6 offered a weapon to 7, but he shook his head, looking down.

You blacked out after 8 hit you in the back of the head with a blow that was definitely not worth losing consciousness over, with a weapon you couldn’t quite decipher.

You woke up in a daze a few hours later, in your room with a meal kit in front of you. 7 sat off to the side on the floor, resting his head on the wall. You looked at the food, then at him, then you kicked it away from you harshly. You stared down at a bruise which formed on your arm, no doubt from being brought up here. A hand went up to the back of your head, and you flinched at the feeling of the nasty bruise there.

“You should eat, you look faint,”

“You should kill yourself,”

A moment of silence. Then he spoke again,

“You won’t gain anything from starving, and you’ll just keep losing,”

“Do they know you’re in here?” you wiped a trickle of dried blood from above your lips. You probably face planted after the hit, considering how tender your nose felt.

“No,”

“Good. God forbid they find out and treat you like the rest of us peasants,”

“I didn’t tell 6 anything, to set the record straight,” he wet his lips, glancing at you.

“You think my main concern is how sleazy you are? How much of a crappy human you are? How little you’re actually worth? No 7,” you laughed dryly, a stitch in your abdomen making it hard to truly showcase how bitter you are. “Poor you, feeling so guilty for inflicting harm on others. I bet your having a real good time upstairs, eating food and drinking water and taking baths,”

He stared at the floor, pushing the food towards you again. You grabbed it and threw it at him. His eyes shut tightly and he adjusted his glasses. You caught his gaze, your panting form and his calm body. Your lips quivered and you looked away, choosing to face the window. 

“You’re a sick person,” your voice broke. “And when they turn on you,” you turned to face him, tears streaming down your face. “I’ll be the first to laugh,” He’d stood up by this point, fists clenched and facing the door, head cocked to the side to look at you. You waited for anything, a quip, an apology, an explanation. The door slammed shut behind him.

You pulled at your clothing uncomfortably, sliding off your jacket, feeling the uncomfortable itch of the tag of your pants. Except, there was no tag. You fumbled to grab the paper out, and the crumbled thing was from 1. The ultimate magic trick, you culminated.

A revolution. At his signal, you’re meant to ride the chute down to his room the next morning. 

A today better than yesterday. 

After making an attempt at the blood-bought-food 7 offered you in your room, but only to regain energy there was NO gratitude inside of you for that man.

Seeing as though you had no clue how the game was played, you only followed what people did. Put a card on your head, stuck your hand out with a number, and prayed you somehow won. You didn’t. 1 did. Being tied up felt a lot less constricting this time around, but you continued to try to play into that sorrow. He hit 3, you got untied and rushed to his aid.

That night, you all met in secret. 3 had needed to say something of importance.

“The delivery chute noise. I overlooked it,” 1 replied to 3’s warning. “That could've ended poorly,”

“What if this is a trap?” 2 asked.

“What makes you think so?” 3 replied.

“It’s dramatic. To catch us escaping when they already know,”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to catch us when we make a noise?” 

You nodded, not really having much to add.

1 continued, “Yes, he’s right. 7 Was clearly signaling for us to revolt against them,”

“If that’s the case, why did he treat us like this up till now?” 2 said blankly, leaned against the wall. “It was that prick 7 that kept this game so brutal.”

“My question is, how did he even know?” 1 asked, mostly to 3.

You recalled and gasped quietly. “That night, after we refused the coins, he was in my room when I woke up, maybe he saw the note,”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?” 2 raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t seem significant,” you shrank. 

“What did he say to you?”

You stuck a tongue in your cheek, trying not to curl into a ball at all the sudden eyes. “Not much. Just that I look faint, and that I should eat.” you left out the apology.

3 scoffed, “Insensitive. Telling you to eat but not providing us food,”

You stared at the floor, and 2 scoffed. “He got you a meal kit? How’d he even manage that?”

“I don’t know. I was too angry to ask,”

2 leaned in closer to you, “Tell me you yelled at him,” there was vengeance in her voice.

You smiled slightly, “I mean, I threw the kit at him,” she laughed, and so did you. You wonder if maybe sometime later, you 2 could be real friends. 

The next day’s challenge was no short of odd. It was to balance in this square shape with everyone, without your arms. Logically, all this took was a short conversation and a few attempts, but you all messed up on purpose to make it boring. After another attempt, and yet another stupid fall, 1 began to groan, clutching his stomach. He raised his hand, like he was in a classroom.

“Excuse me, I’ve had a stomach ache for quite some time now, could you buy me some medicine?” he asked 7. That was the signal.

7 stared for a bit, then bit the inside of his cheek, going to get the key from 6. 5 told 7 what to get. 

At dawn, you crawled into the chute, descending down to 1’s room. He helped you out of the box. Everyone else was already there.

“I’m not a great fighter,” you admitted to 2, taking a spot behind her.

“You’ll be fine,” she assured. “Hey,” she put a hand on your shoulder, “If 7 ends up not being on our side, I’ll make sure to leave you a hit on his face,” she winked, and a smile spread across your features.

1 put on the waterworks soon after, laying down and pretending to be in pain, yelling about his stomach and whatnot. The door creaked slowly, the light filtering into the dim room. You held your breath, but 6 was not an idiot. He slammed the door into you guys, igniting the fuse. 2 was the first to get a few hits in, then 3 replaced her, he was then dropped to the ground and 6 repeatedly slammed the door into 2. You used your bodyweight to slam into him, making him momentarily stumble then tackle you. 1 joined in on the action, but was pushed into the waste bag pile, and beaten with the bat. You and the others worked to get 6 down, 1 even biting the man’s thigh. He ended back up on his feet, 2 pushing him and 3 throwing bags at him. You continued to try to use force, pushing and grunting, while he continued to swat you guys away with his bat like insects. Eventually, you got slammed so harshly into the wall it felt like you suddenly got clarity, and you faced the open door, which hosted an 8 holding her little taser in 3’s direction, as he had opened the door.

“Uh oh,” she said with a little shocked face.

6 had knocked out the other two, and stepped over you, kicking 3 then stepping out. He took the taser gun from his little girlfriend, then cursed under his breath as he neared the group again. You all got up, hands in the air in surrender like it would somehow change anything. Your fate was decided, and the next few days were about to be the worst torture you’d ever experience.

“Little tricksters. Never a dull moment with you guys huh?” the man chuckled out between pants of air.

“Hit him,”

“What?” 6 casted a glance backwards.

“HIT HIM!” 7 yelled.

2 let out a battle cry, lunging forward. You heard the click of his taser gun- empty. 6 promptly plummeted back onto his team, none of which tried to prevent his fall.

2 had a satisfied look in her eyes.

“My hand is all better now,” she heaved.

A/N: first time I watched this episode I was SICK TO MY STOMACH 2 if you're reading this ily pls don't die Taglist:

@entr4p3 @vlurdao

[bisclavret]

i NEED to get something off my chest ok i keep going back and forth on whether or not the bbc merlin writers did their homework (or if just the actors did) and having gotten into arthurian legend proper this year i do think i can actually see the Big Name Counterparts for the most part like merlin is machiavellian, arthur is more symbol than man and kinda permanently stuck at odds with that, guinevere is pragmatic and better at court affairs than anyone else, morgan(a) is a cunning traumatized emotional misandrist that never got over her first lesbian situationship, lancelot is a suicidal and beautiful killing machine that wants to be pure and martyr himself but his heart keeps betraying him, and g(a)wain(e) is a charming bloodthirsty bisexual slut who is somehow constantly bitchless and also kind of a hypocrite. but the one Big Name Character that i cannot reconcile and get kind of irritated when i think about him now in my post-arthurian wisdom is PERCIVAL. the perceval from arthuriana is so, so interesting and multifaceted and he loves knighthood in such a specific way that is clearly connected to gender identity expression for him (and not in an entirely masculine way!) but all the bbc writers must've skimmed was "simple hero with childlike innocence" so they were like let's just cast a Big Quiet Guy and proceed to do absolutely nothing with him. like he's not even a character he's a 6 ft cardboard cutout his entire personality is that he can push rocks and carry 3 children at once and he likes food and makes confused faces sometimes. i guess it's subversive that nobody makes fun of him because gwaine is the butt of every joke instead due to his cringe bisexual aura lol but that's nothing. anyway ✊justice for perceval. i will avenge him

[bannock-freak]

Now, Yuuri’s angst wasn’t quite ‘my dog just died two days ago so I bombed at the GPF in front of the entire world and failed my country and then the love of my life didn’t even recognize me as a fellow skater’ levels of Marina and the Diamonds 'Shampain’ misery.

But it was actually, alarmingly, somewhat close.

Victor had the idea that JJ had vandalized a holy relic or something. Like it wasn’t JJ Style, but Ecce Homo Style.

He wondered if he should tip off Celestino to this, given the Italian’s apparent guitar fixation, but shortly reasoned there was no way Phichit wouldn’t show him in a display of his natural ‘innocent’ exuberance. Victor’s machinations, something that had previously been described as Machiavellian more than once, wouldn’t be necessary in that area and might draw unfortunate attention if he wasn’t careful.

And, granted, it wasn’t as though Yuuri would be alone if Victor decided to have a blast and belt out the OP of the anime that’d been made about their life stories, but Victor had also spotted the considering glint in Yuuri’s eyes when Yura started screeching about arson. If there was anyone here who could curtail that temptation in his usually sweet, anxious puppy paw of a man, Victor was certain it would be himself.

i am so mad i havent been able to finish this fkn karaoke fic and that my brain melts into intimidated mush any time i so much as think about it :|

[crystallizedkingdoms]

The Twins pt. 2

It’s the end of their world and Johann, for a brief moment, does not care. A flame dies into ash.

wc: 1,062

The Birds for this fic are the same as yesterday’s.

day 2 of @johann-appreciation-week! this can also be read on ao3 (I added some commentary in the chapter notes on my thought process for these two fics). art by @avijohann

The bard of lore and the researcher of space think of death as they come to their senses.

There are no words. When the chase is gone and they are out of those black tendrils reach, neither Johann nor Kravitz say anything. Though they both run towards the window they had originally watched through, looking down at their world being devoured under that black mass, they say nothing to each other.

They don’t even hold each other’s hands when Keats screams as loud as he can beside them. They cannot bear to listen to those cries for his siblings, siblings, siblings. They can’t listen to Sloane and Hurley’s panicked hurrying around the ship for any sort of plan of what to do next. When Maureen and Hurley, kind as they are, beg them to step away from the window, please, boys, it won’t do you good, they don’t move an inch. Johann and Kravitz stand there, beside each other, as they always have. Looking for a world that lives only in memory.

Memory. Johann clings to memories as he stares at the wobbly in between space of the planes they now traverse through. He remembers practice room introductions, drunken conversations, café pleas, conference interview questions. Memory is a space not unlike the area in which they travel through, a space that Johann has longed to reside within. Legacy depends on memory, a constant state of remembering. Johann always thought, always prayed, he would be the one remembered.

What does it mean to be the one to remember?

Johann hates that the first lucid thought he has as he stands there is about death. That topic is one that he and Kravitz still refuse to touch upon, even when Kravitz moved in and brought all his death with him. Music filled that gap, a common interest between them, one that didn’t bring so much pain to one and discomfort to the other. But the music is gone now. There is nothing to face. Nothing but the agonizing, bitter death that they watched not too long ago.

Johann hates even more that he wonders what Kravitz thinks of this death. Except no, not really. He doesn’t hate it that much because it eats at him like necrosis. What about this death was factual? he demands only in his head. What fascination can bring you joy here? 

I bet there isn’t. I bet you see the cold, hard, “factual” reality of death and recognize it isn’t so fucking easy to look at. We are best friends, Kravitz, you know this as well as I do. We’re practically siblings— (Keats cries for his siblings behind them, crying Edwards and Lydias that ring across the Starblaster) —but this is not something I have ever let go. How can I? How can anyone ever let go of this devastation?

It is not productive to go searching into Kravitz’s heart at this moment. He knows this, Johann knows this. What use is this? What vindication can he possibly achieve from looking at Kravitz and asking, is this what you imagine death to be? It’s how I’ve imagined it. In a billion, tiny different ways that will all be inevitably forgotten if you aren’t great enough. His eyes glance over to Kravitz anyway. Any answer to cling to and rip into to make the pain inside his chest go away.

Johann quickly realizes that what hurts more than death is seeing Kravitz cry.

What else is he expecting? Some evil grin on his face like some Machiavellian death machine? Kravitz stares out of the Starblaster’s window with tears streaming down his red, puffy eyes, and Johann is struck with the obvious reality that of course he feels bad. Of course Kravitz is crying! The world they lived and shared and breathed in is gone. The crew and the Starblaster are all that they have left.

Kravitz shifts, and Johann tries to look away before he has seen him staring (how can he look at him after thinking such things?), but it is too late. Kravitz’s eyes meet Johann’s, same as they always have. His mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. Johann’s mouth is similarly dry. Any words of comfort or agony can not grasp the feelings bubbling in Johann right now: the devastation of a world ending and the guilt for immediately assuming the worst to eat him up on the inside. So Johann does not try.

Kravitz’s hand reaches out towards Johann’s. It stops just before his fingers. A question awaiting an answer. Johann’s fingers twitch, searching for something to fidget with, anything to avoid touching Kravitz’s hand— did he deserve to after such doubt? But when he looks at his friend and sees watery eyes and trembling lips, Johann breaks. His fingers reach to intertwine with Kravitz’s. Silently, gently. Kravitz feels his hand and cracks. One small sob escapes his lips. 

And Johann falls apart. 

He throws himself onto Kravitz, wrapping his other arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer. Johann keens, and fuck, when was the last time he’s cried so hard? Johann sobs, full of guilt and memories and every other disgusting thing in between, and just holds Kravitz tight. There’s nothing else to do, Johann cries. There’s no one else but you. The world has ended and Johann only cares about Kravitz.

Kravitz clings to Johann with thoughts that hang on him like a plague. To watch his world disappear (this is no death, this is not a song with an end, this is cruel and unnatural, against everything we know, it would be wrong to categorize this as death), everything comes crashing down on the both of them. Forced to watch and forced to persevere. The thought makes Kravitz sick.

Neither Kravitz or Johann think about letting go. Even when Captain Boyland landed them in the plane they were just staring at, they didn’t let go. Even when they took their first step outside the ship, onto the soft, verdant grass beneath their feet, and it became achingly apparent that this really wasn’t their home, they never let go. The rest of the team embrace each other for comfort. When Johann feels Kravitz’s hand inch forward, he tugs him back. Kravitz does not fight it. They just watch together,

Wordlessly, they both agree to never let go. No matter what.

[alexsummerz]

Chapter 5: A Ploy of Manipulation

And here is Chapter 5, happy reading ;)

The dark and gloomy corridors of the Los Illuminados' hideout stretched before (Name) as she made her escape, her breath quick and heavy, filling the oppressive air. Her heart pounded as she maneuvered with agility, aware that each step brought her closer to freedom, but also to new dangers. The indistinct murmurs of the sect members echoed in the darkness, creating a sinister atmosphere. She had to be fast and silent to avoid detection. 

Suddenly, a metallic noise rang out nearby. (Name) froze in her tracks, pressing herself against the wall, praying that no one had heard her. Anxiously, she watched the corner of the corridor, waiting to see who or what was approaching. A hooded member of the sect emerged from the shadows, carrying a torch that cast a faint light on his path. (Name)'s gaze fixated on the relic he held in his hands. It was the same strange symbol she had seen on the documents she had read earlier—the seal of the Los Illuminados. Surrounded by psychos, there's no way I'm getting caught again.

Taking a deep breath, the young woman skillfully slipped into a dark alcove, evading the sect member's sight. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to stay calm, to catch her breath. Come on, (Name), stay calm.

.

After managing to calm herself down, she resumed her sprint in the opposite direction through a crack in the wall that she had discovered when suddenly she had the impression of hearing a muffled conversation coming from an adjacent room. Curious and cautious, she approached another crevice in the wall to discreetly listen in.

Inside, a woman dressed in a long red robe was speaking into a walkie-talkie. Her tone of voice was calm and confident, giving the impression that she was in control of the situation. The words being spoken piqued (Name)'s interest as she listened attentively.

"I've told you before, Wesker. Krauser is just a pawn to them. They don't trust him, even after he helped them kidnap the president's daughter. Saddler is simply using him." the woman stated in a clear voice.

No way. The president's daughter is here? It's even worse than I imagined...

The voice of the man on the other end of the walkie-talkie responded with cold assurance. "I suspected as much. Krauser is a useful tool to me too, but I never intended to keep him around for long. I sent him to infiltrate the sect and retrieve the virus sample. Once he brings it to me, I won't have any further use for him."

The words resonated in (Name)'s mind, creating a sense of pity deep within her. She had never heard of anyone named Wesker before, but it was clear that Krauser was being manipulated from all sides. He had become a pawn in the others' Machiavellian plans, and they had clearly taken advantage of his despair and whatever had happened to him. Despite her blatant dislike for the man, it saddened her. How could one profit from others' misfortune to such an extent? And god it was fascinating how, after losing everything, a man could lose his sanity and make such terrible choices.

.

However, despite this troubling revelation, (Name) knew that her priority was to escape. She suppressed her emotions, focusing on her getaway. She couldn't afford to be distracted by the machinations of others.

Catching her breath, she continued her path, setting aside the unsettling thoughts that had just surfaced. Her mind was determined, her gaze fixed on an opening that emitted light, drawing closer with each step.

As (Name) approached the exit, her heart filled with hope. The light filtering through the cracks of the opening gave her a glimpse of long-awaited escape. But just before she could reach freedom, a powerful hand firmly seized her arm.

"Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?"

[alicent-vi-britannia]

One of the biggest challenges the narrative of my Code Geass fanfic posed to me was writing a love story with Lelouch. The series did not explore Lelouch's lover facet as it denied itself that aspect to pigeonhole him in the ambiguity, so I had a blank canvas before me. But the difficulty lay in the type of character that Lelouch is. Not exactly a character straight out of a romcom fluff (I used a fanfiction term! I mean those kind of overly sweet, lovely, heartwarming, pink stories that make you feel happy and make you believe in love, do you understand what? what do I mean? Those are the fluff stories); on the contrary, Lelouch looks like something out of a Shakespearean tragedy. He's not the ideal hero to tell a wholesome love story, is he? (One of my biggest fears is romanticizing wrong or immoral or toxic behavior; I don't want to be an author who contributes to the damage and bad reputation of the fics).

So, while I was writing the fanfic, on a whim I started reading "Jane Eyre" and here I was presented with a romance between a virtuous woman and a man tormented by his inner demons. It was exactly the type of romance that I intended to write with the two types of characters that I was working on.

On the one hand, Rochester is built on an archetype that was popularized in romanticism and is a variation of the typical romantic hero: the Byronic hero. Lelouch literally meets all the characteristics of this type of hero. In the words of historian and critic Thomas Macaulay, the Byronic hero is "a proud, temperamental, cynical man, with stamina in his brow and misery in his heart, someone who shows contempt for his class, implacable in revenge, but capable of affection ‘deep and strong’" (I won't go deeper because this topic gives enough for an independent post). I consider the Lelouch from my fanfic to be a more visceral version of the canonical Lelouch, so he tends to give in to his low passions and is much more Machiavellian and ruthless (we have several moments of vulnerability and reliability). At the same time, my readers have told me, he feels very human. To tell the truth, I think my Lelouch has suffered more than the canon Lelouch. It's hard to talk without giving spoilers or referring to a specific case

And, on the other hand, Jane is a character that stands out for her integrity and her principles. She is the moral guide who brings Rochester back to the light. In my fanfic, my Lelouch's love interest is Kallen and I think only she could play that role. Geass curse sucked C.C.'s morality and humanity away, turning her into an empty shell. Shirley is so comfortable in her happy bubble that every time she gets mixed up with the rebellion, she gets hurt. Kallen can gravitate between the normal world within the walls of Ashford Academy and the cruel world outside where a war is going on, and still remain unscathed. Even if she is a soldier who has had to take countless lives in battle, Kallen is not a killing machine. She does not lose the north. She holds firmly to her principles and her goals. It's the same in my fanfic, even though it takes place in an alternate universe. Kallen suffers one misfortune after another and manages to overcome them. She is endowed with a resilience and a morality that Lelouch needs to have (in fact, this is one of the reasons why I think Lelouch and Kallen's romance does work where the others fail).

Now that I exposed it like this, surely a lot of love stories built from this scheme will come to mind and that's because this type of romance is super common and is as old as humanity itself. In fact, I call this type of romance "Beauty and the Beast" because she is always pure of heart and he is a beast who needs to bring out that inner prince he has to be with her, yes! xd

I love this kind of romance. I’m not going to lie. However, it is difficult to write. Either it goes well or it goes wrong and for most it turns out fatally (understand that they deliver a toxic couple relationship). In my opinion, "Jane Eyre" did quite well. And, for me, it stands out among other cases because there is a deep awareness of the problem and they are actively working on it. The Rochester arc is an arc of redemption through love.

Redemption and love are two themes strongly present in my story and in my Lelouch's arc.

The canon Lelouch was able to save himself from doom thanks to the love and friendship he was given by the student council and I accepted that: in part because of the anime's setting, Lelouch is a teenager and for that stage of life friendship plays an important rol; In part, I accepted it because it's an anime and anime, in general terms, gives a special place to friendship. Same as in western cartoons aimed at children; but in books, live-action series, movies, even anime and animated series aimed at adult audiences, friendship is no longer the main focus (I don't know if you've noticed).

The Lelouch in my story is an adult Lelouch and, for this stage of life, friends are and are not. Most of the time the adults are involved in their own business and every once in a while they can see each other and talk only to lose themselves again. Sometimes you only have a friend with whom you walk up and down (ONLY ONE). On the other hand, at this stage of life, it is more likely to look for someone to share life with (that is my vision; you may disagree or agree with me).

So, in the absence of a sincere friendship, I thought it more convincing to give my adult Lelouch a love. It will be up to him if he wants to redeem himself or sink into darkness (you know).

[a-koschyei]

re: koschei's philosophy in the context of war

he is the worst and i will be the first to say it, but i also want to emphasize that his sense of principles and overall mentality ( in almost every context tbh ) is of someone in the middle of war, whether real or perceived. thus, his behavior and mode of operating isn't to be evil, it's for the sake of surviving, winning, enacting his view of justice, and/or saving his country/faction. and quite honestly he is a tricky bitch first and killing machine second. meaning, his philosophy is very machiavellian rather than one that revels in destruction or makes a show of his full military force with little regard to their damage ( this is actually where his ego is not at work ).

granted, he is not selfless. he will let the world burn down before he does, but if he didn't look out for his own soldiers and chyerti, there is simply no way he'd be a successful usurper capable of rallying them to his side the way he has. he is not nice, he is authoritative and militant, but he is nonetheless effective and appealing to them because his tactics are centered around: a) knowing when to have no mercy or hesitation to strike at an enemy when he feels bloodshed is required (in his mind, being ruthless now means avoiding a bigger or prolonged struggle later and depending on the context of this..... he may actually be correct ) but more importantly; b) when to use wits and deception to avoid the death and unnecessary bloodshed of his own forces.

" all warefare is based on deception. hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; [...] hold out baits to entice the enemy. feign disorder, and crush him [...] pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant [...] if he is taking ease, give him no rest [..] if his forces are united, separate them [...] attack him when he is unprepared. appear when you are not expected. " ( the art of war, sun tzu )

this is above all else koschei's go-to stategy. essentially, have the enemy be the fool who takes themselves out, or let another force exert the effort to destroy them before he or his army needs to step in. minimal damage to them is in fact the priority because the bigger force typically wins, but also... he's not entirely heartless and disloyal. at his core, koschei hates feeling alone; comradery among his realm and military is very important to him; and avoiding as little grief and loss as possible is essential to him, even if he won't ever openly admit that to others or sometimes even himself (your boy is perpetually stuck in the denial stage).

re: how he commands & unifies his forces

again, his chyerti and soldiers would never regard him as nice, but there is a delicate balance here between being too draconian that they hate him, and too soft that they don't obey and fear him. koschei is a master when it comes to walking that fine line. he will fight alongside them, make them feel their plight is one and the same, praise and take care of them, while handsomely rewarding the ones who serve him the best to inspire overachievement. but insubordination is not tolerated and swiftly met with harsh punishment to make an example.

in the context of ruling a kingdom, this approach isn't always the best course, but in the context of running an army? maintaining that order, that unilateral obedience, that sense of fearing his disappointment or wrath a little more than the horror in front of them, is actually vital for their survival. he is not afraid to be that guy, and overall, genuinely feels this is how he shows his care -- by keeping them alive. unfortunately, this is also the only way he knows how to operate in most dynamics outside the context of a war, but he was never given the chance to behave in or learn any other way. war has always followed him, and is just too engrained in his being at this point.

[namimikan]

lucia’s black and white thinking when it comes to norrix is so... it’s fascinating, it’s frustrating. it makes for a realistic character, and has me guessing what’s to come next but basically:

- i don’t think she expects norrix to feel hurt for getting rejected? she’s got a fairly limited social circle, which might explain why she’s just kind of like. hey why didn’t you show up to my lesson? was i just someone you were intending to date, and if so, that’s kinda shitty of you? which like... insensitive, sure, but like, i don’t think lucia has ever fallen in love, confessed and got rejected, and then was like well i’ll just see the object of my affections and act like nothing’s happened. so it’s like. why would that even occur to her? two days, everything should blow over, right?

(it’s one thing to happen to people you know, it’s quite another for it to happen to you.)

- i don’t think she expects norrix to feel guilt for murdering fairies. like. there’s a clearly good reason norrix clams up when it comes to modeus -- it’s traumatic and horrific and clearly upsets him -- norrix has hinted at it, with the nightmares, with the exploding at lucia with what has [modeus] told you????, and the drinking. oh, and that time he was just stunned at the chicken’s blood when lucia was practicing to fight and wanted a mannequin. but lucia, it must be baffling since he hasn’t explained himself.

i mean, yeah, she doesn’t know, but when lucia finds out... i think she’s just going to focus on the fact that norrix murdered fairies/did something more monstrous -- which, yk! is going to be shocking! and horrifying!

and like. maybe later she’ll be like. oh shit, norrix. you feel awful. you suffer tremendous guilt and suffering for these actions. but uh, it’s not the first thing that’s going to cross her mind. maybe it shouldn’t be!

like i think her rage, like with her foster father, will make her go into judge/jury/executioner mode again, in some ways?

because how dare a human do this to a fairy.

she might suspect! sure, that random lady who went isn’t norrix awful sus? makes you wonder how he created such a being? might put inkling ideas in her head, but even so. hard to say how she’ll feel/act when the reveal comes. i do get that it would be hard to forgive, if it even should be?

tho i don’t know how this would impact her views on modeus? she can’t blame him bc he didn’t ask to be created, nor did he know about the methods. she’s come to terms that he was initially created as a killing machine, and respected the fact that he’s his own person, regardless of purpose. but knowing the origin, will that change her views on modeus all the same?

- also her line of if i am not kirsi’s lady in waiting and if i cannot be a mage, then... i don’t know what i am. lucia, that is not up to norrix to tell you, that is for you to find out! idk. it’s telling.

idk. i think it’s interesting how she expects her father and norrix to be more... Machiavellian than they are, or at least: colder and more mercurial with some sort of agenda in mind. and it’s like. not the case. but she’s pushing and she’s expecting, and wanting things to go a specific way, and i’m curious to see how that bleeds through people in power, how she makes reimond think about injustice, and why maybe she sees kirsi as a bit of a lost cause, or ricon whose mind is made up. peres and baynard aren’t really threats the same way.

lucia’s own prejudices towards humans are interesting to think about.

[greatatuintheworldturtle]

"God and I'm supposed to be the evil one?" The villain chuckled to herself, the 3rd margarita at the Islands restaurant they'd settled on causing a wave of giddiness. The situation was absurd from her perspective. Hours ago, she was frantically looking to escape from her latest evil plan blowing up in her face and now her nemesis was tearing into a teriyaki burger with fries and a comically sized glass of Blue Moon discussing a partnership. Out of all her Machiavellian machinations, she never would have expected this outcome in a million simulations.

"Hey if you're asking me to move to the Bay Area to be closer to HQ, I'm gonna need to be able to keep up with the Joneses. I wasn't the one who needed the relocation so bad, remember?", the fallen hero said, wiping teriyaki sauce off chin.

"it's just- that's like 3 times the median salary for most of my henchmen."

"To be fair, I knocked out like every single one of those henchmen the last time I defeated you. It's not like I'm not bringing a lot to the table here", he said, gesturing with a ketchup covered steak fry.

"And I respect that, but I would be a bit more flush with resources to throw around if SOMEONE, and I'm not saying who, hadn't destroyed years of Death Ray R&D, not to mention the millions of dollars of equipment that exploded. See my problem here?" She was trying very hard to hold onto the mask of scientific objectivity that served her well in the mad sciences, but it was hard to keep the bitterness of defeat out of her tone.

"Fair, but we wouldn't be here discussing this in the first place if you had destroyed the world like you planned to. So there's that." The Fallen Hero had mostly finished his plate, sopping up the last of the ketchup with the few remaining fries. "But be that as it may, I'm not switching sides just to be poor for someone else. I'm talking about being a right hand man, a partner, not just some henchman.

The scientist nearly snorted into her French Dip. Was he serious? "Look, don't get me wrong the fact that you can take out an entire facility full of armed guards is impressive, but is it six figures impressive? Really? Hell if I wanted to I could clone you and have a dozen yous running around punching things."

"Alright, first of all, rude. Don't just tell a guy you're thinking of cloning him. That's just bad manners. Second, would these clones of you have valuable Intel regarding the Heroes Council?", he said, washing down the last swig of beer from his plastic stein glass.

It was hard to keep a straight face at that, but she did. She had been caught off guard by this turn of events, and hadn't expected the fallen hero to come at her with all the angles covered. OF COURSE she wanted the intel on her greatest enemies, but she had been hoping to low-ball him and then weasel info out of him for free as soon as he got comfortable. But he was asking for a quarter million per year, full healthcare coverage, including dental and vision, and a 401k pension with matching contributions. Hell, even SHE didn't have a 401k. She'd had to swindle despots and monsters with more money than sense in order to fund her latest projects and she was still grappling with how to tell them that not only had she appropriated the death Ray they'd commissioned, but also was seriously considering hiring the guy who'd blown it all up. It had been an interesting 24 hours, to say the least.

The Fallen hero noticed the mad scientist had paused for a beat too long and waved a hand in her direction. "Doc, you still there? Hello?"

Curses, he noticed my hesitation. No use trying to hide it now. " I can offer you the salary and the healthcare coverage, but the 401k is completely out of the question," she said, matter of factly.

The former hero stuck out his hand to shake. " You put that in writing, we've got ourselves a deal. I got the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership."

The villain gives their customary “join me and we can be great” speech. The hero accepts.

[mightyflamethrower]

resident Joe Biden is declining at a geometric, not an arithmetic, rate. His cognitive challenges are multifaceted.

His gait is shaky. His daily use of stairs now risks the chance of a tenure-ending fall. Even when he sticks to the teleprompter, he so slurs his speech, mispronounces words, and glides his syntax that at times he becomes as incomprehensible at the podium as he is unsteady in his step.

He now speaks a strange language foreign and untranslatable to most Americans. White House transcribers leave hiatuses in their written texts of his remarks to reflect that they either have no idea what he said, do not wish to publicize their guesses at what he said, or do not wish the public to know what he was trying to say.

Despite the circling-the-wagons media and the passive-aggressive sycophants like the opportunistic Gov. Gavin Newsom in waiting, the left understands that Biden will be lucky to get to the August convention. This spring and early summer, he will not campaign as a normal presidential candidate, and this time around, there is no pretense of the COVID epidemic to excuse his absence.

The people have already polled numerous times that their president is unfit to serve now and, in the future, should not run. So the 2020 Faustian bargain is in shambles. Remember its quid pro quos: all the major Democratic presidential candidates of 2020 nearly simultaneously pulled out the primaries to coronate Biden—but only on the condition that Biden would play to the hilt his “ol’ Joe Biden from Scranton” schtick that would offer a veneer to the otherwise unpopular hard left agenda of the new Bernie Sanders/Elizabeth Warren/the Obamas/Squad Democratic Party.

The people voted for a “return to normalcy,” all while the left destroyed the southern border, unleashed a critical legal theory/George-Soros crime wave, dismantled hard-won deterrence abroad, and printed money to spur hyperinflation.

Moreover, it is increasingly clear that the entire Biden family consortium is compromised and corrupt. Neither Hunter nor Jim nor Frank Biden had any consulting skills, business expertise, or corporate experience to warrant leveraging over $25 million from foreign interests. Their only commodity was to sell corrupt parties the appearance that Joe Biden would be quite willing to help their various causes if they enriched his family. Everyone knows that to be true, and only now, as Biden sinks into incoherence, are his protectors shrugging about the obvious money-making schemes that revolved around a corrupt senator, vice president, and private citizen, Joe Biden.

None of Biden’s record is popular. His policies on the border, economy, energy, foreign policy, and crime poll below 50 percent. And this trifecta of Biden’s mental deterioration, family corruption, and failed presidential record will only grow worse.

Then there is the Kamala Harris issue—the Spiro Agnew insurance policy of our age that so far has protected Biden from overt efforts to replace him. She is as unpopular as Biden and often as incomprehensible, but without the excuse of age or mental diminishment. Of all the major Beltway elected officials, only Sen. Mitch McConnell polls worse.

By August, Democratic donors and politicos may well conclude that the only way to rid the party of both is to release Biden’s delegates, open up the convention, and let candidates fight over the now-free delegates. Harris then will not be nominated, but not through a backroom, Machiavellian removal of a black woman. Instead, she will “fairly” lose an “open” and “transparent” free-for-all of various Democratic want-to-be replacements and recede into a sober and judicious Mike Pence-like retirement.

The problem with this scenario, of course, is that late-season convention or post-convention machinations in the modern era don’t work out too well. In 1976, Ronald Reagan, after losing a series of early primaries and being declared nearly inert, suddenly caught fire and entered the August 1976 Republican convention in Kansas City within striking distance of incumbent Gerald Ford. President Ford, remember, had never been elected either president or vice president.

In the end, in one of the most acrimonious Republican conventions in memory, a wounded Ford won the nomination by only 117 delegate votes out of some 2,257 cast. In some sense, Ford never recovered and lost the election to Jimmy Carter, even as the tumult gave Reagan the exposure and his team the experience needed to win the nomination in 1980.

About two weeks after the 1972 Democratic convention, a desperate George McGovern and the Democratic hierarchy removed Vice President running mate Sen. Thomas Eagleton from the ticket due to revelations of little-known past electric shock treatments given to combat depression. After futile efforts, the Democrats settled on the Kennedy clan’s Sargent Shriver, who had never run for office. McGovern would have lost anyway to an incumbent Nixon. But the margin of defeat in one of the greatest landslides in presidential history was often attributable to the sheer chaos of changing a vice presidential candidate so late in the campaign.

In sum, the Democrats can—and may have to—replace Joe Biden, and they can ensure that Kamala Harris is not the nominee, but the means of doing so will be chaotic and messy and will wound the winner for the rest of the campaign.

Trump’s Circuitous Path to Victory

Donald Trump challenges have now been discussed ad nauseam, and they are threefold: he must either beat or postpone campaign-season court trials—and find perhaps $800 million to $1 billion to post bonds, pay interests on them, and meet gargantuan legal fees—without turning off donors and supporters and by avoiding the diversion of Republican National Committee and various campaign funds to his own personal defense.

As in the past, Trump will be vastly outspent, perhaps by 3-1 or 4-1. Molly Ball’s infamous Time 2022 essay outlined the left-wing scheming that ensured a mail-in/early balloting election by aggregating the deep state, the corporate boardroom, the social media monopolies, and the 2020 riotous street thugs of Antifa and BLM. What she called a “cabal” and “conspiracy” was designed not so much as a one-off to defeat Trump as to create a permanent system by which a Trump-like candidate could never win a presidential election, both in 2020 and afterward.

Given changes in the 2020 state voting laws that saw 60-70 percent of the ballots in many swing states not cast on Election Day, while the rejection rate of faulty ballots counter-intuitively plunged despite such an influx, Trump will have to win by 3–4 points. Otherwise, in the swing states, we will again stare at the late-evening televised wizardry in which his huge leads mysteriously melt on the screen as drop boxes and mail sacks are tallied.

To achieve a 51-plus majority in the popular vote—no Republican has achieved such a national ballot margin in 36 years since George H.W. Bush beat Mike Dukakis in 1988—Trump will have to win, or win back, more Independents, apostate Democrats, and RINO Never-Trumpers.

He can do that in only two ways:

One, he must hammer away at Joe Biden’s disastrous record on the border, energy, race, foreign affairs, the economy, and social issues that scare moderates and fence-sitters, especially when comparisons are made to the achievements of 2017-2020. Inner-city residents are being tag-teamed by both the influx of thousands of illegal aliens who apparently have first claims on stretched social services and street criminals who loot, assault, and carjack mostly their law-abiding neighbors with impunity.

Two, Trump needs to model his remarks after his Iowa Primary victory speech or his recent Fox Townhall event with Fox’s Laura Ingraham. Translated, that means there is no reason to reference Nikki Hayley’s deployed husband, to refer to her as a “birdbrain,” or to say much of anything other than she will lose, and in the process, she is needlessly hurting more than half of America by draining resources away from the only real chance to repeal the current socialist agenda.

Hayley is imploding without any need for a Trump push. Magnanimity, rather than salt in her self-inflicted wounds, is the better strategy to unite the party. Trump has cemented his base. He will increase his share of minority voters who have been hurt the worst by the Biden socialist agenda. But to ensure victory and a Republican Congress, he cannot give swing voters a reason not to vote for policies and initiatives that they overwhelmingly prefer over those of the now hard-left Democratic Party.

In sum, after Super Tuesday, when Hayley will either quit the race or become inert, Trump needs to call her, politely remind her of her promise to support the nominee, and welcome her back into the fold. If she is wise, she will likely agree to disagree, let bygones be bygones, and thus pledge to support the assured nominee, Trump.

Two of her three choices are in her own interest: 1) She endorses him, and Trump wins, and she is vibrant in 2028; 2) she endorses him, and Trump loses, and she is still viable; 3) she opposes him, and Trump either wins—and she is persona non grata—or he loses, and she is blamed for splitting the party and his defeat. Breaking her public promise to support the nominee will bleed what support she retains, and would prove a suicidal blunder.

Trump has achieved the greatest political comeback since Richard Nixon arose from the ashes of defeat in California in 1962 to win the nomination and presidency in 1968. Trump’s Phoenix-like rebirth from January 2021 to the present was achieved by Biden’s failure, the natural empathy accruing from the weaponization of the law by partisan or corrupt prosecutors against him, and Trump’s greater success in giving independents fewer reasons to vote against him. If he can praise those he defeats, call for unity, and campaign in 50 states in non-Republican strongholds, then he can win—even despite the hatred of the left, the corruption of the media, the weaponization of the bureaucracy, and the eroding trust in the way we vote.