#and he lives in a way so that he won’t disgrace any of them

[wildsaltair]

respectfully I need to climb him like a rope ladder and do him so good we both ascend into the clouds and never recover

[antiwhores]

Your co-workers like to bully you.

Atleast thats what Bakugou suspected. He had to make an educated guess after your gloomy, closed off behavior everyday after work.

Bakugou works as a pro hero, no one gets to bully him in his work environment. But you work a humble job at a library about a mile or so away. He told you that you didn’t need to work the job since he brought more than enough money to the table to support you and him. But you insisted on working a job to “help” the both of you out. He accepted your money after a long debate with the conditions that you only pay for the phone bills.

You seemed to like your job though. In the early weeks of getting it he remembers you practically bouncing at the walls when you came home. You’d be bussing to talk about the newest work drama, the new book you read, a customer, etc.

He got into the habit of sitting down in the living room when he was home and waiting for you to come to him and sit on his lap. Then you’d tell him of your clearly exaggerated adventures of the day while he played with your hair.

But recently those nights were followed by not the usual fun answers, but dry answers to questions he asked to try to promote a stream of words from you.

He started to really get suspicious when you downright said no to him when he asked you to tell him about his day.

So he did what he did best and stuck his nose into your business.

He knew he couldn’t figure it out by himself without getting caught so he hired someone to figure it out for him.

A full on spy. A man that he met in the work field that owed him a favor after he saved his life.

“Is this really what you wanna cash out your favor on?” The man questioned.

Bakugou scoffed, “Just fuckin’ do it and stop questioning me.”

After two days the man reported back to Bakugou. Apparently, a group of coworkers had been harassing you. Talking shit, snarky comments, stealing your lunches, hiding your paperwork, etc.

Bakugou was fucking furious.

He stomped down to your work place, hero suit still on, and demanded to see the higher ups. They tried to stop him but he wouldn’t let up. No way some piece of shit workers were gonna bully his girl. He wouldn’t allow it!

To his luck, the district director was in a meeting with all the other higher ups. He busted into the meeting room, furious as ever. They were startled, dropping their pens and gasping.

After the shock went away, the noticed who this brash man was.

“Dynamight, sir, how can we help you?” The director spoke carefully. She recognized how Bakugou had a higher status than her. He could get them all fired by a phone call.

“Your shitty employees have been fucking with one of your hardest workers. I had my men come in and investigate and…”

He went into detail on what they’ve been doing to not just you, but other employees in the building. He degraded their department, saying that its a disgraceful work environment.

After he was done, his face was still red with anger. But he wasn’t the only one red. The district director was practically a tomato.

“I am so embarrassed and disappointed hearing this. They will be fired immediately. I am really sorry, Dynamight. I will make sure that they won’t be able to work at any other library in this district.”

He scoffed, turning around to head for the door. “Make it any other library in Japan.”

“Yes sir.” He said as Bakugou slammed the door behind him.

You came home happy that night and for the first time in a while, you told him about your (exaggerated) day.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy birthday! Hope its great! The Untamed please? Its one of my favorite fandoms you've gotten me into 🥰

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Mo Xuanyu is married to the Second Jade of Lan.

Song Lan had known she’d married into the Lan – it was obvious – but he’d thought it was some not so bright cultivator that had been bewitched by her pretty face, or possibly literally bewitched, which he’d already decided wasn’t any of his damn business. If some stupid Lan wants a terrifying and amoral demonic cultivator for a wife, then good luck to them. Except they obviously don’t know she’s a demonic cultivator, considering their clan’s history with the original. But again, not his business, not his problem. His first priority is Xiao Xingchen and if Mo Xuanyu is going help him, then he really doesn’t care about who she’s terrorizing in her spare time.

Except it appears he’d underestimated her.

Because she’s apparently Jin Xuanyu now, legitimized and married off to the second most eligible bachelor in the cultivation world, superseded only by his brother who’s been unofficially off the market for over a decade.

Hanguang Jun had lived as a widower and Song Lan had been convinced he was going to die as one. Uncharitably, he wonders if maybe Lan Wangji just has a type, then feels bad about it in the next moment.

She orders Sect Leader Lan around and he lets her. She glares Hanguang Jun down.

To say absolutely nothing of the way she’d taken down Xue Yang. And then given him that dubious honor of taking credit for the kill, likely because she didn’t want to try and explain to her family how she’d managed it.

She had been clever and dangerous as a teenager. She’s managed to vault herself from disgraced bastard daughter to wife of the heir to the Lan and the legal mother to the third in line who will likely be the one actually succeeding Lan Xichen.

Jin Xuan – Xuanyu is a friend. She has very firmly shown herself to be a friend, helping him and protecting Xiao Xingchen and showing what certainly looks like genuine kindness to the girl who’d helped them, A-Qing.

Possibly she’s done all this to ensure their silence over what she used to be, what she is, but if so then it’s been successful. Betrayal would be a poor repayment for everything she’s done. The Lan hadn’t helped him or Xiao Xingchen. She had. The Lan can take care of themselves and if they can’t withstand the machinations of one woman, they deserve what they get.

Xiao Xingchen hasn’t said much, and Song Lan owes him so many apologies, but not here in front of everyone. He at least agrees to fly with him without much fuss. It will be difficult for him to fly with all three of them for any significant distance, but A-Qing asks Xuanyu to fly with her and she agrees with a smile.

Lan Sizhui doesn’t seem particularly thrilled, but he apparently is far too respectful of his step mother to disagree with her.

They’re flying back the inn when Xiao Xingchen presses himself back against his chest and tilts his head back to say, “Song Lan.”

It’s been so long since he’s heard Xiao Xingchen say his name. He has to swallow before he says, “Yes?”

“That’s,” he starts, then stops. “Who was that?”

“Who?” he asks. “We’re traveling with the Lans.”

“The woman,” he says.

His lips tug down into a frown but he tries not to panic. He’s been under charms to confuse and dull his senses for months. “That was Mo Xuanyu.”

If he’s already confused, getting into her legitimization probably won’t help anything.

Xiao Xingchen is silent for a few more moment. Then he asks, “Are you sure?”

What on earth. “Who else would she be?”

“She moves like – and sounds – but. It can’t. She’s – different,” he says.

As wonderful as it is to hear him speaking, Song Lan wishes he were saying less worrying things. “It’s been a long time since we saw her last. She’s grown up and married. Of course she’s different.” He squeezes his arms around Xiao Xingchen’s waist, hoping it’s not too presumptuous when they haven’t discussed anything yet. “It’s okay, after everything that’s happened this all must feel very sudden. Xuanyu is the one that found you. We can trust her.”

He thinks they can trust her. They can trust her more than any other sect cultivator, which granted isn’t saying much.

Xiao Xingchen relaxes against him. “Alright. If you say so.”

[goforth-ladymidnight]

The Wolf and the Fox, Ch. 3

Tags: @achaotichuman & @hani-yo & @thrumbolt (would you like to be tagged for future updates??) Please let me know if anyone would like to be added to the list!

Pairing: Tamlin x Lucien

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: Lucien remembers happier times with Tamlin, then is brought back to the present to endure experience the rest of the Solstice party with the Inner Circle.

Read the chapter on AO3, or read on below the cut:

Chapter Three

* * *

The fox stopped and looked back the way he had come, and longed for the days when the wolf would run alongside him and guide him through the forest.

* * *

It was another beautiful day at the Spring Court. The sun was shining, the skies were clear, and the crowd of sentries who were off-duty were gathered in a loose ring near the stables, whooping and hollering as they watched two of their own wrestling in the center.

Lucien, who had just returned from his first assignment in the Hewn City, was looking for the High Lord. To his surprise, he found him… stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat, grinning as he wrestled with the other sentry.

Lucien couldn’t help but gape at the indignity of it all, especially compared to the stone-cold arrogance of the Court of Nightmares. “What does he think he’s doing?” he asked the sentry nearest him.

Andras crossed his arms and grinned. “I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I think he’s winning.”

Lucien crossed his arms, too, and scoffed. “Well, of course he is. He’s the High Lord.”

Andras cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do you actually think we’re letting him win?” he said scornfully, then shook his head. “He would never forgive us if he thought we were losing on purpose.”

Lucien blinked in surprise, then took a closer look at Tamlin and his opponent, a brawny Fae named Hart. Neither of them seemed to be toying with the other, and Tamlin’s smile was one of enjoyment, not derision.

Andras pointed at his fellow sentry. “They say his grandmother was a Huldra,” he told Lucien, “so if any of us has a chance of winning, it’s him.”

Lucien looked at Andras askance. “A Huldra?”

Andras lowered his voice. “Female Troll.” He held up his hand as Lucien opened his mouth. “Don’t ask.”

While it was true that Hart’s body and muscles were thicker than other Fae males, Lucien never considered that it was because of mixed blood. The Autumn Court was fastidious about breeding—or not breeding—with what they deemed Lesser Fae. If Jesminda had been allowed to live, if their unborn child had been allowed to live, it might have had wings like her.

Even though it had been more than a year since her death, Lucien still mourned what could have been.

“And that’s allowed here?” he asked.

“What? Trolls? Oh, you mean the, ah—” Andras cleared his throat. “Let’s just say that if one of us happened to have Lesser blood, Lord Gavin never invited him to guard Rosehall.” He stopped to call out, “Come on, Hart! Go for his leg! Go—Ooh.” Andras winced. “Too slow.” He chuckled as Tamlin tackled Hart to the earth. “As I was saying, Lord Tamlin is different. He doesn’t treat us any differently, whether we have Lesser blood or not.”

Lucien, the disgraced son of a High Lord himself, loved Tamlin a little more for that. If Jesminda had been permitted exile, she could have been very happy in the Spring Court. He was still trying to find his own happiness there without her.

“And you?” Lucien asked Andras. “What about you? Were you ever allowed to guard Rosehall?”

Andras gave him a sly smile. “Let’s just say my heritage won’t help me win any wrestling matches anytime soon.”

At that moment, Hart—red-faced and captured in a choke-hold—patted Tamlin’s arm and conceded defeat.

The gathered sentries whistled and cheered as their High Lord raised an arm in victory, then humbly helped the fallen sentry to his feet.

“Well done,” Tamlin said, grasping Hart’s forearm and then patting him on the shoulder. “You almost had me there.”

Hart smiled crookedly and rubbed his throat as he rasped, “You’re a terrible liar, my lord.”

Tamlin laughed and slapped his shoulder as he hobbled away. To Lucien’s surprise, the other sentries didn’t jeer at the loser, but thumped him on the back and gave him his shirt and a dipper of fresh water.

Tamlin addressed the crowd. “All right. Who’s next?”

As one, his men let out a loud, but good-natured groan. It seemed that Hart was not Tamlin’s first opponent that day.

When no one volunteered, Lucien stepped forward. “High Lord?” he said.

Tamlin turned and grinned at him. “Ah, Lucien. Excellent. Take off your shirt. Let’s get started.”

Lucien’s face heated. “Ah. No, I don’t—I mean—I have an urgent message for you,” he said, holding up the sealed correspondence.

Tamlin waved it away. “That can wait. Come on, I need the exercise.”

“Actually, I don’t think it can.”

Tamlin’s smile faded as he placed his hands on his hips, considering it, then he sighed and conceded a nod. “All right, everyone,” he announced. “Back to your stations. You’re dismissed.”

Andras leaned in as the rest of the sentries began to disperse. “Wear him out for us. Please,” he begged, then gave Lucien’s arm a meaningful squeeze.

Lucien wanted to ask how in the world he was supposed to do that, but he was distracted by another servant’s approach. Andras slipped away while the servant gave Tamlin a fresh shirt, which he used to wipe his face.

As the High Lord stepped closer to Lucien, patting the sweat from his neck, the scent of meadow rain grew stronger, and it was not at all unpleasant.

“So, what urgent message do you bring from the Hewn City?” Tamlin asked wryly. “Are they declaring war on sunshine and roses? Or just my overall happiness?”

Lucien tried not to roll his eyes as Tamlin shook out the folded shirt. “Lord Keir is throwing a ball for Hybern’s new emissary,” he explained patiently.

Tamlin paused from sliding his arms inside the billowing sleeves. “You consider that urgent?”

“Well, I—It might make more sense if you read it for yourself,” Lucien said, holding out the message.

Tamlin slipped the shirt over his head. “Or you could read it to me,” he said, smiling as he tugged down the shirt, covering up his firm stomach muscles.

Lucien blushed. “It’s just—I mean, I could, but I—I’m not the High Lord… High Lord.”

Tamlin dropped his gaze to the sealed parchment and stared at it for a long moment, then accepted it with a resigned sigh. “You know, every time you call me that, I think that my father is standing two paces behind me.”

“Oh.” Lucien winced. “Sorry, Tam.”

A dimple appeared in Tamlin’s cheek as he gave Lucien a soft half-smile. “That’s all right.” As he sliced through the seal with a quickly summoned claw, he remarked, “Now, let’s see what makes Keir’s balls so special.”

When Lucien stared, Tamlin winked. He smothered a laugh, still trying to be proper. “If I understand his summons correctly, he only has one ball,” he managed, lips twitching.

Tamlin grinned. “Oh, poor Keir,” he simpered, shaking his head. His smile grew serious, though, as he skimmed the message.

“What is it?”

Tamlin heaved a loud sigh. “Oh, it’s all very boring,” he said dismissively. “They’re celebrating their new alliance with Hybern. Something about new trade lines… That should make Rhys—and his uncle—very happy.” Tamlin’s gaze grew distant. “All that wealth in trade,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It just gives him one more thing to lord over me.”

Lucien grimaced. “Hence the invitation.”

Tamlin re-folded the message, then folded it again for good measure. “Indeed.”

“Is there a chance at striking your own trade agreement with Hybern?” Lucien offered.

Tamlin gave him a sharp look. “Why would I want to do that?”

Lucien faltered. “Well, you just said—”

“I was there before the War,” Tamlin said grimly. “It’s going to take a miracle from the Cauldron itself to convince me to ally with Hybern now. To hell with their blood money. Keir can have it, for all I care.”

“So you’re not going?”

“I didn’t say that,” Tamlin muttered, then he sighed again. “If there’s one thing I hate about being High Lord,” he complained, “it’s that I have to attend so many of these damn balls.”

Lucien watched him turn the folded parchment over with a creased frown. “Surely they’re not all terrible,” he offered. “We used to have fun.”

Tamlin smiled distantly to himself. “We did, didn’t we,” he murmured, then glanced up. “Do you want to come along?”

Lucien looked at him askance. “Do I have a choice? I thought, as your emissary…”

Tamlin chuckled. “I won’t need an emissary at the ball.” He brandished the unfolded parchment. “Unless you’d like to tell Keir’s new emissary to fuck off for me.”

Lucien tried not to gawk. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“You don’t know her like I do.”

“You know her?”

Tamlin nodded grimly. “Too well,” he said, then gestured to the manor as they began to walk. “She’s one of Father’s old friends…” He faltered. “I mean, before he…”

Lucien put his arm around Tamlin’s shoulders and squeezed. “It’s all right, Tam. I know,” he said gently. “Even if he was your father, he’s still a prick. Or do I have that backward?”

Tamlin chuckled as his arm slid around Lucien’s back. “You always know just what to say, old friend,” he said with a fond squeeze.

Not always, Lucien thought, too distracted by the comfortable warmth of Tamlin’s arm to think straight.

“That’s why I need you,” Tamlin continued, then turned to face him. “Say you’ll come, and save me from my misery.”

His hand was still resting on Lucien’s waist. “You really want me to?” Lucien said softly.

Tamlin nodded ardently. “Very much.”

“How much longer, Rhys?” Morrigan complained.

Lucien startled from his place by the River House hearth, having temporarily forgotten where—and when—he was.

Still lying on the couch, Morrigan shifted onto one elbow to look at Rhysand. “How much longer are you going to tease us? I know there are more than two gifts hiding in this house,” she added, gesturing to Lucien’s offerings on the table at Feyre’s feet. “Now where did you put them?”

Rhysand smiled like a cat toying with a mouse. “Oh, all right, Mor,” he drawled, then sat up and snapped his fingers. “Here you go.”

Lucien’s tiny gifts disappeared under a shower of wrapped and shining packages.

Morrigan squealed and moved her feet from Cassian’s lap as she sat up. Nesta had chosen to stay in the armchair instead of joining Cassian—and Morrigan—on the couch, even though there was plenty of room for three. Even Azriel remained by the doorway. Perhaps the Inner Circle was not as close as Lucien once thought.

Cassian laughed as Morrigan knelt on the floor, looking over the shining pile. “You’re like a dragon hatchling when it sees gold for the first time,” he teased. “Or like Amren, for that matter.”

Still sitting on Varian’s lap, Amren lifted her nose with a sniff. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” she said with a cool smile. Varian chuckled and kissed her cheek.

Undeterred, Morrigan dug through the pile. “As if a dozen of these presents don’t have your name on them,” she told Cassian wryly, then brought one out. “This one is for you, from me. I hope it turns your face green.”

As the gifts were distributed among the members of the Inner Circle, Lucien stayed where he was by the fire, sipping the last of his lukewarm tea. He had learned from sad experience the year before that he wouldn’t be getting any gifts, nor did he expect that to change.

He certainly didn’t need the mossy green sweater that Morrigan gave Cassian—which did indeed turn his face green—even if it was the same shade that Tamlin used to wear so well. He certainly didn’t need the ropes of pearls that Varian gave Amren, or the silver comb and brush set that were engraved with Morrigan’s name.

He didn’t even begrudge Feyre for all the gifts that she received. It was her birthday, after all. He himself had gone to Adriata and found some iridescent paint for her that shimmered like starlight. Even Rhysand was impressed. “Crushed pearls,” Varian explained when he asked.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you, Varian,” Feyre gushed, but Varian gestured to Lucien.

“The gift is his. I only told him where to go,” he said kindly.

“Oh,” Feyre said, turning her head to look back at him. “Thank you, Lucien,” she said with a kind smile. “I’ll enjoy using them.”

Lucien saluted both her and Varian with his teacup. He was grateful for the prince’s advice, since paint was the only gift he could think of. Rhysand could give Feyre anything she could ever want, and—judging from the size of her unwrapped pile—already had.

“All right, Elain,” Feyre said, turning to her sister sitting beside her on the couch. Lucien’s heart leapt to his throat. “It’s your turn. You still have one gift left.”

As Elain reached for the small velvet box with her pale, slender hand, Lucien’s own hand began to shake.

His teacup clacked against its saucer as he quickly returned it to the mantle, but it was still less loud than the pounding of his own heart.

“Who is it from?” Morrigan asked, straining to see.

“It’s from me,” Lucien announced. It was the only thing he had said in the last hour, and his voice rasped.

Elain’s hopeful smile faded as she… hesitated, and Lucien’s heart cracked.

“It’s all right, Elain,” Feyre whispered, touching her arm reassuringly.

Lucien knew she meant well, but the gesture made him… angry.

What was so terrible about his gift that Elain had to be coaxed into opening it? He wouldn’t dare give her a mating ring, or even a promise ring without getting to know her first. He certainly wouldn’t give her lingerie, not like the matching set Cassian and Morrigan had given each other the year before. They had openly joked about it as they opened each other’s gifts, and in front of Nesta, no less. If Cassian had a gift for Nesta, he hadn’t given it to her yet. Not that Lucien had, either, but Nesta wasn’t his mate.

Elain was.

Lucien had combed the markets of Adriata to find the perfect gift for her. He never saw her wear the enchanted gardening gloves he had given her the year before, but he thought perhaps she’d like something less practical. Something that just so happened to match the pearl combs she favored, and was wearing now, in fact…

Open it, please, he silently begged.

Whether it was the mating bond or Feyre’s coaxing, Elain cracked the lid of the blue velvet box to peer at the pearl earrings lying within.

Amren paused from draping her own pearls around hers and Varian’s necks. “Pretty,” she said, keenly noting the teardrop earrings.

Elain nodded distantly, then closed the box. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Lucien didn’t know if she was speaking to Amren or himself.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, even if she wasn’t listening.

He could feel everyone else’s pitying stares, and it made him want to winnow back to Northwall Manor with his tail tucked between his legs, Solstice peace and goodwill be damned.

It was Azriel, of all people, who saved him from further scrutiny by approaching Nesta with a gift of his own.

It wasn’t jewelry—or lingerie—but a faerie light to read by. Feyre and Elain had given her a box of credits from a local bookseller, so it was just the sort of gift she would appreciate.

There was only one thing that Lucien wanted, and in that moment, it wasn’t Elain.

I want to be left alone, Tamlin had growled. Lucien knew exactly how he felt.

Before he could slink away, Nesta surprised them all by throwing her arms around Azriel and thanking him profusely for her gift.

Cassian didn’t seem to mind, but Elain only seemed to withdraw further. There were no more gifts in her pile, and Azriel’s hands were now empty. It seemed that the Spymaster hadn’t gotten her anything, but then again, she hadn’t given him anything either. Perhaps she didn’t dare.

Rather than dwell on it, Lucien stepped forward. “Would anyone like something to drink?” he asked the room. He would happily raid the River House’s wine cellar, and he’d be more than happy to spend the night in there, curled up with a bottle or two and feeling sorry for himself. He doubted anyone would miss him.

“No, but I think it’s time for cake,” Morrigan declared, jumping to her feet.

Elain rushed to join her.

So much for his escape plan.

Strawberry cake sounded no more appealing than peppermint tea, but Morrigan insisted that he take a slice. And even though her smile was bright, there was pity in her dark brown eyes.

I don’t want your damn pity, he wanted to say, but he did accept the cake. And when Varian pressed a glass of bubbling faerie wine into his hand, he didn’t argue.

Yet even faerie wine couldn’t lift his spirits.

With most of the ridiculously large cake devoured, Morrigan wanted to go to Rita’s Tavern for music and dancing. Lucien was glad for an excuse to leave, but instead Rhysand snapped his fingers and summoned up lilting music from somewhere in the House.

When Morrigan glared, Rhysand merely smirked.

“Oh, all right,” she conceded, albeit reluctantly. “But you owe me a dance, Cousin,” she declared, to which he readily agreed. “You too, Cass.”

Lucien was tempted to ask Nesta for a dance, just to see what Elain—or Cassian—would do, but it was a petty thought, and easily dismissed. Besides, Eris had danced with her at the Hewn City the night before, and he was so enthralled he was ready to propose marriage. Lucien wasn’t interested in getting that close, especially when she had just learned how to disembowel a male.

Only Eris would find that more of a turn-on, not less.

Instead, Lucien watched Morrigan dance with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel. Amren and Varian danced only with each other, and none of the Archeron sisters danced at all.

At least Feyre had an excuse.

Lucien gingerly took his second glass of wine to sit on the couch across from her. He tried not to flinch when Elain stood up as he sat down.

“More tea,” was the only excuse she gave as she fled.

It was a wonder any human had ever believed that faeries could lie. They were terrible at it.

Feyre met his hard gaze and tried to soften it with a smile. “Give her time,” she told him quietly.

“Oh, is that all she wants? You should have told me that before I bought her earrings,” he said scornfully. Whether it was the lateness of the hour or one too many glasses of wine, he sounded absolutely bitter, and he hated it.

Feyre didn’t take it personally though. She merely rolled her eyes and looked to Nesta. “What do you think she wants?”

Nesta wouldn’t look at either of them as she lifted her mug of tea. “How should I know,” she said flatly, then took a long drink. She hadn’t brought anything for Elain, either.

Feyre pursed her lips, looking thoughtful as she played with the sapphire ring on her left hand. “Elain is… Well, she’ll come around, eventually,” she mused, then smiled to herself. She wiggled her fingers so that Lucien could see her mating ring sparkle. “I did.”

If by eventually you mean three months, Lucien thought bitterly. How quickly you changed your mind about Tam with a daemati at your side. How convenient, too.

Lucien felt someone’s gaze upon him, and he glanced up to see Rhysand watching him. His violet eyes narrowed.

Lucien’s jaw tightened as he looked away. He couldn’t complain anywhere in this house, not even in his own head.

“I should go,” he said quietly, then set down his glass as he stood.

“Wait,” Feyre said, grimacing as she braced her belly and tried to sit up.

Lucien held up a hand as Rhysand rushed over. “Please, don’t get up,” he told them wincingly. “I can show myself out.”

Feyre blinked up at him. “Aren’t you staying the night?”

He thought of Elain, slowly brewing tea in the kitchen until she felt it was safe enough to come out. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But you’ve been drinking,” Feyre said, pointing to his empty wine glass. “Besides, we already have a guest room made up for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, but what he really wanted to say was that he was fully capable of winnowing while drunk—which he wasn’t—even if he landed in the Bay of Adriata. He could use a good swim right now, come to think of it.

But before he could say so, Feyre continued, “We wanted to, and there’s a gift in there for you, too, for Solstice.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred as he stared at her. From Elain? He wanted to ask.

Feyre simply smiled, as though she could read his thoughts. Maybe she could. “Third floor, down the hall, to your left.”

Rhysand grasped her hand as he sat beside her on the couch. “Do you want me to show you?” he asked, even though it was clear he had no intention of leaving his mate’s side again anytime soon.

“No,” Lucien breathed. “I can find my own way. Thank you,” he said, and managed a short but sincere bow.

Nesta nodded at him as he passed by, but there was no sign of Elain as he made his way to the stairs. It was too much to hope that she would be up there waiting for him, but the thought of something from her lifted his spirits more than faerie wine ever had.

The room Feyre had indicated was made up in shades of snow and starlight, and trimmed with fine silks and heavy velvet. It was a fine room for a guest of the Night Court, to be sure, but it lacked the rich reds and golds that had once decorated his own room in the Spring Court, or the rustic browns and greens at Northwall Manor.

The only sign that the room was meant for him was his name scrawled on the folded card resting on the bedside table. Next to it was a bottle of corked whiskey.

His brow furrowed as he reached for the card and unfolded it. He had to reread it twice, as its message was so short: Thank you for coming tonight, from the High Lord and High Lady of Night.

Lucien barked a laugh so sharp, it made his chest hurt.

His hands shook as he lowered the card to the table. He should have known better than to assume Elain would give him anything. He should have known better than to think that Feyre or her mate would give him anything worthwhile.

No wonder Cassian had joked about the whiskey. He must have thought Feyre had already given it to him and was busy getting drunk.

A bottle of whiskey for the Night Court’s finest emissary.

Lucien grabbed the bottle.

“A toast,” he declared, pulling the cork free. He held the bottle aloft, although no one else was around to see. Music continued to play downstairs, so no one would be listening anyway.

“To the Night Court, for providing such a generous gift on your most bountiful holiday,” he drawled, then turned to the southern window overlooking the Sidra. “To the Band of Exiles. May we all wake up without ridiculous hangovers tomorrow.” Lucien’s wry smile faded. “And here’s to Alis, and all the citizens of Spring, still living in Summer. May you find peace in this strange new world of ours.”

Lucien carried the bottle to the glass doors overlooking the balcony. A full moon was shining, blotting out many of the stars. “Here’s to you, Tam,” he said softly, staring up at that moon. “Wherever you are… Happy Solstice,” he said, then drank.

Lucien didn’t bother getting undressed. Instead he laid down on the bed covered in silk as white as snow, and cradled the bottle of whiskey while he waited for the dreams to take him. It didn’t take long, and for that, he was truly grateful.

* * *

The fox followed the sound of laughter to a feast, where the fawn had joined with other creatures of the forest to enjoy its bounties, but the fox—hunter, thief, and scavenger—was not welcome there.

* * *

[corellianhounds]

I don’t want to have to write all the context and justification for the idea I have right now so I’ll just put this on the WIP stack (story of my life), but consider a Temporal Chalice storyline à la TAZ Balance. An artifact so powerful it holds command over time itself, confronting the cupbearer with their deepest fears, desires, flaws, and mistakes, and the ability to act on a crucial moment in the trajectory of their life, whether they realized it was crucial or not.

The chalice lies before them on a raised pedestal. The offer can only be accepted by one of them, and it comes with two caveats: All of time, from the moment they choose to change and after, will be altered.

And secondly: After they change fate, all of their present memories will be gone. History will be rewritten, and they will never be able to tell in which ways it changes or stays the same.

The Mandalorian is shown a fork in the road. A young family in red is suspended in time: to their right is the city street leading to an underground cellar, only empty for the moment. To the left, the street continues, and beyond it he spies the approaching Mandalorian jet squad. Before, his eyes had been so tightly closed he must have missed the momentary glimpse of their saviors in the distance. If he can manage to redirect his father’s focus, to force him to veer left instead, Din knows he can lead them to safety. He is being offered the chance to save his parents’ lives. 

“… If my own parents don’t die, somebody else will,” Din says quietly. “I know what it’s like to lose them. I can’t wish that on somebody else.”

Boba Fett is shown the back of a Jedi approaching his father from behind in the arena stands. He is ten years old, and he has a gun in his hands.

“… My father was not a perfect man,” Boba said, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. “My path to this point in life would have been harsh either way. I don’t need a second lifetime of hardship to remember.”

“Disgraced magistrate Greef Karga” echoes at the back of his mind as he watches the scene unfold from a third person point of view. He is given the chance to exonerate himself of what he did before being stripped of his title and run offworld before arriving on Nevarro. He has time to escape and absolve himself of any wrongdoing.

There’s a long moment of consideration before Karga speaks, the veteran showman smile nowhere to be found. “I wouldn’t have become a better man if I hadn’t been caught,” he says grimly. “I would have continued doing what I did because I got away with it. The only reason I changed is because I was held accountable.”

Luke sees Dagobah, and an X-Wing. There are two figures outlined in the gloom, one corporeal and small, the other ethereal and old. If he chooses not to go to Cloud City and stays to finish his training, he will have the strength and knowledge needed to end the war sooner, potentially saving untold thousands of lives at the cost of those dear to him.

“… I don’t think I could make the choice any differently, even knowing what I do now,” Luke says softly. “My masters were training me to have the strength to kill my father. I don’t think I would have had the mercy to spare him long enough for him to redeem himself, and I would have lost what little time I did have with him.”

But what about those who may not be able to accept the present as it is? The ones who would have the knowledge and opportunity to right the wrongs of the galaxy and save innocent lives? To undo past mistakes?

Cobb Vanth is fifteen and has just arrived in the next settlement to pick up supplies. If he immediately returns to the orphanage his mother runs instead of staying the night, as he once did, he’ll be able to put out the fire and save a dozen young lives, and his mother won’t be forced to live with the survivor’s guilt for the following week before she ultimately makes the choice that will leave him an orphan too.

There’s a long arena with targets lined up at one end. Her sister, laughing, stands tall and confident in front of the back wall, hands on her hips with an apple balanced on her head. She is alive, and the girl not yet called Fennec Shand stands at the opposite end, her crossbow still pointed low as she squares her feet. She isn’t yet the marksman she’ll become, and she has the chance to avoid the biggest mistake of her life.

Cara Dune sees an office she’s never been in before, a high-rise view of Coruscant from the windows. There is a covey of New Republic officers poring over data showing the plot to frame and kill her entire crew for the crime they didn’t commit, and the evidence to frame her for it when she runs.

Una is standing at the back of the courtroom. It’s the two-sun rotation where Max Rebo’s band plays yet another encore for Oola to dance to, Jabba’s raucous, rumbling laughter spreading through the room with his odious breath. She knows there is a sliver of time before the next song starts, and if she can maneuver through the crowd fast enough, she knows she can coax her friend into playing along, just for the night. Right now, with the chalice in hand, Una sees the other girl who would arrive the following day and would have taken Oola’s place without Oola having to die first. Jabba liked fresh girls with braids to pull as much as he did the lekku of Twi’leks.

Ahsoka sees herself as a child, looking up at a young Jedi Knight with a scar bisecting one eyebrow. She knows this scene, has had it etched upon her memory for decades. She could decline his offer and divert her life’s course entirely.

Leia is shown the first time she ever met Lord Vader at age fourteen. She is standing beside the man who raised her as his own, the two of them across from the figure in black. Captain Antilles is next to her and he has a gun in his holster.

Grogu, a child, is given perhaps the most difficult choice of all: The ability to prove Palpatine’s treachery to his masters and prevent Order 66 from happening at all, perhaps preventing the entire war. The tradeoff is that he will grow up in the temple, and he will never meet the man who would become the Mandalorian.

Han Solo is shown the future. His hand is on the door. Leia and Ben are behind him.

[sea-salt-child]

He’s done for.

A shaking, snarling little figure in red, shoes and pants splattered with blood which just a few minutes ago was his comrades’.

You stand by your friends’ side, gazing at the scene. That soldier… he is not going to card himself, like those in blue uniforms would with no hesitation.

“You are cornered!”

“We got this.”

Because a building collapsed, the consequence of their destruction, so glacially karmic that you can’t stand it.

Crushed under concrete, twisted and broken and surreal, framing the last remaining soldier. You can see his face, the fear in it, the way he’s still more human than weapon, shaking hands, duel position, not going down without a fight.

A three on one fight.

Isn’t that familiar?

Yeah- over and over that familiar scene of trios of masked no-longer-people carrying out their duties, smiling wide about fulfilling their purposes to the very end. It bothers you and on a whim, you decide to leave your course of action up to your friends, fellow Resistance duelists.

“Doesn’t it bring memories?”

…

“Huh?”

They seem confused, having expected you to also draw forth your duel disk.

“Ruri?”

“...This is the same, in a way, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hey, he’s gonna run away-!”

It’s really like that, huh? But if the enemy is trying to run… trying to preserve their own life, even if it means returning to Academia as a disgrace to their pride…

Then there is something precious still there, having withstood the kind of horrors that make you forget there are things beyond the battlefield.

Something unseen to everyone but you.

Yes, it’s suddenly really clear, the best course of action, the one that won’t betray your heart.

“I’m not doing a three on one.”

The other two look at you like you’ve grown a new head, but you just smile. 

This is how to save them from sinking into colder depths, pushed there by circumstance. 

You rush towards the soldier and he steps back, surprised as you land by his side.

“What, are you doing?”

A question that any of the three could have asked.

“Everyone, this is a truly pitiful fight. Barely a duel, showing the worst in all of us.”

You finally show your duel disk, turning to face your allies.

“Please try to understand me here. I’m not siding with the enemy- I’m siding against today’s situation. I want to understand it, so…” You glare at the soldier. He’s too afraid to even turn down your gesture. More than anyone else, his heart is showing.

“This isn’t kindness towards you, either. On the contrary- I’m sure this will hurt you so much that you might do the loyal thing. I hope the indecision ends as you and I start this joke of a play.”

“Ruri! What the hell?!”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that… It’s not like I’m letting you get carded on way or another. This is barely even a duel anymore, so please-”

“Are you crazy?”

Their expressions have all changed. 

It’s a knot in your throat, seeing their eyes sharpen, focused on what you think is the wrong thing. 

As the duel begins, all you can hope for is showing what you truly mean with your dueling.

It’s difficult, of course it is. Your friends fight bravely, but the absolute trust in each other and desire to protect one another has been shaken but your sudden actions.

There’s no doubt that up until this point, you were just Shun’s weaker little sister and only that, a person living in the shadow of someone else.

Things are shaky on your side, too. There is no synergy in your decks and he is too fearful to rely on you.

“Are you guys kidding me? Can’t you see what’s going on? What’s in front of you? Hey! Hey, there’s blood under my boots! There’s the smell of it, there’s heat in the air. It’s like everything is ending, but we still need to keep fighting! All of us!”

It’s a losing game, but you play earnestly, filling the board with increasingly stranger birds. Be bound not by the pretty passerines. 

A pleasant smile, a tilt of the head, a modest dress, always doing the right thing, crying out against duels that bring no one any smiles.

But the sky is blue then grey, but there’s an unpleasant taste in your mouth, but the dead leave decks behind and you stuff your side deck with abandoned polymerizations that are the only proof of the existence of any given soldier- unlike you, members of the Resistance, who will be remembered and missed thoroughly by the survivors.

“Hey. You are afraid of dying.”

“Shut up.”

But the lone soldier is not completely closed off yet, either.

“I’ve put you in a painful situation here. There is nothing you can do that won’t hurt you or kill you. I’m playing with my food, in a way.”

Either fight with all your might with XYZ prey, bringing dishonor to Academia, or lose and do the exact same thing. 

“What will you do?”

This is a painful hope. You want to know, from the bottom of your heart, if he has what it takes to make the leap. To accept all pain and keep walking, to desert, to change-

But no matter how many chances you give, how many set ups you leave for him to use, he never welcomes your help, never stops shaking, never manages to see past the thick fog of cruelty given by Academia.

You lose.

But what that loss means is different between you, him and your friends. The two of the glare daggers at you, but you just turn away.

“You should at least tell me your name before they card you, since you can’t do that yourself.”

“...Why?”

“I want to have something to remember you by, since no one else will.”

“No- I mean, why try and help me?”

You look over at the grey horizon.

“You have it wrong. I’m helping myself, if anything. Following an idea to the edge.”

The two approach.

“...I’m… Vince.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

You close your eyes, only turning to look at him again when one of your friends lifts that duel disk. Vince just flops to the floor like a ragdoll, forced to accept his fate. You refuse to look away as he is turned to a card.

“There. All done.”

“Come on, Ruri. What were you thinking?”

“Shun is gonna flip out if he hears-”

As you bend to pick the card back up, you shake your head.

“Just don’t tell him. It’ll be okay- I got what I wanted, see? And even if the fight had gone the other way, I would have just finished this guy myself. No big problem there!”

“That’s not-”

But you are already leaving.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here. Blood smells awful, no matter whose fault it is for the spill.”

This is how you step out of his shadow.

This is…

This is how you choose what it means to be you.

[utapri-translations-uuuu]

WHO DO YOU CHOOSE? - Translation

Translator's notes can be found at the end and are marked with an asterisk.

Please do not repost/retranslate without permission.

Van: What do you say? You still can’t choose yet…

Van: Do you feel like there’s still something missing?

Yamato: If you like us all about the same, we should settle this fairly with our strength.

Eiichi: In that case, how about a race then?

Eiichi: If you guys don’t think it’s fair, I don’t mind if we make it a Chicken race* instead to test our courage.

Van: No, no! That is way too dangerous! A calm home run contest is better-

Kira: I reject all of them. We should do something fair and just.

Nagi: Nagi is also against it! Even if we gave them a huge handicap, I still don’t want to do either of them!

Nagi: Shion doesn’t either, right?

Shion: … If I am allowed to call my wildlife friends, then… perhaps I can do it.

Nagi: Eh?!

Eiji: If we make it about who can get up the earliest, I might do better…

Kira: If it’s about getting up early, I won’t be beaten either.

Kira: When I bisque-fire my work, I watch over the kiln starting in the morning.

Nagi: Stop! Everyone, stop getting in Nagi’s way!

Nagi: I’m trying really hard to get us to stop entertaining these meaningless physical strength tests!

Nagi: Listen, do you remember what we are fighting for in the first place? It’s true love!

Eiji: Oh, sorry. Nagi is right. Choosing like this is no good. My feelings for Angel got the best of me and I ended up getting carried away.

Shion: Amakusa too.

Shion: It’s a disgrace for a researcher to be so intent on seeking a result that he did not realize that he was taking the wrong course of action to achieve it.

Kira: Me too. I got a little competitive.

Kira: It wasn’t very mature of me.

Eiichi: In that case, should we go back to the starting point?

Eiichi: That is to say, if we’re going to compete, it should be with words of love for Angel. Yes, that is all there is to it.

Van: So I guess each of us will be confessing. It’s the safest choice, but it’s the correct one.

Kira: Is that okay with you, Angel?

(the listener replies)

Eiji: I’m glad. It’s settled, then.

Eiji: What should the order be?

Eiji: Can we start with my older brother since he came up with the idea?

Eiichi: That is fine. I even prefer it that way.

Eiichi: What I offer you is eternal love. It will never perish and will continue to shine radiantly under any circumstances. You will always be happy.

Kira: There is nothing that you and I aren’t able to do together.

Kira: The future ahead of us is dazzling and shimmering. Let’s walk alongside each other forever.

Nagi: With me, you’ll never be lost again. I’ll always find the right answer for you. I’ll always make you smile.

Nagi: You’ll be glad we’re together every day from here on out. So, choose me.

Eiji: I still don't know if I'm worthy of being chosen. However, my feelings for you are sincere.

Eiji: So I would be happy if you could accept my heart as it is. I just want you to smile, even if it’s only during the moment you receive it.

Van: After living together, I have been influenced by you.

Van: Honesty is the most important thing, so I’ll allow myself to say something selfish unashamedly. I want to have a special place in your heart.

Yamato: Don’t make it harder for yourself by thinking too much. You can go with your gut like I do. That is also a legitimate way of doing things.

Yamato: Hey, tell me that your choice is me.

Shion: I am strongly drawn to you. I believe I will never meet someone like you again.

Shion: I hope you will make apparent the miracle of our chance encounter with a message of love.

All: Now, who will you choose?

(simultaneously)

Eiichi: …

Nagi: What?!

Van: You still can’t choose?

Eiichi: We weren’t able to reach a conclusion.

Nagi: You haven’t decided?

Shion: Oh my…!

Kira: I want you to think about it more.

Eiji: Oh no…

Shion: Angel…

Yamato: It’s still no good?

Yamato: What should we do… Does anyone have any other ideas?

All: …

Shion: In Amakusa’s research, when it’s not easy to draw a conclusion, the number of subjects observed is increased… or the observation period is extended.

Eiji: That’s it, Shion! Extending the period of time!

Eiji: If it's okay with everyone, how about we continue to live together until it's decided?

Kira: I agree. It’s like in pottery. Patience is my greatest weapon.

Van: So basically like extra innings in baseball? I’m used to that kind of thing, so there’s no problem.

Yamato: That's fine with me, too.

Eiichi: Of course, I don’t mind that. So the only one left is…

(they all turn to Nagi, waiting for his answer)

Nagi: Geez, it can’t be helped… Naturally, it is OK! Under these circumstances, I can only agree to it, right?

Eiichi: All right. So, let's extend the time and start the second round now.

Eiichi: And if you still can't decide by then, we go by sudden death*. We’ll accompany Angel until they can make up their mind.

Nagi: Say, Angel. Do you dislike the idea of being with me forever from now on? Nagi doesn’t want to be apart from you even for a second. Of course, you feel the same way, don’t you?

Yamato: This time, victory will be mine. Of course, my opponent is you, Angel. In the end, you will pick me.

Eiji: I’ll work even harder than I am now. I’m done holding back from today onwards. Because I really like you. I want to take the initiative to convey my feelings to you.

Shion: This sentiment of love that I have found with you… If we continue to nurture it, how far will it grow? I want the two of us to witness it together.

Van: I will whisper passionate words of love to you as many times as you want, Angel. We’ll talk about so many interesting things, too. I hope you can always smile from the bottom of your heart.

Kira: I think only of your happiness. All my words and actions are for you. As long as I have your love, I don’t need anything else.

Eiichi: I will act according to your heart and offer you as much love as you want. Because my feelings for you will never wither.

(sound of a clock ticking, then striking)

All: HE★VENS LOVE AFFAIR!

All: Let's have a love affair that is like ascending to heaven.

Translator's notes:

*1 Chicken race- Eiichi is referring to a game in which two drivers drive toward each other and one must swerve or both may die in the crash. If one driver swerves and the other does not, the one who swerved will be called a "chicken".

*2 Sudden death- A way of quickly deciding a winner in which the first to score wins automatically

[grimowled]

Dove had heard of what had occurred at the trial, still in complete shock of the punishment that was set upon the former prince.

It didn't seem real.

None of it did.

The Nephilim was able to find the location of where he was staying, knocking on the door lightly as she called put with a concerned tone, "Stolas? It's me, Dove. Can I come.in?"

NOTHING LIKE A GOOD, old fashioned exile sentencing to flush out true loyalties, even in as hopeless a place as the very bowels of hell; but out of all the few allies he’d expected to keep despite his spectacular fall from infernal grace, the prophesied one was quite the surprise - perhaps even a pleasant one.

(what can an awfully common demon like him offer her now, after all? couldn’t keep the end of a bargain to save his feathered hide.)

the former prince wasn’t exactly hidden, either; half of pride knew where he was holed up in, but even the most ill intentioned knew better than to take their chances with i.m.p. employees, now rightly the most notorious celebrity assassins in all of hell.

“of course my dear dove - how extraordinary kind of you to come all this way just to check in on me.”

(he may have lost his luxurious estate and regal finery, but he still had his manners.)

stolas opened the battered door to reveal his newly colonised nest, illuminated day and night by naught but the permanent fixture of the televisions’s flickering blue light, closer resembling a pigsty given his ongoing indulgences; he carried none of the regal trappings he would proudly wear, instead lounging about in whatever oversized garment he could get his talons on, the most he’d actively achieved in the past week being crossing the distance between the bathroom and the sofa he lived on now.

(why mourn the loss of his lavishly impressive and fashionable wardrobe, when he looked his very best the closer he got to his scandalous birthday suit?)

“now now, hurry in my little bird. who knows what might snatch you up whilst you linger outside, hoo hoo!”

he cooed as he urged her inside, locking the door behind them; despite the eerily lighthearted tone he concealed his new state of constant vigilance behind, he certainly wasn’t joking, either.

he didn’t ask if she wanted any tea, but as that was pretty much the only thing he’d learnt to do independently after being cruelly torn from the luxury of servants to satisfy his every whim, he automatically turned away from his lovely guest and sauntered to the crowded countertop to pop the kettle on, lest rumours of his being a poor host on top of a complete disgrace further stain his already infamous reputation.

“—now, what brings you here? as you know I’ve had a minor … setback, so I won’t be of much use for the next, oh, I don’t know, hundred years or so. my apologies for the inconvenience.”

he clicked his beak in irritation at the conjured thought, as if this whole crime-and-punishment farce was nothing but a mild nuisance.

[realinspirations]

Personal triumph stories of success after setbacks Real Success Stories That Inspire

 Personal triumph stories of success after setbacks Failure and triumph are two facets of the identical coin, representing the U.S.A.And downs that define the human revel in. While triumph is often celebrated, failure tends to be met with sadness and fear. However, the route to fulfillment is hardly ever an instant line, and more often than no longer, it’s the classes learned from failure that cause the most good-sized triumphs in life. Understanding the way to navigate failure, extract meaningful classes, and observe them transferring forward can transform even the maximum challenging setbacks into stepping stones toward boom and achievement.

The Nature of Failure

Failure is a widespread experience. Everyone, regardless of how successful, has faced a few forms of failure in their lives. Whether it’s a failed enterprise project, a relationship that didn’t exercise session, an academic shortcoming, or a private intention left unfulfilled, failure is an inevitable part of life. However, what separates people who ultimately succeed from folks who don’t is how they reply to failure.

Many humans worry about failure because it's miles often associated with emotions of disgrace, inadequacy, and self-doubt. Society has a tendency to glorify achievement and vilify failure, which can make it appear that any setback is a reflection of one's character or skills. But in reality, failure is virtually a result of attempting something that didn’t move as planned. It’s a final result, not an identity. The key to dealing with failure lies in viewing it as a possibility to study, develop, and improve. Rather than seeing failure as the stop, it’s critical to view it as a precious knowledge of experience. In reality, failure can often train us greater than success ever ought to. When things pass easily, it’s easy to coast along without reflecting on the system. But while matters pass incorrectly, it forces us to research, adapt, and make adjustments.

Failure as a Teacher

One of the maximum tremendous training that failure teaches is resilience. Life will always present demanding situations, and the capacity to get better and circulate ahead after a setback is important. Failure pushes us out of our comfort zone and forces us to confront our weaknesses. In doing so, we construct the intellectual and emotional fortitude vital to handle adversity within destiny.

Take the example of Thomas Edison, who is frequently stated as a top instance of turning failure into triumph. Edison failed thousands of instances in his quest to invent the lightbulb. Take the example of Thomas Edison, who is frequently stated as a top instance of turning failure into triumph. Edison failed thousands of instances in his quest to invent the lightbulb. I’ve just observed 10,000 methods that won’t paintings.” Each failure brought him closer to fulfillment because he was able to analyze what didn’t paintings and make improvements.

In Edison’s case, his failures taught him perseverance, endurance, and the importance of experimentation. These features ultimately caused his fulfillment, now not just with the lightbulb, but with many other innovations that have shaped the modern international. His tale demonstrates that failure can be the muse of innovation and creativity.

Similarly, athletes frequently face a couple of disasters earlier than attaining greatness. A missed intention, a lost recreation, or maybe extreme harm can cause devastating setbacks. But for plenty, those moments serve as critical turning points. They pressure athletes to re-examine their techniques, enhance their competencies, and push their limits. Every failure is a danger to high-quality-track performance, and in the end, it ends in victory. The Role of Failure in Personal Growth

Failure doesn’t simply contribute to professional achievement; it also performs a vital role in private increase. In relationships, as an example, failure can train us to utilize communique, empathy, and compromise. When a relationship ends, it’s smooth to focus solely at the heartbreak and unhappiness. But searching deeper, there’s frequently a wealth of knowledge to be received from the experience. Perhaps the failure of a relationship highlights the want for better verbal exchange, or it shows that mutual recognition and understanding had been lacking. Maybe it teaches one to prioritize their emotional well-being or to set up healthy limitations. This training, although painful, is valuable for building more healthy, more pleasurable relationships in the future. Failure also teaches humility and self-recognition. When we enjoy failure, we’re compelled to confront our boundaries and recognize areas in which we need improvement. This may be an uncomfortable manner, but it’s additionally one of the maximum important steps in personal development. Self-focus permits us to take duty for our movements, learn from our mistakes, and make higher choices shifting ahead.

While it’s smooth to sense defeat in the face of failure, it’s critical to recollect that failure is not a mirrored image of our worth, but alternatively a mirrored image of our modern efforts. And efforts can usually be stepped forward. In many approaches, failure is a mirror that reflects our real selves. 

Triumph After Failure The Sweetness of Success

One of the most rewarding aspects of experiencing failure is the profound feeling of triumph that comes whilst fulfillment is ultimately achieved. Success is nice, but it’s even sweeter whilst it follows a sequence of demanding situations, setbacks, and hard-earned instructions.

The triumph after failure is extra meaningful due to the fact it's far built on a foundation of perseverance, studying, and growth. When we attain fulfillment without ever having skilled failure, it is able to sometimes feel shallow or short-lived. But while we’ve confronted failure head-on, while we’ve needed to combat for success and analyze our errors, the victory feels deeply private and pleasing. The tale of J.K. Rowling is a high instance of this. Before accomplishing global success with the Harry Potter series, Rowling faced numerous rejections from publishers. At one point, she turned into a struggling single mom dwelling on welfare. Despite the setbacks and failures, she in no way gave up on her dream of turning into a writer. When her books in the end gained traction, her triumph wasn’t just about financial success—it turned into about proving to herself that she ought to conquer adversity and acquire her desires. Rowling’s tale is a testament to the energy of endurance and the rewards that come from studying from failure. If she had given up after the first few rejections, the world might have ignored one of the most loved literary series of all time. Embracing Failure as Part of the Journey

To virtually reach life, we ought to embrace failure as an important part of the adventure. It’s no longer something to be feared or averted, however as an alternative thing to be welcomed as an opportunity for boom. The maximum hit human beings in any discipline have all experienced failure, and it’s exactly those experiences that have fashioned them into the humans they may be these days. The key to turning failure into triumph lies in our attitude. Rather than viewing failure as a non-public shortcoming, we should view it as a stepping stone on the course to success. Every time we fail, we’re given the possibility to study, improve, and come again stronger.

In conclusion, failure and triumph and success stories of entrepreneurs are interconnected. Failure teaches resilience, self-attention, and the importance of non-stop studying, even as triumph rewards folks who persevere despite setbacks. By embracing failure and the lessons it offers, we set ourselves up for more achievement, both professionally and for my part. Triumph is not the absence of failure, however the result of gaining knowledge of and developing from it.

[blazingstar29]

lovers in arms

pairing: icemav

wordcount: 1231

warnings: none really, just angst

As the years wearied their bodies but not their hearts, Pete and Tom grew apart and together like undulating serpentines. Never straying far enough or long enough to hurt, but whether orders or their own hot heads, sometimes they stood on opposing sides. But things suddenly escalate when Tom receives Commander.  Very quickly he finds himself Pete’s senior officer and changes occur neither of them expect. 

Before they flew wing by wing, an unstoppable force together. Pete’s penchant for daring maneuvers, to push the envelope and Tom’s unwavering patience and ability to sit steady not only made them unorthodox together, but in the face of enemy aircraft were undefeated. Things have changed now. 

The rosy coloured glasses Tom has worn for so long are forcibly replaced by that of a commanding officer. Not that he hasn’t worn them before. Way back at Top Gun he assessed Pete very quickly and dismissed any longevity in the Navy. But he was proven wrong and fell in love in the process. Now he has to look at Pete as an officer, black and white, cold. What he sees scares him. 

He risks losing Pete to himself, to a far off sea. He risks losing Pete from the Navy. Nepotism isn’t a trait he can afford to show and Pete would cut off his left hand before receiving it. Yet does that make him responsible for taking the appropriate action when Pete does cross the line? Does he risk Pete’s dismissal? 

The inquiry is unpleasant and the only reason Tom sleeps at night is because he didn’t report it. Another officer heard the transmission before Tom. 

“Ghost Rider return to the ship.”

“Bogey has not bugged. Holding position.” 

The blatant refusal to land had Pete, Tom and two other officers in the first chopper back to the Naval base in Lemoore for the inquiry. Not a word is spoken between the officers and the disgraced Lieutenant. For the rest of his life, Tom remembers this as his first real test of diplomacy. He defends Pete’s judgment and attacks him equally. 

“Gentlemen, I believe I see a different world than you do and if I may be so honest, what I see frightens me. Our enemy is more than a flag, a country. It is an ideology that is carried by the men who pilot the aircraft Lieutenant Mitchell encountered.” 

He draws on the patriotism of the men before him. Lieutenant Mitchell, an unorthodox patriot. 

“I ask you, do you feel safe leaving unsupervised enemy aircraft in our airspace?” 

“There were initial plans to bomb the MiG, Commander. Were you aware?” 

“Not at the time,” he says simply. “I wasn’t in the control room.” 

“Lieutenant Mitchell could have become collateral damage if the strike had been commenced and he loitered in the airspace. For once it seems he was risking his own life,” a Rear Admiral says. Tom understands his point more than anyone. Pete could have died. But they cannot know how much that affects him. “The fact is he disobeyed a direct order in a multi-million dollar aircraft. And not for the first time.”

“Lieutenant Mitchell’s prior refusal to land saved the lives of two men and saved another multi-million dollar plane.” He takes a breath, stilling himself for the blow. He’s glad Pete is standing just behind his peripheral. If he could see him, he wouldn’t be able to say the words in his mouth. “The Navy needs a few good men. It also needs sacrifices. Men who are prepared to take risks that better men won’t, they are at our disposal to be used. Mitchell is one of them.” 

The room falls silent and Tom is indicated to be seated.  He knows he has won Pete’s career, at what cost he does not know.

–

It’s a few days before Pete is flight status reinstated and Tom volunteers to stay down in Lemoore to catch up on a few things before returning to the carrier at the end of the week. It means they are back in base housing, but it’s luxurious in comparison to the boat. 

Late that night after the inquiry, there’s a sharp knocking on the door. 

“It’s open,” he calls from the small desk. The door opens and Pete steps inside, back as straight as a board, to attention. 

“Pete-” 

“It’s Lieutenant, sir.” 

No, not this. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a second. “Don’t do this.” 

“Don’t do what? Don’t do what better men would?” 

Tom gets to his feet, heart aching already. “I said what I said for a reason and you know it.” 

Pete’s eyes bore into his, flashing and angry. Hurt. He sets his jaw, nose flaring as he suffocates the outburst inside of him threatening to spill over and drown everything between them. After a few moments of steadying himself, he opens his mouth as if to speak. But the words don’t come out. He stands frozen, face morphing from anger to pain. 

In the end he can’t even look Tom in the eye. He can’t bear to look in the face of the man he loves and hear the truth. Shoulders lowering in defeat, his gaze falls to the floor, 

“Do you really think so little of me?” 

A pin drives right through Tom’s heart and threatens to strike him down. It leaves him numb and tingly all over. 

“Mav, I think the world of you.” 

A sniff breaks the eerie quiet. “How can you, when Ikeep screwing up?”

Finally Tom crosses the ocean between them and takes Pete’s elbows in hand. 

“I love you not despite but regardless. I just never realized what I’d have to do to protect you. How in order to protect you I have to hurt you.” 

“I’m making your job harder,” Pete whispers. He looks anywhere but Tom until he cups the anxious pilot's faces and guides his gaze back to him. “I’ve asked for the paperwork for a transfer.” 

“Pete…why?”

He swallows, throat bobbing. “Because I can’t stop being me, no matter how much I try. I just keep screwing up and doing shit I know I shouldn’t. And you’ll protect me but you’ll get hurt. Accused of nepotism or you won’t reprimand me the way another officer would.” 

He lifts his own hand to cup Tom’s face. 

“I push boundaries. I don’t want to push you.” 

Tom doesn’t want to see the reason, he doesn’t want to even consider the idea. But…maybe Pete is right. They can’t be colleagues and lovers at the same time, not in the Navy. This decision will take them away from each other for months at a time. 

He knows he has won Pete’s career, at what cost he does not know.

The cost is setting him free, loose on the world. Maybe the reward is the rest of their lives in love with one another. If being apart means they stay together, it’s a risk he will have to take. 

“Okay.” 

“You don’t mind?” 

“I love you.” Tom’s voice is hoarse as he says it. “If you feel this is the best thing for us, I trust you.’ 

“I love you, Tom. You’re my wingman, no matter where we are or how senior you rank.” 

Tom strokes Pete’s hair back off his face. “If you ever need help, I will be there for you. Always.”

[soulreapin]

I feel like there is a divide.

I am on one side, and then there is a divide that drops thousands of feet down, and on the other side is the Bible, sitting on top of a pew.

There is life in that divide, and the parts of me that do not dig their toes into the gross red dirt of the cliff I stand on are falling straight down into it. They twist-mid air so that they face the sunlight, falling so far so fast that the wax of their wings is nothing but the memory of whistling metal.

Finding my way up the side of that divide has been…a struggle. It gets darker and darker, my chin slipping underneath the water’s surface, but because I can still stick my hand out of the roiling, spitting waves, it’s all just fine. Everything tastes apathetic, and apathy itself burns to look at, the name to a feeling I have been shoving down, down, down all my life until I can’t see it, can’t hear it, can’t even taste it in my mouth.

But aiding my weak hands has been the concept of religion. I find a particularly deep foothold and throw myself up the side of the wall, and my shoulder slams into cold glass, but just for a second, my cheek presses against it and there is warmth and light. If my head is turned I can hear music. Particularly lucky passes show me images of choirs holding candles and empty pulpits.

Then I fall again, reaching out desperately until I find a lip in the rocks and hold fast, but the memory of light through glass and the idea that that glass will break is enough to spur another try, another yank of my shoulder out of its socket.

I toy with the idea of going back to church. Walking in, breathing in stale air that smells like wine and communion and a hand to hold, and sitting down right in the middle, sandwiched between mothers of five and the devout. In front of me, the divine, and behind, the disgraced. It might fix me, being so close to those words, breathing them in and letting them run in my veins, but I am not so sure it won’t break me.

Religion has never extended a hand to me before, but it has also never said no, walking into a church has never pulled the rope any tighter than it was. It is what I will make of it, and whether that is beautiful or barely hanging on, I don’t know. There must be a something, an anything to keep one foot tucked in front of the other.

But do I deserve it? Will I walk in and sit in that confessional and pour my heart out to the man on the other side, and realize that when I look up, the sun is gone and my life is cold, salvation too far out of reach for me to bother with it now? I need this cross around my neck to mean something. I need it to be clasped between my hands for prayer and not just to jolt myself back to life. God has done nothing to me or for me, letting me stray down this path but walking beside me all the while, and I need all that to just mean something other than I am hopeless and beyond safety. He hums in my ear that to live is to sin and to sin is to confess, and the me from before that kept my chin down to my chest grits her teeth and shelves the knowledge.

I’ve sat in a church before, not a mega-church but something close to it, but I was too young. I was young and concerned with making it to the next day, and then the next, message and meaning going in one ear and floating out onto the empty seat next to me in the back of the church.

There was no stained glass to float rainbows through the room, but there were metal trays and communion crackers and a sick feeling in my chest that for a reason I refused to look at. She was not meant for church grounds, but she is me and I will be worth it to run my fingers over the thin pages of the Bible and feel Eve’s forehead press against mine, because we are in this and out of it together.

Both come in, and both will come out.

I need something to believe in again. Living show to show, game to game and practice to practice isn’t getting me by anymore. It’s all slipping away from me. The words in my mouth taste like dust. Even if I have to fight to hold on to this one thing, go to war just to keep my fingers tucked between the thin pages of David and Goliath, I’ll do it, because having something to fight for is better than having nothing to live and sin for at all.

Religion seems like it will and won’t do it for me. I’m afraid to get bored of it. I’m scared to look into the face of Jesus Christ, nails through his wrists, and whisper into the still air that his sacrifice cannot hold my attention. I am not afraid that he will be upset with me. I am afraid that he will offer me a sad smile and a hand to hold and say, “I know. It is not your fault. You, sister, are forgiven. ”

It is my fault that I do not stay and I do not keep my eyes open. I am not deserving of the forgiveness Jesus affords me. But I will try to earn it with every twist of my necklace and crack of my fingers. Gradually, I want Bible stories to replace the half-moons dug into my forearms, the rosary cradled in my hands instead of dirt. Wine will replace water.

It is a start, I think, light beating through thin white glass. I can feel the heat through it that sinks into my fingertips. It is a start.

[emotelizardrambling]

“I’ve had not enough!”

Coss-posted on AO3- let me know if you enjoy it.:

"Come on Stowaway, you've had enough." The Captain sighed, taking the traveler by the elbow but they shook him off.

"I've had not enough!" They argued swaying slightly, as they turned, to fix Calderon with a glare. "Of this," they gestured vaguely toward him, "Of you, I've had enough." They clarified "but not of drunk, I mean drink."

"Is that so?"

"That is so. You," they jammed a finger into the middle of his chest. "You, drive me fucking crazy, and not in the fun way."

He raised an eyebrow at them. 

"Just like that." They moved their finger up just an inch from his nose. "You just gave me the look and now I'm all pissed off. Nothin', I can do about it though." They stated, pulling their hand away with a shrug. "Nothin' 'sept to drink." They swirled their drink and then downed what remained in the glass with three large gulps. "Fuck that's gross." They added slamming the cup back on the counter. "I need another one."

"You really don't," Calderon stated, drawing their attention again.

"Ughhhhh." They threw their head back dramatically, barely catching hold of the counter before they fell backward. Calderon helped them steady themselves again but it only earned him another glair. "Why are you still here?"

"Mainly to prevent you from ending up dead in a ditch."

The Traveler scoffed. "You wish I'd end up dead in a ditch." They said to their empty glass. "Then I'd really be out of your way. No more causing trouble, no more using up your resources, no more useless stowaway."

He almost interjected but the traveler continued. "It's not like l really blame you for that." They sighed. "June, and Aya, and Ryona, and Bash... They're nice. They feel sorry for me so they all wanna help. They're so fucking nice..." they nodded. "But it doesn't always do you good to be nice."The Traveler's tone was muted now. Clearly, they were too drunk to really manage what they said, but this was part of the sassy and energetic traveler that Cal had never seen. "You know that." they frowned. "As much as you piss me off, I don't think you're a bad captain. You look after your own and I can respect that." 

With a small shake of the head and hand slamming on the counter. "All the same, I won't be giving you what you want. No dying in a ditch for me. Not yet. Even if that's not the right choice, even if it sucks, I promised." 

They blinked, face drooping again. "I..." they steadied their head. "I think I promised... Or maybe I'm just too scared to die... Maybe that voice in my dream is just wishful thinking... Somebody who cares, who... Who sees something..." the words were said into the counter but they still hit Calderan like a punch. "Fuck I need another drink." The traveler raised their head and moved to the side, seemingly intent to call on the bartender, but, upon slipping off their stool, found their legs weren't in any mood to hold them up anymore.

Before they could hit the floor they were lifted up instead. Calderon had hooked his one arm around their shoulders and the other below their knees and was now carrying them away from the bar. 

"Hey!!! What the fuck? Put me down," they wiggled and kicked the air.

"I will," Calderon assured them, "Back on the ship where you can sleep it off and live to regret your life choices tomorrow." He continued making his way out of the bar and onto the dimly lit street.

"Oh fuck you, you don't know a damn thing about my life choices. Hell. I don't even know a damn thing about my life choices."

"I know you're drunk off your ass, on a nearly lawless planet, being carried back to a mercenary ship, by a disgraced city guard." 

Calderon supplied. 

The traveler made a choking sound and for a moment he feared they were about to throw up all over him, but, catching a glance of their face, he realized they were biting back a laugh.

"Well," They giggled, "when you put it like that it does sound pretty bad." He, much more successfully, bit back a laugh of his own, settling on a smirk. 

"Is that why you're bothering with me? To gloat about being right." They stated, suddenly not laughing at all anymore. It’s a perfect out, he thought. He would have only half-jokingly agreed with that statement an hour ago, but they studied him carefully from their place in his arms. Hands limp against his chest from their earlier feeble attempts to escape and, for the first time he could recall, they weren't a stubborn, defiant, stowaway testing his nerves and taunting him at every turn. They weren't the challenging, sharp-witted, firecrackers that refused to flinch in the face of a clear and direct threat and always played the cards they were dealt either, never seeming to expect anything better. They looked at him, and their eyes were filled with pain, and fear, he was certain they never intended to show. Something in him broke to see it, to realize he had glimpsed it over and over but had never taken it for what it was.

"You're not useless," he stated softly, stopping to be sure he could look them directly in the eyes. "You're clever, adaptable, and charismatic. I never should have said you were useless when I didn't even know you at the time, and I'm sorry I've let you believe I continued to think that." 

They blinked their mouth, falling open slightly with an inelegant "huh?"

"You said you respect that I am willing to take care of my own, but you don't seem to realize that you are one of my own now. You're a member of this crew and I'm not going to let you get hurt just because you don't believe I care."

They were both silent for a few minutes as Calderon continued making his way back to the Andromeda Six. The look on their face was hard to read so he wasn't sure exactly what the traveler thought of his words. He tried not to dwell on it though. He didn't say anything that wasn't true after all. 

"Cap’n," The traveler called softly. 

"Yes?"

"Put me down." He looked down at them, the pang of worry that he had, in fact, said the wrong thing returning, but before he could respond their face twisted slightly. 

"I don't feel so good." They said swallowing hard. They had barely been set on their feet when they crumpled over heaving violently. He managed to slow their fall but Calderon could do little but kneel beside them and prevent them from falling forward into their own vomit.

Eventually, the heaving slowed down and the traveler recovered taking slow and shaky breaths. Coughing occasionally and spitting out any remaining bile.

"You know..." They started meekly. "’at may be the only thing that tastes better comin’ up than going down." They were still shaking but they smiled weekly anyway.

Calderon didn't even try to stop his laugh, and the traveler let out a few chuckles of their own.

"A little better now?" He asked and they smiled softly. 

"A little."

"Come on." He said picking them up once again. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mmm..." They chucked into his shoulder. "You're just all about getting me into bed." They mumbled. 

He rolled his eyes, but still smiled softly to himself as they seemed to properly relax into his hold. 

It wasn't long until their breathing grew soft and even, and their head lulled against his shoulder. He made his way back to the A6 and, as quietly as he could, to the traveler's room, depositing them gently onto their bed, removing their shoes, and spreading a blanket over them. The process was familiar to him considering the years he and Ayame had been friends. He knew to leave out a headache remedy and full bottle of water beside her bed, he also brought a second bottle of water, he hated the idea of having to wake them up from peaceful rest, something, Ryona had alluded, that was not easy for them to come by, but they just threw up quite a lot, and they would need to rehydrate. Gently he shook their shoulder, and their eyes fluttered a little. Calderon helped them sit up, and they only gave a mild groan of protest. 

It didn't take any convincing to get them to drink the water. The way they took consistent slow sips with nibbles at the crackers in between, even in their drunken state, told him they were familiar with this process as well. That provided an odd mix of emotions. No one with a happy normal life gets drunk like she did, alone, not trying to prove anything to anyone. Even so, the fact that she didn't question being provided water and crackers gave him hope that she did have someone at least, someone who had taken care of them, who had been there for them. Then he pondered what might have happened to that person, considering where and how they had picked up the traveler, there was a good chance the person didn't make it out alive, but if they did, were they looking for his crew's favorite stowaway? Would the traveler remember them? Would they leave as soon as they did? Calderon shook off the train of thought, they would cross that bridge when (and if) they came to it. 

When the traveler finished Cal took back the water bottle and packet, and the traveler laid back again. As he made his way out of the room he heard a sleepy voice. 

"Thank you, Cap'n" the traveler slurred. 

"Get some rest Stowaway," he replied before leaving them to sleep it off. 

[jjongolese]

If you are a token shawol that is harassing Shawols or justifying the harassment that shawols would get simply for talking about Jonghyun, kindly throw away your shawol card. In fact, I would take your card, burn it into ashes, throw it into water so it could create mud, send them to prison inmates for them to eat and to digest, take their shit and send them to the farms so they could reject the offer to use shit to make compost and throw that shit away because nobody needs it at all.

I don’t care if you had been a Shawol, or even a Blinger (Jonghyun stan) for 1, 5, 10 years or even since their debut. I don’t care if you ever made a Tumblr page where you fangirled over Jonghyun’s body at age 15. I do not care if you had been to Jonghyun’s concert and you were the one who caught his shirt. I don’t care if you got the chance to talk to him personally and he hugged you.

The fact that you had the audacity to harass other Shawols or justify people calling Jonghyun a d3adman is a fucking disappoint not only to Shawols, but the people who you’re claiming to “protect.” You being able to move on from his death doesn’t make you any better than anyone else, or gives you the rights to be the grieving police for all those who are affected. In fact, it makes you look selfish and a narcissist. The world doesn’t revolve around you, everyone is trying to live after this possibly traumatic event for some of them and they kept being retraumatised because of the people who harass them, and especially to those who they thought was one of their own, which turned out to be a disgusting, disgraceful of a human being, a token shawol. And all this for what? Attention? Greed? Or probably because you NEVER liked SHINee in the first place.

SHINee would be disgusted seeing people like you — especially Jonghyun. With the way you won’t keep him out of your mouth, I’m pretty sure that the very person that you claim to be “protecting” would think that you’re a pathetic human being that just wants to hurt others for their own satisfaction, and maybe to please other people that we have no business connecting with.

Don’t ever use the word Shawol in your life. EVER.

[narhinafan]

I was looking at bsu TikTok’s and in the comments, people were saying that bsa makes more sense, because Boruto saved her and she gained a new power. Like what? Literally all Salad did was get in Boruto’s way and cost him an eye. And Salad gaining a new power is a disgrace to the Uchiha clan.

But when Boruto went blindly into Nue’s dimension just to save Sumire and how she convinced him to give up his dislike in scientific ninja tools, that doesn’t matter, that’s just the writers doing “shipbait”.

Honestly how is that any different?

And Boruto has shown anger at people who hurt Sumire (Kawaki and Mitsuki for example) but with Salad, he’s getting angry AT her. But to them, that’s “ohh, bsa is totally happening! It’s canon!!!” or “Boruto better not touch our precious Uchiha Princess because Sasuke wouldn’t be to pleased!” when literally, she’s the one who thinks he’s flirting with her.

Her and her fandom are dumb.

The probably don’t even care about Salad and they just want the Uchimaki power babies. But Kishi probably won’t ever let that happen.

Let’s be honest, Sakura raised a horrible kid. I like Sakura and all (she’s not my favourite character, but I find her cool) but even I can be honest, Salad is basically her in part I, always need saving and protecting, always crying and useless. I mean, Sakura tried raising her but the. Sarada turned into a monster who didn’t even want to save Sakura when she thought she want her mother which made it worst because she turned out to be.

SSS is a toxic relationship and Salad makes it worst. She and Sakura put a bad name on the Uchiha. Like instead of teaching her daughter about the clan when she unlocks her Sharingan, she gives her glasses and tells her to hide it. Like the clan symbol on their backs doesn’t scream Uchiha.

I kinda hope Kishi kills Salad off so we don’t have any more of the weak Uchiha but he probably won’t.

Like Kishi ain’t making power babies. Everyone’s already overpowered enough. I kiss when the show was about actual ninjas.

Literally Guy, Lee and Metal are what real ninjas are. The rest represent kids with powers

Exactly Sarada simply got in Boruto's way and even made him lose an eye.

Sumire however got saved by Boruto with a heartwarming moment and talk no jutsu she then helps him get over his dislike of scientific ninja tools helping him grow as a person.

They don't even ship it for the Uchiha Uzumaki power they ship simply cause they want to use the ship as a trophy to make Sakura look better and live out NaruSaku through their children after it sank.

I wouldn't call Sarada a monster for not wanting to save Sakura that was cause she was emotional distress after everything that happened and thought Sakura lied about being her mother. Now I do blame Sakura for letting things get that bad in the first place. SasuSaku really just didn't work out and ended up a disaster that Sarada paid for.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Exactly.

Wherever this Chris Christie has been for the last eight years, his re-emergence as a truth-telling ass kicker who isn’t afraid of other politicians is an interesting development in a party wholly defined by its intellectual and moral cowardice. Christie is the only GOP candidate who is not abjectly terrified of Trump and his mob. Every other candidate is terrified — and it shows.

Will the voters listen, or will a man with no regard for our safety, sovereignty, and freedom be given the power to destroy the American republic? Should the republic die, it will be from the neglect of citizens who didn’t care about their own freedom, and more disturbingly, that of their children. The cause of death will be apathy and an absence of love and gratitude.

All around the world there are Americans who are in harm’s way working to protect the United States. They are involved in dangerous and deadly work. It is their lives that Donald Trump was risking so cavalierly. It was also the pilots who would be called on to fly into Iranian or Chinese airspace. It was the submariners who provide the nuclear deterrent. It was the CIA officer in the back alley in a foreign land far from home. Trump betrayed every one of them.

Trump will have his days in court, and like every criminal defendant in the United States, he is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Yet, the indictment alone is enough as a matter of fact for the entire country to reach a verdict about Trump’s abject disregard, recklessness, and unfitness. More importantly, it provides a last and final opportunity for Republican officials who have been elected and sworn oaths to the US constitution to put the nation first for once, at long last. Why won’t any of them simply say enough already? Again, the diagnosis is plastered on each of their yellowed foreheads: cowardice. Trump is bigger than America to them. They are his stooges, and stooges cannot be patriots. They are the greatest collective disgrace in America’s political history, not counting the Confederacy. Shameful doesn’t begin to describe it.

[Steve Schmidt on Substack]

[dreamingsushi]

See You in my 19th Life - Episode 2

Why go to sleep when I can watch another episode right? I’m just too eager to start this series, because I really liked the Webtoon and... I keep repeating myself saying the things all over again. But hey, I’m old, I’m allowed. Anyways, let’s just jump right into.

Last episode finished on Ji-eum asking Seoha out. Obviously he is shocked that she asked him, especially during a job interview. She says she’s giving him an alternative since he seems reluctant to hire her, but she won’t reveal to him when they met before, she wants him to remember himself. Aegyeong asks her why she won’t tell Seoha the truth and that she used to be Juwon, but she answers that there are people with whom she can share her secret and otehrs not. She doesn’t know yet about Seoha. So Aegyeong tells her to go for it and pursue him anyways.

Seoha is having some sort of panic attack from the car accident PTSD. Ji-eum happens to be there and she drags him away, saying they need to run. When he asks her why she did that, she says it was only for fun. Later she explains that when she’s about to get a panic attack she goes for a run. It’s from one of her past lives. Seoha thinks she’s a pathological liar. She ask him to marry her. It’s a club about when they met. Then she sees an ancient comb that mothers used on their babies in the past and she grabs one to comb Seoha’s hair.

Ji-eum pays a visit to the hotel and on her way to meet with Seoha, she bumps again into the Daehwan guy, I can’t remember his name. She sends him away using her flamenco. Then he tries to keep her from going when Seoha arrives and makes fun of him. She threatens him not to ever to that again. Then when she follows Seoha to his office, they are interrupted by Chowon, Juwon’s little sister. Seoha seems uneasy to speak with her, so Doyun (his assistant) sends her off. Ji-eum gives a document to Seoha to prove her value. Then she gives him a drawing of the hotel bustling with people. He agrees to hire her.

The son of Seoha’s father’s mistress is causing trouble in the hotel, so he decides to put him on the black list since it seems a regular occurence. He even kicks him because he grabbed Ji-eum. When he has tea with miss Jang (said mother) he tells her he’s going to change the disgraceful practices he has observed in this hotel. At the meeting, Ji-eum doesn’t get assigned to any task. She ends up taking Chowon’s landscape company scrapbook since they’re looking for one and she puts it with the other ones as a favour to her. Doyun tells her she’s really suspicious and she admits to have an ulterior motive. Seoha saw them talking and is curious about what they said.

At night, he goes for a swim. But why doesn’t he take off his shirt though? It’s not even a swimming shirt. Anyways, it’s not so important. Once he’s under the water, he remembers a time a little girl took him running away and asked him to marry her. I don’t think he remembered that that early in the Webtoon. It doesn’t bother me. But I just hope they don’t take shortcuts, because it took a lot of time and effort for Ji-eum. So he calls her to come meet him after he found a scarf and he gives it back to her. She used it when he hurt his hand trying to destroy a wall and she saved him from the construction workers that caught him. He still thinks she’s weird.

Since Doyun doesn’t pick up his phone, Seoha ends up calling Ji-eum to drive her to some place he wants to go alone and in secret. He won’t open up to her. However, she still follows him into the cemetery only to realize that he went to Ju-won’s tomb. For the first time she’s there to witness the pain of people who grieve her. Which seems like a shock. She wasn’t expecting Seoha to actually remember her.

And that’s it for this episode. I tried not to mention it but so far... I’m not satisfied with the casting for Seoha. I don’t get Seoha vibes from this actor. He’s not doing a bad job, it’s not my point... he’s just... not Seoha. The character doesn’t live in him. On the contrary, Ji-eum is so... Ji-eum even though she’s a little more expressive. It still feels like the same character. I hope I can get rid of this feeling, because it kind of ruins it for me so far. I still enjoy watching the show, but that is a little bothering me.