#and how they just squander all of that for the sake of making everything into this manufactured version of normalcy in order to maximize

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

I really wanted to write a fic where Edwin meets Crystal's mother for Day 2: Friends and Family of @crystal-week but life and concussions got in the way, so here it is, bullet-point style:

In her continuing attempts to get on her parents' good side, Crystal has offered to help them with the planning of a charity gala they throw every year. Last year, she was possessed during the gala and made a scene involving tearing into several trays of sushi in front of all the guests, so she's determined for everything to go perfectly this year. As a result, she's taken a bit of a step back from case work.

It's the night of the gala and everything's going smoothly. Crystal's done everything her parents asked and they both seem happy. She's having a pretty good night, until she turns around and sees her mother talking to a woman she recognizes as Edwin in disguise.

(Why is Edwin at the gala in his disguise? Probably because he needs Crystal's help on a case. Why didn't he just slip in unseen as a ghost in order to avoid social interaction or send Charles? Handwavy plot reasons.)

Really not wanting to see where this conversation goes, Crystal approaches, pausing when she hears Maddy Surname ask Edwin if he has any children. When he replies in the negative, she launches into a litany of complaints about her own daughter, who she says is selfish and spoiled, who has squandered every chance her parents have given her, who ruined last year's gala and has done nothing but get in the way while they were planning this year's.

Crystal knows how her mother feels about her. She can read her mind, after all. But hearing it laid out in such stark terms, when Crystal has been trying so hard, is like that phone call in Port Townsend all over again.

Edwin, who is visibly uncomfortable with having a stranger drunkenly gripe about her family troubles, looks around and spots Crystal standing nearby, unbeknownst to her mother. She knows she's not doing a very good job of hiding how close she is to tears.

And the thing is, Crystal knows where she stands with Charles, because Charles wears his heart on his sleeve. She considers Edwin a friend. But even if she knows he likes her better than he did when they first met, she's never been 100% sure if she's his friend, or if he just tolerates her for Charles's sake.

And then Edwin turns to Maddy and says something under his breath that Crystal can't hear. He's wearing the same icy expression he gets sometimes when a client disrespects Charles. Whatever his reply is, it leaves Crystal's mother speechless.

Edwin walks away from Maddy, offers his arm to Crystal without a word, and they leave the gala together. They don't talk about it. Crystal never asks what Edwin said to her mom.

They solve the case and afterwards, Edwin makes a point of telling Crystal that she did an excellent job. Crystal stays up all night with Edwin and Charles playing Cluedo. Around the third time she kicks their asses (Edwin, the sore loser, accuses her of reading the envelope) she realizes that she's been spending all this time trying to get back in her parents' good graces when she has this new family right here who likes her just as she is.

Next time she visits her parents, she overhears Maddy complaining to a friend about the awful woman at the gala who called her a fucking dreadful mother. Crystal just smiles to herself and decides to go buy Edwin some new mystery novels.

[epiphyllous]

when morning comes (Astarion/Reader) [3]

Astarion understands Ketheric Thorm more than he realizes. For what are they both if not selfish, foolish men willing to do everything to keep what is theirs? (Astarion begins to think he does not deserve you.)

Word Count: ~9k Notes: Astarion/Reader, Paladin!Reader, AFAB, gender-neutral "you", following Astarion romance route in his POV + my hc/additional scenes, [switches to your POV], annoyance to lovers, fall first/fall harder, mutual pining, Wyll/Karlach, implied Wyll/Reader [Part 2]

[Act II: Moonrise Towers]

Getting into Moonrise was almost too easy. It is a relatively stressless trip if not for the grand introduction of Ketheric Thorm. The man truly is invulnerable, walking up the steps of the tower without care after being killed twice right before their eyes. It is no wonder Moonrise follows his command, convinced of his authority as the Absolute's chosen. 

It is equally as easy to convince Moonrise that they are all willing followers of the Absolute. Z'rell is the only person they truly had to demonstrate loyalty to, but Astarion watches you display just enough cruelty to the goblins to prove your place. 

“Your lust for the neck pricker is succulent,” she suddenly says, eyes turning to him. Astarion looks to you in question, only to see you glance away in mild embarrassment. “It almost makes me want to take a bite out of him myself.”

“Enough,” you say, clearing your throat. “Surely you know by now we're loyal to the cause?”

She does, or she says as much when she assigns them a mission to help Balthazar get the artifact responsible for Ketheric Thorm's immortality. Astarion doesn't really know the details, not caring much to pay attention when he already understands the gist of it involves killing someone. Besides, he is more interested in what exactly Z'rell saw in your thoughts. If only to tease you about your ‘succulent lust’ for him, he means to bring it up the first chance he gets. 

You must realize this, because you take your time exploring Moonrise Towers and keeping them all preoccupied. Gale manages to get blessed for the first time in what seems like forever by his goddess when he rids of the foul Netherese magic circle in Balthazar's chambers. Karlach gets her chance to pet the undead guard dog in Ketheric's private quarters, and you keep him preoccupied with all the chests they have to unlock.

Astarion gets an opportunity to talk after they find Melodia Thorm's room and the letters she gave to her husband, but he finds you solemn in thought at the discovery, so he decides (for once) to leave you be for now. 

Then they meet Araj Oblodra, and the thought completely leaves his head.

He barely resists the urge to cover his nose for how foul her blood smells. He manages to smile rather than grimace when they first greet her, though he finds his efforts wasted when she sets her eyes on him to be bitten. Astarion can't imagine something he would want to do less.

When the drow asks if he ‘belongs’ to you, Astarion watches as you frown. "Astarion can answer for himself just fine," you say. "He's his own person." 

It is almost adorable how disconcerted you look when the drow continues on, as if you can't quite understand why anyone would think you could own him. Astarion finds it annoyingly familiar though, the way he is viewed as something lesser without needs or preferences. Your easy agreement to his own autonomy is... refreshing. He has known your proclivity for all things good and fair, but to have you display it in full for his sake,  Astarion feels touched.

“I will have to decline,” he tells her with a stiff smile.

The blood dealer bristles, not expecting his response, and he begins to feel uneasy despite himself. “Excuse me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it.”

Astarion nearly bares his fangs in response. “I gave you my answer,” he hisses, and in the corner of his eyes, he sees you shift, stepping closer to him. The unease at refusing the offer dissipates knowing you are there to support him, even when the drow becomes increasingly displeased. 

“Can't you talk sense into your obstinate charge?” Araj demands, and you quip her with a short and sharp smile. That’s one he hasn’t seen in a while, Astarion thinks, forced civility wielded like a weapon against those who have found themselves on your bad side. Which you do have, to his past surprise. Astarion just never imagined that he would bear witness to someone landing themselves in it just because of the way they speak to him. 

Astarion would be lying if he said he was not pleased.

"I don't really see why he needs to say yes,” you drawl. “I'm surprised he said no, to be honest."

Ugh, you are honest even in the worst of times.

"Sorry, one moment..." Amusement and exasperation battles in equal strength as he pulls you away just enough to speak to you privately. "Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some potion?" He asks, though when he sees genuine confusion flit back into your expression, he confirms your question is out of curiosity not persuasion. You seem almost panicked at the thought of his suggestion being true.

"What? No," you reply back to him, alarmed. "I would never!” You desperately scramble to explain yourself. “I just thought you'd jump at the opportunity to bite people. I was, you know, just a little surprised.”

Funnily enough, you may have a point. A point that need not happen in front of an annoyed drow, but a point nonetheless. He could never truly fault you for being right, however inconvenient it is sometimes. (In the past, he would never have imagined he would feel this way about you.) "Well, yes, you aren't wrong,” he says, “but something smells off about her blood. I don't need to taste it to know it's going to be awful."

He shudders for good measure, and he sees your lips quirk up at his dramatics. He thinks briefly about how he has only known the taste of your blood, besides the time he was compelled to take a bite out of Gale because of a cursed frog. The drow's blood smells worse than his netherese poisoned blood, and in comparison, yours is almost sweet. Astarion finds himself elaborating without prompting. "Nothing that will kill me, but I'd rather not go through it if I don't have to."

You nod. "Okay,” you say easily, “if you don't want to, you don't have to.”

"Alright," Astarion replies automatically before his surprise can stop him. Just like that, he thinks, and he can make choices for himself just by how it makes him feel. It's rather novel. The realization is quite overwhelming, despite how simple you make it seem. He pauses, shooting you a quick smile-- or what he hopes is a smile. "Uh, thank you." 

You only wave your hand at him and turn back to the drow with an unapologetic smile. He faces the drow with you and turns her down again, much to her immense displeasure. 

You manage to lift Araj's moods somewhat when you offer up your blood for experimentation. Astarion isn't happy about the exchange, for who knows what the drow will do with your blood, but you seem genuinely curious enough about the whole concept. You get a flask made from your blood in return, which you give to him almost immediately. 

“A gift,” you tell him. “Let me know what it does if you drink it.” A flicker of guilt comes and goes when he accepts it, and for a brief and endearing moment he thinks this may be a gesture made because of the misunderstanding earlier. He feels pleasantly surprised by how quickly you come to his defense and try to make amends when you think you have done him a disservice– as though his feelings mattered. 

You tilt your head curiously. “Can you still smell my blood in the potion?”

Astarion opens up the flask and takes a look. In the bouquet of herbal scents, yes, he can identify your blood mixed in it. He rather thinks he is quite familiar with it, and it is a taste he can never get tired of. 

He wants to thank you but finds that he has bigger things to be grateful for. He has never been shy of showing thanks, but what you've just done for him in front of Araj is too important to him for it to be said in passing.

At every chance you get, you make him feel... seen. Safe. He is his own person, vampirism be damned– a living being with his own thoughts and feelings, and you make it known to him and to everyone even if he himself cannot see it. Your goodness remains in the face of temptation, and you are unwavering in your beliefs when you believe it to be right. How does one even begin to thank you for not betraying his faith in you like that? 

(What a fragile thing trust is, to be put to the breaking point at a single moment in time. What if you had demanded him to bite the drow, regardless of how he felt? If you had placed more value in the potion's abilities than in his own free will? He suspects his relationship with you would be unsalvageable. For some things may be forgiven–and he feels as though he would forgive many things for you–but he cannot afford to lose himself again, even to you.)

Astarion doesn't get a chance with you alone for a while, the party having moved on to trying to break the prisoners from Moonrise Towers. The tieflings– Rolan will absolutely hate the fact they will have saved Lia and Cal for him--and dark gnomes alike all wait in the prisons for the right time to hatch their plan. They are lucky to have them show up when they do and guide them out without a single trace. Astarion is almost disappointed that there wasn’t a fight to be had. 

He waits until the freed gnomes and tieflings steer their way to Last Light Inn in the distance before he speaks with you. Water laps at the makeshift port the prisoners sailed from, and as Gale goes into the logistics of his mage hand magic to Karlach, he approaches you. 

You look into the distance, beyond the point of where the Moonrise Tower's light can reach. When you turn to him, as if feeling his gaze, he feels a moment of déja vu. 

"I wanted to thank you,” he tells you.

You look confused, glancing out into the dark before coming back to him, and he realizes perhaps you think he's somehow grateful for releasing the prisoners. Not a strange notion, but certainly what would be a first for him, considering who they saved. "For what?"

"For what you said whilst we were in front of that vile drow,” Astarion continues, finding himself more impassioned than he previously thought. “You could have asked me to throw myself at the drow, my feelings be damned.” He pauses for a moment to gather himself. “But you didn't, and I'm grateful."

Your response comes easily to you as it did before. "Of course.” You tell him, “I wouldn't want you to do something you don't want to.”

Your words are gentle, but they leave him feeling exposed. It's as though his chest has been opened and now you bear witness to what he has kept hidden for so long. He is by no means fragile, but it does not mean he is unaffected by how vulnerable he feels in the face of your unconditional acceptance.

"I admit it's a novel concept. A little intimidating.” Astarion stops again, musing over his words and willing for his voice to stop shaking. You wait patiently for him until he confesses, “For two hundred years, I used my body to lure pretty things back to my master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing-- it never mattered. It would have been easy enough, honestly, to just bite her. Face a little disgust and move on from it like I did before."

“Astarion,” you begin softly, and he feels his neck prickle with an emotion unfamiliar to him: embarrassment. You pause then, finding the words you want to say. “I want you to keep telling me how you feel about things. I need to know what you're okay with and what you're not because,” and it is your turn to look abashed, “I don't always know what you want. I'm not the most observant person, and I would hate it if I accidentally made you do something you didn't want to do.” You breathe. “So, thank you, for telling me.”

“It's rather odd to hear you thank me,” he admits, and he unfurls fists he hadn't realized he was holding. He leaves it unsaid, how difficult it has been to be truthful to himself and to you. He isn't sure if he can remain so in the worst of times, but he knows this at least: he will continue to try.

He thinks it is the first time he has been given the chance to.

You make a face he would have laughed at if he were not so relieved. “I've said thank you to you before.”

“That is not what I mean, dear,” he replies dryly, and when he hears footsteps approach, he knows this conversation has reached its end. (An expert, Astarion carefully sews himself closed, though he leaves a stitch untethered so perhaps next time it will not be so hard to undo. The thought of being seen becomes less frightening when he knows it will be you.)

“Gale and I might've found something you might want to check out,” Karlach says, pointing behind her. “Looks rather nasty and sort of important.”

“Man, can we ever separate the importance from how disgusting it ends up being?” You bemoan, walking up to Karlach and easily accepting the arm she puts around your shoulder. “How gross?” 

“Quite nasty, even to our standards,” Gale replies, grimacing. “I think that's saying quite a lot, considering our adventures so far.”

Astarion hears you mutter a small ‘ew’ under your breath and he huffs in laughter. “Well, as long as it involves blood and violence, I'm sure it won't be too terrible of an encounter,” he says. 

Entering the adjacent bowels of an illithid colony threatens that viewpoint, but the rest of them are too preoccupied with their own thoughts to call Astarion out for it. All in good time, he thinks as he brushes off the organic bits off his clothes without drawing attention to himself.

.

.

.

Shadowheart is beside herself when they enter the Gauntlet of Shar. As one of the only and largest places of worship of the dark goddess, it is impressive in its grandiosity and in how unwelcoming it makes itself to be with its dark corners and tall pillars. If Shadowheart finds rapture in the temple, Halsin and you find it unsettling with how cold it is, though you keep your opinions to yourself. 

For Astarion, he finds the temple rather homey; it is quiet and lonely, but it is still leagues better than the dreaded halls of Cazador's castle. When he tells the party just as much, he receives matching looks of incredulity. 

“Do you… happen to like tall ceilings, Astarion?” You ask, comically sincere about it. 

“Perhaps he sees the beauty in the silence,” Halsin offers. “It could be seen as…” He pauses. “Peaceful.”

Astarion sees Shadowheart turn her head a tad too late to hide her laughter. 

Peaceful is giving the Gauntlet too much credit. The silence of the temple is unsettling at best, abandoned by those who used to worship it. Abandoned, it makes for a lovely home for a devil– more specifically the orthon they are tasked to kill in order to fulfill Raphael's deal. 

Astarion could care less why Yurgur is here, but if the absence of living Dark Justiciars is of any indication, the orthon must have overstayed its welcome after the war. His ability to turn invisible is a tad irritating but he and his army are no match for them and their combined wit. You have quite the arm to throw his bombs back to him, and in the aftermath, there is nothing but dust. 

As though he were watching, Raphael appears to them soon after to uphold his end of the bargain. He seems a midge too satisfied to be revealing the truth about the devilish contract etched onto Astarion's back, but perhaps he is simply happy to have gotten rid of his enemy vicariously. Astarion pays no mind to the devil when he leaves, mind whirling with the implications of the truth. 

In short, it is overwhelming. (The feeling is quickly becoming familiar.) Two hundred years of questions finally answered. The reason for his pain all those nights ago, the horrors he has had to face all these years finally having meaning. It is a dreadful conclusion to result in, with more problems introduced than closure given. 

Astarion lets out a thoughtful hum, and the concern on your face would be funny if his thoughts weren't so preoccupied. "You okay?"

"It's a lot to take in." Astarion pauses, looking over to you as you wait patiently, though there is still a veneer of concern behind your eyes. He finds that in your patience, he realizes he is afraid–of what is to come, and what this revelation means for him. Another realization is the fact that he trusts you in full. It should scare him, the way he feels like he can turn to you for help, but it does not--not as much as it used to. "What do you think I should do?"

"Well," you begin placidly, "anything to do with devils and demons never ends well. And," you glance at him, "the sacrifice of all vampire spawn doesn't sound too good to me."

"There's only the seven of us," he says, though he knows one is already too many for you to leave dead. The thought both irritates and comforts him in equal measure, especially when you give him a practiced look of exasperation. "Though that does include me. Just when I was about to start enjoying life again."

"And about Cazador." You continue plainly, "I don't think you'll be free until he's dead."

His heart leaps, and then something settles. How quick you are to get to the heart of the problem, not that he will ever admit it to you. "I hate," he says, "how right you are. If I thought he'd stop at nothing to find me when I was just his plaything, he'd go to the ends of Faerûn to bring me back knowing this contract." He swallows inaudibly, preparing his next words. "We need to take the fight to him, but I can't do it alone."

"You won't be," you say so easily. It pulls at heartstrings he wasn't aware existed. "You'll have me."

"Yes, well." He clears his throat. "Let's not overestimate ourselves; the two of us will certainly not be enough to go against a true vampire lord. Though..." Astarion trails off, trying but failing to stave off from the warmth that courses through him. "For what it's worth, thank you." 

Your smile is beatific, and Astarion begins to think perhaps he doesn't deserve you. 

.

.

.

As the umbral gems are collected, it begins to feel like the beginning of the end for the shadows that lurk. Everyone can feel it; it is the way hard conversations are beginning to be had, all loose ends tying up before the coming of a new chapter. Astarion sees you speak to Gale about his so-called destined fate to die against the Absolute, to Arabella about her future beyond her parents’ death, and to Karlach about hard decisions and an ending that seems all too close to come. You are busy with all matters of import that Astarion has not had a moment's time with you for the past few days.

He loathes to admit it but he finds himself missing your company. A ridiculous notion, he is sure. It's not as if he has not seen you around camp or not exchanged words with you at all. If anything, you still proactively seek out opportunities to see him when you are free, but all attempts to find the time to spend with him end up taken by someone else. 

Astarion remembers once upon a time when he had barely cared to recognize the effort you put into spending time with him. Now, when he is bereft of your presence, he cannot stand the fact that everyone seems determined to thwart your every attempt.

He says as much to Karlach– though he may have complained more about your busy-body schedule than admit the fact he finds himself in want of you. Much to his dismay, Karlach is similar to you in the worst of ways, seeing through him easier than most. Though it may be due to her straightforward manner more than anything. 

“Aw, Astarion, if you miss them that much, you can try to see if you can talk to them when they’re free too. Ooh!” She exclaims in excitement, “Do you want me to distract everyone for a little while? So the two of you lovebirds can have a moment together?”

Astarion is quick to turn her down. It embarrasses him to a degree that he misses you. He doesn’t think he is quite ready to admit it to himself, let alone to other people. It feels… final, like a turning point that Astarion isn’t sure he can take– should take. Surely, he thinks, you find other people’s company more enjoyable? “No, that won’t be necessary, darling,” he says airily. “It is hardly that important to warrant that much effort from either of us.”

He thinks Karlach’s look is much too sympathetic for his liking, so he excuses himself to read the Book of Thay again. At least then he won’t have to listen to his own thoughts.

That being said… Astarion's gaze follows you when you flit back and forth in camp. The book lay in his hands, opened but nearly forgotten, and he starts to take Karlach's words into consideration. Surely, initiating conversation with you should not be that hard? He has propositioned you twice already with no qualms and yet he doesn't know what to say to get your attention when it is not of sexual nature. He has never cared to, never been able to if he wanted to– and now when he has the chance, he stands rooted to his spot, unable to do a thing when Wyll asks you to dance with him as though it is second nature. 

And of course you would accept– why wouldn't you? 

He may have grown out of prince charmings and fairytale endings, but you? There could not possibly be a better match for you than Wyll, who is the epitome of everything you could ever dream of. Handsome, righteous, selfless– Wyll is the hero of every storybook, and Astarion would not be surprised if the heavens decided to make you for each other. Wyll twirls you in his arms, leading you with a gentle hand that is befitting of your nature. And you laugh, light and joyous, the two of you looking at each other with bright eyes.

Astarion would never doubt the fun that the two of you have together. But he knows you would want more than that. You dream of true love and world peace, dressing up in all white and walking down the aisle to swear yourself to another person for life. You bleed love with your every touch, and he has never tasted love until you. 

He doesn’t know if he will ever be capable of loving you the way you deserve. (After all, what has he ever given you but lies and deceit?)

Astarion watches as you take a deep bow, laughing all the while as Wyll claps at your performance, and something inside him churns with an unfamiliar bitterness. Jealousy? Envy, perhaps. (Of who– maybe Wyll, maybe you, maybe both.)

But then you bid Wyll farewell and turn to him, and your face lights up as bright as moonglow. Astarion hates the way his heart trembles at the sight of you. 

“Hey, you,” you say to him warmly, and a part of him wants to be spiteful– for invoking uncomfortable emotions he does not know how to deal with. The other half is simply glad that he has you at last. 

Bad habits are hard to break though. “I see Wyll has made you his latest dance partner,” he says, unable to remove his scathing tone. You are more surprised than upset at his sudden animosity, which is a boon in itself. You look at him curiously though, with eyes that see into him too well for his sake, before you reply.

“For practice.” You say carefully, “For somebody else.” Before Astarion can inquire on who, you change the subject. “Do you know how to dance?”

“I know enough.” He clears his throat, continuing, “Dancing is an easy way to proverbially and literally whisk someone off their feet after all.”

Your eyes brighten at his words, and Astarion begins to think your earlier joy was not because you were dancing with Wyll but because you love to dance in general. “You want to teach me how to dance?” Your smile reaches your eyes, as it always does for him. “I bet you know how to ballroom dance. That sounds dreamy enough for you.”

“Without music? Hardly a dance,” he tells you, but when he sees you deflate, he is quick to say more. “When there is a proper setting, you can be the first to witness my skills personally.” He finds it inconvenient that his mood shifts with yours, because when your countenance lifts with hopeful anticipation from his words, he finds himself pleased to have caused it. “For now, I think my words will suffice in charming you just fine, don't you think, darling?”

“Confident you still have more lines to give me?” You ask teasingly, and Astarion is nothing if not a proud performer.

“Every time I heard the tieflings cry, I remember how you sounded crying for me,” he recites sultrily. “And now all these accolades from the Harpers are nothing compared to the sound of my name uttered from your lips.”

There is that familiar look of embarrassment and delight again. You laugh in response, leaning your head into his shoulders bashfully. “You're too much,” you tell him, your arm pressed against his. He relaxes at the warmth from your touch. 

Guilt, envy, jealousy: he yearns for you despite everything he cannot be. In the end, he is but a selfish man at his core, and whatever he wants he will take. Until the moment you choose someone else to love and to hold, he will simply count down the hours till the sound of midnight chimes. But he will not let you go until then– and not a moment later. (Though perhaps if there is a person he can learn to love, it is you.)

Astarion goes on, line after line, if only to keep you here with him. “If you don't remember how much you enjoyed it last time, I would like to try again.” He lowers his voice to a whisper and watches as your eyes darken in response, “Until you can think of nothing else.”

“I hope,” Shadowheart interrupts with mirth, “you know he practices these lines when you're not here.” 

Astarion sputters, and he narrows his eyes in mild annoyance when he sees Shadowheart pass by with a knowing smile. “Excuse me-”

“If you wanted your practice to be a secret, you might want to be quieter next time.” Shadowheart pauses. “Or perhaps not set your tent next to mine?”

“I don't know, Shadowheart,” he croons, “perhaps you might benefit from learning a thing or two from my charms.”

“Rather doubtful–”

Astarion hears you laugh long and hard as the two of them bicker. It is difficult to come up with retorts when he cannot help but be besotted at the sound of your joy. He hopes it is not obvious to everyone else.

.

.

.

His worries seem all the more unimportant when they complete Shar's Trial. It turns out that the Nightsong is not a relic but an aasimar--Selûne's own daughter. Astarion already knows a fight lies in wait the moment Balthazar stops talking. After Balthazar swiftly joins the land of the dead, it is Shadowheart's faith that is put to trial. When she refuses to kill the aasimar, Astarion isn't sure he should be impressed she would deny her goddess or by how spectacularly her goddess lost her trust in the course of the journey. 

It's one of the reasons why he has never subscribed to the words of any god. What have the gods done for those who believed in them? Queen Vlaakith, who now swears to destroy Lae'zel despite her intrepid loyalty. Selûne, who could not save Ketheric's wife and daughter or her own child from a hundred years of captivity. Shar, who took advantage of the grief in Ketheric and innocence in Shadowheart for her own means. Mystra, who plucked Gale from a young age and cultivated him into a man who never felt like he was enough. 

There is simply no use relying on them for anything. For what can they offer to him now when none has answered him once in the past two hundred years? 

Astarion thinks you feel similarly. You could have easily been a cleric, a healer of the people blessed by the gods. But instead, you walk the path of the paladin, an oath created not in servitude to a higher being but to the weak and vulnerable. (Even then Astarion thinks that is too restricting for him, bound to do good by others no matter the situation. Believe him, he's already been on his best behavior by not pointing the sharp end of his dagger at anyone who tries to trifle with them.)

He once believed that your heart could know no evil, so being a paladin was easy. But he has grown to know you like the curve of his bow, and you are no saint. You become angry at others, yell and curse, and gods, you had the attitude to match him from the very beginning so he should have known even then. 

But perhaps it is because you are like anyone else that your ability to keep your oath shines far brighter than any devotion to a god. It is a part of you that no one can take away, and it is a concept that both amazes and discomfits Astarion in equal measure.

Even now at the top of Moonrise Towers, you still hold mercy in your heart for a man like Ketheric. Of course you would sympathize with a heart like his, twisted and mangled beyond repair because of love and grief. Astarion wonders how long Ketheric Thorm has gone without anyone trying to understand him? A hundred years at least, since the death of his wife and child, and here comes a wayward paladin and their party of four, giving him a chance for redemption. 

Astarion watches as Ketheric Thorm, the human he was, falls without a fight, and in his place, rises the undead chosen of Myrkul.

They've gone from fighting goblins to living machinery to literal shadows. To think those pales in comparison to the avatar of necromancy before them, all bones and scent of death. It would be so easy to be afraid, but then Astarion looks at you, lips moving in a silent prayer for courage, and he finds it less daunting to know that you can continue to move on despite your fear.

You are quick to dispatch the party: a group to free Dame Aylin from her shackles and another to start the fight against Myrkul. As Astarion sees Wyll, Shadowheart, and Jahiera teleport themselves closer to the aasimar, he knows quickly what team he's on. (“We work well together, you know,” he told you once after knocking down the goblin camp. He finds it somewhat comforting to know that statement is still true today.) 

“Ready?” You ask him, a scroll of dimensional door in your hands. 

“Darling,” he drawls, long bow in hand, “I thought you'd never ask.”

It ends up being a hard battle: cold, grasping hands of death from the unliving attack from all sides, the avatar of Myrkul summoning horrors beyond comprehension when they get close enough. And still, Astarion's hands remain steady as they aim deadly arrows toward a deity until it falls just like anybody else. 

“It's over,” he hears you breathe out, eyes wide as Ketheric falls to his knees for the very last time. It is a horrible sight to see a man in his last minutes, soul broken by grief and the gods that took advantage of that, and body broken by the aasimar he deceived in turn. Still, when your hand finds his in the aftermath of such horrors, he understands two things: he has never cared for someone like you before in his life, and all things must come to an end. 

It is only a matter of when. 

(And a third thing– Astarion understands Ketheric Thorm more than he realizes. For what are they both if not selfish, foolish men willing to do everything to keep what is theirs?)

.

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They stay behind to help the Harpers rebuild the Last Light Inn. It's enough time to see where allegiances lie, who is to join them for the final act in Baldur's Gate, and to see the glimpse of the shadow-land curse ebbing away. Astarion doesn't know who, but someone suggests a celebration of victory as an ode to those who had fallen, and suddenly life is breathed into the land and its people. 

He's always loved a good party and he figures everybody feels the same. He can only hope the wine that's provided is even a smidgen better than the one in the druid grove. And he deserves a break– all of them do. Astarion watches as the Alfira and Lakrissa drag you away to some pre-celebratory hangout during the event's setup and cannot find it in himself to be anything but amused. 

As it turns out, in between the cobwebbed walls and doom-and-gloom, Moonrise Towers has plenty to offer for the celebration. The leftover rations– whatever is still good after the battle anyways– serve as the basis of a banquet. The old and dusty black and white robes and attires of the Selûnites that once occupied this place are still in good condition, if you discount the mothballs and eaten up bits. 

It makes for a nice change in pace for many at least, though Astarion thinks he'd rather wear something with embroidery than don a goddess’ servants outfit no matter how nice it is. It is a good thing Shadowheart is not quite Sharran or else there would be quite an upset. She is more preoccupied by her conversation with Dame Aylin than with the festivity preparations, but he knows she will join in due time if you have anything to say about it.

In the quiet bustle before the banquet, people flit back and forth, busy. Whether they are preparing the necessary things for the celebration, healing the wounded, making the burial grounds, or getting drunk ahead of the game, there is something to do. Astarion finds himself in the last category nursing a cup of wine and watching the processions, His Majesty curled up at his feet. 

The last person he expects to make time to speak with him is Wyll.

“Care for some company?” Wyll asks with a smile.

Astarion shrugs, hiding his surprise behind his nonchalance. “I suppose the wine can be shared.”

Wyll nods. “Much thanks,” he says, allowing Astarion to pour him half a glass before taking a cursory sip. Astarion follows after him, though he watches Wyll carefully in the corner of his eyes. 

“I've hunted demons,” Wyll begins, “orthons, devils, and monsters. When I met our leader, I never expected to eventually fight against a God. Did you?”

Astarion lets out an airy laugh. “Knowing who we're following, I can't say I'm too surprised.” He waves his hand flippantly before crossing his arms. “Goes to show even Gods can fall… and that paladins seek nothing but trouble.”

Wyll laughs at that, and Astarion tries to not make it seem like he's almost dropped the glass. “Makes you hopeful, doesn't it?” Wyll tells him, “That there's nothing that cannot be done at their side?”

And there it is, Astarion thinks wryly. Their single point of similarity lies in their affections for you. He was wondering why the righteous Blade of Frontiers was making conversation. But still, with the jealousy that swirls low in the pit of his stomach, he thinks of you and the miracles you have created from seemingly nothing and warmth spreads and overtakes any and all bitterness.

“Astarion,” Wyll starts, faltering for the first time. Astarion barely has enough time to turn to him when he continues to greater incredulity. “I was wrong about you. Truly wrong about you.”

What? Astarion stares at him for a moment before he realizes he's taking a moment too long. Being snarky comes like second nature. “Let me guess,” he drawls, “you thought I'd sucked blood, but instead I just suck. Was that your witty jab?”

“No! I mean it,” Wyll says. He is sincere as he always is, and Astarion wants to sneer at it, if only he wasn't reminded of you. (He's grown used to people saying what they mean, and part of him is scared of it.) “There's little between us we share, but you've fallen in love and stood by your lover. This is something this dreamer's heart can appreciate.” 

Wyll means you, he realizes. You and him: lovers. It seems to become less of a lie with each coming day if Karlach and now Wyll seem to see right through him. “I– thank you,” Astarion replies, bewildered, “I suppose.” 

“Pay it no mind,” Wyll tells him, clinking his glass to his. “After all the fighting we've done, it puts a lot of things in perspective. I don't want to leave things unsaid nor undone.”

Astarion snorts into his glass; hardly a charming gesture but he finds it easier to be less than such these days. “See, that's where you and I can agree on!” He says slyly, “Is that where all your night time dancing practices have been for? To woo your love at the first chance you get?”

Wyll coughs into his hand, and Astarion watches in glee as he grows embarrassed. “I hope you haven't seen me in the earlier nights; I was quite horrendous.” He sighs. “I can only pray that no one else has noticed besides you and our leader… I was hoping to keep it a secret until later.”

“Knowing our camp, it was never a secret to begin with,” Astarion says dryly.

“I just…” Wyll continues almost wistfully, “I want to give her something to look forward to. She deserves the world after everything she's been through– let alone a dance to truly and well whisk her away.”

Astarion can see the lovestruck gleam in Wyll's eyes as he talks, and he recognizes that look not when he looks at you but instead… “Karlach?” He asks, watching as the mighty Blade of Frontiers fidgets in place, “So you've been practicing your dances for Karlach?” His smile widens not unlike a cat who has captured a canary, both from the fact he has nothing to fear from Wyll and from the way he now has the ammunition to tease the man. So this is what it means to kill two kobolds with one stone. “I hope you haven't been practicing other things without her too.”

“Astarion, please.”

It's moments like these when Wyll is trying to sink into the floor from mortification that he is reminded how young the warlock is. He never imagined talking about love with him of all things, but here they are– it surely isn't the strangest situation he's been through. “I'm sure Karlach would be happy to have you ask her to dance, skills be damned.”

“I'm sure,” Wyll says warmly, “but I want to give her only the best, if I can.”

And if that wasn't another sentiment Astarion has grown familiar with.

Before guilt can sink his mood, Astarion clears his throat. “You wouldn't happen to have a few dancing lessons in store for your fellow companion, would you, darling?”

Wyll is kind enough to not say anything to his question, though the knowing looks he gives Astarion throughout his guidance is reminiscent of Karlach that he escapes as soon as he is able. With the party soon underway, more people come into the main floor with fresh attire. Alcohol is poured and music is played with Alfira leading the fray. Lakrissa, never far from her lady bard, meets his gaze and nods her head upward. 

“Upstairs,” Lakrissa tells him with a wide smile. “They're doing some finishing touches. I'm sure they won't mind if you get them.”

There is that damned knowing look again, he thinks, walking up the stairs. He pauses for a moment halfway up, gazing at the party quickly underway and at the people he has met thus far. He spots Dammon and Karlach talking near the door, Wyll across the room building his courage to ask her to dance. Shadowheart and Lae'zel sit at the bar drinking in surprising camaraderie next to Rolan and his siblings, still ribbing him in usual manner. Harpers are scattered in the room, Jaheira to the side watching on after having said her goodbyes prior; she will be joining their party to Baldur's Gate, after all. 

Halsin was preoccupied with Thaniel so he may or may not be joining them later on, though Astarion doubts he would disappoint you by not showing up. Not seeing Gale in the midst if the celebration is strange, considering how much more eager he is to converse with others. Astarion's pondering answers itself when he sees Gale exit your room.

“Ah, there you are,” Gale greets him cheerily. “They're about done with their preparations– they thought they'd ask me for my opinions on their appearance. And despite my admitted inexperience in the matter, I hope I did my due diligence in reassuring them they looked fine. The rest is up to you, I'm afraid.” He puts a hand on Astarion's shoulder and squeezes lightly, and the look in his eyes grows somber for just a moment. “Treat them well.”

If he had a heart still, it would pang with guilt. “Don't I always?” Astarion says airily, and Gale gives him another pat and a wide smile.

“That you do, my friend,” Gale says warmly. “I am ever glad to see my two good companions happy together. Best wishes to you both.”

Gale leaves him and Astarion stands outside your door, unsure what he is waiting for. He peeks inside, watching as you tinker with your jewelry in the mirror. In the reflection he sees you in all your glory. You are beautiful as ever in your evening attire, simultaneously dashing in your knightly way as you are beautiful and warm and real. You notice him in the mirror and turn to smile at him, and guilt settles into him like lead.

You deserve more, he thinks with finality, and Astarion knows then he can no longer delay the inevitable, despite himself. You must know the truth about his intentions for you, even if it pushes you away from him and renders your protection for him. You deserve nothing less but his honesty. He only wishes he were not so cowardly as to have done it sooner, if only to not ruin the rest of your night. 

(But the truth is, Astarion has a little hope that you will still love him despite it all– because he thinks he wants something real with you too.) 

“There you are,” you say warmly, walking up to him. “Are you ready to dance?” You take his hand in yours, and he holds onto you for dear life. 

"I was waiting for you,” he tells you weakly. He squeezes your hand as if asking for strength. “Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk."

Lovely as you are, you are nothing but concerned for him. "Yeah, sure! Are you okay?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine,” he tells you automatically. Deflection comes easily for him. “I just-- feel awful."

Your sympathy is almost too much to bear that Astarion musters up the will to push forward before your compassion weakens his resolve. He must confess now or he never will. He swallows painfully.

"Look, I had a plan,” he begins to explain, “a nice simple plan. Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn on me." He lets out a shaky laugh– entirely inappropriate and unreflective of his feelings, but what else is he to do? Does he even deserve to show you how much turmoil he has gone through to reach this point in telling you? 

"It was easy,” he continues, trying to ignore the way his chest twists painfully when he sees you flinch, hurt. “Instinctive.” He lets your hand fall from his as he gesticulates, weaving his story dramatically in the only way he knows how lest he feel too much. Your arms draw themselves in as if to brace yourself for a blow, and all Astarion can think is that he must– he must continue on for better or worse. He cannot bear doing this a second time. 

“Habits from 200 years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it,” he tells you. Astarion feels his voice shake. “And all I had to do was not fall for you. That was where my nice, simple plan fell apart."

He sees a flicker of something in your eyes as he finishes. He can't quite place what it is– he can hardly begin to process how he's feeling at the moment. But the truth is finally out in the open, and the tension in his body is pulled taut like a bow string as he waits for your response. He wants so desperately to make excuses, to go on about anything that would salvage his relationship with you, but he won't. You have been patient with him time and time again, and it is only fair for him to do the same.

No one ever told him how hard it would be though. To wait. You stand only a foot away from him and yet the distance between the two of you feels vast.

"...So,” you begin quietly, “did the nights we spend together... did they mean anything then?"

You're ridiculous, he thinks, almost laughing in fond incredulity. He half expected you to storm out of the room, demanding he never speak to you again. The fact you are still talking it through with him is more than he could ever ask for. "Of course it did,” Astarion tells you fervently. “That's the problem. Or part of it. You–” His voice catches with emotion. “You're incredible. You deserve something real.” 

He watches as you blink in rapid succession, willing the tears that come easily to you away. Astarion thinks about the way you yearn for simple touches, sweet romances, and true love. And even if he does not yet know how to love you the way you want, he knows this: “I want us to be something real."

Astarion reaches his hands out to meet yours before he realizes it is happening. The utter relief he feels when you close the distance (so small yet so far) between the two of you is insurmountable. He thinks you can feel the way his hands shake when you hold onto them. Or is that you? He thinks, savoring the warmth seeping into his skin. No matter– nothing else matters but the way you are still here with him now.

"So do I,” you say wetly. “More than anything."

Astarion knows better than to look into a gift horse's mouth, but it is in his nature to question when good things happen to him. His question comes out quietly, disbelieving, "Really?" 

And he can see your expression soften-- not of pity or sympathy-- just affection as you huff good naturedly, as though he were just absolutely silly for doubting you. "Yes, of course," you say, cupping his face just as gently before you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close. 

You are warm in his arms with the sweet scent of lilac. 

When was the last time he has been held like this, he wonders. Without precontext for sex or expectations for something more. Like when he was helpless but to see you preoccupied with others, it is in times like these Astarion realizes he is inexperienced when it comes to affection in its purest form. It makes him… lost in a way, to know what he does not know. 

[Can he tell, you wonder, that you've been wanting to hold him like this from the very beginning? To make him feel safe. To let him know he has nothing to worry about, at least when it comes to you. You hold him tightly, and if love could be poured out from you to another, you would have it spill over and more.]

But you don't seem to care. You never have. Giving little bits of affection to him wherever he can accept it without expecting anything given back. He wants to learn how to be with you starting now.

Moving his arms around you to embrace you is unfamiliar, but his hands find purchase on your back, palms flat and firm. Your heart against his chest beats steadily, and Astarion finds that he doesn't want this moment to end. He feels vulnerable in a way he has not felt in a long time, if ever. Everything seems easier to say to you, now that you accept him, flawed as he is. 

"I just,” he begins quietly, “don't know what real looks like, not after two hundred years of playing the rake. Being close to someone, any kind of intimacy, was something I performed to lure people back for him.” 

He feels you pull away, but only for a moment before you are holding his hands gently. He continues, “Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels tainted.” He feels his mouth twist at the word, and he looks down, shame burning his tongue despite himself. “Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing.”

“I don't know how else to be with someone,” he confesses, “no matter how much I'd like to.”

Silence fills the space the two of you take up. It would feel suffocating if not for the way you rub his hands with your thumbs, grounding him to this moment. It feels so easy to just run away, but he stands with you until you find the words to speak. You tell him finally, “You are important to me no matter what you're going through.” His breath catches. “And if that sort of intimacy makes you feel uncomfortable, we can be together without sleeping together for as long as you need.”

You are firm with your words, and Astarion blinks away wetness in his eyes and tries to reach for levity as he always does. “Why, that almost sounds like a challenge,” he says, and when you do a little laugh, he feels lighter. 

The two of you are by no means a perfect union. Far from it: who would ever imagine a vampire rogue and a devoted paladin to be a match for each other? And yet, you want to make the two of you work. He wants it to work, whatever it is they are. Rather than fear or apprehension, he finds himself in anticipation for an unknown destination with you by his side. 

(It feels a little bit like death, in a good way. To imagine this is how people feel all the time– excited and terrified all at once; how do they all do it?)

Astarion lets out a laugh of his own. "Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing. Or what comes next,” he says. He raises his hands where they are connected to you. "But I know that this? This is nice."

Your smile is wobbly with emotion, and your eyes shining with an affection that Astarion has grown familiar with. "Dance with me?”

Astarion responds by taking one of your hands and placing a kiss at your knuckle. The smile he receives from you is daylight and he basks in its presence. “Shall I take the lead this time, darling?”

“Only just this once,” you tease, and he is almost giddy at the banter. Oh, how quickly the two of you begin anew, as if no hurt has been done. Eyes wet with emotion now dry and upturned from mirth as Astarion dramatically presents your hand, walking down the stairs to join in the banquet.

How ridiculous mankind is, for celebrating while their fate looms over the horizon at Baldur's Gate. How incredulous people are for still holding onto hope even when hope seems all but lost. Astarion still thinks it unwise to trust others in a world where only the strongest survive, but perhaps he has changed just a bit if he thinks it is not quite so impossible to believe in it himself. 

He is not healed– and he feels he will not be for some time, not as long as Cazador still lives. But much like the shadow-cursed land, he feels as though he is healing. At your side, with his hand on your waist and the other entwined with yours to twirl you on a wooden dance floor as you laugh until you are breathless– he can finally try.

And perhaps that is all that matters.

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(Sleeping beneath the stars, a night before reaching Baldur's Gate, Astarion thinks about how you have given him precious, impossible moments of comfort. He had only expected to have a few more before an untimely death but after time and time again, the two of you live. 

But just how long will that luck last? 

With Cazador, the two avatars of death, and the elder brain looming over their fates, Astarion feels a fear unlike what he has ever faced, for he has far more to lose than just himself now. It suffocates him. Because he is not good enough- not strong enough. Not for you, not for Cazador, nor for the gods that never answered him. 

Unless…

If he takes Cazador's power for his own, if he can ascend and become a creature far beyond a true vampire… he can finally keep the two of you safe– for good. From all the evils of the world, from the Cazadors, from whoever dares to threaten the two of you.

Whoever must be sacrificed to make it happen be damned. Astarion will be selfish enough for the two of you. 

A part of him wonders if you will still love him then.)

[justatalkingface]

So in light of the absolute fuckery that's been Chapter 407, I want to talk about All For One, because I don't think I've ever really talked about him.

I don't mind that he's evil for evil's sake, I don't mind that his ultimate goal is to take OFA so that he can take over the world and make everyone reliant on him or whatever. I don't mind that he nearly took over Japan back in the day. But like everything else Horikoshi touches, AFO had potential that was ultimately squandered away.

I hate how he was literally pure evil IN FUCKING UTERO, I hate how he was barely even utilized (outside of Kamino Ward, which that was fucking awesome) before he tries wrestling control of Shigaraki to be the main villain again. I hate how even though he allegedly has hundreds upon hundreds of Quirks, he spams the same 3-4 ones, and I hate how for supposedly smart and devious he is, we never see him utilizing UA's bad PR or his traitor to his advantage.

It's kind of weird to say this, but I both miss AFO, and feel sorry for him. I know he's been in the story a lot, but... it feels like AFO, the real one, fucking died at Kaminio, and his idiot corpse has just been running around since with Hori's hand up his ass.

Before Kamino, AFO was evil, yes, and and we didn't know about him, but he felt like a real person; an asshole, but he was something you could imagine a super-powered mob boss could end up being.

Since then, though? He's just been becoming more and more... shallow. It's like Hori was hinting at these dark, mysterious depths of ancient man, and then he pulled the curtain and showed us a fucking puddle. And now? All the mystery, all the backstory?

'BeCaUSe i'M EEEEEEEVVVILLLL'. Unironically, it seems to be his only motivation anymore. He does bad things because he's evil; he doesn't actually want to take over the world, that's just something he's doing because taking over the world is evil. Money? Power? Ultimately worthless, nothing more than tools for the purposes... of EVIL!

So... here's the question: why is he evil?

Because he was evil when he was an adult. Why was he evil as an adult? Because he was evil as a kid, apparently, instead of anything more interesting like him slowly being radicalized by Quirk Discrimination. Why was he evil as a kid? Because he was born evil, instead of anything more interesting like a terrible family, or because a police officer hurt him and traumatized him for life. Why was he evil when he was born?

??????

Because he was born of evil genetics, maybe; I wouldn't put it past Hori to make him unironically Quirk Satan or something. The thing is, that's not how human beings work; even an actual sociopath isn't going to be born this gibberingly, one-dimensionally evil. Worse yet, it's fucking boring to have a human being this basic; at this point why aren't they fighting a robot, or monster or something? It'd have the same level of motivation, and it'd feel more interesting than this.

Even ignoring how stupid he's become post-Kamino (which is a related but different point, best summed up by post-Kamino AFO is basiclly running around with his pants on his head, constantly getting one upped by the heroes, the kids, and basiclly random strangers by now), AFO was at his most interesting, not only when he was competent, but when he felt like a person; there's a reason DFO is so popular, and it's not just because it drags Izuku into it, but because it humanizes AFO, gives him real, human motivations to make us interested in his character.

The worst part of it? There's been so many chances to make him more than this caricature of a human being; by making him care for Shigaraki (or for Dr. Plot Device, or even Kurogiri, his loyal minion, before he was Eraserhead's seemingly somewhat retconned 'human interest' (which was barely a thing), or even just for Gigantomachia, who is basiclly a giant, super-violent dog, who he could have cared about like he was just a giant dog), or for him caring for his brother.

I mean, shit. In all honesty, I could make the 'biting baby' thing work, even. Ideally, it'd need some set up beforehand, but you know how Himiko is (the only one we've ever seen) with desires from her Quirk? Do something similar to how Yhwach in Bleach was on AFO, with that kind of logic, with him needing something, at this fundamental level, to be functional, that he's almost addicted to stealing Quirks, that AFO as a Quirk only works as a Quirk because somewhere in his magic DNA he's... unstable. That the very versatility that allows him to hold every Quirk is starving for the stability of a normal Quirk, so that even as a infant, he's instinctively trying feed himself something a normal human would never need.

There's this whole, interesting dynamic this would introduce, a real nature/nurture-y kind of thing, that would put a whole new spin on his character; he's this seemingly pointlessly evil person because his needs, combined with the only real role model he had for someone in his situation, the demon kings he's seen in manga, and a society that rejected him, both as someone with a Quirk by the normal humans, and as someone who could take away their Quirks by the Quirked, turning him into this because that's all he's ever known.

And here's the thing? This idea? Hori could still try to do that. He could try to turns table us with this sudden development, and try to make a real boy out of AFO. But I don't think he's going to; I really don't think he'll do that. Worse, even if he does try that, he'll just double down on AFO being 'born evil' instead of anything with any real depth to it. Do you know why I think that?

Because in all honesty, AFO isn't a real character anymore; he hasn't been for awhile now. All he is is a plot device, the duck tape Hori's been putting on everywhere to try and hold the story together against all the plot holes and logic failures that have been built up from years of bad, biased and rushed writing. More and more, he's become the reason for everything, the cause of every problem Hori can't be bothered to think through, every villain he didn't want to actually have to explain.

The Readers/The Characters: Why did X happen? What caused that? How does Y feel abou- Hori: AFO did it. I ain't gotta explain shit.

And that's the real reason he's so stupid, BTW, the reason he never uses any other Quirk, or applies any creativity in combat (or anywhere else), and why he keeps losing... it's for the plot. Because the thing is? AFO is fucking overpowered.

Let me tell you something I've never seen anyone else acknowledge: All Might never should have won. He overpowered AFO, sure, but we saw from their fight that he barely did that; didn't crush the puny caster AFO once he got past the lasers, his one super Quirk barely out-performed AFO's stacked Quirks in direct combat. Which, yeah, sure I can see that....

But. Why did AFO fight fair, just power against power, blow vs blow? Why didn't he, like, release poison gas as they fought? All Might is strong, but he still has flesh, blood, lungs; he's still very vulnerable to all kinds of softer Quirks. Where was the touch activated Quirk, like that kid from the License Exam, would have turned All Might into a meatball, or taffy, or whatever? Where was the voice activated Quirk that would have stunned All Might for a critical moment?

Hell. Why didn't AFO cheat? Why did he fight All Might, like an honorable person, when he realised the man was possibly a threat to him, instead of just... assassinating him, like a crime lord (or demon king)? Go to his home (or Might Tower, or wherever), drug his food, put something in his water, hell, just launch a surprise attack from point blank range? We know he tried for Eraserhead's Quirk once, before... apparently just giving up and never trying again; why didn't he try again, get it, and use that?

And beyond even all those problem, I don't see a reason for OFA to have survived long enough to get to All Might in the first place!

I mean, seriously: we know that every user fought AFO, viciously, to point where it caused their early deaths (except the one that basiclly started to Snap himself out of existence). We know OFA was only slowly building up in power, and the early versions especially didn't do much at all, and the Quirks all of them had where never top of the line because they were literally just a random person nearby when the Holder before them died.

So. Riddle me this: why, when a bunch of honestly mid-tier people tried, again and again, to kill AFO, who was overwhelmingly stronger than them, who had access to more tools, powers and money than they did; why, when all these factors were stacked against them, did they survive to the point where they could even pass OFA on? How did they survive blows strong enough to destroy buildings, laser blasts, all these powerful Quirks and techniques that AFO uses casually that most heroes would have been instantly killed by, if not flat out destroyed.

I mean... fuck, there's a decent chance AFO knew they had OFA in them, which he wanted (for whatever reason; sentimentality clearly isn't a emotion he's allowed to have, and early OFA wouldn't have been worth the effort for him to go through all of this to try and acquire it), which means instead of just killing them, he would have captured them, taken them back to his base, and then tortured them until they gave him OFA, just so they would finally be allowed to die and not hurt anymore? While I'm at this, why didn't he just kill any pedestrians around after he killed whatever OFA Holder he was fighting; it's not like morals are going to stop him, are they?

Fundamentally, MHA is built off the premise that AFO, terrifying criminal genius with countless Quirks, strong enough that he makes people by him hallucinate out of terror, is so pants shittingly stupid that he spent almost a hundred years basiclly punching himself in the face rather than just winning fights that were ludicrously stacked in his favor again and again and again; I mean, hell, he could still be an utter moron, and as long as he just got lucky once, just once, the giant, unending sequence of coincidences and logic breaking victories that allowed All Might to get his Quirk never would have happened.

None of this, of course, is even mentioning everything happening in the Final Arc, like AFO's obvious weakness to allow him to be finally beat forever appearing out of nowhere, in him having Remnants (even though AFO took eight users to to power it up enough to get to the point that AFO was apparently always at, and us having no reason to think this was a thing before now, much less all the absolute nightmare fuel questions that raises about the Nomu, and all the Quirks that AFO's doctor had stored away), and Eri's Quirk actively accelerating to heal him, thus limiting his life span (or the fact it's even working like that in the first place), even though it's a time Quirk, not a healing Quirk, and it doesn't fucking care about how wounded he is.

So, why did it happen? Why is it still happening?

Because he's a plot device. Because he exists, not as an active character with his own agenda, but as an adjustable target for the heroes to fight against, again and again and again, and if he won, the story would be over. Fundamentally, Hori made AFO too strong, too smart, too well connected, too perfect to every truly lose in this setting, and instead of trying to fix that, in any real way, impose some kind of realistic limitations or drawbacks in his wildly over-powered Quirk, or just kill him off so he wasn't a factor anymore, he just... made the man stupid.

[autumnslance]

Year of the OTP - June 2023 - Confession

(Time to yeet out a scene I've sat on too long. Altered dialogue from late Shadowbringers 5.0, in Amaurot at the last quest. 1035 words. References a few other previous writings.)

“Well, this has put everyone in a solemn mood, hasn't it? Honestly, we're not even sure this will be the end of it. But I suppose we should speak our minds when we have the opportunity. You taught me that much in Amh Araeng.”

Thancred took a breath. The air was still and damp. The letters were a weight in his coat, but there was no time, no opportunity for her to read them; he had squandered every chance. “So forgive me this moment of sentiment, Aeryn. By dragging me into this sorry mess, you've given me the chance to think and act as I should have…”

Say it. Tell her.

“...For Ryne's sake.”

True, but not the only truth to be said, bloody fool.

He swallowed. “Words cannot express how much this has changed my life, or how grateful I am for your support…”

He glanced at Ryne, so lost in her own thoughts she didn’t even look up to frown at nor encourage him. He sighed, reaching out and taking Aeryn’s hands in his. Aeryn looked at him, head tilting in her usual quizzical manner.

Gods, she looked brittle. Her white-streaked black hair looked like straw, her skin splotched with pale discoloration and seeming nearly translucent. Her eyes were perhaps the worst; he had always been fascinated by the changeable nature of her gray eyes, how they so expressed her moods even more than her frequent blushing. Now they were nearly colorless—yet still hers, her intellect and compassion still present.

I don’t have the right to say it. To add that pressure when she’s already close to cracking…

“Thancred?” Her voice was still her own, clear and strong.

He could not let those lessons go to waste. There may not be another chance, much as he prayed there would be. “That’s not all I wished to say,” he said quietly. The thick hush of the ghost city around them almost swallowed the words.

“Mayhap your bardic skills have grown rusty,” she teased gently with a strained smile.

He chuckled. “Indeed; I haven’t had much need to be a charmer—not when I would rather be guarding your back, and standing at your side, for as long as you will allow me.” He reached up to carefully cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her skin, wishing he could wipe that dreadful light away. Her eyes widened, darkening with emotion until they almost looked normal again. He smiled. 

“After everything, after all of this, I want—I need you to know, Aeryn, that I am in love with you.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and went very still.

His pulse pounded in his ears, but he’d said it, by the gods.

“I know my timing could be better,” he said acerbically. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise.” The damnable promise she had asked the day before, as they had left the Ondo to journey across the sea floor. “If anything, it makes it more important that you know—that whatever you need, whatever you ask, I can do naught else.” He paused, seeing the mists gathering in her too-bright eyes. “Our circumstances are wretched, so you needn’t worry about saying aught in return, just—”

“But I love you too,” she blurted, then blinked in the way she did when she surprised herself.

Thancred froze, afraid for a moment that he held her too tight, staring at her, the hammering of his heart loud enough to call attention from the shades around them. He was vaguely aware of Ryne now watching.

“I...am in love with you,” Aeryn repeated, with a little sobbing laugh. “I think I have been for awhile, but I didn’t know how to say it. When to,” she shook her head. “Perhaps you weren’t the only one who needed to learn something in Amh Araeng.”

His heart crinkled. Somewhere up the street Alisaie called back to them, though he couldn’t make out the words. He lifted Aeryn’s hand, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. “No promises,” he reminded her. “But we should talk later.”

Please let there be a later.

She made another half-sob, half-laugh sound, and nodded. “We should,” she repeated, voice shaking only a little.

“Meanwhile, even if words fail, I shall express my gratitude and love through action,” Thancred said. “No matter where you decide to go, I will be there, guarding your back.”

Or protecting Ryne and the others from you—as you asked. Gods, please don’t let it come to that.

Aeryn let out a long, shaky breath, and smiled. “That means���everything.”

He looked over at Ryne, who gave him a wan smile. “Now, I think Ryne needs a word. I’ll mollify Alisaie and Y’shtola’s tempers until you two catch up.”

Thancred hated stepping away, but he did, their fingers reluctantly slipping apart as he walked down the street while Aeryn turned to Ryne.

He’d said it. By the Twelve he had said it, and wondrously, Aeryn had said it in return. Would that he had been able to say it sooner—between everything with Minfilia and Ryne, his own base cowardice, and now, now Aeryn was—

It didn’t matter, he told himself. What mattered was that they had said it. That they knew. Their timing was shite, but the knowledge could not be lost now. Not between them.

“Everything all right?” Alisaie asked as he caught up to the others.

“Fine,” Thancred replied, a bit hoarse. He caught Urianger’s gaze, his raised eyebrow. Thancred smiled and gave a brief nod; his expression must have given away more than he thought, as Urianger visibly relaxed and grinned back. Y’shtola caught it too, brows drawing down together even as the ends of her mouth twitched upward. Had there been time, he would be receiving an earful, he was certain. “We each had our piece to say to our friend—though from Ryne’s expression, perhaps she needs to hear a few herself.”

The twins were peering at him now, stances their own but the gaze the same. They never realized when they did that. Thancred tried very hard to be nonchalant, to pretend all was normal, that his heart was not skipping and singing and screaming and sobbing all at once.

—

(I keep trying to write the parts around this but in the end...this specific little bit of Thancred's POV is it. Well, there's maybe a bit of Ardbert teasing Aeryn as a bro should, but that part's on Ao3.)

[oleander-nin]

Hi again, I'm that same person that sent that long ask earlier lol

Okay ESPECIALLY after the poll you put up, I wanna say again that WE ALL LOVE YOU STOP BEATING YOURSELF UP /p

I'm stuck between wanting to be heartfelt and encouraging or just shaking you by the shoulders and scream at you /aff /pos

Ollie, genuinely, don't push yourself too hard. Yeah we love what you write, but we understand that you're a person with a life. You do not owe us anything.

Forgive me if I'm wrong, or maybe looking too far into this, but I feel like you're a perfectionist? And that you feel you have to crank things out quickly and it all has to be perfect. Maybe you feel somehow indebted to give us things to read. and lemme tell you, it's very easy to get stuck in a loop of "do the creative thing for your followers or else". That is, if you aren't in that loop already. I'm sorry, know I'm assuming a lot, and I'm not meaning to pry.

I just say this because I recognize the way you talk in your tags or authors notes. I'm not an author, but I used to post art. I kept getting more frustrated with myself, (and I can definitely tell you are too). I lost motivation, and it stopped being fun pretty quickly because I kept thinking "it needs to be perfect" or "I need to create faster" all for the sake of an audience. So when you apologize, or seem to value your writing so little, it just makes me worry that you're in that same loop. Heck, I mean, I still don't make art often, I still have perfectionist issues and worry about how fast I can create. But it's becoming fun again, slowly.

I just hope that writing is still something you like to do. I would hate for your passion for writing to be squandered by the pressure and expectations of an audience. I know you have a lot going on right now, even if you try and act like you should be able to push through it and write, but please take care of yourself. If the February challenge is getting too difficult, please don't feel like there's any shame in limiting your workload. We'll be happy with whatever you make, and I'll be even happier if I know you actually enjoyed writing it. /gen

WOW this is long I'm sorry lmao. I've been at this for like half an hour. (Do asks have a word limit? Oops I hope not ahshjsk)

Oh also, don't worry about responding to this is an "appropriate" way. I know that this would be hard for me to respond to, so don't feel pressured to say anything at all. Even if you delete this, I'll be perfectly fine with it. /gen I just hope you read it and understand that we care about you. Please feel better <3

YOU TOOK THIRTY MINUTES FROM YOUR DAY TO WRITE ME THIS???? THE HONOR???? SOBBING THANK YOU

Breaking this down paragraph by paragraph cuz you deserve it💪(also I'm avoiding responsibilities rn shhh)

Okay first of all, thank you a lot. This entire thing kinda helped me realized just how bad I was letting myself get. In the back of my mind, I know I don't have to write, or that I shouldn't be doing it the way I am, but it felt like an obligation at some point, both from trying to repay you all in the only way I know how, and from trying to catch up with everyone else. Sometimes it feels like I'm falling behind, and if I don't keep going, I'm just going to lose everything.

I forgive you<3/lhj, but you're not technically wrong. While I'm not in the perfectionist in the sense I won't post something unless I deem it perfect and have checked over 8 times(what I used to do), I still tend to pick apart everything I've made and found every flaw. I realize this is a problem, and have been yelled at by many a teachers for it lol. But yeah, a lot of the time I do feel indebted, and I probably am stuck in that loop(Which is why I'm so bad at actually taking breaks). Don't feel bad for assuming, nothing you could say would really offend me, and you've been dead on this whole time.

I've been meaning to stop talking about how much I hate certain parts of what I write in the tags+A/N's, because I know listening to me whine and cry about something that doesn't matter gets annoying, but I'm not good at that either I guess lol.

I'm fairly certain that writing will always be fun for me, as I'm still looking forwards to doing a lot of the requests I got and one set of ideas I have, but finding the will to write it down seems impossible right now. It's like I'm stuck at the bottom of a sheer cliff and I can't start writing until I read the top. The main reason I'm so mad at myself for flopping so bad with this challenge is because I was able to do the Horrortober one just fine, as well as maintain a schedule for a while. It feels like I'm getting worse rather than getting better, and It's just making me frustrated with myself to the point of just wanting to quit(not that I think I'd be able to if I'm honest. I tried once, yet here I am, only 3 years later.)

Anyways, I'm just going to start putting more time into the writing instead of trying to force a deadline. I want to be able to make longer fics again, and to start TWOAL back up(I've been avoiding it because I want the chapters to start being 4000+ to mimic actual books). I want my writing to seem like it has care and quality, and not like it was produced by a factory. I have once headcanon style fic about the Vamp turts in the work I was spending days on to make sure it was decent, and it alone is better than a lot of stuff I've put out recently.

ANYWAYS

Thank you! I appreciate your words, sorry for the vent. I'll probably just delete this half later lol, but I needed to get some stress out.

[sloshed-cinema]

Noroi: The Curse [ノロイ] (2005)

Horror can sometimes be an experiment in sociology: what frightens a particular target audience? How can a filmmaker or storyteller prey on the social anxieties of a group? But sometimes, a horror movie almost sheds more insight into the mindset of the filmmaker themselves than it does on the effect they were trying to have on their viewer. Does Koji Shiraishi trust his audience to actually be paying attention to his movie? Apparently not, because anything remotely spooky gets treated like some kind of NFL instant replay after a coach has appealed the referee’s call. Wait, was that a spooky kid in the background? Shit, guess I’d better rewind, slow it way down, and zoom in on the part of the frame in question. Fuck! I guess that’s creepy as hell! At best, this just draws a groan, a sort of “yep, I got it already” sort of reaction. At worst… well, the final shot of the film decides to recall maybe the most goofily awful effects image of the entire movie, so what a way to end things. It’s tempting to dunk on all of the rhapsodic reviews from the Reddit type mindset who seem to think this is some sort of under appreciated classic of mindfuck horror, but that would be as easy as freeze-framing on something from three scenes ago that the audience might not have caught if it hadn’t been obvious enough the first time around. The film squanders everything that it sets up for itself in its promising early sequences. The inherent chaotic exploitation of Japanese reality TV shows is captured in a way which makes it clear nothing good will come of this: a little girl is exploited and reveals creepy details during a psychic contest, and a troubled medium attacks a cohost in an interview show gone wrong. Mix in the disruption of ancient ritual by modernization in the form of a dam project, and boy have you got a stew going, baby! But as the runtime drags ever on, the narrative strategy shifts from using its strengths—pseudodocumentarian fragments of a greater story to be pieced together by the viewer, horrifying in its gaps—to caving to the subgenre’s weaknesses—cheap shaky-cam exploitation and incoherence for the sake of incoherence. But at least it’s finally getting the 1080p BluRay treatment by Arrow that something which is mostly deep-fried VHS-rip type footage that this sort of film deserves.

I do wish I had more insight into the Shinto elements and influences that are abundant in the fascinating folk-horror which makes the backbone for a disappointing ultimate delivery. Talk of kami and oni litters the more spiritually focused conversations, drawing a pall around whatever the fuck was going on in this community before the dam ushered it to a watery grave, and practices have a way of persisting, as evidenced by the tight-lipped new settlement with all of their dogs. Knots are rendered horrific and severed, and unique rituals bring untold horrors. An interesting backdrop. More of this.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says 'worms' or 'Kagutaba'.

The movie freeze-frames on an image.

Hilariously ominous onscreen text.

We cut to a new archival clip.

BIG DRINK

The movie makes sure you know something was scary.

DOGGIE

[dalekofchaos]

Why I have mixed feelings on The Mimic

I have mixed feelings on The Mimic after playing Ruin.

Why I've grown to like it.

To me the new FNAF games are the horrors of Fazbear Entertainment not learning their lesson and repeating the sins of the past and The Mimic is built on the agony of Freddy's. It's Afton's legacy being passed down. The agony he started is being continued to this day and you can bet he is smiling and proud that even tho he's in a hell of his own making, his legacy is being continued and he couldn't be even more proud, although his pride and satisfaction is unsettling Cassidy and Charlie. The Mimic is Fazbear's Curse and while William might not be around, his legacy remains or I guess you could say William's legacy is remnant(I had to)

Why I don't like it.

The original story of Security Breach was scrapped because of Sony's meddling and Scott's bad communication. To me, The Mimic felt like course correcting. Vanny's potential was squandered. Help Wanted seemed like it was leading to William's revival.

The Pizzaplex being built over the remains over Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place feels meaningless if it wasn't about William's revival.

Princess Quest shows Glitchtrap as something we'd see Afton turning into the Afton Amalgamation. But if that wasn't the plan, why even include it in Princess Quest?

The Princess is labeled as Cassidy in Princess Quest. But if Glitchtrap isn't Afton, why label her as Cassidy and paint it as Cassidy trying to free Vanessa and ending Afton once and for all?

I feel as though Afton was meant to be the puppet master.

William was Glitchtrap and Burntrap was the plan, but Princess Quest is the canon ending and that stopped Burntrap’s revival and it just melted away(you can see the steam in the recharge station in Ruin) so without William, The Mimic was free to return to what it was created to do(dismember limbs) and lure Cassie to free it.

I think William was the puppet master because of the trailer line

"When i first found you, you were nothing, you were small, pathetic… But now, you are more…. Are you ready?" This could be Afton talking to The Mimic or Vanny.

“You will do as I say, you will bring me what I want, and if you fail me, then you will–both of you–BURN!”

BOTH OF YOU, meaning Vanny and The Mimic.

Just keep things SIMPLE. Fazbear Entertainment was cutting costs and scanning the circuit boards of Scraptrap and the remains of the animatronics from FFPS and that’s how Glitchtrap was made.(or you know fully intended to create Glitchtrap because someone in Fazbear wanted William to return) Glitchtrap wants a follower that will help make him whole and help him fulfill his plans. Which is restore his family in his twisted image. Glitchtrap wants full control of the Pizzaplex, Vanny is completing his instructions, retrieving his body and uses Glamrock Bonnie’s remains to repair his suit and Burntrap wants to kill Gregory for his remnant. Not everything needs to be overly complicated, Scott.

Everything that made Vanny special was taken away by The Mimic and Gregory as GGY. They've made it clear that Vanny didn't matter and that was bullshit. It’s like every step in this new narrative seems like her character’s importance is getting diminished to less and less, like half the stuff she’s supposed to have done in this narrative has been has been…the roles of it has been filled in by other characters. Gregory is the one who puts the Glitch in the Pizzaplex, but she was the one who originally supposed to do that in the scrapped emails for FNAF AR and she hasn’t even been mentioned ONCE in these new books. Gregory has. The Mimic has. Glitchtrap technically has, but like no Vanny. What the fuck? There’s no presence of her and she’s supposed to be one of the new main antagonists, but now they’ve completely shafted her character for the sake of WHAT??? So not only did they fuck over Vanny in the games, they do the same fucking thing in the books. What WAS THE FUCKING POINT OF HELP WANTED IF YOU WERE GOING TO GIVE VANNY’S ROLE TO GREGORY???

They didn't have to use The Mimic. They could've used Vanny. Vanny could've used recordings of Gregory and synthesized his voice to lure Cassie and other children down to the Pizzaplex. Could make the Vanny or Burntrap endings canon. This could've been what redeemes Vanny. But no, instead they gave up and abandoned Vanny altogether and gives her role to The Mimic. "Cassie could be the new Vanny" I don't give a shit. Help Wanted established Vanny and Security Breach was supposed to be VANNY'S GAME. If they wanted a new villain so badly, they had Vanny RIGHT FUCKING THERE!

I mean just imagine Ruined Vanny! Vanny is shattered by the Staffbots, but she's alive. Vanessa is dead, but Vanny remains. To keep her body moving she repairs herself with parts from staff bots and animatronic parts from Parts And Service. Vanny lives and she plans on getting her revenge on Gregory and any other child she can lure to continue Afton's work and you could've replaced MXES with the actual Glitchtrap. art by azoinab.

But if they wanted Princess Quest to be canon, they could've used The Afton Amalgamation. Burntrap assimilates The Blob and becomes The Agony. The Pizzaplex is in ruins because of Afton. Have Gregory, Vanessa and Cassie working together to rebuild the Glamrocks, put together Happiest Day and ending Afton once and for all or ending Afton to how he dies in Fazbear Frights.

I am well aware that Five Nights At Freddy's is more than Afton, but saying we don't need William anymore is like saying Halloween doesn't need Michael Myers or saying Elm Street doesn't need Freddy Krueger. Complaining about William returning is like complaining about a horror icon returning, it's just dumb and silly. He is the monster that started it all and having a final end as the Afton Amalgamation would be more fitting than as Scraptrap.

To me, the script was flipped and the story was changed because of the reception to Security Breach. They gave up on Vanny and changed Afton to The Mimic. You can argue that Scott has this planned out since 2019 all you want, but using Afton's image for a new villain without any hints whatsoever in the game that this isn't Afton was just dumb. And honestly? We already had a Mimic esque character. Ennard. Ennard and Mimic are the same concept (evil endoskeleton mimics humans) and I think Ennard came out much better. When it comes down to it. Scott had bad communications as what he wanted Steel Wool to do and The Mimic just comes out of left field and at the expense of Vanny and Afton.

[housedeaubemarle]

A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine

Follows after the events of 'A House Call'.

~*~

On the same day that two servants of House Aubemarle delivered their employer’s messages in the morning, two highborn Ishgardians sit down to afternoon tea in the Viscount’s personal study. The Dowager is having her afternoon repose, so there is no danger of being interrupted. 

Which is why there is no hesitancy in one of them speaking in a rather disbelieving tone, “Let me see if I have this right. As penance for this social transgression, you dropped right into their laps: invitations to events where you undoubtedly will introduce them personally to your inner circles, access to two extremely popular entertainment venues to increase their chances of being noticed and spoken to, new custom designs by one of our foremost fashion houses and free, efficient transportation. And you even included treats.”

Oudine breathes in the sweet fragrance of her mulled tea, tinged with spices she couldn’t name. Ishgardian tea was all well and good, but the stronger taste of Ul’dah’s beverage is a better comfort in times of consternation.

“Yes. Though Etoile is already acquainted with them by happenstance, and I'm not entirely sure what such experienced traders and travellers who’ve seen the ravages of a Garlean occupation would need with mere Chocobos, so perhaps those don't count.”

“Oudine de Aubemarle, you’ve basically handed them the key to the city.”

“Don't exaggerate, Vliaisse; House Losstarot is still related to all four High Houses of Ishgard. This is just-”

“Just? What is ‘just’ about these favours they have received? This isn't even counting how often and how much you've mentioned ‘my lords Joshua and Isillud Losstarot’ in such glowing terms as to directly contradict the rumours of their false claims to the title. I was right there when you told Lord Hugenot himself you had had the pleasure of their visit, hoping to further their acquaintance, a fresh addition to the usual faces in Ishgard etcetera etcetera!”

Oudine has to smile. “Your memory is truly a marvel, my dear.”

“For Fury’s sake, debutantes would have sold a kidney for a box at the theatre, their soul for the invitation to the Maintigny ball - I hear that Valentione and Lanencourt are already answered for. There're rumours speculating which of the Fortemps themselves will be there -  not just if they'll go, look you. Then there's your mother's concert. Your aunt de Hellyes always attends with Lord Domin himself, and let me guess: your aunt Vaillant and her progeny have said they will come.” When Oudine nods, Vliaisse throws up one hand in exasperation. “That puts everything in place then, from Aubemarle to Vaillant to Durendaire if they know what they're about. And from what you've told me, at least one of them knows how to do this little highborn cotillion of ours. They'll go from heretical outcasts to belles of the ball in a month!”

“I doubt a month will be enough.”

“Three months then, after the child lord attains majority,” says Vliaisse dismissively. “Are they cognisant of the honours given them? Have you considered what will happen if your efforts are for nothing? If they squander all the apologies you thought necessary?”

Oudine sighs. “I have. It still ought to have been done, even if they give me the cut direct in future.”

Vliaisse raises an eyebrow. “Good gods, darling, you didn't murder the man in your home. Was it really so bad as that? Your mother, respectfully, is famous for her uncongeniality. If they are as highborn as they claim, and have intention to make headway in your circles, they ought to have been more prepared. You just said the Losstarots are kin to all the High Houses - why then begin with Aubemarle?”

Oudine doesn’t answer, merely looking coolly at her friend. A pair of sharp eyes, blue as the waters of the Rhotano Sea, return a steady gaze. 

She breathes out, setting her cup down. “I can only suppose they heard of the Viscount de Aubemarle’s naivete.”

Vliaisse tsks disapprovingly. “Come now, self-pity is not the thing. You are a grown woman of twenty seven, not a child.”

“If you persist in cutting up my good offices and casting shadows over the pieces, then I shall indulge in as much sulking as I like.”

The other Elezen frowns a little more at her before relenting. “Very well. Still, let us have the full account. I’ll not make a peep till you are done.” Her hand reaches across to pat Oudine’s soothingly.

Mollified, the Viscount narrates the short but eventful morning call that day, her mother’s testing of the new head of House Losstarot, the mystifying perspicaciousness of Lord Isillud and the unintentioned offence which had been committed.

Vliaisse does as she promised, listening patiently and keenly. For Oudine’s sake, she holds back a laugh at the part about the eclair, then frowns towards the ending.

“So, Vliaisse? Did the error merit such apologies?”

The darker skinned woman shakes her head slowly. “Well… if I were in your shoes, an invitation to the concert and Mr Ofanleitasyn's pastries would honestly have answered. But,” she says quickly when Oudine looks distressed. “We all know of your usual generosity in normal circumstances. Now that you are the one who has erred, I understand better.”

There is a short pause before Vliaisse continues, carefully. “You must realise that in the grand, crude, scheme of things, they have won. If they don’t act accordingly…” it will be the fault of House Aubemarle for pushing their reintroduction.

Oudine twists her lips in a grimace. “Yes, if one must put it that way. But I would rather be a gracious loser.” The memory of Joshua's eager curiosity and Isillud's soothing reassurance cannot but surface. 

“I want to believe in them, Vliaisse. When men return from the dead, I would rather not bury them back in the earth. Besides, sins of the father should not be inherited by the sons.”

Vliaisse notes the faraway look in Oudine's eyes. She and Remont had always been close, and closer still after their father's death; to have her brother necessarily faraway created a space within Oudine that no one else really filled. And for one who exerted herself so much in public, those she could be at ease with behind closed doors were fewer than Vliaisse thought was healthy. 

She sighs. “I suppose the hammer that accidentally strikes fingers instead of the nail still produces bruises, in spite of its intentions. And for someone as composed as Lord Isillud, it must have been a particularly large one.”

“Yes. And if I think of someone bruising me in relation to my own mother…” Oudine makes a low dissatisfied grunt. 

“...the Dowager does not deserve you.”

Oudine has to smile at that familiar phrase. “Don’t be too hard on her. More than half of those apologies were through her sole arrangements.”

“What, even Cant and Candour?”

“Even that. She promised her patronage for one future production in exchange. Not,” she lifts her hand to forestall Vliaisse's next comment. “Aubemarle money. Her own.”

Vliaisse closes her mouth. “Hmm.” There’s a moment’s pause, then she leans in, whispering theatrically, “I don’t suppose she’s lost a marble or two?”

“Vliaisse!” but Oudine is laughing now, and at least the air is some degrees lighter. They resume sipping their teas in a comfortable quiet.

Vliaisse stirs her cup contemplatively. “Still, at the end of the day, one has to wonder why such a story set him off. I see no harm in learning what one’s mother was like before one’s birth.”

Oudine shakes her head. “I meant what I said in my letter: sacred ground. ‘Tis not for you nor I nor Mamma to touch.” She takes a swig of her warm tea, pauses and says, “Mamma said Lord Isillud needs more armour if he is to stay here. I wonder if he has not already too much armour in some other way - the kind that makes his eyes glow so… preternaturally green.”

“...Oudine, you’re related.”

The Viscount instantly swats her friend’s hand. “I was not going in that direction, and you know it. Ridiculous to even suggest it.”

“Yes, since you don’t specialise in eclairs-”

“Vliaisse Vilauclaire!”

Vliaisse giggles. “Whatever Lord Isillud de Losstarot is or is not, he had best be ready. Even without your involvement, his appearance alone has stirred up the hornet's nest, as has Lord Joshua’s youth, to say nothing of the unspeakable reason they vanished from Ishgard five years ago. The gossips will have much material to work with in the coming months. To think I only anticipated explosions from the Fiouront affair. What, have you not heard the latest? Seems the heir has…”

Oudine props her cheek up with one hand, letting her friend draw her into the familiar but ever-roiling rhythm of other highborn scandals. Her own brush with it has taught her she has more stomach for being a spectator.

I have done my part, Losstarots, and so has Mamma. It shall not be the fault of Aubemarle if you do not regain your footing.

-

End.

[werewolfsmile]

With You - Ch2

The English, Whipplocke (Eli x Cornelia) Mature Rating, graphic violence, period-typical racism, post-canon, canon divergent, found family, angst 3,430 words Read it on AO3

"No! Absolutely not! I forbid it!"

Cornelia ignored her parents as she hastily packed. Wardrobes were thrown open and a myriad of clothes, accessories and other paraphernalia were strewn across the bed and floor. Silly, she did not know why she had thought to pull out so much in the first place.

Difference between what you need and what you want is what you can put on a horse.

She needed none of it, not really. She had withdrawn a new sum of money only yesterday, she had her travelling outfit, she had the items that she had set up in the memorabilia room.

She had the osprey skull. She had the magic. And one way or another, she knew it would guide her home.

"Are you listening, Cornelia?" shrieked her mother.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," muttered her father.

"You have only just returned from the Americas, to be beset by illness. Your recovery is a miracle! Doctor Houghton has requested that he be permitted to further study-"

"No." Her parents fell silent as her unexpected response. Cornelia lifted her head and finally looked them in the eye. "I am a grown woman, more than capable of making my own choices. If I say I am going, then I am going."

"Be reasonable," pleaded her mother. "We have only just gotten you back! Cornelia, it has been months, so much of it fraught with endless worry. Will you not linger just a little longer and let us enjoy this together?"

Her mother's voice was so earnest that, for a moment, Cornelia felt swayed. She reached out to accept the hand that her mother extended to her, squeezing firmly.

"Your father and I are hosting a ball this Friday night. We thought it would be the perfect opportunity to announce your recovery and return to society!"

Cornelia blanched and yanked her hand away. How could she ever consider such a thing? To dress up like the perfect, demure little lady. To observe formalities and niceties. To meet others in society – eligible bachelors, no doubt – and endure their inane prattle. To pretend that the last fifteen years had never happened, to sweep it under the rug –

Breaths heaving in her chest, Cornelia shook her head and pulled the strings shut on her bag.

"No, Mother. Father. I cannot endure any of that. After all I have been through!"

Pain swarmed the faces of her parents and her father shifted uncomfortably. Her heart ached but Cornelia resisted the lingering urge to cave to their demands. She loved them, but they did not understand.

"I do not wish to hurt you," she said softly then raised a hand to the pouch that hung around her neck, alongside the locket of her son. "But the man who gave me this? He … he is everything to me. He saved my life out there, taught me how to survive. He taught me how to live again. I have to go back and I can't explain it more clearly, but I simply know that I must!"

Her mother came around the bed and gently held her shoulders.

"Oh, my dear. I see the conviction in your eyes. And I know, you have your father's stubbornness." Cornelia could not help but smile as her mother chuckled. "Last time you left, we did not think you would ever return. But now? With you healed? 'Tis a miracle that I do not wish to squander!"

"I cannot stay, no matter how you beg," Cornelia replied softly. Her mother sighed and stroked an old, wrinkled hand across her face.

"Nor can you promise that you will return."

"No. But I will try. With him, if at all possible."

Her mother's face crumpled and she shook her head.

"No, no, I can't bear it! I cannot endure losing you a second time, I simply can't!"

Cornelia's father stepped forward and tugged her mother back. He murmured quiet reassurances under his breath as her mother began to cry. Then he turned to his daughter, face stern and solid.

"You will write to us," he said. Hope leapt within her breast.

"Yes, of course."

"Regularly. We are aware that, where you are going, there are far greater dangers than merely the post arriving on time. But you will write, as frequently as you can. Nor will you take unnecessary risks. You are my daughter and thus you have my fighting spirit, but you are also a noble lady of this house. You have a duty and reputation to uphold."

Cornelia suppressed the irrational urge to giggle. How many years had it been since her father gave her the duty and reputation speech?

"And you will come back to us, do you hear me, young lady? You will. No two ways about it."

"I will try, Father, with all my heart."

He held out is hand and reeled her in when she took it, embracing her in a way that he had not done for fifteen years.

"Then go, with speed and courage. Quickly. Before I change my mind."

Cornelia pressed a kiss to his cheek, then flew to her mother to do the same. She snatched up her bag – just the one this time – and hastened through the house. The carriage was ready and waiting for her, and excitement thrilled in her as she stepped inside.

How glorious the world seemed, with such endless possibilities at her feet. She marvelled at every beauty, fighting back the impatience that threatened to overtake her. There was no need for impatience. The magic had guided her thus far. She trusted it would not lead her astray now.

She departed from Liverpool this time. Cornelia's mind raced with possibilities as she sat on the deck of the ship and stared at the endless waves.

How would she even find Eli, after all this time? Sheriff Marshall had told him to go far away and never come back; surely that meant he'd be miles from Wyoming by now. But where?

Nebraska. The Loup. The only clues that she had and Cornelia clung to them like a lifeline. She would start there, ask around for anyone matching his description. From there, she would search every nook and cranny of that entire, vast country until she found him.

Her hand curled around the osprey skull in its pouch, and for a moment, she could feel Eli's warm hand wrapping her fingers around it.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Cornelia startled out of her thoughts, head whipping up to see the young man standing near her. Dressed smartly in a suit of the latest fashion and with a youthful smile on his handsome face, he leant against the bulwark and inhaled the salt air.

"I've not travelled overseas too often, I must confess. To the continent a handful of times, but to America? This will be an adventure like no other!" The man glanced down at her and blushed lightly before turning to face her properly. "Apologies for interrupting you, and my lack of introduction. Mr Alexander Thornridge, at your service."

"Lady Cornelia Locke," she replied and held out her hand. "How do you do?"

"Charmed, my lady." Alexander took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a soft kiss to the back of the leather glove. A shiver ran through Cornelia and she fought the urge to yank her hand away. It was not his touch she yearned for. "Is this your first trip to America, as well?"

She shook her head and turned her gaze out to see as her hand was relinquished.

"Second."

"Truly! Then, you've seen some of the wonders for yourself? Oh, it must have been terribly exciting!"

She nodded absently, more concerned with the memories that filled her mind.

"From the moment I set foot on her shores. 'Twas an adventure rife with danger but … One I would not trade for the whole world."

Alexander sighed wistfully and Cornelia glanced up at him. He looked so young and innocent, so wholly unprepared for the violence in the west. Yet then again, she had no way of knowing if he was headed west or instead to one of the safer, established cities.

"Might I inquire as to the destination of your journey?" she asked. "New York, perhaps?"

His smile grew broader, as though he had been waiting for such a question.

"No, in fact. I am headed to Nebraska. I'm to be a homesteader, can you believe it?" Alexander laughed but Cornelia could not return it. The smile faded from her face and she turned her gaze back to the ocean. This young man, little more than a boy, was heading into the west to start a new life.

Dressed in his finery with his hair perfectly coiffed and not a wrinkle on his skin anywhere. Did he not know the hardships that lay ahead? How would he survive, as green as he was?

"I suppose, then, that you have associates you will be meeting up with?" she asked nervously.

"Some," he confirmed and she let out a breath. "They say the land is rich and fertile. I have studied agriculture and horticulture at university, so I know a thing or two myself. My father thinks I'm mad, you know. Says I should stay at home and continue the family business. But I have no desire to be a lawyer, so here I am! Throwing away my future, as my father would say. Ah, but is it not exciting? To take your destiny into your own hands and see what you can make of it!"

Every word hurt to hear. Cornelia's heart ached and she longed for the comforting touch of Eli's hand on her shoulder, his solid warmth at her side.

"The allotments are reasonably priced at the moment, too. I would be a fool not to seize this opportunity. And yes, of course, I have heard tales of the dangers. But honestly, humanity is more civilised than the papers would like us to believe. Why should I fear the Indian or the outlaw? Such tales are far more exaggerated than people think! My friends have had no such issues and they write to me every couple of months!"

"Oh, Mister Thornridge. The west will eat you alive." Cornelia stood and turned on her heel, ignoring Alexander's surprised blustering. "Please excuse me."

She returned to her cabin and fought down the anger that seethed within her veins. What a fool! A childish, starry eyed fool! He would most likely be dead within the next couple of months, a year at the most. And for what? A chance at adventure? A new start on land that would never truly belong to him?

Cornelia pressed a hand to her lips. Had it truly only been a few short months ago that she set out for the first time? How similar had she been to Alexander Thornridge? She should not have survived – she had never intended to – and yet fate had other plans.

Perhaps fate would be kind to Alexander. But she doubted it.

~*~

Red Feather spoke fluent English. Said her parents had taught her the same as they taught her their own tongue. Never knew when she might need it. Turned out, speaking English had saved her life. She was able to sneak away at the right moment thanks to overhearing the men's plans. If not for one man turning around early and catching a glimpse of her disappearing form, she would have put a far greater distance between them than only a few moments.

Eli did not find they had much need for conversing with each other. English or sign language, either worked fine for the times they needed to communicate, but the rest of their time was spent in companionable silence.

A part of him hated the silence. He longed for a feminine voice to fill it with her whimsical yet strangely romantic chatter. Heartache stabbed through him and he looked to Red Feather instead.

A new life. A new purpose. He had to hold to that. Cornelia would not want him to become stuck in the past.

Finding Red Feather a mount was as simple as killing a couple of bushwhackers. Eli let her choose the horse she wanted and watched in amusement when she struggled to shorten the stirrups for her young legs.

"Need help?" he finally asked and she threw a glare over her shoulder. "No shame in asking for help."

"I can do it," she retorted. Still, the leather refused to budge. With a snarl of frustration, Red Feather gave up and scrambled into the saddle defiantly. Her feet hung at least a foot above the stirrups but she held her chin proudly. Eli made no comment, instead squeezing his own horse on.

She lasted the entire day before she caved and asked for his help at night. Eli showed her how to soften the leather after it had grown stiff. Together, they shortened the stirrups to an appropriate length before they settled in for the night.

Having a child along reduced his travel speed somewhat. Eli had no clear destination in mind, merely roaming where the wind took him, but he still noted that he could not ride as far each day. Red Feather tired more easily and was slower in her preparations.

There was a time that such things would frustrate him to the point he would leave the child somewhere. Not this time. It no longer hurt to think back on his own children – his two boys and three girls, all taken before their time. Red Feather reminded him of them. Young and vibrant yet already hardening against the horrors of the world.

Eli silently vowed to protect her, to keep her soft to the beauty and wonder of it all, just as Cornelia had done for him.

Ten days after they started travelling together, Eli slowly turned the wheat seed jar in one hand under the light of the stars. His other was tucked behind his head as he lay on his bedroll, thoughts miles away. He wondered where she was now. Was she suffering a slow death? Or had the sickness taken her, sudden and violent?

"What is that?" Red Feather asked and Eli flicked a glance towards her. She lay on the other side of the campfire, rolled onto her side with one hand propping her head up.

"Medicine," he replied. Red Feather frowned, staring at the jar anew.

"Don't look like any medicine I ever seen."

"Medicine comes in many forms. You're too young to know that yet. But you'll learn."

Eli wrapped the jar back in his bundle, and stowed it all in his bag. The sound of crickets filled the night air with a familiar chorus. His eyes drifted over the stars above, picking out the constellation Cornelia had shown him. The scorpion. Then to the one next to it, the wolf.

Wherever she was, whether she still lived or not, Eli hoped she knew he was still with her.

"Eli?" Red Feather spoke softly. He turned his head to her and waited for the rest. She poked at the ground with a plucked stalk of grass for a long moment as she gathered her courage. "What do you plan to do with me?"

He stared in surprise. Had he not already made that clear enough? Perhaps not, not to a child.

"Take you with me, as I have done."

Red Feather chewed on her lip and risked a glance at him before daring to speak again.

"Why?"

"Hmm. Way I see it, there's nothing else for it. You got no one, I got no one. Together … At least we have each other. That's better than being alone, isn't it?"

There was so much more to it, words he wanted to share about magic and a woman who had changed his life. But Red Feather was too young to understand. She needed simplicity for now. With time, she would come to see the magic for herself and be ready for the full tale.

"If we find some other Indians, will you give me to them?"

"Would you want that?" Eli asked in turn. Red Feather kept her eyes lowered as she shook her head. "Then that's your answer."

"But …" She crushed the stalk of grass in her hand, a flash of raw vulnerability darting over her face. "I'm not your blood. I'm your enemy. Why would you want me?"

Her voice was small and fragile. It pierced through Eli's heart, sharper than any knife, and left him longing to comfort her. How long had it been since he held his daughters or his sons in his arms? How long since he wiped away their tears, soothed their fears, and rocked them to sleep?

How long since he felt like a father?

"See your skin?" he asked and she stared at him, eyes glassy. "Same colour as mine. Feel that earth beneath you? Feels like you belong, don't it? 'Cause you were born to this land, same as I was. Blood of your ancestors in your veins, they been here for thousands of years. Just like mine. There is more the same between our blood than there is any difference."

A tear slipped down her face, onto the ground below.

"It don't matter to me that we come from different tribes. You ain't done me no wrong, and I don't intend to wrong you, either. You're not my enemy. You're my daughter. So long as you want that, too."

More tears flowed down her face but she made no move to staunch them. She nodded, signing to him with a shaky hand. Eli signed back, accepting the words she was not strong enough to voice.

Red Feather lay back down, weeping softly. Eli watched her for a time but did not push her to accept his presence or his comfort. Her trauma was still fresh, her pain raw. She would come to him when she was ready. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried not to let the memories overwhelm him.

Eli wanted a family. It had taken him so long to admit that to himself, but now he had finally accepted it. Still, he could not help but yearn for someone to help share the burden.

With you.

He could not share this with Cornelia. But he could live it for her. He could love again and build something new – both with Red Feather and the wheat seeds in his bag.

Eli drifted off to sleep with that flicker of hope kindling in his chest.

He woke hours later to a distant coyote howling on the plain. Something shifted beside him and his eyes snapped open.

Red Feather. He recognised her barely a split second before he would have gone for his knife. She was shivering, her eyes still glassy from tears and her own blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She lay down next to him, gently wriggling closer, until there was only a breath of distance between them.

Eli closed it. He opened his blanket and pulled her in, then wrapped the blanket over her. With this silent permission granted, Red Feather burrowed against him. Her limbs were bony and he grunted as an elbow jabbed his ribs. Her hair tickled his chin and her nose was cold against his neck.

None of this mattered. He took in a deep breath, learning her scent – foreign, yet familiar. Youthful. It elicited memories of campfire meals, of laughing with his wife, wrestling with his sons, and dancing with his daughters. It coaxed that little flicker of hope in his chest to burn a little brighter.

They needed a plan. Wandering the plains without direction was well and good when he was on his own, but with a new daughter? Eli wanted better for her.

He would have to deal with the bounty on his head, first. Life was dangerous enough even when there weren't men hunting him by name. He would have to find somewhere safe to leave Red Feather –

No. He couldn't do that, not after he had told her he wouldn't give her away.

So. She would come with him. It would be dangerous and anxiety clenched at the thought of another child's blood on his hands. But she was not helpless, she had proven that already.

Then there was nothing else for it. Eli would have to teach her. Satisfied, he curled his arms tighter around his new daughter and let the stars above lull him back to sleep.

[desireandduty]

What caused Padme to fall in love with Anakin? ie: what draws her to him?

These are in no particular order okay? Also this post got so long I can't even. I also took so long responding to it bit by bit that now I have to tag your new blog @inevitablehe aslkdfjadslf.

Reason #1 - because he's forthright and therefore dependable I think this is a common head canon, but his utter lack of guile and the word vomit-y way he tries to flirt with her is a perk not a bug. She's had a decade of being surrounded by smooth-talking courtiers, politicians, business leaders, etc. who will flatter her ego in order to get what they want out of her. Padmé is very smart and a good student of people. She can tell when she's just being buttered up. She might find the dishonesty irritating, but it's just part of the world she's chosen to enter. And by the time she's 24, she does know it's a downside. Imagine what 10 years of living in that world would do to you? Always having to suspect and question people's motives when they do or say something nice for you. Always wondering if or when an ally will turn on you.

Then in marches Anakin, who has been raised and socialized by space monks all through puberty. He has never seen the concepts of smooth talking, flattery or even honest flirting modeled for him by the adults in his life (because space monks, remember.) And to top it off, he has an extremely expressive face. They haven't seen each other in ten years, and the very first thing he says to her is: "So have you, grown more beautiful... for a senator, I mean." And then he immediately blushes and looks down, because he realizes that delivery was... so rough. She knows he can't have said that just to butter her up, because he said it in the most awkward way possible. If he was an accomplished flirt who used his boyish looks and charm for his own gain, he would be... y'know... good at flirting.

Reason #2 - because he helps her lighten up and makes her feel free There's a deleted scene from the Naboo mountain meadow where he's talking about how she has the weight of the world on her shoulders and needs to lighten up. And then he starts juggling fruit or something ridiculous to make her laugh. But notice that in the 3 films of the prequel trilogy, most of the time when Padmé is smiling or laughing, it's because of Anakin. Especially in AOTC.

In general, Padmé is a very strong, determined leader who willingly shoulders heavy burdens, who feels responsible for like... billions of beings who she represents. She knows that she is gifted, beloved, respected, and she feels like she cannot just squander those things and lead a frivolous life merely because she was also born into upper middle class privilege. Her compassionate heart makes it hard for her to rest and relax when she knows there's so much evil and horror out there in the galaxy.

The people she spends her time with on a daily basis are her staff, who treat her deferentially, and other politicians, who are also ambitious workaholics like she is. Then, suddenly, she is sent back to Naboo on what's essentially a forced vacation with Anakin as escort. And while he is also deferential to her (because it's his nature thanks to his upbringing), he primarily interacts with her as Padmé the person. He talks about real things with her, but he also gives her the freedom to ask questions, express her real feelings/opinions. And, most importantly, he encourages her to laugh!

Reason #3 - because he sees her as Padmé, not Amidala It helps that in their first meeting, she was posing as "just Padmé." But even the snippets that we have from books and stuff, we know that over their 10 year separation, he was always thinking of her as Padmé the woman not Amidala the Queen-turned-Senator. He fell in love with her, not her job or title. And even 10 years later in AOTC, then ROTS, everything he does is not for the sake of "protect the Senator," it's from a place of "protect Padmé."

She knows that if she quit the Senate tomorrow, he wouldn't love or respect her any less. He tells her in a million little ways that he thinks she's capable of anything she sets her mind to, that she'll be an asset no matter where she decides to work. Contrast this with the realm of politics where everyone is always looking for things to nitpick about her. She's spent so long living and working behind her Amidala mask, partially to be more effective but also to protect herself from that unending criticism. And yet Anakin has always seen her real self. She's never felt the need to hide from him, because he's always accepted, supported and cherished her.

[miniscrew-anon]

HSH Febuwhump Day 27 - Survivors Guilt

Obligatory Legend Chapter. I mean, how could I not with a prompt like this?

Some details from the past pay a bit of homage to another talented writer’s work, “all the go-inbetweens” by AnonymousCatastrophe405. It’s s Legend/Marin prequel fic and I highly recommend it!

----

There was a place on a corner. A bodega, maybe. Or a little pharmacy. Or a general store. He can’t remember. A young woman worked there. Bubbly, mouthy, a real gossip. But she was nice.

Then there was a middle aged woman. She had three dogs - BowWow and Ciao and Mr. Chow and fuck Why are those the names he can remember? - and he’d pass by and sometimes take them for walks. They were always excited to see him and, secretly, he was excited to see them too. 

There was a bar there, too. Near the marina, used by tourists during the summer seasons and always filled with rich assholes. The bartender was a rich asshole, too, he remembers. A real dick. Legend thinks they might have been friends anyway. 

The place was near the cafe.

He can’t remember what it was called, or who really worked there. He remembers the kitchen vividly though. He was there for a few hours a day, washing dishes and working over the stove to fill orders. The coffee machines and freezer and the little custodian closet filled with mops and cleaner solution. 

He remembers the mangoes. 

It’s frustrating that he can remember that little bin of fruit more than he can remember the woman who owned them. That he can remember the first bite, over a cup of espresso with lemon, more than the woman who cut it open for him.  That he can remember that he never got to try them with Goron spice like she recommended more than he can remember her damn name. 

Legend stares at the small display of fruit, knuckles white around the plastic handles of his shopping basket. It’s late afternoon in Termina and Legend is standing in the middle of a supermarket, basket filled with bare essentials. 

Hyrule will be home in half an hour. Legend needs to be done cooking by then, or the student is going to go to his classes hungry. He doesn’t have much time to waste. Legend left the apartment to grab a few things for dinner. Cooking is just one way he’s able to earn his keep. Even though he knows its nothing compared to everything Hyrule has given him. Food, shelter, company - a reason to keep going.

(It’s sad that he needed a reason to keep going - as if living for livings sake isn’t enough.)

(How many people died? How many hopeful souls were lost while his sorry ass got to live? How many with dreams and goals were swept out to sea to drown? Doesn’t he know how many people would have given anything to survive?  And here he is thinking about squandering his secondthirdfourth chance? How goddamn selfish is he-?)

It’s raining today. The ick of the city is being dredged up by the torrential downpour. Rain makes him feel on edge. Maybe it’s the way it makes his clothes cling to him. Or the rotten smell of wet garbage. Or the puddles that dampen his socks. 

Maybe.

(It didn't make him feel musty before. He thinks he used to like the rain.)

He doesn’t have much money to waste but he still leaves the store with a single mango. He doesn’t acknowledge its existence until he’s put away everything else and his casserole is in the oven, already set to be done the moment Hyrule walks through the door. 

Then it’s just him and a piece of fruit. 

He stands across the room from it, arms crossed and guard up. As if he expects the damn thing to stand up and attack him. It doesn’t. Of course. It just sits there on the counter. Benignly. 

It makes Legend's eyes itch. 

It’s bittersweet cutting it open. The smell is nostalgic. As is the stickiness of his hands. And the calming motion of peeling back the skin and exposing the bright orange flesh. Legend cuts it in half and puts one in the fridge for Hyrule. 

He takes a bite out of the other. It was sweeter in his memories.

----

Legend has issues but he’ll be okay. Probably

[garymower]

I feel lost again almost. After our talk last night I am feeling like the worst parts of myself. The part of me that doesn’t know how to find perspective when I have issues with something I can’t control someone that loves me unconditionally. My brain is wired to dwell on the things that aren’t working.

My brain wants to go to the good parts because it makes me feel good, like I’m accomplishing things and steering my life.

I internalized everything that anyone said, even movies and music and couldn’t follow my true identity or intuition and maybe I’m still clinging myself to one off things that support my feelings or cause because I can’t be okay with what’s right here.

I wanted Jake to be more of a “man” or more put together because it was pulling me back and putting me out. That’s not love. I have stayed with Jake for some selfish reasons, wanting all and everything from him.

I can’t give him all of the things I’ve done trying to make my brain work.

I feel close to unhinged. This is so much change and uncertainty that I’m fucking squandering. I can’t hold onto the side where it all makes sense why I chose to leave and how right it felt, how empowering it felt. Am I using the facts that keep me out of blame and into perfection? I feel the doubts and self realization creep up shortly after I feel clarity about a situation. I don’t know how to be okay with my decisions or thought process because now it feels like it’s all about my inability to express on a regular basis what my needs are because of the energy/reactions he’s put off. I have blamed him for my insurgence. Heeeeeee’s the reason why I can’t have what I want or need. That’s not entirely true. I could have what I need if I could communicate and love him through it. He makes me feel so loved and is communicative and goes to EMDR for gods sakes but I can’t help him with finances?

How could I expect or think he could do better when he refused to pay our taxes? My trauma is different.

But mare, remember that you came to this conclusion for a reason and of course all of this shit is going to rise up. My shit.

Tonight I need my mantra to be, for tomorrow, be with what’s here. What am I trying to force. This is uncomfortability for me to the max and I was able to be more confident about it when things are happening and I feel up. When nothing is going on and it’s just me and I’m not accomplishing things or subconsciously distracting myself or believing I am important and worthy because of blankity blank, I see into the worst parts of myself. So I hide from them. I blame others. My healing is healing from me. I am so amazing in so many ways and want to believe I am not the reason this relationship is crumbling. Or maybe has already crumbled. I want to be good so badly. I feel like I used to see Jake more and see past his triggers and emotional overwhelm but just started to see it getting in my way. These realizations are exactly what I chose and want to still choose to do for myself but god fucking dammit am I struggling to see a future with and let alone without him.

My mood disorder really confuses things because I came to the conclusion that if something makes me feel up then it must be right. No not everything makes you feel up. I didn’t want to sit in the uncomfortability and hardness of our marriage because it felt like that was all it was. Healing, talking, argument after argument, everything seemed hard and I couldn’t rest with the flooding thoughts pouring in about how I was always doing way more than him and he couldn’t even take the dog in a walk regularly. I know he’s like me and when we’re focused on something we get into a routine and have a hard time branching outside of that. We are so similar yet so different and I can’t stop thinking about everything.

I don’t want to dwell but is this what I should be doing? Now and not later? Idk what to do.

[boblzzysfreak]

Whores’s Son / Alfalfa Cunt Man,

Let’s just go back and forth directly shithole. After all you are fucking toilet like all Trump traitor pigs, so I will shit right in your face. Maybe you can learn to read and write while I shit on you. How many days now until Trump gets flushed down the drain by a black woman? I suppose your funding will have dried up by then and the devil will be giving you 11 cents to lie about something else. Well, let me assure you pig, you and your cunt friends are done because you have ruined everything. The whole world smells like Trump shit and will never be OK again. The only thing left is making sure Trump cunt American traitor whores like you and everyone you know never have a good day again either. You and your worthless shithole friends filled the world with so much shit that women have stopped having children. Your filthy garbage is so fucking ugly and smells so bad that pussies around the world snap shut just thinking of you. Civilization ruining levels of cunt shittery.

Baby boomers ruined the whole fucking world. Your parents bought you everything. They built you Disney Land for Christ sakes. They gave us a fortune only you worthless shit bags could have squandered as you have. Generation cunt shit failure. Generation whining, garbage, cry baby cunt men. Generation, filthy whore women, like the pig who shit you out on to the Earth. Filthy, shit slicked, roadie fucking pigs asses with their 20 abortions saying young woman today are whores. The baby boomer shit whores are the filthiest, ugliest shittiest pig whores who ever stained the earth. Baby boomer cunt hole men are cry baby, traitor whore bitches. If your grandparents could see how you have sold out to Russia, they would kill you with their hands. Undoubtedly, you would scream about how you were going to shoot them with your gun the whole time, like the worthless cunt shit baby you all are. I will teach my grandchildren to curse your filthy, shitty memories. They will build toilets on your graves.

What next pigs ass? Are you going to call me a writer who writes to much? You haven’t chanted gun gun gun in a few minutes, have you run out of meth?

Holy shit, baby boomer, gun, I would never accuse you of being a writer! This is fun fuckin with such a retarded demofaggot like you. Someone as fucking stupid as you is a great find. Maybe the antifa remark was more than you could take, you just resemble the little pussies so much. Let's just agree that you're a faggot and get on with your pathetic existence as a demofag. I think I've changed my mind about abortion though, it could've prevented a bunch of scared, fucked up little bitches like you from ever being born. What that whore who had you was thinking by hatching such a faggot like you, I don't know. Anyway, I'm bored with burning your sorry ass, it's just too easy. Take my advice though, try to stop being a scared little faggot, guy's like me will be there to save our country from asswipes like Kuntmala Hairless and Tampon Tim. Going to love seeing all you green and yellow hair faggots kicking and screaming on Nov. 6th you stupid mother fuckers!

[beatrice-reden-official]

Ok ok epic cool let's go. I will warn you Dr. Blac isn't the best at the beginning but she gets better.

-

Frank limped into Dr. Blac's lab. Despite the lab seeming hostile with all its unknown metal contraptions and bubbling tubes of something, Frank felt right at home here. It could hear some clanking in the back, and limped towards the noise. A short woman with puffy, greying black hair with white streaks in it poked her head around the corner. With her goggles, black gloves and labcoat, she looked like she had been ripped right out of a black and white science fiction movie. Before it could say anything, Dr. Blac started talking.

"Frank! I didn't expect you, you should have called. And what did I say about that mask, I told you I don't like you wearing it!"

Frank mumbled an apology as it took its face off, hooking it to its belt.

"Sorry, mama. I just-"

"Don't call me that. I'm not your mother."

Frank shrank back.

"Sorry. I was just told to come here, I twisted my knee really badly and I can't fix it..."

Dr. Blac hustled over, looking it up and down.

"Eh, you are due for a new skeleton anyways. Come on."

She led it to an examination table, and helped it up onto it. She poked at its knee, trying to figure out exactly what was wrong.

"So how did you twist it?"

Frank looked incredibly embarrassed. It mumbled something under its breath.

"Speak up! I can't fix this if I don't know what kind of break this is!"

"...I was skateboarding."

Dr. Blac paused her examination.

"Skateboarding?! Why would you be doing that? You are an agent, not some rowdy teen!"

Frank felt its face heat up in embarrassment, and it buried its face in its hands.

"I am just looking after some kids...they asked me to, I didn't do it on my own..."

"You're what?"

"Looking after some kids! You know, the ones that found the generator. The Director asked me to. I want to go back to my missions but she refuses to give me more."

Dr. Blac shook her head, getting her tools ready.

"She's brilliant usually but...I didn't make you to be a babysitter. You are a reconnaissance agent, for God's sake! This is an insult!"

Frank felt something heat up in its chest. It felt something bitter rise up and come out in its voice.

"Right, because I'm just a tool."

Dr. Blac lifted up her goggles and narrowed her eyes.

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

"You didn't? Because it feels an awful lot like that's all I am to you. A tool. Just like everything else in your lab!"

"No! I just hate that your abilities are being squandered!"

Frank sat up, shaking with anger.

"I didn't ask to be made like this! I didn't ask to have all these 'abilities', you gave them to me! And you can't even let me have the face I want!"

"That is a different issue altogether."

"No it isn't! Why do you never listen?"

Frank tried to get off the table, but Dr. Blac pushed it back down.

"Frank. I don't like you wearing that mask because of who gave it to you."

Frank rolled its eyes.

"Yeah, well, Miss X was more of a mother to me than you ever were."

Dr. Blac went silent for a long minute. Frank actually sort of regretted saying that.

"...you think so?"

Dr. Blac sat down on a nearby office chair, rubbing her face and sighing.

"I...god, how do I...Frank. Do you really want to know why you're like this?"

It nodded.

"Miss X told me to. I didn't want...I didn't want to make you like you are. I wanted to have you grow normally, like what we're doing with Fran. But no, Miss X told me that she needed her agent right now, so you had to grow up right away. You know why your face is like that? Because I grew you from my own cells. That's why it hurts when you wear the mask. She's taken over my child and...," She choked back a sob, "It's all my fault."

Frank felt conflicted.

"Is that why you hate me calling you mama?"

She just nodded. She looked on the verge of tears. Frank played with the cuff if its sleeve.

"...I...I don't want to hate you. You have tried to be nice to me, and...I want to be your daughter. I just thought you didn't want that. I didn't think you wanted me."

Dr. Blac shook her head, sighing.

"No, Frank, I just...I have been too hard on you. Everyone has."

She walked over to it, patting its hand.

"If...if it makes you feel better, you can wear your mask. Your comfort is important to me."

Frank smiled up at her, sitting up and hugging her.

"Thank you, mama."

"You're welcome, sweetie. Now, let's fix your knee, ok?"

OUGH I... OUGH I EJRJEJEKEKEKE MAN

[unspokenpaindiaries]

Unboxing The Pain

I'm in despair, standing at the darkest point in my life. Writing this letter provides a bit of relief. My hope is that sharing my story might encourage other women to recognize relationship red flags and have the courage to break free.

I am hurt, and I wish I could stop it. I am emotionally, physically, verbally, and financially abused and exhausted. There's hardly a day that goes by without me weeping my eyes out from crying.

The frustration of spending 18 years, half of my life with someone who repeatedly chose lies has left me feeling deceived and hurt. I poured everything I had into the relationship, only to be fooled, wounded, and left with nothing- financially and emotionally broke.

After I googled “how to die with sleeping pills”, I thought about what is life after death. Are we just another star in the sky? What about hell?  How about the insurance? Are they gonna pay for my kids' education? Random thoughts of the unknown clouded my mind. Then the faces of my kids that ditch the idea of suicide.

Honestly, how can I find the strength to recover and fight back the weakness that is swallowing my life. I am exhausted - in all aspects of my life. 

Every time he complains about my constant worries and nags, claiming he'll suffer until 2026 for debts incurred in his failed business due to his relentless drinking and gambling, it drives me insane. His confession about squandering seven figures and nearly a million in cash, while finding a way to escape his drinking problem, is beyond comprehension.

Coupled with receiving news of a bounced check for a business loan shattered me like never before. It was the breaking point. Alone, with no support system, tears flowed uncontrollably. What makes it so unbearable is he just disappeared for a two-day drinking session.

The thought of what I've put my children through added to the unexplainable pain.

How can I continue bearing the burden of everything while supporting the family? How do I aid the employees of the business with nowhere else to turn?

How can I continue paying for their education funds?

I've reached the pinnacle of physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion. Amidst all this, all I receive is blame. He carries on without any  burden of responsibility.

Last 2020, I founded and supported him to start a junk shop business despite his alcoholism, and being away most of the time at our house due to his drinking with his acquaintances. He would be gone for days.

He promised that he would step up and start helping me around with our finances. He would stop drinking and make himself busy with the junk shop business. Also, he will be helping with our finances so I can free up some time to spend quality time with my kids. 

I chose to believe his promises for nearly two decades, foolishly hoping for change. His commitment to helping me with finances and quitting drinking never materialized.

I settled down at 18 while he was 25. Over 18 years and four kids later, here I am as I looked back on the red flags early on.

Drinking, gambling, lack of responsibility and the empathy of the impact of his actions. I literally had to explain and argue why I needed help raising the kids. I had to kneel down just to emphasize how I need help because I am already extremely tired from work, household chores and managing the kids.

I'm now burdened with unimaginable debts, fighting to survive for my children's sake, pay bills, and keep the insurance. Keeping everything afloat.

I am worn out and left with nothing to give but my kids are my strength to carry on and start over. 

After almost two decades, I realized there are things that can't be fixed and it’s not my responsibility either. I chose to not prioritize myself, my kids and accept the situation as it is - and to face the reality that it is the time to let go.

I’ve been working hard to manage a stable business, securing a better future for my children, owning a family home, establishing a community dog shelter, and even pursuing a career as a lawyer. However, I've come to realize that I am doing everything all along with the wrong person -- with a narcissistic man,.

[akaraboonline]

10 Reasons Why I Trust My Heart Over My Head & Why You Should, Too

Some argue that when making major decisions, you should listen to your head rather than your heart, but I wholeheartedly (pun intended) disagree. I won't deny that being rational is important, but there are plenty of reasons why I've never made a major decision without first consulting my heart. 10 Reasons Why I Trust My Heart Over My Head & Why You Should, Too My heart inspires me to be bold. My mind may be at the wheel, but my heart is the one pressing the accelerator. I would not have achieved any of my goals if my heart hadn't pushed me to go outside my comfort zone and try something that would make me a better person. I’d rather regret what I did than what I didn’t do. Sure, I could make a list of pros and cons for every decision I've ever had to make, but where's the fun in that? I want to live a passionate and regret-free life. I'd feel like I'd squandered my life if I didn't make any mistakes along the way because I was too focused on making wise decisions. There is no way to live life to the fullest if you always listen to your heart. It's simply not possible. Life isn’t rational. It would be incredibly boring if it were. When it wants to be, life is unpredictable, messy, and downright tragic. However, it can also be enlightening, beautiful, and intoxicating. If I lived rationally all of the time, I would miss out on experiencing everything life has to offer. I'm aware that this increases my risk of injury, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. My heart takes risks that my mind wouldn’t. When it comes to making decisions, my heart is unconcerned about the risks involved. Its only desire is to dive in and see what happens, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Life is dangerous, and I'd rather take chances than play it safe. If you only listen to your head, you will never leave your comfort zone. That is not the way to live. I’d rather feel than think. Everything affects me deeply. That's just how I'm wired. I think it's a good thing, too, because it makes life more meaningful. Thoughts will keep me safe, but being able to truly feel everything that happens to me will help me get through the bad times and enjoy the good. 10 Reasons Why I Trust My Heart Over My Head & Why You Should, Too My subconscious knows me best. conscious mind knows a lot about me, but what lies beneath it all are some of my best qualities. My best qualities tend to shine through when I listen to my heart. They may not always lead me to act logically, but it's a small price to pay for displaying the person I am today to the world. If I use too much of my mind, I’ll just overthink everything. I overthink situations whenever I try to use common sense. I don't mean to do it, but it happens. When I overthink, every situation becomes more stressful than it needs to be. When I listen to my heart, however, there is no overthinking. My heart allows me to be true to myself. My mind tells me to do certain things because it's expected of me, but my heart tells me, "Screw everyone else's opinions and do you." I live an authentic life because I have the ability to follow my heart over my mind. If I'm always trying to be objective, who I am on the inside will never be able to shine through. That would be a real shame for both myself and my partners. There’s more to life than rational choices. Sometimes in life, logic and strategy are required. But if that was all I used to pursue my dreams, I'd never get anywhere. Life would be boring without mistakes, and I'll always prefer to make a mistake now and then if it means I can enjoy the things that make my heart sing. I value my emotions. My mind has helped me make some of the best decisions of my life, but those experiences would have meant nothing to me if my heart hadn't had such a strong influence on me. I would never sacrifice my emotions for the sake of logic. Love truly makes me happy, and if feeling it means I don't always listen to my head, so be it. Read the full article