#and was less conspicuous with his faults

[eccentricmya]

Hot take! A villainous read of Maedhros' character:

So Maedhros and his search for Elured and Elurin. I think what he regretted from that whole episode, was not that he couldn’t find them, but that he had tried to find them at all. I see him as someone proud (descendant of Míriel and Fëanor) and afraid of failure (the eldest child), so when he failed in finding them… Well, he convinces himself it’s for the better as they were a hindrance to the Oath, especially as he later learns Elwing fled with the Silmaril.

Now take this and bring this to the Havens. He curses himself for that fruitless search for Dior’s twin, when he should’ve chased after Elwing instead. No matter, he can do that in Sirion now. Maybe they hear about Elwing’s twins being around somewhere, but Maedhros this time will not go after the wrong quarry. So he chases after Elwing to her ultimate jump, while Maglor finds the twins to keep. But his prey eludes him still, the silmaril gone with the wind and Maedhros has failed once again.

Now take this, and bring this to the end of the War of Wrath. Maglor is pleading with him to repent and surrender. But Maedhros is dispossessed of everything but his pride and the Oath, so to that he shall keep. He is the eldest after all. He MUST succeed at all costs. So to the Host of Aman they go and steal the Silmarils. And lo. He may clutch them but he cannot possess them, so he was destined to fail all along. No matter what he does, it is not in his destiny to succeed.

Take this all in the backdrop of Nirnaeth. The biggest stain on his career as a leader. His biggest failure. Something he cannot reason away, so he must rectify. Score a victory to erase the loss.

And view his jump into a fiery chasm through the lens of him seeking death on Thangorodrim when Fingon came (something I believe was especially denied to him by Morgoth for Maedhros would rather die than be brought so low, while Morgoth would enjoy his humiliation).

His valiant deeds as Lord of Himring are a part of him restoring his pride. Even his kingship he gave up himself, lest it be taken from him through the Doom. And when he had stood aside at Losgar, it was perhaps in pursuit of keeping a promise made to Fingon. No oathbreaker shall he be now at Losgar, not when he had killed to keep the Oath at Aqualonde.

That is how I see him. As someone proud to a fault and deathly afraid of failing the responsibility put on him by his infamous yet illustrious father, in whose shadow he’s bound to live forever.

[icallhimjoey]

okay so what if for once joe was the drama queen cos he’s Big Mad over some stuff…how would that play out

this guy's a whole idiot, im not sure i like him all that much... Wordcount: 2.3K

---

I Prefer The Moon Anyway

“I’m sorry...”

If someone asked you without Joe in the room, you’d tell them Joe was being an unreasonable little bitch boy.

“I said I’m sorry.”

But Joe is right there, ignoring you, and you’re apologising just to apologise. You know he wants to hear it, so you’re giving him the words, even if they’re empty.

“I heard you.” Joe’s remark is cold. He can tell you don’t mean it. That you are just avoiding a fight. He doesn’t blame you, he wants a fight even less than you, but you’re annoying him in a way he doesn’t have the words for.

If someone was to ask him without you in the room, he’d tell them this is the exact point of a relationship at which he’d usually turn into stone. This is where he grows numb. Cares less. Starts to protect himself in silence and prepares for the inevitable break up that’s coming.

The beginning of the end.

“But what do you want me to do?” you ask, sounding a little more desperate and helpless than you want, but you can’t help it. Joe’s asking something ridiculously unreasonable. Something you can’t give him. Don’t want to give him. It doesn’t help that you think he’s actually being a dramatic baby who feels like he’s not gotten enough attention. A coddled man who wants the whole world to bend to his needs.

Joe just shrugs. Knows exactly what he wants you to do.

And to be fair, the world has bent to his needs for ages, so who is to blame him for expecting you to do the same?

Joe’s pouting.

He looks like a child who’s overdoing a sad face to get a little empathy from his classmates. Like the kids all across the playground need to see that he’s hurt. Like he needs to guilt-trip them into giving him the toy that he allegedly saw first so he stops crying and they can all be friends again.

You fucking hate it.

“Can you hear yourself, though?” you try for some logic. For some critical thinking skills. Does he see, in the grand scheme of things, how utterly ridiculous he’s being?

Joe shrugs again, but this time it’s conspicuously uninvolved. Like he doesn’t give a single shit about how unreasonable he’s being. He’s gone from acting like you’re burning down the whole world to suddenly acting like he’d rather live on the moon anyway. Burn it, bitch. Whatever. He couldn’t care less.  

He won’t reach out to touch you tonight. He’s going to break your one rule if you keep this up. All because of schedules that never seem to coordinate – something that’s neither his fault or yours.

“I sure can. Can you?” Joe bites back, wants to hear a sincere apology from you. He wants to hear in your voice that he’s right and that he’s not selfish for wanting what he wants. For feeling the way he feels. Not his fault he loves you.

That’s what he’ll bring it back to – always.

He just loves you a lot.

How can you hate him for that, Big Wet Brown Sad Eyes™? Hmm?

Which... it’s so unfair.

And selfish.

He wants you to drop everything at a moment’s notice because he needs you right now. Doesn’t give a shit about what you need.

It’s fucking selfish, is what it is.

And the problem is that Joe’s selfishness is exactly what’s put you where you are now, in his living room, in a weird fight that you would both rather not be a part of.

“Please repeat what you’re asking of me.” You narrow your eyes at him as you look over your shoulder, convinced that he knows he’s wrong and that he should be the one apologising to you.

“Is it too much to ask of my girlfriend to spend time with me?” 

You sigh. You’re so frustrated. That’s not what he’s asking of you - that’s what he’s dressing it up as, which is unfair. What Joe’s asking is for you to drop your work at a moment’s notice because he’s suddenly found an evening off in his schedule and he decided he wants to spend it with you. But he hasn’t actually checked to see if you have the time. Just assumed that you did.

A risky assumption to make.

Because you don’t.

“You know I barely get any time to myself, I don’t know when I’ll have a night off next... could be weeks.” Joe places both hands on your shoulders to give you a little squeeze there. Massages the muscles in places he knows are tight just from the look of you. Gets his mouth close to your ear and lowly says, “Come on, baby. It’s just one night.”

You need to finish work.

There’s a deadline tomorrow you need to make, no questions asked.

Your evening plans surround you and your laptop and a wifi connection, and you were hoping you’d maybe get to sit in the same room as Joe as he would do some work of his own. Some prep for next day’s scenes. Some reading, some rehearsing.

Not this.

Not Joe trying to coax you into a bad performance review just because he felt bored that one night he suddenly found himself with a hole in his agenda.

“I’m here,” you say dryly, but you know that’s not what he means. “You can spend time with me whilst I finish all of this up.”

Joe communicates it with a look. A drop of his face and shoulders, letting you go and stepping away. Eyes rolling because, that’s not fair. He wants to take you out. Go some place nice. Talk and laugh and spend some actual time with you. See if some of his other current colleagues want to join, so he can introduce you. 

And it’s awful because that’s what you want too. But you feel like you’ve wanted that a million times, and every time you’ve tried to plan something, Joe’s been busy. Always so busy. Table reads, night shoots, long hours, long commutes, a party here, an event there. And it’s always, “Babe, it’s for work, I can’t just cancel.” 

Yet, that’s exactly what he’s asking of you now. 

“I don’t know why you assume that your time is more valuable than mine.” 

“I don’t think that at all! When have I ever said that?”

It’s how he’s acting. It says enough.

“Listen to what you’re saying; you’ve got a bit of free time. You do. You. Not me though. Not tonight. Does that sound familiar? At all?”

The tables have turned, just this once. He can just fucking deal with it like you have all those times before.

“Don’t. You know that’s not–”

“So your job is more important than mine?”

It pays more, Joe thinks immediately, but refrains from speaking the words into the room. Knows that won’t help, but it’s definitely telling how quick the comeback came to him.

“Hmm? Your time more important than mine?” You push.

Joe needs to realise that, if that’s actually how he feels, how outrageous the thought is. Just by your face, he needs to feel how those thoughts need reevaluating.

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

You’re not. You’re just reading his body-language.

“Your priority is you. You have a free minute and so I’m supposed to just work my way around your schedule and– mind you, you didn’t even know about this until this afternoon! This deadline at work has been there for months!”

You should’ve stayed at the office.

Finished up there.

Joe is pacing now. Walking around his own living room with flared nostrils, taking in your words until you leave enough room for him to say anything.

Which, when he finally gets a chance, he drops an insane bombshell.

“Well, if you hadn’t procrastinated everything until the night before, maybe we wouldn’t be where we are right now.”

Oh, what the fuck? 

Did it take too long for you to set the world alight? Did Joe think it necessary to douse it in petrol and hold a lit match between two fingers a little too loosely? One small move from you could be used as an excuse to drop it, and full blame could be placed with you.

Clever.

But so are you.

You don’t make a move.

Not a single fucking muscle.

You just stare at him over your laptop screen.

Frozen in place.

And Joe stares right back.

It’s like a fucking duel.

You remember a time where you were in Joe’s shoes. The ones he’s wearing right now. The difference being that, back then, there were actual plans made that you’d been looking forward to, and then two days before, Joe complained about having to cancel on seeing family. He added that it’d be the third time he had to dip out on something, and how that made him feel like an awful person, but his job was just too demanding right now. People wanted him everywhere, all of the time, and whilst he typed away at his phone to apologise to his mum, he didn’t see how your face fell too, because you knew if he was telling family members he couldn’t make it to something, he was also going to have to cancel on you.

Again.

You’d cried, then. Only silently. Wiped a tear away quickly and masked a sniff as a deep breath, because you didn’t want him to feel worse.

Trust Joe to feel guilty for having to cancel on family for the third time and forget about the person in the room with him.

You then wondered if he ever kept count with you.

“You okay?” he had asked when you’d fallen silent, and you’d smiled and nodded. “Yea, just tired.” which wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth that Joe accepted it as.

Idiot.

It was fine. It wasn’t his fault.

You’d taken your frustration out on him later that night, when he left your toothpaste uncapped on the side, and you’d grumbled until the lights in the bedroom got turned off, and Joe reached out to you under the covers.

The one rule.

Even if you were upset, or angry, or wanted to fully murder each other, you had to at least still touch each other in bed. To let the other know that, yea I’d rather fucking shout at you until I go hoarse right now, but I still love you.

It could be a big toe touching a shin, or an elbow digging into a bicep – a touch was a touch. An I love you hidden in the dark.

And you had accepted it easily then.

Yea, it was annoying that Joe’s work dictated so much of what your relationship could even be, but it wasn’t his fault, so there was no use blaming him for it.

That was then.

You don’t know when you’d grown past the point of simply accepting all the bullshit. When you decided to maybe not brush things off and be the cool girlfriend who was there for her boyfriend wherever and whenever, especially in all the moments he wouldn’t have been there for you had the tables been reversed.

Like right fucking now.

You are still staring at Joe across the room when you see how suddenly, he starts to blink his eyes rapidly. See how suddenly, his jaw starts working. You know he’s biting back tears and, no – you won’t fucking have that. This motherfucker can cry on command and you don’t doubt for a single second he’d use that to get his own way.

“Don’t fucking guilt-trip me into losing my job.”

Joe’s immediately offended.

He drops the match.

“Well, I’m sorry for being disappointed.”

World on fire.

“Do you want me to leave?” you spit out, louder than you initially thought you’d make your voice go.

“No, no,” Joe immediately says, but it sounds patronising, even though he’s on the verge of tears. Like he actually means yes, please leave, because what good are you going to be to him having to sit at his kitchen table and do work all night.

“Stay. Make your deadline.”

You ignore the sarcastic bite and take a second to sit back in your chair and assess what needs doing. How long it’ll take you all. What time you’ll likely be finished. You conclude that, if Joe’s gonna be moping around, giving big sighs from across the room, that it will likely take twice as long.

You should leave.

“No, I should go. Get this done and then see you after.”

It’s the last thing Joe expected. For you to go on your own merit. Because of your work that needs doing, and not because you’ve gotten into a huge fight. You’re not storming off and screaming how you never want to see him again. You have work to do and want to see him after you’ve finished it.

It’s stupid how fast everything inside of him flips.

He doesn’t actually want you to leave.

He wants you to shut your laptop and sigh lovingly and mutter, “How could I ever resist you?” through a smile before you kiss him silly and follow him out into the night.

But instead you shut your laptop and bend to pick up your bag from the floor to stick it into and, no, that’s not what he wants.

“No, wait... wait. I’m sorry.” he says he before he even realises what he’s doing. Unsure if he really means it. He just doesn’t want you to get up and leave. If anything, he’d like to talk more and get you to eventually prioritise him over everything else. “Stay. We can... you can finish work and then we could do something after.”

You drop your head all the way back and take a moment to let your eyes dart to all corners of his ceiling.

What if you don’t finish this until after 11? After midnight? Is he just going to watch you work from the sofa and ask you how much longer every three minutes because he thinks you’re taking too long?

You should leave.

“I should go. I’m probably better off at the office, actually. It’s where I’ll get it done faster, I think.” You say all of it kindly. Stick your laptop into your bag calmly, no jerky annoyance in your limbs. But you don’t make eye-contact so he can’t use the Big Browns on you, and instead of trying to stomp on the flames to make the fire go out, he wafts a fresh gust of wind right over them, making them climb much higher.

“All right, fuck off then. See if I give a shit.”

If someone asked you without Joe in the room, you’d tell them Joe needed a moment to calm down and you’d talk to him in the morning after you’d made this deadline.

You didn’t start the fire.

Joe did.

And he’d figure that out eventually.

If someone was to ask Joe without you in the room, he’d tell them fuck her, apparently she doesn’t give a shit about him, and actually, that’s totally not a problem at all, because he prefers the moon anyway.

---

The Taglisted

@alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @demonsanddemogorgons

@djoseph-quinn, @dolcevitalifestyle, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer

@everythinghasafacee, @ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @gri959

@hanahkatexo, @hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven

@kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @munsonluvrr

@munson-mjstan, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @notverywise

@pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @prettiestboyreid, @readergf, @royale1803

@skulliecadaver-blog, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @yunirgo

add yourself

[viperwhispered]

Too Hard

Woop part 2 of the trip inside Jamil's head. Part 1 here.

The next time Jamil caught sight of you on campus, his first instinct was to turn around on his heel.

What a stupid thought to have because of you.

Besides, that would only make him more conspicuous, not less.

So, when your eyes met his, Jamil gave you a short nod in greeting. He would’ve left it at that and kept on his way, had you not walked up to him.

“Hi Jamil! How’s it going?” you said with that impossibly disarming smile of yours.

Why was it so difficult to look at you like he normally would? You had no right to make him feel so stiff, so unnatural.

On autopilot, Jamil exchanged a few pleasantries with you - those lessons from his parents had been instilled too deep in him for him to falter too badly in a simple exchange such as this. Still, Jamil quickly excused himself by telling you he still had to find Kalim before his next class.

Jamil didn’t miss the way your smile faltered. Had you hoped to get something out of him?

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you two later, then.”

Something about that irked him, though Jamil did not allow himself to dwell on it further.

His heart really had no business still racing as it did when he walked away, unaware of the frown on his face.

Just act normal. That’s all he needed to do.

After all, he had no time for dwelling in silly fancies.

If Jamil had been acutely aware of you before, it only seemed to worsen now that he was making a conscious effort to not act any differently with you. In fact, the harder he tried to keep you out, the more you invaded his thoughts, unsettling him.

The most innocuous words from you looped in his mind, and even the simplest actions caught his eye. For goodness's sake, he’d found himself staring at you while you were queueing up in the cafeteria the other day, not even doing anything other than standing around and looking bored!

For once, Jamil found himself grateful for all his duties. At least they provided him with something else to occupy himself with.

After all, if he was busy enough, it was difficult to think about those bright eyes of yours, your sweet laugh, or the way you bit your lip while thinking.

Still, sometimes it felt like no matter which way he turned, you were there, ready to throw him off-kilter. Not like it was his fault that often the most convenient route to class intersected with your daily routines. Or that your face seemed to jump out from any crowd, catching his attention.

Which certainly did not help his basketball performance. Jamil certainly did not recall you having such an interest in sports before, yet suddenly you were always there, distracting him. What had changed?

Could you possibly-

Jamil scoffed to himself, forcing his thoughts back on track for the nth time that day.

He picked up the tray of food and started taking it to Kalim. After dinner, he’d need to help Kalim with his homework, there were some housewarden tasks that would need dealing with, not to mention the preparations for the next-

Jamil froze in his tracks.

The voice he heard was quiet, but it was unmistakably you.

Really, it should not have come as such a surprise to him. You had become a rather frequent visitor to Scarabia, and Kalim often invited you to stay for meals. In fact, Jamil had started planning the dorm’s meal prep with your tastes and dietary restrictions in mind, just in case.

Jamil rounded the corner with strange exhilaration, his heart fluttering needlessly.

Yet, his mood evaporated when he saw you.

Why did you stop talking and look so guilty as soon as you caught sight of Jamil?

Jamil knew that look you gave to Kalim, had used it himself a thousand times. The one telling Kalim to keep quiet about something.

What could there possibly be that you would be comfortable sharing with Kalim, but not with him? That would give Kalim reason to sit so close to you, a comforting hand on your shoulder?

Jamil's mind raced with possibilities, yet could not settle for any single explanation.

He’d have to ask Kalim about it later.

Jamil gave you a short, polite greeting, his eyes lingering on you in an attempt to read what you were hiding.

“If I’d known you were coming over, I would’ve prepared something for you to eat as well,” Jamil said, already thinking about which parts of the dorm’s dinner to spruce up for you.

“Oh, no need, just figured I’d pop by. I’ll get out of your hair soon enough,” you said, something sheepish about your expression.

As expected, Kalim asked you to stay and dine with them, and with just a bit more persuasion you agreed - though not before telling Jamil that he should join you too and have himself a breather.

And since Kalim agreed with you, Jamil soon found himself sharing a meal with you and Kalim. Yet, even as he sat down with the food, his mind raced.

Had you been getting particularly close to Kalim lately? But surely Jamil would’ve noticed such a thing. Maybe someone from the dorm had been giving you trouble? But if that was the case, then surely you could let Jamil know about it, too. Unless for some reason you did not want to? But if it was something that concerned Kalim, then sooner or later it was bound to concern Jamil, too.

All the while, Kalim was talking to you about this and that, the latest topic being the animals kept on the Asim estate.

“I’ve got some pictures, let me show you!” Kalim said with an excited grin.

Only, a thorough patting of his pockets and a look around confirmed that Kalim’s phone was nowhere to be seen.

Jamil pinched the bridge of his nose. Where had Kalim left it this time?

Before Jamil even had the chance to say that he would handle it, Kalim sprinted off. Jamil hesitated for a moment, automatically halfway up from his seat, before he decided that leaving a guest unattended would be a worse offense than not helping out his master.

Jamil slumped back down with a sigh, mentally tracing the path Kalim took today, trying to recall the last time he saw Kalim handle his phone.

“Breathe. He’ll manage,” you said. There was the faintest of smiles on your lips, and Jamil could not decide if it was knowing or amused. Perhaps both.

Somehow, despite his frustration, Jamil’s own lips wanted to curl up too.

“Hmm. Maybe he will.”

Sure, Jamil could’ve called Kalim’s phone, to make it easier to find, but it was not that urgent, was it?

Jamil took another bite of his food, keeping an eye on you from the corner of his eye.

How was his mind so empty and so buzzing at the same time?

“You know-”

“So-”

You looked at each other, both just as surprised that the other had spoken up at the same time.

Even your surprised look was so-

“You first,” Jamil said. The way you bit your lip... Jamil had to raise a cup to his lips, slowly sipping his drink.

“Just… Feels like it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you be still, you know. Or exchanged more than two words with you,” you said. You were attempting a light, joking tone, yet it was quite clear there was more to it.

“You say that like it would be unusual for me to be busy.”

He was not prepared for the way your soft sigh tugged at his heartstrings.

“No. It is not.”

You were both quiet after, poking at your meals. Normally, Jamil would’ve cherished such a moment of peace, yet this particular silence between you two was decidedly awkward.

Where was your usual chatter? Why weren’t you looking at him like you usually did?

“If you’re worried about me, don’t. I’m fine,” Jamil said, some softness creeping into his tone despite his best intentions.

“That's what Kalim said too,” you said. Yet the way you looked at Jamil made it clear you were still skeptical.

Wait.

Had you clammed up earlier because it had been Jamil you had been talking about with Kalim? That Kalim had comforted you about?

The thought twisted his stomach into knots.

Eta: you can find part 3 here, part 4 here, and finally part 5 here. Hasdhfsdf the way I fought with that last scene I swear. I don't even want to know how many versions I went through, trying to figure out how to say what I wanted without rubbing it into your face or making it too veiled. The joys of trying to convey things through a limited pov. Hopefully it came out reasonably balanced in the end. Rip to all those sentences that were lovely on their own but didn’t work for the whole. Hopefully I can rehome y’all one day. I do have thoughts for part 3 and part x (might be some chapters between those two as well, who knows at this point), so maybe we'll see those at some point, too. Tag list: @colliope @crystallizsch @diodellet @jamilsimpno69 @jamilvapologist @twstgo If you'd like to be tagged for future works, let me know! (Just be aware that sometimes I do also write nsfw, though you can certainly ask to be tagged only for particular kinds of works.)

[iwantedtoforgetyou]

A VARIETY OF IMAGINES

How the Gryffindor boys would react if you offer your help during difficult situations.

HARRY POTTER

Harry had maintained a quiet demeanor over the past couple of days. He exited the main room early and walked through the hallways with a downcast gaze.

Everyone seemed unaware, except for you.

On one evening, as you both made your way back to the Gryffindor dorms, Harry suddenly dropped to his knees.

Without hesitation, you were by his side, urgently asking, "Are you alright, Harry?" in a worried tone.

His head hung low, and he remained still except for his eyes, which darted back and forth.

Instinctively, you gently held his face with your hands, bringing your forehead to his. In that position, the two of you stayed pressed together for a while.

Gradually, your breaths synchronized, and his head began to move.

Summoning a smile, you delicately ran your fingers through his hair, drawing him closer.

He spoke only a few words for the remainder of the night, his voice so soft it was barely audible. "Thank you."

RON WEASLEY

Ron's stress-eating habits were hard to miss. His bed was a sea of wrappers, half-eaten candies, and scattered boxes, some of which had even found their way to the floor. With the owls less than a week away, the pressure was clearly taking its toll on him.

You cautiously pushed open the door to his dorm room, spotting him sprawled across his bed. His head faced the entrance, and his legs were propped up against the wall. A book rested on his face.

Stepping quietly, you moved further into the room, stopping just at the foot of his bed. It was evident he wasn't sleeping; the absence of snoring gave it away. Something was amiss.

Gently lifting the book from his face, you revealed flushed cheeks and reddened eyes. He had been crying.

Your expression faltered, and Ron hastily began offering explanations. "I've just been yawning, this material can be really exhausting, you know?!"

Rolling your eyes, you uttered his name, prompting him to gaze directly up at you.

"It's alright to feel worried," you whispered, leaning down and hovering over his face. "You'll excel, I'm sure."

Tenderly, you placed your lips on his, and in that moment, everything else faded away.

As you pulled back, Ron shot upright, grabbing textbooks and spreading them out. "I've got this!"

A smile tugged at your lips. "Yes, you absolutely do."

FRED WEASLEY

The first party of the year was a disaster. Shouts echoed through the air, discarded drinks cluttered the surroundings, and the crowd seemed to grow uncontrollably.

True to their nature, the Weasley twins had orchestrated something, and as expected, it had spiraled out of control. Amidst the chaos, George was conspicuously absent, while Fred sat before you with a split upper lip and emerging bruises on his cheeks.

You kept a watchful eye on him as you dampened a paper towel under the faucet, afraid he might bolt. Yet, he remained still, not even lifting his gaze.

Shutting off the water, you walked over to his side, clutching the wet paper towel in your hands.

"Look at me," you murmured, your fingers grazing just beneath his chin. "Please."

Reluctantly, he lifted his head, but his eyes avoided meeting yours.

In the quietness, you meticulously tended to his injuries, though he let out occasional groans of discomfort.

"It wasn't your fault," you interjected, shattering the silence. "Fred?"

His eyes shut, and you could swear you saw them glisten with tears.

Your heart clenched.

Setting aside the paper towel, you tenderly guided him closer, enfolding him in your arms and pressing him against your chest.

Almost instinctively, his arms wound around your back, and he buried his face in your embrace, tears soaking into your clothing.

For what seemed like an eternity, you held him there, both of you unmoving.

“I'm sorry," his voice quivered against your chest. "I'm so sorry."

GEORGE WEASLEY

George, though usually reserved in his emotional expression, held his pain within him.

He'd rather endure a bitten lip until it bled than reveal his feelings. However, his demeanor shifted entirely when he was with you. 

After your two-hour class, you returned to the Gryffindor dorms with treats from the commons. Upon entering your room, you were taken aback to find George lying on your bed.

While his presence in your room was a common occurrence, him skipping class was not. You approached the bed and set the bag of sweets on the bedside table.

It didn't take long to notice his tear-streaked face and reddened eyes. Without hesitation, you climbed into bed, cradling his head in your lap.

Neither of you spoke; instead, you shared a moment of silence as your fingers softly traced through his hair.

Eventually, he must have drifted off to sleep, as he became still. Just before you closed your own eyes, he whispered, "You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, Y/N."

A smile graced your lips, and that smile accompanied you through your slumber.

OLVER WOOD

Gryffindor's first match of the season ended in defeat, leading the entire school to turn against them.

Exiting the locker room, the team scattered down the hallway while you waited, overhearing the comments from others.

Amidst this, Oliver was absent.

Upon asking a passing teammate about his whereabouts, they nodded toward the locker room.

Acting on impulse, you opened the door and entered the locker room.

The atmosphere inside was both warm and quiet.

After wandering a bit, you discovered Oliver seated by himself on a bench, his head buried in his hands, still clad in his quidditch uniform.

Approaching cautiously, you knelt in front of him.

Despite his hands still covering his face, you gently took hold of his wrists. "Oliver," you spoke, coaxing his arms away from his face, "you performed admirably out there."

He glanced up briefly, offering a sorrowful smile. "Thank you," he replied.

You responded with a hum, soothingly rubbing your thumb across his arms. "Let's leave this place," you suggested, getting to your feet while still holding onto his arms. With a sigh, he rose as well and met your gaze. "I'd appreciate that," he said, a smile gracing his lips.

NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM

The greenhouse served as Neville's personal sanctuary.

Hours upon hours were spent there, immersed in plant-related activities that he had come to cherish and defend over time.

Besides you, he never shared the secret of the greenhouse with anyone.

One evening, when Neville was absent from the common room, you embarked on a search for him. Arriving at the greenhouse, you discovered the door slightly ajar and faint, muffled cries emanating from within.

Gently pushing the door open, you slipped inside and observed Neville, huddled over a garden pot, tears flowing silently.

Quietly approaching him, you stood by his side and placed your hand on his back, a gesture that seemed to intensify his tears.

Speaking softly, you asked, "What's wrong?" as you observed his tears dropping into the pot.

He took a deep breath and admitted, "I don't know," clutching his chest.

Tilting your head slightly, you covered his other hand with yours. "Just breathe," you whispered, resting your forehead on his shoulder.

“You're alright." Gradually, his breathing began to steady, and he shifted beneath your touch.

In a sudden and unanticipated move, he embraced you tightly. With genuine gratitude, he murmured, "Thank you... Thank you."

[adore-laur]

DEVOTION

— please enjoy harry & sawyer getting freaky in miami (inspired by this ask)💃

——

MIAMI, 1993

People are packed into the arena like sardines. August humidity suffuses the air, a cacophony of chatter overlaps, and infectious energy pulses in the room as everyone waits for Sade to hit the stage in all their sensational glory.

In the general admission area, Harry stands behind Sawyer with his arms protectively draped over her shoulders. Her footing shifts occasionally as she fiddles with his rings. He can sense her anticipation—she's been looking forward to this concert for months. When he gifted her the tickets on her birthday, she wept and kissed him with a hunger he had never experienced from her before. As much as he spoils her, she goes the extra mile to show him her appreciation.

Once the lights go out, Harry can't wait to see her vivacious eyes and dazzling smile.

Sawyer looks ravishing tonight. Her black cropped tank top has a variety of enticing little cutouts—no bra underneath, he might add—and she's wearing low-waisted denim shorts that hug her ass most temptingly. There's a reason he opted to stand behind her—two, actually. One, he doesn't want any dudes getting a sneak peek at his girl. And two, he doesn't need anyone to see his hardness through his leather pants.

She curled her hair with natural-looking spirals and teased it with spray. Her long, wavy mane has always been a hassle to manage in the summertime, so she cut it collarbone-length. Her front bangs are tightly clipped back, and she wears gold hoop earrings. She’s truly a stunner.

Prior to leaving, Harry watched her as she got ready for the concert. They live together in a swanky Orlando penthouse, where simple things like her clothes hanging in the closet and makeup supplies cluttering the bathroom sink make him unbelievably happy. While he gently reminded Sawyer that they needed to leave soon for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Miami, she applied her mascara and teased him by showing her cleavage while bent over the vanity. Despite his provocative urges, he managed to resist giving in.

When Sawyer turns to look at him now, the room reduces to just her. Lucious lips are stained with a pomegranate-red gloss. Skin glowing with moisture. Dark eyes filled with warmth. It’s breathtaking to behold the sheer beauty of her features. Time and time again, she hypnotizes him. He's beginning to think she can cast spells on his lovesick soul.

Sawyer taps his bicep before standing on her tiptoes to reach his ear. In an instinctive move, Harry touches her hip and leans down to better hear her.

Fanning herself, she says, "It's muggy in here. I'm going to buy a water bottle and braid my hair in the bathroom."

"I'll go with you."

"But you have to save our spot," she reminds him.

Though he nearly protests, he reluctantly nods and caresses the slick skin of her bare middle back. "Fine. You have your phone?"

"In my purse. I'll be fast."

Harry kisses the spot between her eyebrows before letting her go, keeping her locked in his gaze until she disappears past the lower seating sections. In crowds, regardless of size, he doesn’t like losing her. During baseball games, it’s less worrying since she always sits in the same section in her reserved seat, but in Miami, he's extra cautious because it's an unfamiliar city. Sawyer can stand up for herself since sass and stubbornness are intertwined in her Aries DNA, but Harry remains fiercely protective of her. She's a certified sweetheart, conspicuously beautiful, and also quite gullible to a fault—if anyone attempts to take advantage of that, they'll have to answer to him.

While she's gone, Harry observes the venue. There are people from all walks of life surrounding him. The staggered seating sections flanking the floor are filling quickly, and it's reminiscent of playing at Tinker Field, where he would watch fans fill the bleachers from the dugout.

In a few weeks, the minor league season will conclude, and Harry is looking forward to taking a much-needed break from pitching and traveling. He's thankful he didn’t have a game scheduled today, which gave him and Sawyer the chance to step out for a date. It aches to know she's missed him a little more after such a long season. Due to her full-time job, she can’t always travel across America with him or attend home games, but they’re able to make it work by cherishing their time together. Next month, they plan to celebrate their second anniversary in Seville, Spain. They'll sunbathe on the scenic beaches, relish a couples massage, and take romantic strolls through the city's idyllic parks.

And, if Harry doesn't chicken out, he'll ask her to marry him.

Fondly smiling at the thought, he watches two girls strut toward him, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. They're wearing variations of the same outfit—metallic miniskirts, frilly halter tops, and chunky heels. Based on their strikingly similar features, they must be twins. Twin One holds a Canon camera, while Twin Two laughs into her hands.

Harry waves politely before shoving his hands in his pockets. The moment a fan recognizes him, he knows it. There’s a strange shift in the atmosphere when he temporarily loses his shield of privacy. It's unavoidable when fifteen thousand people are gathered in a Miami venue. It comes with the territory of being a famous Florida sports figure.

"Are you Harry Styles?"

Here we go.

Feeling abnormal but pushing past it, he says, "In the flesh. How's it going, ladies?"

"Oh my gosh, we love you," Twin One gushes. "You're hella cute. You play for the Sun Rays, right?"

"Sort of. Our team name changed recently. We're now the Orlando Cubs."

"Oh, cool," she says distractedly. "Anyway, we want a picture with you."

With a sharp inhale, Harry nods once. “Sure, no problem."

It doesn't bother him to take pictures or sign autographs. Most people are respectful and genuinely honored to meet him. Rarely, however, do people demand things from him, like right now. Then he feels prickles of discomfort. It makes him feel as though he's being exploited. It makes him feel fictitious.

As the girls swarm around him and touch him like he's a wax figure with no boundaries, Sawyer nudges her way through the crowd, water bottle in hand. As she processes the situation, her movements slow and her shoulders drop slightly. She has her hair in two messy braids, with the shorter layers springing loose. She looks effortless and... annoyed. Yeah, Harry is all too familiar with that look. He has been on the receiving end of those slanted eyebrows, those gritted teeth, and those assessing eyes. How will this play out?

When she sees Sawyer, Twin Two strokes his arm suggestively. Thankfully, they see her as a mere stranger rather than his girlfriend. His mind flashes back to past discussions about keeping their relationship as private as possible, and he decides not to sacrifice that for such a meager moment. No chance.

"Can you take a photo of us?" It was wise of her to ask, rather than demand. Otherwise, Harry's friendly mask would have definitely slipped.

Sawyer purses her lips as she meets Harry's gaze. "Do you mind?" he asks, his expression hinting at a secret message.

By taking Twin One's camera, she recognizes his unspoken signal and cleverly leaps into her role. God, he's thankful for her. He knows it's challenging to deal with these bizarre occurrences that pop their bubble, but she handles them all so gracefully. When they get home, he’ll shower her with affection.

Sawyer raises the camera to her eye and says, "I'll take a few."

Harry straightens his posture and awkwardly places his hands on both girls' upper arms. His muscles tense uncomfortably as their hands slither around his waist and linger near his stomach. Amid three flashes, he’s suffocated by the pungent smell of perfume and spearmint gum.

“There you go,” Sawyer says, giving the camera back and forcing a smile.

They browse the pictures before staring at Harry with a sickening amount of adoration. "It was awesome meeting you," Twin Two says, biting her lip. "We'll see you around at the next Sun Rays game."

"Cubs," Sawyer mumbles around a fake cough. Only Harry catches it, and he restrains himself from grinning proudly and kissing her senselessly.

"Nice to meet you both," he says, briefly touching his heart. "Enjoy the concert, yeah?"

They nod, blush, and giggle simultaneously before walking off, staring back at him a couple of times before fading into the sea of strangers. Harry releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and concentrates on Sawyer drinking from her water bottle. He's about to apologize for the unnatural situation, but the venue goes dark, and the audience erupts with deafening cheers.

The joy he expected to see in Sawyer's eyes isn't there. Silently, she crosses her arms and faces the stage with a blank expression. Harry curses at himself—he knows it isn't his fault and that it's just how Sawyer is. She takes things to heart and lets them stew until her skeptical thoughts overflow without a lid. The fact that she didn’t witness the entire interaction has made her understandably upset. Harry regrets not saying no to the fans.

First on the setlist is "The Sweetest Taboo"—sonically sensual, intoxicatingly groovy, and a fantastic way to open their show. Everybody dances to the exquisite beat and sings along to the lyrics. The energy in the room soars to an unimaginable level. It's contagious.

Harry grips Sawyer's hand so the crowd doesn't swallow her whole. She turns and smiles softly, finally bobbing her head to the music. Slowly, she loosens up, unfurling the passionate girl he knows lives within her. The one who loves to dance.

She looks resplendent as indigo lights glide across her face. Her body begins to move—the shape of her swaying hips and the pinch of her waist are irresistible. Harry settles behind her and follows her smooth movements, grinding against her backside. The warmth of his hands rests on her ribcage, and they dance, getting lost in the ecstasy of experiencing live music.

With each song, they forget about the world outside and fall more in love with each other.

——

Harry and Sawyer leave the arena on a high after being captivated by Sade's sultry voice and entrancing stage presence for over an hour. The parking lots are already congested with people trying to beat traffic, so they decide to wait until it calms down.

As soon as they get into the car, Harry starts the engine and turns on the air conditioning before reclining in the driver's seat. With exhaustion swimming through his bones, he sighs contently. It was a magical concert, but he's not looking forward to driving back to Orlando. He'll need to stop by 7/11 for an energy drink and some snacks. Fortunately, tomorrow is Sunday, so they can both sleep in and laze around the whole day.

Sawyer unbraids her hair and removes the clips, then shakes her head cutely to loosen her wild curls. She looks tired as well. They danced the night away together, not caring who saw them. He told her to climb on his back a few times so she could get a better view of the stage. During the romantic slow-tempo songs, she hugged and kissed him sweetly, and he swears he almost got down on one knee right then and there.

"I love you, baby," Harry says, watching her take off her Doc Martens. "Tonight was divine."

A smile spreads across Sawyer's face. "I love you too. Hey, listen..." She reaches over to caress his cheek and thumb the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry about my buzzkill attitude at the beginning."

Shaking his head, he kisses her palm. “You don't have to apologize. I appreciate how you handled those girls."

He hopes to forget about what happened. Honestly, as soon as the concert started, he forgot all about them. There was only one thing on his mind: Sawyer and the mesmerizing way she moved.

"I just... I got jealous," Sawyer confesses sheepishly.

Harry frowns in astonishment. Jealousy is a rare emotion for Sawyer. They’ve been dating for almost two years, and he can count on one hand the number of times she has been outwardly jealous. Since he only has eyes for her, there's no rhyme or reason for her to feel this way.

What a new and fun development, Harry thinks to himself. He loves how their relationship continues to surprise him.

Harry, however, has been caught having jealous fits many times before. Like that instance when Sawyer was invited to lunch by her so-called "cubicle neighbor." Harry is her forever lunch date, not anyone else. Even when he can't be there in person, he'll call her office fax number and keep her company while she munches her cucumber salad. Harry's jealousy grew when he discovered some guy was trying to steal that from him, so he ordered an impressive bouquet to be delivered to her desk the following day. It didn't take long for everyone to get the hint. Then there was that time when they were watching The Bodyguard, and Sawyer kept squealing girlishly over Kevin Costner's character. Okay, so he literally took a bullet for the woman he loved. Big deal! Harry smothered his jealousy by obnoxiously pretending to be Sawyer's bodyguard while exiting the movie theater and then proceeding to sing "I Have Nothing" off-key the entire way home. She just laughed, which was his goal in the first place.

"Why'd you get jealous?" Harry asks.

Sawyer's brow quirks. "Well, when I'm subjected to taking pictures of two pretty girls who are all over my boyfriend, it doesn't necessarily feel good."

"I know," he says, frustrated with himself. "I should've refused them. They kind of trapped me."

She pouts sympathetically before climbing over the console and straddling his thighs. "My sweet sunray. You're too nice."

Harry pulls her closer by hooking his fingers through her belt loops and tugging. "I'm sorry you were jealous."

"I shouldn't have been. You know why?"

"Tell me." Reaching around her, he turns up the volume of the radio to drown out the sounds of cars honking at each other. The cassette tape they listened to on the drive to Miami is still playing on loop. "Paradise" by Sade sets the mood.

"Because you're mine," Sawyer says with conviction.

Spreading his legs on the seat, he smirks. "Say that again, angel."

"You're mine. No one else's."

"Ditto," he replies, rubbing his palms along her suntanned thighs. "You've got my devotion."

His bodacious girl bites his bottom lip until it stings, then says, "Prove it."

"Good fuckin' lord," Harry murmurs against her mouth before diving in. He kisses her ravenously while fumbling to unbutton her shorts, eventually helping her shimmy out of them. Sawyer shoves her hand down his pants and grasps his bulge, stroking it purposefully. He gasps and slides his pants down halfway, revealing his tented boxers.

"Are you mine?" she asks, sitting right on his cock and sending shockwaves of sex drive down his spine. Her body's heat is addictive.

"Yes," he says breathlessly, kissing her flushed neck. "I'm your man."

"Then act like it. Show me who you belong to."

A shocked laugh escapes as he greedily grabs a handful of her ass. "Sawyer Alejandra, what has Miami done to you? Ay, Dios mío!"

She smiles seductively. "It's Sade's fault."

"Is that right?" Harry cranks the volume up even more before allusively sliding his hand under her top and cupping the swell of her breast. It fits perfectly, and when he teases her peaked nipple with his thumb, Sawyer's palm slaps against the window as she grinds against him. The glass is fogging with the A/C running, sweat drips down his back, and the song's driving bass line pulsates loudly through the speakers. It's filthy what they're doing, considering potential onlookers surround them. It's a good thing the car has tinted windows.

The thrill of their sexual escapade pulses through Harry's body. As he kisses Sawyer's heaving breasts through her top's cutouts, the pleasure becomes borderline intolerable. His lips search for any sliver of skin, and in response, she tugs at his hair and whimpers softly. Her skimpy lace underwear is damp, and he switches his attention to her clit. He rubs it with his knuckle, causing Sawyer's hips to momentarily stutter before she leans into the movement and stamps sloppy kisses all over his face, her cherry-flavored lip gloss transferring to his cheeks, nose, and jaw. They're as sweet as sugar.

"Almost there," Sawyer whispers, running her hand across his broad chest. Her fingers grip the material of his bejeweled sleeveless top to keep herself balanced, and Harry would let her rip it apart if he hadn't spent several hours meticulously hot gluing rhinestones onto it.

After kissing down her stomach and blowing air onto her belly button ring, he teases two fingers past her wet entrance, and it's all she needs to unravel completely. As she orgasms, she leaves love bites on his neck and moans. Her body language is desperate; the arch of her back and the tightening of her thighs against his own help her through her release.

"Nice and easy, baby," Harry murmurs, squeezing her waist. "Take your time."

From the gratifying pain she inflicts on the tender flesh of his neck, Harry comes in his boxers, his pelvis jerking as goosebumps rise over his skin in transient tidal waves. It feels equally divine and unholy to do what they just did. Tiredness kicks in as they both breathe heavily. Gradually, the condensation on the windows disappears. Sawyer's handprint is the last thing to vanish, and the sight will undeniably haunt his memory in the most marvelous way.

Harry opens the glovebox and finds the stash of napkins. After cleaning Sawyer and himself, he pulls his pants back up, shuts the radio off, and says, "I've made up my mind."

"About what?" Sawyer asks, sitting sideways on his lap so she can stretch her legs. In just her cropped top, underwear, and adorable ruffle socks, she's a masterpiece. And all his.

"I'm going to marry you one day," he says. It's something he's known for a long time. He hopes that easing her into the topic will make him more confident about proposing next month.

Sawyer pinches his earlobe. "Don't say dreamy things like that."

"Oh, that’s bogus," he retorts. "You say heart-stopping things to me all the time without even realizing it. Especially after sex."

"Not marriage-related things!"

"Does that mean you don't want to marry me?" he asks, fishing for a reaction.

When she goes quiet and stares contemplatively at him, Harry's stomach swoops. He knows her exceptionally well, which means he knows she tends to shy away from substantial conversations regarding their future when they're sprung upon her by his spontaneous nature. Perhaps it's too early to propose a lifelong commitment, but hasn't she imagined sharing a life with him before? The moment he kissed her for the first time, he fantasized about settling down, buying a house away from the city, tying the knot, and having curly-haired babies.

Eventually, Sawyer says, "I would marry you in this parking lot right now if you asked me to."

Harry feels an internal splash of relief and plays it cool by saying, "Please raise your standards."

"Are you saying you wouldn't want to marry me in a parking lot, lover boy?" She tosses her version of his question back to him with a frisky smile.

"I'd find you and marry you in every lifetime. How's that for an answer?"

She’s speechless for five full seconds before lurching forward to hug him, her heart hammering. "You're crazy. I love you so, so much."

"I adore you," Harry whispers. He reaches for the 'S' pendant hiding under his top's neckline and pulls it out. "I'm forever yours."

Sawyer kisses him repeatedly and says, "Forever."

During the journey home, she falls asleep with her head in his lap, holding his hand while he drives. His thumb absentmindedly strokes her ring finger, and he feels a surge of emotion and excitement knowing he will get to spend the years to come by her side.

Years filled with being deeply devoted to her.

——

[murdrdocs]

hellohello! i absolutely ADORE your writing and i would be honored if you would write something for me.

i'm thinking something like this;

the idea is that the whole group is watching a movie together, and reader and ethan are sitting across the room from each other, however, they're texting each other throughout the movie, each message riskier and riskier to the point where ethan has to excuse himself to the restroom. reader follows him and well the rest is history 🤷🏼‍♀️

plzplzplz do not feel pressured to fulfill this anytime soon and please take your time. drink some water and do something productive today !! mwah mwah 💋

tysm for the sweet compliments !! this is only suggestive 16+, no smut :)

there was a running joke in your friend group that something always went down during movie night. the first time, sam accidentally burned popcorn and the whole building had to evacuate. the second, mindy (somehow) spilled soda on the outlet with the TV plugged into it. the third, chad had an underlying, very contagious, stomach bug, and the entire group was out of commission for a solid week and a half.

tonight, there was nothing. the tara-sam-quinn apartment was fairly quiet, save for the boisterous laughter that erupted throughout the living room due to 'white chicks' playing on the (new) TV. the entire night was fairly quiet. there was nothing out of the ordinary happening.

not even your texts to ethan. mostly since those were especially ordinary.

it's not either of your faults that this relationship was going really well so far, even if the others aren't exactly aware of it.

which is why you sit on the loveseat with chad, and ethan sits on the couch with anika and mindy, both of you across the room from the other. you're alternating between looking down at your phone, watching the movie, and watching ethan's reactions to your texts.

the way his eyes would widen just a bit, and he would shift restlessly in his seat, was addicting to you. you couldn't help but continue to text him, letting your messages consistently get riskier and bolder, just so you could see his ears redden.

from the beginning of the movie, to terry crews singing 'a thousand miles', your texts to ethan got to the point where you had to lower your screen brightness and shield your phone from chad. which, not like he was paying attention. he had recently claimed that 'white chicks' was a national treasure that wasn't talked about nearly enough.

you hit send on another message, scrolling up to see how you went from saying 'hey' to ethan at 9:32, to telling him how you were wearing his favorite pair of underwear just a minute ago.

his phone vibrates twice, he picks it up without looking away from the screen, and then he glances down at the phone in his hand. you watch as he visibly gulps, and starts to type a response. you beat him to it.

'really craving your cock rn e :(( my fingers aren't cutting it anymore'

ethan jumps up so fast that mindy cranes her neck to look at him.

"dude, what the fuck?"

"sorry," ethan rushes out, his phone falling onto the sofa where he was previously sat. "just gotta ... take a massive piss."

mindy's turning back to the TV with a murmur of ethan's exclamation being "TMI", and you're watching ethan walk out of the living room and towards the bathroom, throwing a "sure" over his shoulder when chad asks if ethan can bring him another soda on the way back.

you manage to slip out less conspicuously, a prepared excuse on your lips that thankfully wasn't required. as soon as you're slipping into the bathroom behind ethan, he has his hands under your shirt and over your ass, pulling you into him with a rough kiss so that you can feel the bulge stiffened in his jeans.

unfortunately, chad doesn't get something to drink from ethan until the real brittany and tiffany reappear.

[sketchy-saram]

Watching someone play DAI on YouTube today, and take Solas along on the In Your Heart Shall Burn quest, made me think. He said immediately that he likes to be less conspicuous, but he comes with you and doesn't complain on what could very well be a suicide mission, which doesn't seem very smart anyway for like...living purposes, but ESPECIALLY not if you're planning to stay alive to tear down the veil and save the Elven people later.

And I know he sticks around because it's his fault if he doesn't help, there won't be any world for him to fuck up himself, but like. He could have made a case to hang around in more of an advisory role, like Cullen or Leliana. He could have stayed safe and out of harm's way, while remaining as a Fade expert to ensure the Inquisitor could beat Corypheus. But he doesn't. He offers himself up to be right there with them.

Does anyone else ever wonder if part of Solas just didn't care so much if he died by that point? He'd already ruined the Elves, and the thing with Corypheus totally fucked everything up again. Do you think part of him was fine throwing himself unwisely into the fighting physically because he figured if he died doing it, at least it would all be over, and he wouldn't have to be the one to destroy everything all over again?

[randomthefox]

Why do so many Sonic fans hate the developers? Why do they think they are stupid? "Uuuh why is Chaos island here? It takes place in the future! Are they stupid!. Why are they trying to piss me off!?" Dude. These are Japanese people. The second country with the highest IQ in the world. Whatever the reason may be, it was was not done out of stupidity. At first, Sonic x Gen 'saved the franchise' but one week later it sucks because it didn't feature levels or elements that you SPECIFICALLY wanted to see? Wtf is wrong with you???

Oh but when Ian Flynn does something similar to this, it's not his fault. He's peak, and everyone that disagrees is stupid. Because SEGA ARE THE BAD GUYS

Wtf

"They're japanese people, they have a high IQ" is a bit much, but I understand where you're coming from and what you're trying to articulate. People have a bad habit of seeing something they don't like or agree with in a piece of art, and then jumping to the worst possible explanation they can think of for why it was included. Just being as bad faith as they possibly can, imposing malice or ignorance onto someone because of a personal subjective feeling they have to what was included in the artwork.

It's not unique to Sonic but since it's trendy to hate on the Sonic video games and Sonic Team and SEGA, it is amplified through that filter of culty mass hysteria.

I don't normally resort to doyalist explanations but in this case it really is the only one you can use - there weren't levels from Sonic Forces and Sonic Frontiers in the original Sonic Generations because those games hadn't been made yet. It's not like it makes any sense whatsoever to lump Sonic 2006, Sonic Unleashed, and Sonic Colors together as if they're a coherent era of Sonic. But that's a retroactive conclusion. Sonic Generations was made in 2011 (probably under a VERY short development time) and they worked with what they had. Shadow Generations was made in 2024 (also probably a short development time) and there were three whole new games worth to pull from in the time inbetween.

The idea of people being upset about its inclusion is so dumb and silly to me x3 For reference, this was my initial reaction to that level

When people ask why was Chaos Island included from Frontiers, they're asking the question wrong. They're asking "Why was a level from Frontiers included?" When the more interesting question is "why was THIS level from Frontiers included?" Why Chaos Island instead of any of the other Islands? There's probably multiple answers to that. I find it very conspicuous that they included the volcano erupting in the background during the level.

Meaning that during Shadow's level, Sonic was playing pinball. So the question of "why didn't Sonic see Shadow on Chaos Island?" is answered because we know where Sonic was during this part of Shadow's game. There's no lingering wonder about it. They didn't just throw Chaos Island into the game willy nilly, they spared the time to think about how they would make it make sense to say that Shadow was running around in that location during the events of Frontiers without causing a time paradox or contradicting what happened during that game. They didn't just throw an erupting volcano in as a set piece for no reason. They were not thoughtless in how they implemented this level.

The idea that Chaos Island being included took away a spot that could have gone to another level from Shadow 2005 or something like that is just silly. It reminds me of when people would get angry at Piranha Plant being added to Smash Bros. "THEY'RE TAKING AWAY A SLOT THAT COULD HAVE GONE TO DANTE!" That's not how it fucking works bro. This isn't the divine lottery. They're MAKING the game. Chaos Island being cut from Shadow Generations wouldn't mean that it would be replaced with a level from Shadow 2005 that you would want to be in the game. It would just mean the game woulda had one less level, lol.

But yeah I predicted people turning on Shadow Generations. I gave them too much time if anything, I predicted it would take at least a couple months. They didn't even make it one. Like I said and have said and will keep saying: these people HATE Sonic. The people who were saying "I've never been this excited for New Sonic stuff before! We are so back!" during the preview hype around Shadow Generations? They HATE Sonic. They are tourists. Scavengers who will pick daintily at the game and then leave it bleeding and gaping, unsatisfied.

And yeah naturally they are blatant hypocrites. More than half the reason they were initially so slavish about the game was because of Ian Flynn's name being in the credits. These people are absolute fucking cultists.

lunatics.

I have no doubt that the reason they're starting to sour on Shadow Generations is because Katie made a tweet which basically said "dude, this game isn't bloom fully formed from the singular mind of Ian Flynn alone" and then ABT had to latch on like a male anglerfish being absorbed into a disembodied pair of gonads saying that Ian Flynn didn't do nuffin and everything bad about the games writing is everyone elses fault and comparing Flynn to Jesus.

As soon as the memo started getting passed around that Shadow Generations isn't Ian Flynn's Sonic game after all, that's when the wave started to turn. It's very transparent.

They are a cult of haters pretending to be fans. Wolves in sheeps clothing. Naturally everything they say and do it insincere and psychotic.

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Come Back

(Masterlist)

get back to the war!!! i dont pay u just to look cute

(Content: dehumanization, physical violence, magical exhaustion, fainting, mass death implied, blood)

=======================

“Be realistic,” Dr.Martino yawned, “He obviously can’t destroy the whole planet.”

“But I want him to?” Paris glowered.

His hand raked through Delta’s hair again, more nails than usual. Delta twitched nervously. He was kneeling obediently on Paris’s side, the end of his collar grasped firmly in the prince’s other hand. He flinched whenever he touched him. Paris didn’t seem to notice. He was sitting comfortably in the captain’s chair, one leg folded over the other.

Delta couldn’t see Martino’s expression from his position. He had learned that when he kept his head bowed, it gave him the least trouble. 

“That’s the kind of greed they write fables about,” Dr.Martino warned, “Anyway, forget it. It’s not physically possible. Pick a city. Really, pick a block in that city. The buildings here are better protected than most.”

Paris tugged at Delta’s hair, like it was his fault. He winced. Nothing came immediately after it — no reprimands. Just venting frustration, then? Delta had to adjust his position for it to stop hurting. Again, Paris didn’t notice or didn’t care. 

They redirected the course. The actual captain re-entered the room. Paris did not move for her, forcing her to operate from the side terminal. 

The planet Tataka loomed large through the windows of the craft. It was green and purple, beautiful under any other circumstance. Paris was intent on destroying it. The war was upon them.

They weren’t aboard the Thorn today; they’d never make it into the outer atmosphere without getting shot down. It was a smaller, nimbler, and less conspicuous craft. From a distance, it looked like a passenger plane. 

As the ship lurched into motion, Simon returned from the break room. He’d been following his own advice, giving Paris quite a wide berth ever since he’d returned from the hospital. Simon looked at the current arrangement disapprovingly. He set down a coffee cup for Martino, not drinking his own.

“Your Highness, I’d really ask you to reconsider this. Not only is it too strong an escalation from a policy standpoint, but physically, Delta is out of practice from the last month. There’s a higher risk of inaccuracy,” Simon stated.

“Did you just say too strong an escalation?” Paris choked, “And who’s fucking fault is that? You knew I’d need him when I got back.”

Simon didn’t answer. It’d be too easy to say No one thought you were coming back and that was not a conversation he wanted to have.

By then, the mountains were coming into view. Paris stood up shakily, using Delta’s shoulder for support before tugging him up by the arm. They were bruising touches. Delta suspected that Paris didn’t entirely mean to be that rough. He had nerve damage from where the arrow had pierced him and couldn’t feel much in his hands. It had made him clumsy. Still, it hurt.

When the atmosphere was breathable, Paris dragged him out onto the main deck. He wrenched his arm back to get him to kneel, which was of course not an accident, on top of being totally unnecessary. Delta would’ve knelt if he’d asked him to.

The handlers trailed behind him. He snapped his fingers at them. Simon started to protest, then apparently decided it was not worth the effort of arguing. He poked at his wrist, remotely releasing Delta’s collar. 

Delta let out a little gasp when it hit him. The ground hung directly above them, the ship’s personal gravity machine working to bind them to it upside down. The effect was very disorienting. Beyond that, Paris was far, far too close to him. He didn’t like being touched while he was all unfurled. He never like being touched at all, but now it felt particularly invasive. He liked it better when Simon directed. They had already gotten to know each other’s communication styles with no ambiguity. The same couldn’t be said of Paris — especially not now. This wasn’t the kind of operation Delta wanted to improvise. The string of words that left Paris’s mouth was barely coherent.

“Fucking kill them fuck fuck Nezu fuck Taka stupid fucking destroy it now”

Delta could feel Paris’s heart within his chest, the new lung nestling itself into place, the spot where the ribs had cracked open. He felt the wind shift just as he readied himself. From his own reading, Delta could recognize Tataka’s parliament building. There was about a five block radius around it he thought he could reasonably smoke. He blinked.

He didn’t actually remember setting it off, which meant it had definitely been too much. He woke up on his side in Dr.Martino’s office, drenched in his own blood.

“-why I said not to let him-“ Simon’s voice cut into his thoughts. A little wave of electricity came off of Delta as he regained consciousness, making everyone’s hair stand on end.

“Hi,” Dr.Martino eyebrows furrowed as he smiled without humor.

“We should’ve warmed up first,” Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, “Are you feeling okay?”

Delta opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. The room smelled like a campfire. He realized the burnt scent was coming off his own skin.

“Just stay like that,” Dr.Martino told him, then turned back to his conversation. Delta closed his eyes, too sore to move. There was a distant feeling of gloved hands against his back, some medical assistant searching around for something or other. Two prongs entered the base of his neck without warning, causing another little shock throughout the room. He felt a hand against his forehead. Cool to the touch, but not comforting. Darkness closed in.

“Delta,” It was Paris’s voice. Delta cracked his eyes open, unsure how much time had passed. The prince was leaning over him, grasping the table for support. His expression was giddy.

“Good job,” He said. Two thumbs up. It must have been. Paris so rarely complimented him. Again, he tried to speak. 

“Leave him alone. He fried his vocal cords,” Dr.Martino called, from somewhere outside Delta’s line of sight.

“What? Permanently?”

“Not this time. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse, cause god knows you’d be fucked then.”

“What did you just say to me?”

Delta passed out again, mercifully.

[emotionallychargedtowel]

Sato Ryuga in Kamen Rider Geats - an overview for non-toku folks

Now that Living with Him (Kare no Iru Seikatsu) has premiered has a couple of episodes out and is getting a good response from a lot of the folks I know on here, I thought it might be a good time to do one of those posts I do sometimes. I should probably have a name for this. Like, a tokusatsu actor overview post? My imagined audience for posts like this is made up of BL fans who haven't watched toku but would like to know more about their favorite actors' pasts in that genre. But I hope they're interesting for others as well.

The tokusatsu-to-BL pipeline has been getting shorter lately, with a lot of recent toku alums getting into BLs within the first year or so after their toku series has ended. Sato Ryuga falls into this category. He was on Kamen Rider Geats, which stopped airing last August. His costar Kan Hideyoshi, who played the lead rider in that series (Ukiyo Ace, a.k.a. Kamen Rider Geats), made the leap so quickly that the BL he was in, Although I Love You, and You? a.k.a. Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yaro ka, finished airing a while ago. That show had its moments but was a bit on the lackluster side (through no fault of Kan's--I thought he was charming, funny, and showed an admirable commitment to the role). I'm a lot more hopeful about Living with Him. In addition to its promising start, it was written by the screenwriter of Old Fashion Cupcake and directed by the director of My Personal Weatherman.

But even if it weren't for these positive indicators, I would have been excited to see Sato in a BL, or just about anything. He was really impressive in Geats. He showed a lot of range on that series, handling action, high drama, and occasional comedy really well. And it doesn't hurt that he's cute as hell.

By the way, I'm going to keep the spoilers vague in this post, but I can't really avoid them entirely while doing this type of overview. If relatively mild/general spoilers don't bother you, you should be OK to continue. And of course, if you don't think you'll ever watch Geats, you don't have to worry either way.

Sato and Kan together during Keiwa's villain era.

Sato's Geats character was named Sakurai Keiwa. Keiwa starts out as a sort of proxy for the audience. The premise of Geats involves a high-stakes competition called the Desire Grand Prix where the winner gets to magically change the world. Most of the time, most people don't know this competition is going on. It's already in progress when Keiwa encounters the players for the first time and he has zero context. As he learns about the game, and ends up joining in as Kamen Rider Tycoon (a pun on the fact that his suit form is modeled after a tanuki), the audience learns about it alongside him. Keiwa comes into the story as an idealistic sweetheart so it's easy to root for him right away. (This is less true of the other characters. Geats's biggest weakness, to my mind, is that it starts out conspicuously lacking in any sort of bonds between characters or truly relatable characters other than Keiwa. This gets a lot better by the latter part of the series, but I found it somewhat rough going to get to that point, and it took longer than it needed to.)

One interesting thing about Keiwa is that you can tell a lot about what's going on with him by his hair. You'll see what I mean. I didn't notice this until I was doing screenshots for this post and then it really stood out to me.

So, here's Keiwa as a naïve newcomer. Check out the cute mop.

It doesn't take long for him to get kind of intense when he's in a fight and about to henshin (transform into his armored suit form).

Speaking of which, for the first part of the series, his pre-transformation move involves a sort of determined fist gesture, which will be important later.

This is a later example of the henshin fist, but it gets the point across.

Intense henshin face notwithstanding, he's still Mr. Nice Guy for a lot of the series. He might get a bit of a hair part but he's basically a floppy-haired cinnamon roll.

And then something bad happens.

This thing is really hard on Keiwa, and he has a dark night of the soul. He gets estranged from the other lead characters.

The hair is already going a little haywire here.

He does some creepy shit.

Then he gets into an even darker place.

Keiwa switches up his henshin move. He starts snapping his fingers, which is part of Ace's signature move. Ace is a total badass who has won the Desire Grand Prix repeatedly. He's a perpetual contender, the guy everyone else is always gunning for because he's the most likely to come out on top. I mean, his name is Ace. Adopting the snapping part of his henshin move has significant symbolism. It's like Keiwa is saying he's the new badass in town. He also has a new, stronger suit form to go along with this change.

There's a difference in the way Keiwa does the snap that's worth noting. Ace's snap move starts as a fox head hand gesture (think the rock'n'roll devil horns gesture but with a pointed snout) because Geats takes the form of a kitsune when he goes into suit mode. Keiwa's snap starts with his hand upraised, fingers up, the back of his hand facing outward. It's reminiscent of an American-style beckoning motion (the "c'mere" finger thing and its multi-finger equivalent), which I gather is considered extremely rude in Japan. This calls back to the henshin move of a favorite toku character of mine, Sawatari Kazumin/Kamen Rider Grease, who Takeda Kouhei played on Kamen Rider Build. Sawatari just straight up does the rude beckoning motion before transforming. It's a very antagonistic, cocky thing to do.

As you can see, Keiwa's hair is really going haywire at this point.

Keiwa ends up facing off with Ace more and more, including in some scenes like the one below. It doesn't really come off this way to me when I'm watching the scenes, but when I look at these screenshots, these two look about as likely to smooch as they do to come to blows.

Keiwa's hair starts to get a little less poofy at this point but the cute mop hasn't returned. Instead, his hair is almost ready to go into bad guy mode!

Finally, Keiwa tips over into full-on villain territory. This is signaled by his hair getting a defined part. He also starts wearing an earring, just for extra bad boy hotness points.

(I’ve seen this earring thing happen in Japanese media quite a few times and it always seems funny to me, because an actor will have had a very visible hole in his earlobe for a whole series and then when he puts something in it we’re supposed to be all surprised Pikachu about it. It’s an interesting commentary on the cultural significance of earrings on dudes, I guess. Now I’m trying to think of nice boys in toku who get to wear earrings in their highly visible ear holes. Kaito from Zenkaiger is one, at least. I assume there are others?)

He keeps snapping/beckoning.

The beckoning thing is clearer here, and it has that flipping off the audience energy.

He adopts some pretty cold-blooded expressions.

In some scenes, like the one seen above, he seems to have subtle makeup on. I don't know if this is because villains are supposed to be hotter or because they're supposed to be more gender non-conforming. Or both? Well, it suits him.

As you would probably guess, Keiwa doesn't stay bad. The stuff that sent him off the deep end gets resolved and his relationships with other characters get repaired. He also gets his mop back (it's only intermittently messy) and loses the earring. He goes back to his original henshin move.

There you have it! Hopefully this gets across a good bit about Sato's Geats character and some of the shifts he goes through. Of course, I've left out plenty of stuff as well. Anyone who's really curious should definitely check out the series.

[password-door-lock]

Mystictober Day 25-- Tea Party

Unknown hosts a little tea party (1.2k words). Content warning: manipulation 

Unknown has his feet up on the table and a smirk on his face when the believer hauls Luciel in, wrists bound, and settles him onto one of the stiff-backed white chairs. You jump back, visibly startled by the redhead’s mere presence. It seems that Unknown’s hard work has paid off better than he ever expected it to.

“MC!” Of course Luciel would pay attention to you before even bothering to look at the brother he abandoned. You’re something that he wants, a prize he thinks he deserves, while Unknown is no longer of any use to him. Clearly, the bastard hasn’t changed one bit. “Are you— are you okay?” His voice sounds choked and strained, as though he cannot comprehend the magnitude of his loss. 

You flinch away, plainly terrified of Luciel, and Unknown shoots his rival a smug look before redirecting his attention to you. Carefully, deliberately, he takes his feet off the table and plants them firmly on the ground before patting his thigh. “Here,” he orders, raising his eyebrows conspicuously at Luciel as he does so. This is absolutely perfect. Unknown is fully in control, and thus far, the execution of his plan has been nothing short of flawless. 

You scramble to follow his command, seeking comfort in his arms. “That’s it, prince(ss),” Unknown coos, “I’ve got you. I won’t let that monster hurt you.” Then, he makes a big show of turning to Luciel. “Whatever did you do to make our prince(ss) so afraid of you?” He knows, of course. He knows every lie that Luciel poured into your head, every line of nonsense about keeping you safe and rescuing Unknown. When you told him that one, Unknown laughed out loud. Rescuing? That’s rich, coming from the person who got him into this situation in the first place.

The expression on Luciel’s face is absolutely fucking priceless. When he’s wearing such sheer devastation, nobody in their right mind would ever try to claim that this bastard is identical to Unknown. “Saeran,” he cries. That name coming out of his mouth is like nails on a chalkboard. “What… what did you do to MC?”

You were easy to brainwash, in the scheme of things. You were already terrified when Unknown got his hands on you, and you already didn’t trust Luciel. It really wasn’t difficult at all to get rid of the last vestiges of your affection for that redhead. You were the one who came up with the idea of seeking comfort from Unknown, and he simply ran with it to concoct the scene unfolding now. Should he be thanking you? Maybe he’ll get to that later, after he has his revenge. 

“Ah-ah,” Unknown scolds, “I asked you first.” He rubs your back as you press your face into his neck, more to torture Luciel than to comfort you. Unknown supposes that in this case, it’s actually better for him if you continue suffering, since your pain seems to also hurt Luciel.  

Luciel mutters something under his breath that sounds like a prayer, and Unknown snorts. He doesn’t think that God will be very impressed with whatever pathetic entreaties that redhead is trying to make right now. What kind of god would grant salvation to somebody like that? But just to be safe, Unknown will make damn sure that this liar suffers greatly during his remaining time on Earth. 

“I left MC alone in the apartment with a bomb,” Luciel confesses tearfully. He’s already crying? This really is too good. “I didn’t say anything, I— It’s my fault that— Saeran, please, I— I’m sorry, I— I never— I didn’t abandon you, I—” 

But Unknown just ignores him, instead using your hair as a handle to move your head and make you look at him. “Sweetheart,” he coos at you, “You’ve hardly touched your tea.” Sloppily, with one hand, he pours a cup for you. The teapot is unmistakably full of pale blue elixir; it runs down the side of the porcelain teacup and stains the lace tablecloth, but Unknown could not care less.

“No!” Luciel cries, playing right into Unknown’s hands. He’s really made this entire process all too easy. 

“He’s yelling again,” you mutter. You’re still so plainly terrified, clutching at Unknown’s clothes like your life depends on your proximity to him. 

“Mhm,” Unknown agrees, “He doesn’t want you to get saved. He’s trying to stop you from having the elixir so he can take you back from me and torture you.” Actually, knowing Luciel, that bastard would probably just abandon you when he got you in his hands, but the word torture seems to scare both of you into further compliance with Unknown’s plan. It’s too easy.

“MC, please,” Luciel begs, trying so hard not to raise his voice. Does he seriously expect that to work? “Please don’t do this. Please, you’ll never have to see me again, please—”

But Unknown continues to ignore his prisoner. “He’s already trying to manipulate you again,” he informs you, because it’s the truth. Luciel isn’t capable of caring about anybody, or else he wouldn’t have abandoned his only brother in that awful place. Unknown’s actions, then, are entirely justified— and you’ll be fine, eventually. Once Luciel is taken care of, Unknown will have time to properly welcome you to paradise, just as the Savior promised. But for now… “Why don’t you show him how devoted you are to the Mint Eye, hm?” He even goes so far as to place the teacup in your shaking hands for you. Wordlessly, you follow Unknown’s instructions— you always do, after all. You’ll be rewarded for your compliance in due time.

Luciel mutters more incomprehensible nonsense under his breath. “Saeran, why would you— please, just tell me—” He attempts to raise a question that he’s got no right to ask, but evidently, he can’t find the right words, because his sobs overcome him once again. Besides, Unknown doesn’t need to explain why. According to his Savior, Luciel knows exactly what he did. He’s just pretending to regret it right now because he’s finally facing consequences for his evil actions. 

As you rest your head against Unknown’s shoulder, recovering from the burn of the elixir, he grins at Luciel from across the table. “I win,” he announces simply, slinging a possessive arm around you. But his revenge is only just beginning as he runs his fingers through your hair. “Now, go back to the intelligence room and wait for me, okay, prince(ss)? I’ll come find you once I finish this one thing.” There’s no need to traumatize you further, now that you’ve already served your purpose so well. 

“Mm,” you look confused, but you seem to have at least some understanding of what’s going on. You only just took the elixir, and you didn’t even have very much. You’ll be fine in a few days, Unknown assures himself, and your small sacrifice was nothing short of necessary in the grand scheme of things. “Okay.” Because you’d never have any other response to instructions from Unknown. 

He waits until the believer has escorted you out of the room to return his attention to Luciel. At long last, Unknown can now enact retribution for all of that redhead’s crimes.

[bitchsister]

the ask and your subsequent lucky charms!au post about curtie being always up for sexting and listening during lectures to bucky rubbing one out and calling curt's name made my loins melt and my brain rot and i had a thought—

Bucky gets invited to hold an open talk about his law practice at Curt's university. Obviously the target audience is law students, but Bucky asks Curt whether he'd like to attend anyway and Curt excuses himself saying he has an important aerodynamics class he can't afford to miss. Bucky's a bit bummed out, but on the other hand he figures that at least he won't be getting distracted.

He takes the talk very seriously, wants to be strategic about his presentation, gauge his audience before the lecture actually starts. So he wanders through the corridor next to the lecture hall a bit before the start, figuring the people hanging around there would mostly be his audience. He gets snippets here and there: two friends looking at a leaflet announcing Bucky's talk and betting on what his salary is (and grossly overestimating), a girl anxiously reciting Latin law terms under her breath (likely worried about getting quizzed in her next Roman law seminar), a hulky guy excitedly telling his lanky friend about the cute girl in the pink laced dress he noticed going into the lecture hall a minute ago. The other words from their mouths are considerably less respectful towards their object of interest, and Bucky chides the pair as he passes by. 'Not my fault she looks like a slut!' the hulky guy retorts. Smirking ever so slightly, Bucky points out that parole boards don't accept that plea anymore and suavely strides past them into the lecture hall. The pink laced dress is indeed already in the hall, as the boys had said, sat in the first row, and Bucky's heart drops into his stomach when he sees that it's Curt. He has gloss on his lips, glitter on his cheeks, and three small ribbons in his hair. Curt hasn't had a haircut for months, and Bucky likes it that way, likes to stroke his hair and ruffle it, and will gladly pull it when Curt asks, but somehow he's never thought of decorating it. Good that Curt thought of it though because, Bucky realizes as he sets up his PowerPoint, Curt looks gorgeous with ribbons and in a frilly dress.

Of course, Curt looks gorgeous in everything, even Bucky's old oversized T-shirts. But old T-shirts don't accentuate Curt's ridiculously tiny waist. Or the milky collarbones. Or the soft neck. And then Curt looks at Bucky from under his silky dark eyelashes, and it finally hits Bucky hard that the next hour will be a much greater challenge than expected. Even though he prefers pacing, he spends most of his talk behind the speaking stand to hide the inevitability of the events in his pants. Curt spends the next hour twirling his hair, adding gloss to his lips using a small pocket mirror, fiddling with his sleeves to pretend they'd accidentally slipped, revealing a shoulder; conspicuously sucking on a lollipop, biting his lips, and making the lewdest facial expressions whenever Bucky looks in the direction of the audience. It's as distracting as it is exhilarating and, after a while, Bucky actually starts enjoying the challenge. His talk becomes peppier, funnier. He gets students riveted about a tax evasion case.

When the lecture is over and the students begin streaming out of the hall, Bucky stays behind, waiting for the flow to dissipate and making sure he doesn't get too close to Curt when dozens of eyes could see them. He sees the obnoxious hulky guy from earlier catch up with Curt right before the door, say something indiscernible amid the noise of the student bustle, and slap him on his ass. Incensed, Bucky has to force himself not to leap across the hall to them and rough up the perpetrator, but retribution comes to him faster than Bucky ever could anyway as Curt plainly knocks the guy out with a single punch. The incident causes the movement of students to grow chaotic — there is swearing and running around; somebody cheers; somebody goes to get a nurse. Amid the confusion, Curt turns his gaze to look at Bucky across the floor. He doesn't look at all confused or flustered — if anything, now his eyes twinkle even more than they did during the talk. They finally meet in the parking lot next to Bucky's car. Curt's face is practically glowing, and not only the glitter-covered parts. 'What about that important aerodynamics class?' 'Tomorrow.' 'I should spank you for lying, you know. And whatever that spectacle was.' Despite his words, Bucky is smiling, playful. 'Sounds like a plan,' Curt answers, smirking like the little devil that he is. and then they go home and fuck nasty lol

FOR FUCK SAKE.

WHYYY WHY WHY!!!!!!!!!

Bucky practically drags him inside the house, grabs him by his jaw once they’re in his study and licks the taste of cherry out of Curt’s pretty mouth, the sticky sweet flavor from all the lollipops he’d sucked on while staring at Bucky, wishing they were him during the lecture, still left behind.

Bucky forces his thighs apart once he lifts Curt up onto his desk, his movements neat and contemplated but his hunger growing by the minute.

“You know,” he huffs, turning his boy around and bending him over the mahogany of his executive desk instead. He’d hit it from the back. “You wanna act like a slut, you’ll get fucked like one.” He wraps a hand around the nape of Curt’s neck, pressing his cheek into the furniture he was bent over.

Skirts meant easy access, the frills and lace flipped over Curt’s back to reveal what he’d been showing off the whole time, his back arched and his thighs spread. “Gonna teach me a lesson, professor Bucky?”

Oh, calamity!!!

I LOVE THEM SO

[bereft-of-frogs]

I have a whole bunch of things to do and a rough draft I should be working on, but instead here's an absurd night of the fire theory (with admittedly, a few holes):

I think the night of the fire starts with the Jedi split up. The remaining trailer footage is a few scenes of just Sol and Indara together, and the fight between Kelnacca and Torbin. So they start divided for some reason, and then Aniseya casts a spell to enchant at least Kelnacca, or the both of them, and make them fight. There's the trailer shot of all of the witches having blacked-out eyes, so I think she's either drawing on them for the spell or they're all casting it together?

(bunch of holes: what makes them decide to split up/return to the fortress, what happens between Aniseya and the rest of the coven, why does she cast the spell)

Sol and Indara realize something is wrong and go to the fortress themselves. Sol steps into the fight (Kelnacca vs Sol trailer footage) while Indara traces the origin of the spell back to Aniseya. She confronts her to get her to stop -- with Mae watching.

Mae seems to not think her mother's power is a huge deal (if you watch the first confrontation, she looks delighted when Aniseya casts the spell on Torbin the first time, like it's a harmless game) so she considers her mother to be 'unarmed' ('The Jedi don't attack the unarmed'/'yes you do') but the Jedi do take it seriously (Torbin looked pretty upset afterward), so Indara considers Aniseya to be 'armed'. Eventually Indara feels the need to kill her to stop the spell ('A Jedi only pulls her weapon if she's prepared to kill') -- but what she doesn't realize is that's going to rebound and kill the entire coven (the moment Osha hears where they all scream above her).

I think Koril survives, maybe she wasn't involved with the spell, (too conspicuously missing from the pile of bodies) and comes back to attack the Jedi in a rage for killing Aniseya (trailer shot of her lunging at someone) and their confrontation results in the reactor getting tripped and the larger fire starting. (Wouldn't be surprised if Mae does drop the lantern --perhaps being distracted by hearing the start of Indara and Aniseya's fight, and rushing off to witness that -- and DOES start the smaller fire that traps Osha in her room but the Jedi vs witches confrontation is responsible for the larger one that destroys the whole fortress)

So the guilt is spread more or less evenly. Kelnacca and Torbin feel guilty for being mind controlled/attacking each other/the reason Indara had to kill Aniseya, Sol potentially for starting the fire. My main rebuttal for a lot of the 'Indara is a Sith/Indara premeditates a massacre and the others' guilt is for failing to stop her' theories is...there's no reason to lie if only one party is uniquely evil or at fault. If it is just one person and they all feel THAT guilty...they'd just tell the Order, I can't see all four being willing to lie for just one person, it seems like a collective thing.

And the splitting up part is important because I think only Torbin and Kelnacca experience the mind control/spell thing. Indara and Sol are more functional 16 years later because even if they have regrets and guilt over what happened, they were adults and they were 'in their right minds', so can own up to their decisions. But having your sense of self overridden might lead to being more haunted ('...he gets inside your head and stays there') and unable to move on, leading Kelnacca to his exile and obsession with the coven symbol, and Torbin to take the Barash Vow (especially if he thinks it's his fault that Indara felt the need to kill Aniseya, and chain-reaction wipe out the rest of the coven)

Especially because I think the Barash Vow is going to end up being more about that trauma of having your sense of self violated and your connection to the Force broken in some way. The only other time we've seen the Barash Vow in practice in this era (...aside from the actual Barash herself plot which, I'll be real, every time that came up in the last two books I was like 'Porter, babe, I love you but there is SO much else going on, I do NOT have the space to unpack this right now...') is Dez at the end of Into the Dark. And Dez objectively did nothing really wrong except be a bit impulsive and get himself stuck in a bad situation. What the Drengir make him do is clearly not his fault. But he chooses to take the Vow because 'the cracks are still showing' with his connection to the Force.

(Side note: do we think Dez will ever come back? I'm inclined to say probably not or else he'd have been namedropped again by now but honestly I'd rather have him come back in than Cohmac. But alas. I don't think there's really much left for Dez, character-arc wise, and there's a whole lot left on the table for Cohmac, with the way he just....noped out of there (sigh). So out of the two of them Cohmac's more likely to show back up in the Reath-focused books. But. What's Dez doing tho?)

I'm not 100% sure how this connects to my last bit of the theory: that everyone knew Mae was alive and purposefully left her behind for some reason. Indara and Torbin are 0% surprised that Mae is still alive, and Sol is getting to the point of 'doth protest too much', especially after Vernestra got upset with him after the meeting (Sol & Elzar could form a 'getting justifiably read to filth by Vernestra Rwoh' support group if they were alive at the same time), and all the stuff he's hiding.

Also suspect: Sol's line 'there's nothing back there' on the ship at the end of the episode, when Osha wants to go back. Maybe he did know something was back there, a living Mae, maybe also Koril, but they thought it was easier for Osha to think her sister was dead and not have to make this choice. Maybe they've made some deal (all the stuff about the Stranger trying to prompt Sol into remembering him) to each take one of the twins and lie about the other being dead (the Stranger also is not surprised that Osha is alive, while Mae is shook), and this is the true Parent Trap moment lol XD

I genuinely don't know how seriously I mean that last point because truly I'm like 'lol they did a Parent Trap that would be so silly' but also....yeah I think they might have done a Parent Trap...

*admittedly all quotes are paraphrased from memory, I can go back and add the book quote about Dez's decision later because I can just CTRL-F in my kindle app but I probably shouldn't take the time to scrub through confirming show quotes lol, I really have SO much to do today. I said this last week too. I'm really going to push through this rough draft this afternoon I promise.

ETA:

Ok, NOW I'm going to go clean my apartment and work on what I actually want to be working on, theory exorcised from my brain for now

[forgottenvice]

Feathers in a storm

Finally my Fic for the Moshang Events Big Bang 2023 Take a read if you're so inclined

Ao3 Art

The sharp cry startled Shang Qinghua, warning him of the oncoming onslaught. He'd been trying to look inconspicuous but it didn't matter, the white crows descended upon him. He tried to ignore the incessant squawking by staying perfectly still but as more of the foul beasts joined the flock he was forced to flee.

Whoever decided that a group of crows was to be dubbed a murder must have been well acquainted with their enmity. Having to endure the amassing harassment forced Shang Qinghua to give up his perch, taking to the air with just enough of a headstart to avoid a chase.

He chose a path letting out his own screech of discontent, since the beginning of his short tenure in the north the native snow crows had taken quite personal offence to his presence.

Apparently crows didn't like ravens all that much, not that Shang Qinghua was actually a raven. He was, but he also wasn't. Sure he had the feathers, the talons, the beak, but he hadn't been born with them, nor had he particularly wanted them, but he had a mission. When that mission was complete he could shed his fowl features and move on with his life.

Though ‘complete’ was feeling farther and farther away. After three days it had become clearer that his mission would not be quite as simple as he'd been led to believe.

Go to the north, spy on the crown prince.

An easy task for any talented spy, especially one in the form of a raven. Who would notice another bird flying around the palace? He'd figured he'd be practically invisible as he watched over the man. His arrival at the palace had not been quite so easy.

Shang Qinghua was used to breezy buildings with open air walkways and large paper windows. The perfect environment for spying. The Northern palace however was not so easily infiltrated.

Instead of winding walkways there was tightly packed stone, instead of paper screens, thick glass, instead of clear views there were dozens of chimneys filling the air with smoke and steam. It was as if the place was tailor made to obscure his vision and get in his way. Something made even more difficult with his lack of thumbs and his newfound inability to open doors on his own.

And then, there was the rookery.

The castle kept the ivory coloured crows to deliver their mail. They were hardier birds more suited to the northern climate than the common pigeon. Of course that made them more aggressive than the common pigeon, and by himself Shang Qinghua was a prime target. He couldn't blame them, not completely, they were just animals, and he wasn't particularly enamoured with his current state either. But it wasn't his fault and the constant shrieking and air bombardment was rather rude.

He had spent so much time dodging crows that in the three days he'd been there he'd yet to even catch a glimpse of his target. The elusive crown prince was nowhere to be found, not even on the lips of the common gossips at the river; far from the palace rookery. The dying king was all they seemed to talk about, that and his brother. A loyal man who never seemed to leave his side as his health deteriorated. The only mention of the kingdom's heir was to remark on his conspicuous absence.

The whispers stopped there, the king's illness seemed suspicious and the ruthless prince was suspect but suspecting him without proof was treason. There were rumours the man had a secret guard and had killed servants for less in the past. To the washerwomen speculation was hardly worth dying for.

A smart stance for servants to take, but it was useless for a spy like Shang Qinghua. He'd tried to follow the kitchen staff back in an attempt to gain entry after that, but had barely dodged the cook's broom.

He circled the palace for the hundredth time, finally used to letting the wind lift and guide him around the structure. He had hoped to find an advantageous location to spend his nights, the weather was worsening day by day, so there were no windows left open for him to eavesdrop on. Plus there was his own comfort to consider.

While the chimneys and smoke stacks were warm, the constant steam irritated his lungs and eyes. He'd spent the first night in a tree beyond the palace walls, but it made him feel too removed, like he was going to miss something.

He'd eventually found a rather isolated courtyard; far from the tower of crows, with a  gnarled old tree protected from the chilled wind with a comfortable perch just outside one of the palace's many windows. It wasn't a particularly useful window, but having a sightline into the darkened antechamber eased his nerves even if it was empty, as if the wing of the palace had been abandoned.

It was honestly a relief, with no one to see him he wasn't forced to pretend that he was a normal bird. What sort of things did ravens normally do? He'd never studied birds or their habits. Resting free of an audience was truly his best option. His chosen branch was even long enough for him to waddle back and forth in a manner similar to how he used to pace.

The movement helped him think, that and speaking aloud to empty air. While as a bird he couldn't exactly talk, but the chirps and chitters he let out served a similar purpose while he familiarized himself with the north and its political climate.

The prince wasn't very well liked, a tyrant in the making if the washerwoman were to be believed. He didn't seem to care for his father's illness the way his uncle did. Nobody had said it out loud but it seemed in public opinion the uncle was favoured over the actual heir to succeed the throne. While that sounded good on paper, the compassionate uncle taking the throne would cause more problems for Shang Qinghua.

He didn't want to get involved, but he didn't have nearly enough information that he could successfully report back. He'd not even caught a glimpse of the prince, if he returned with so little information he could kiss his humanity goodbye.

He'd slept fitfully, curled into a ball of feathers dreaming of a time when he had none.

The horn called loud enough to startle him from his perch, he tried to reach out and grab the branch but only had feathers where fingers should have been. He barely managed to spread both wings and break his fall. Thankfully it wasn't a particularly tall tree.

A second call sounded louder than the first and the harsh caws of the rookery greeted it.

Shang Qinghua sat in the grass, shoulders hunched wondering if he really had to check out the commotion or if he could just sleep where he'd fallen. He was still mad about waking up as a raven and didn't have any desire to get any closer to the crows.

Eventually he let out an angry caw of his own, he'd dreamt of human things, walking, writing, opening doors; truly a lovely dream, spoiled by noisy fucking crows. What were they even worked up about anyway? They had a nice warm tower to sleep in, why did they have to disturb the little comfort he'd managed to find?

Busy grumbling, the third horn blast startled him, almost as much as the first. He took to the air instinctively, eventually gaining just enough height to see the parade of hunters entering the far gate. It was a rather large retinue carrying with them all sorts of game.

He flew a bit higher before coasting downwards for a closer look, he wasn't familiar with the wildlife of the northern forests and was curious. A new group of people entering the palace meant new opportunities for him, this may have been what he was waiting for.

He pulled right as quick as he could, barely dodging the arrow as it whistled past, nicking his pinfeathers as it flew. An unflattering squawk left him as he pulled up only to see a man holding a bow and staring him down.

The man was tall, taller than most of his compatriots, holding himself with the practised ease of a hunter. Shang Qinghua would have stared longer except with the way the man slowly reached for another arrow he knew the next shot would likely not miss. It was a tactical retreat.

His wings pumped trying to get out of range as fast as possible until his thoughts caught up with his wingbeats. The hunter had been tall, well dressed with an expensive looking cloaked trimmed with fur. He had sharp features and cold eyes.

It had to be the crown prince, Mobei Jun.

He altered his trajectory, circling back behind the incoming retinue. He stayed low, landing on the far side of the stable and crept slowly up until he could peek at the incoming hunters, and most specifically, their leader.

The prince had lowered his bow once Shang Qinghua had left his line of sight, speaking to a retainer at his side. A curly haired youth, who seemed to be the only person who'd dare approach him. Most of the other hunters gave him a wide berth, even the servants who attended the caravan did so warrily, deference tempered with something else.

Fear.

"Nephew, it seems your hunt was successful." A charming voice called out and the crowd parted immediately as someone new entered the courtyard, Shang Qinghua crept closer.

The prince towered over the newcomer but his height did nothing to  overwhelm the other man's presence. He walked with impunity, dressed in embroidered velvet covered in jewels only a royal could afford. Despite the difference in height and the older man's greying locks the resemblance was unmistakable.

After days of drought Shang Qinghua was caught in a downpour. He was now witness to two thirds of the royal family, Linguang Jun, brother to the king, had left his vigil at the king's side to greet his nephew.

"Our larders will be well stocked this winter." deep lines pulled his smile tight, distaste crossing his expression as he looked at the spoils that followed the prince into the palace. This greeting was his duty, nothing more. Even from a distance Shang Qinghua could see that there was no familial love between nephew and uncle, and only the latter was willing to put up the pretence.

Mobei Jun didn't even try to hide his animosity, his brows dropped and his chin tilted up as teh other man drew closer, clearly on the defensive.

"Uncle." he stepped to the side, intent to walk past, but the other man followed his movement blocking his path. The crown prince pulled back his shoulders, emphasizing his greater stature.

"I must greet my fathe--"

"The King is dead." The sharpness of the words silenced the courtyard, only the cawing of the crows filled the silence. Everyone stopped mid motion at the news.

"He died this morning, in his bed," Linguang Jun sighed dramatically before turning his sharp eyes on Mobei Jun, "Calling out for his son." The prince flinched but the words weren't for him, not really. Several sharp gasps sounded through the crowd, the message hitting its marks.

Easily manipulated fools. Shang Qinghua could see the quirk of Linguang Jun's lips, and the way he made a very public spectacle of a very private matter, drinking in the attention. At first Mobei Jun appeared stoic, but there were signs of his deteriorating composure. The way his hands curled into fists, the bunched tension in his broad shoulders. Qinghua had no doubt that there was fury coursing under the man's skin, like a raging river below a thin layer of ice.

But to anyone not paying such close attention, they would just see cold hearted stoicism.

The courtyard had become a battlefield and it was clear that Linguang Jun was winning.

The prince took a measured breath before speaking.

"I will see the body."

"The royal embalmer has already been called, there is nothing left for you to do." Shang Qinghua's eyes narrowed. Such quick action was suspicious.

"That was not your place."

"You were not here, and with no knowledge of your return I was simply doing what needed to be done,"

There was a vein throbbing on Mobei Jun's forehead, his uncle was masterfully playing the situation to his advantage. The cautious stares and fearful whispers suddenly made sense. The uncle was far from magnanimous, he was a skilled manipulator working his way towards the throne. Laying all the groundwork to destroy his nephew's reputation.

And it seemed Mobei Jun knew it too, if his clenched jaw and obvious frustration were anything to go by.

"Thank you uncle," he didn't mean the words, they were clearly nothing but a formality. The bitter dance of politics that he'd already lost. "I will make preparations for the funeral."

Without waiting for a response he simply nodded to the servant at his side and swept off into the palace alone.

From a drought to a flood, Shang Qinghua had spent three days scrounging for information about the prince and the state of the kingdom, and in a fleeting moment he'd learned more than he knew what to do with.

He still wasn't sure if it would be of any use to him, so he returned to his tree to try and organize his thoughts. Only it appeared that his lonely courtyard was no longer as empty as it had been previously.

The darkened window was now lit, the glass opened wide to let in the morning's chill. A giant figure stalked back and forth within, moving with the repressed violence of a caged animal.

It was Mobei Jun.

Shang Qinghua watched him cross the room, then turn and cross it again, finally the figure stopped pulling something out from his pocket.

Shang Qinghua couldn't quite identify the object, but the prince stared at it intently, his knuckles paling as his grip tightened. The hand enveloping the object began to shake before the tension finally snapped and the strange object went flying out the window.  

Breath came to the prince in heavy pants, his anger slowly dissipating until he dropped into the chair at his writing desk. He looked small, and weary. But it only lasted a moment.

Within the span of a breath the slump left the man's shoulders and he composed himself, sedately grabbing a sheave of parchment and a writing quill.

Curious Shang Qinghua followed the trajectory of the object until he found it lying in the grass a short distance away.

Tilting his head back and forth he tried to figure out what it could possibly be, it looked like some sort of ivory, a horn? Perhaps a trophy from a recent hunt?

The colour was mesmerizing, shifting with the light between a dull tan and a brilliant blue. Whatever the object was it seemed valuable, and the prince had thrown it away in a fit of anger.

If he was being honest with himself he wanted to keep it, it was shiny and drew his eye. The way the colours changed appealed in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable, like an impulse more than a choice. A distinctly avian one, making him feel like he'd lose a part of himself if he gave in to the idea. So instead he acted.  

The horn wasn't too heavy, he managed to grip it in his beak and awkwardly fly back to the window. He landed on the sill, peering into the window wondering how he could return the horn.

The room was large but sparsely furnished. There was a four post bed displayed grandly against the wall, and a writing desk sitting in front of an empty hearth.

Shang Qinghua had intended to place the object on a random surface and leave, instead he was forced to drop it with a squawk as he dodged a flying inkwell.

"Leave!" dark eyes bored into him, weighing his soul for judgement. It seemed Mobei Jun's calm demeanour hadn't quashed his fury and he'd found a new object for his ire, and that object was Shang Qinghua.

He took to the air, manoeuvring back to his perch outside the window, trilling indignantly at the treatment.

The prince approached the window and glared at him.

"Noisy." He slammed the window closed with enough force to make Shang Qinghua jump.

Rude, Shang Qinghua puffed up his feathers squawking loudly. So the prince was having a bad day, that didn't justify bullying a poor bird like him.

Noisy? Shang Qinghua shifted his weight from talon to talon. I'll show him noisy!

He began pacing along the branch, too angry to appreciate the irony of his actions. Every so often he'd glare at the closed window catching a glimpse of the prince through the glass.

It was time to build a nest. Ao3

[mariacallous]

The past few weeks have seen an outpouring of both grief and tributes following the death of Russian opposition figure Alexei Navalny. And rightfully so. Navalny’s death in a Siberian gulag effectively snuffed out what many viewed as the clearest path to Russia’s eventual democratization.

No one had fooled themselves that Navalny would, somehow, win Russia’s upcoming election, with President Vladimir Putin’s reelection all but confirmed. But there were plenty, especially in the West, who still viewed Navalny as a figure akin to Nelson Mandela, emerging from a lengthy prison tenure to lead his nation into a bright, democratic future. Now, that dream is dead. And any potential for Russia’s eventual democratization appears even more distant, and even less likely.

But while Russia’s remaining opposition continues to look for new strategies to employ in the wake of Navalny’s death, one clear lesson has hopefully emerged for those in West. It is too risky to place all hopes of a nation’s eventual democratization on a single person.

It’s not just that a singular figure can, as seen with Navalny, be killed. It’s also that for as much bravery as Navalny exhibited—and, to be clear, Navalny illustrated more bravery than most people will ever know—there were clear faults and frailties within his politics. While Navalny arguably proved to be Putin’s most able political opponent, he also shared many of the same revanchist tendencies that propelled Russia into Ukraine in the first place—a reality that far too many in the West preferred to ignore or downplay.

But it is a reality that can no longer be overlooked. After all, if it is Russian nationalism that has unleashed Europe’s most destructive conflict since the Second World War—and pushed the world closer to potential nuclear conflict than anything in decades—then anyone exhibiting these tendencies, as Navalny did for years, must be treated cautiously. And if the clearest lesson to emerge from Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is that Western interlocutors need to listen more—far, far more—to warnings and analysis from former Russian colonies, then it’s long past time to listen to what Ukrainians have been saying about Navalny and other leading lights of Russia’s anti-Putin opposition.

All of which points to one clear takeaway from the past few weeks: With Navalny’s death, the time has come for the West to move beyond the idea that some Mandela-type figure will emerge in Russia. Instead of placing its hopes in a singular future leader, the West will be far better served by facing the threats of Russian irredentism head-on, and finally focusing on eliminating Russian nationalism as a political force, once and for all.

Ironically, the West’s willingness to place all hopes on a single, conspicuous figure in Moscow—while turning the other way when that figure’s imperialistic tendencies came to the fore—hardly began with Navalny. Such a phenomenon can be tracked all the way back to the late Soviet Union, when the administrations of both former Presidents Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush tacked hard toward supporting Mikhail Gorbachev and his domestic reforms.

Of course, Gorbachev’s policy portfolio, including achievements such as glasnost (or “openness,” which referred to increased transparency and the loosening of state censorship), was a sight better than that of any of his predecessors. But when Gorbachev’s forces slaughtered anti-regime protesters in places such as Kazakhstan, Georgia, and Lithuania, the West hardly blinked, embracing Gorbachev ever closer—and blinding the West to the anti-colonial movements emerging across the Soviet Union. Those movements, which the United States actively tried to tamp down, eventually toppled the Soviet empire entirely, catching Washington flat-footed and leaving Gorbachev as a man without a country.

Under the Clinton administration, Washington followed the Soviet collapse by heaving its hopes for Russian democratization onto newly elected President Boris Yeltsin. And understandably so; Yeltsin was, amidst the Soviet rubble, the clear leader of the emerging Russian Federation, and a man who at least gestured rhetorically toward democratic aspirations.

But then, in just his first term, Yeltsin’s authoritarian nationalism roared to the fore. Not only did he shell parliament and implement the super-presidential system that Putin later inherited, but Yeltsin also refused to remove Russian troops from eastern Moldova and oversaw armed interference efforts in northern Georgia—all while he threatened to redraw Russia’s borders with both Ukraine and Kazakhstan if the former colonies didn’t follow Moscow’s writ. And most notoriously, after Chechens voted for independence from Moscow, Yeltsin launched a devastating campaign in 1994 to crush Chechen separatists—an invasion that he and Putin would reprise again toward the end of the decade, leaving hundreds of thousands dead.

All the while, U.S. officials’ criticism of Yeltsin was effectively nonexistent. As one academic analysis of the era summed up, the “Clinton administration saw no alternatives to Yeltsin and was prepared to support him no matter what.”

To be sure, there are yawning differences between Navalny and these predecessors, not least the fact that Navalny never came anywhere close to power. Yet there were unsettling similarities between them, which the West continually played down—but which those in both current and former Russian colonies alike readily recognized.

Navalny, for instance, was a clear Russian nationalist. Not only did he back Moscow’s invasion of Georgia in 2008, describing Georgians as “rodents,” but he also used additional ethnic slurs to describe others from the Caucasus. He further framed himself as someone who would remove “non-White immigrants from Central Asia and the Caucasus by ruthlessly deporting them,” as journalist Terrell Jermaine Starr wrote in 2021.

Most notoriously, Navalny spent years not only refusing to condemn Moscow’s initial invasion of Ukraine in 2014, but then dodging questions about whether Russia should return the Ukrainian region of Crimea to Kyiv’s control. Even if elected president, he said in 2014, he’d still retain Moscow’s control of Crimea. It was only in 2023, nearly a decade after the Kremlin first barreled into Ukraine, that Navalny called for a restoration of Ukraine’s circa-1991 borders.

That shift was, of course, welcome. But the fact that it took a crushing war—one in which the Kremlin has spilled more blood and treasure than anything that Moscow’s been involved in in nearly 80 years—was a testament to how ingrained such revanchist views still are, not only in Navalny but even among his supporters. And the fact that so many in the West willingly overlooked such retrograde views is hardly a testament to Western policymakers’ willingness to wrestle with just how deep Russian nationalism truly runs.

But that was then. With Navalny’s death, an opportunity has opened for the West to finally move beyond the idea that a particular political figure, even amid the Russian opposition, can lead Moscow out of its imperialistic delusions and into a democratic future. It is a tragedy that it’s taken Navalny’s death to open this possibility—but it is a possibility that the West cannot afford to pass by yet again.

Put another way: There is no Russian Mandela coming. And if we continue to refuse to tackle the issues of Russian nationalism head-on—even among those who are opposed to Putin—then we risk seeing even a post-Putin Russia return to imperialistic footing, tossing Europe into catastrophe once more.

Which is why, in this post-Navalny world, the West must focus on snuffing out Russian nationalism, wherever it finds it. This means elevating the insights and advice from former Russian colonies, such as those in Kyiv, even more; after all, it is those former colonies that proved more prescient about Russia than policymakers in places such as Washington or Berlin ever were.

This means recognizing Russian irredentism as a phenomenon that extends far beyond even Putin’s base, and one that has far more cachet among the Russian body politic than the West realizes. (As scholar Mark Galeotti recently noted on his podcast, even among parts of the populace opposed to Russia’s expanded invasion in 2022, “pretty much every single Russian, for or against Putin, thinks [Russia’s initial annexation of Crimea in 2014] was okay.”)

And this means, finally, moving beyond the idea that some singular figure will rally Russians to their cause and toss off the yoke and appeal of Russian expansionism once and for all. Not that the West shouldn’t support anti-Putin opposition; so long as Putin remains in power, the war will continue, with the potential for far worse to come.

But whenever Putin leaves office, the West cannot put all of its chips on a single reformer—especially if it means eliding said reformer’s nationalism and ignoring their previous support for Putin’s invasions.

It is a legacy that Navalny may well have been proud of. And it’s a legacy that will, perhaps for the first time, finally lead Western policymakers on the right path—and, at some point, result in the democratic Russia that we all long to see.

[gothdaddyissues]

In The 20s

Prologue available on Ao3

or under the cut (~2000 words)

Thanks to @ramblingoak for the help and encouragement with this one!

SUMMARY: It's the mid-1920's and Prohibition is in full swing. The Emeritus family are the city's biggest gang headed by the aging godfather Papa Nihil. With a successful bootlegging business and a popular speakeasy known as The Church, Nihil's sons Primo, Secondo, and Terzo fight to maintain their spot at the top of the crime ladder. A rival gang has plans to put the old man out of business for good.

RATING: Mature for violence and language

TAGS: Copia, Terzo, Secondo, OC characters, violence, blood, swearing, illegal activities, Google Translate Italiano

⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧⛧

Copia took one last, long drag of his cigarette, the orange tip burning bright in the darkness. He savored the heat in his lungs before exhaling and flicking the butt into the river. It hit the water with a brief sizzle and disappeared into the murky waves below.

The sun would rise soon; the longer they stood here, the greater their chances of being seen. This was the worst part: the waiting. The uncertainty. Would their delivery arrive? Were they being watched? Would today be the day the police stopped them? It hadn’t happened yet, but there was always the chance. He wasn’t too worried - he knew they could handle any scenario. They were flexible. They had backup plans for their backup plans. That’s why they were kings in this town. But any fuck up meant they’d have to answer to Papa Nihil, and he’d rather spend the night in jail than deal with the miserable old bastard.

It was silent on the dock, the only sounds were the water lapping against the shore and the ‘tip-tap-tip-tap’ of Terzo’s shoes as he paced back and forth. Secondo lit another cigarette and sighed. Copia twirled his cane through his fingers in boredom. Their henchmen - their Ghouls - kept back next to the vehicles, Tommy guns at the ready. 

“They’re late,” Terzo grumbled. 

“They’ll be here,” Secondo replied calmly, “Just relax.”

“Are you sure? They’ve never been late before.” Terzo’s patience was wearing thin. He was the most anxious and hot-headed of the three Emeritus brothers, traits that were less than ideal as the heir apparent to his father’s empire. 

“Give them until first light,” Copia suggested. “We’ll be too exposed if we stay past then.”

“Says the guy in the conspicuous white suit,” Terzo scoffed.

Copia rolled his eyes. “And who’s fault is that? You’re the one that dragged me right off stage the second the show ended and didn’t even give me a chance to change.”

“Shut up,” Secondo said, “Both of you.” He put his hand up to his ear. “Listen. They’re coming.”

The faint sound of a boat motor was drifting across the water, slowly getting louder as it steered closer. The engine misfired, chugging and struggling under the weight of its load. A light bobbed along the surface - a flashlight signaling morse code: short-long-long-short, long-short-long, long-long-short. PKG. Their cargo was arriving.

Secondo took out his pocket lamp and signaled back: long-short-long-short, short-short-long. CU. Message received. He laid the torch on the dock as an impromptu guidelight to help the boat across the choppy river water to the meeting spot.

The first rays of morning light we just breaking over the horizon when the tiny fishing boat finally arrived at the dock. One of the two men tossed the tie rope to Secondo so he could anchor them down.

“Sorry about the wait gents,” the other man said, “I think we overloaded ‘er and it slowed us down.”

“Worry not, my friends,” Terzo assured them, a stark contrast to his earlier annoyance. “As long as you’ve got the goods, everything’s peachy.” He motioned behind him for the Ghouls to come forward and help unload.

“We sure do!” the man said. With a crowbar in his hand, he began prying the lids of the wooden crates to show proof of their contents. “Three cases of the finest Canadian Club whisky, as requested. Two cases of English gin, and…” He saved the best for last. “A full case of French Champagne. I should have more of that in a week or two.”

Terzo beamed with delight. “Champagne! At last! I will take as much of it as you can get. You have outdone yourselves this time. Molto apprezzato!” He turned to Copia and held up two fingers. “Fetch the men their payment, won’t you? I think they deserve a little bonus.”

The boatmen lifted the crates up to the Ghouls waiting on the dock, who then carried each one to the truck parked nearby, while Copia went to the car and returned with two plain cloth bags filled with cash. Terzo took one bag and tossed it to the captain of the boat.

“Your fee, as agreed,” he said. “And…” He tossed the second bag to him as well. “Buy yourself a bigger boat. You’ve earned it.”

The man opened the bags and looked at the racks of bills within, stunned. “Jeepers! Thank you… thank you, sir!”

Terzo nonchalantly waved his hand, “Non è niente,” he smiled, “There’s more where that came from if you keep up the good work.”

“You got it, boss!”

The boat was quickly unloaded and Secondo unhooked the rope from its anchor post. “Now get gone, fellas. The sun’s coming up.”

“Yes sir, thank you, sir,” the man said as he started up the little boat’s motor, “See you next week.” He puttered away from the shoreline to start his journey back across the river to Canada.

With delivery complete and the truck loaded with bootleg liquor, Secondo told the Ghouls to head out. “Get this back to the Church. Quick, si?” The Ghoul in the driver’s seat nodded and the rest piled in for the ride.

Terzo watched the truck pull away, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he turned to his companions. “Champagne, Copia! I can’t wait! I’m going to treat Evie to a bottle when we get back.” He sighed, blissful at the thought. “A good haul tonight. Papa will be happy.” 

“Yes,” Copia said sarcastically, “So happy that you’re drinking his product and fucking his girl.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, eh?” 

“The two of you will be in a world of hurt if he ever finds out,” Copia warned. 

Terzo clapped Copia on the shoulder good-naturedly. “You worry too much, compagno. I have that senile old fart wrapped around my little finger. I can do no wrong. I’m his Golden Boy, his Chosen One…”

“You are a stronzo,” Secondo sneered, “C’mon, we need to get out of here. Andiamo.”

“Don’t be jealous, fratello,” Terzo laughed as the three men moved to make their way back to the car parked at the end of the dock. But they stopped in their tracks.

There, in front of their car, was a young police officer - very young - standing alone, his arm outstretched with a gun in his trembling hand. “S… St-st-stop, in the.. name of the law,” he stuttered.

All three men reached inside their coats, hands on the guns they wore concealed beneath.

“STOP!” the officer yelled. “I mean it!”

Terzo slowly pulled his hand out of his jacket and raised both of his hands in the air above him. “Oh no, fratellos! He means it! We’d best give ourselves up,” he mocked, before dissolving into laughter.

“Put the gun down, child,” Secondo said sternly, “You’re shaking like a leaf - you shoot that thing and you’ll hurt yourself more than you’d hurt one of us.”

“You’re just a fledgling, aren’t you? Lost here all by yourself,” Terzo observed, composing himself. He could see the sweat trickling down the young man’s forehead, his chest heaving with panting breath. “Do you even know who we are?”

“You’re… you’re the Emeritus Brothers,” the officer said, swallowing hard, “And I’m arresting you for illegal… um… importation! The illegal importation of alcohol.”

Terzo looked around him. “I don’t see any alcohol here. Do you?” he asked.

“I saw you bring it in on a boat and load it onto a truck.”

“What truck? There’s no truck here. You have no proof of anything. And no fellow officers with you to back you up. I’m afraid there’s not much you can do, pollo.” Terzo was just taunting him now. He slowly approached the officer, unafraid. “I’ll tell you what,” Terzo began softly, “You put your gun down, get back in your car, and drive away from this place. You never saw a thing, right? Here,” Terzo reached into his pocket and pulled out a $50 bill, which he tucked between the buttons of the officer’s coat, “Something for your trouble, yes? Go on… Take it.”

“I suggest you do what he says, boy,” Copia warned. “Leave while you can.”

The young man was shaking violently, almost sobbing. “You are in… violation of… of… The Volstead Act, and I’m… I’m…”

Secondo sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fuck this,” he muttered. He stomped forward and grabbed the officer’s gun hand, his gloved palm covering it completely. In one swift move, Secondo swept in behind him, bringing his other arm around the young man’s neck in a chokehold. The man gasped and whined as he was forced out onto the dock, closer and closer to the water, his toes dangling over the edge of the wooden boards. The only thing keeping him from falling in face first was Secondo’s grip.

“I told you, kid,” Copia said sadly, “Look what happens when you try to be a hero.”

Secondo took the man’s hand, the one holding the gun, and brought the barrel up against the man’s temple. “How did you find this place, huh? This is private property. Emphasis on private.”

“I… I was just driving by…” the officer wheezed, “And I saw…”

“Bullshit!” Secondo tightened his grip on the gun, placing his finger on the trigger. “You don’t just stumble on this place. Who told you? Who sent you?”

The young man squeezed his eyes shut, tears rolling down his cheeks. He shook his head but did not speak.

“Come on, bambino,” Terzo snarled, “Speak up!”

No response.

“How old are you, boy?” Secondo asked.

“Twen… Twenty-two,” the officer choked out.

“You’re just a baby, so much life ahead of you. Is this really how you want to go out? Hmmm? Protecting someone who sent you straight into the lion’s den?”

The officer would not relent. “It’s my duty… my duty to serve and protect. I’m arresting you…”

The two brothers exchanged looks. Terzo nodded tersely and stepped back. Copia knew what was coming - he felt pity for the young man, but there was nothing he could do now. 

“Sorry about your luck, boy,” Secondo said, cold as ice. He pulled the trigger and the sound of the gunshot rang out in the crisp morning air. 

Terzo stepped forward and pulled the bloody $50 bill out of the officer’s coat before Secondo let go of the lifeless body, sending it into the river with a sploosh. He tossed the gun in after it. The three men stood in the pale light, watching as the body sank toward the bottom in a perverse show of respect for the fallen.

“So,” Terzo said, handing a black handkerchief to his brother, “We’re either being spied on, or we have a rat. No way was he just passing by.”

Secondo wiped at the blood splattered across his face, nodding. “Either way, our whole operation is in jeopardy now.” 

“Imperator’s gang?” Copia assumed.

“Has to be,” Terzo agreed. He looked out over the water at the sunrise, his rage simmering. “Papa does not hear about this until we figure out our next move, si? Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Copia and Terzo began to head back to their waiting vehicle, but Secondo did not move. He stood silently on the dock for a few moments, his eyes closed. He reached up to the band of his hat and pulled out a folded piece of paper he kept there, a small lined sheet that had been torn out of a notebook. He produced a pencil from his inner coat pocket and added another tally mark to the dozens that were already there. One for each life he had taken in service of his father. He counted up the new total, even though he already knew the number. He always knew the number.

Secondo re-folded the paper and placed it back in his hat band as he walked to join the others. He gave Copia the once over as he passed him: “Looks like you’ve got a bit of a mess on you,” he pointed out.

Copia looked down and saw flecks of blood spattered over the front of his white suit jacket. “Ah, shit,” he swore.

Terzo chucked and handed the blood-stained $50 bill to Copia: “This should cover your cleaning bill, Piano Man.”