#and yet we both have the distinct memory of it happening

[starcurtain]

Detangling Mydei's Backstories Backstory?

My last post, casting doubt on 3.2's revelation that Mydei's immortality is deliberate on his part, led to some interesting discussion in the comments that definitely reinforced my earlier thoughts that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are too numerous to be accidental. Star Rail is not known for its flawless continuity (Robin and Sunday's backstory, I'm looking at you lol), but usually the inconsistencies are not so overt, and repeated so many times, that they become central to the entire plot of a character.

So I wanted to refine my earlier theory a bit: I'm cautiously optimistic that there are enough signs that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are deliberate, and that the Mydei of the current cycle in Amphoreus is actively experiencing an entanglement between two different timelines, without (yet) consciously recognizing the incompatibility of his own "memories."

When we work from the standpoint that the events of Mydei's backstory can be separated into two distinct timelines, the inconsistencies vanish:

The "Sea of Souls" Timeline

This is the most prominent timeline, and the one that appears most accurate for "our" Mydei. In this timeline, Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as a tiny infant and spent the first nine years of his life there. This is confirmed both in the flashback we're provided early in 3.1, as well as in Mydei's voicelines and character stories.

After nine years, he crawled out of the sea (possibly motivated by witnessing Tribbie's "star" in the sky). On the same day (or very near it), he met with a band of Kremnoan exiles.

Whether this was a larger group already, constituting a small "detachment" army of exiles, or just started with the five exiled friends and Mydei then grew into a small army by picking up other exiles over time, is still unclear. However, at this point, Mydei makes no mention of returning to Kremnos and instead goes straight from "leaving the sea" to "living ten years in exile:"

This is the key point of inconsistency between the two "halves" of Mydei's story--either he lived in Kremnos or he didn't. We can handwave here and say "Yes, he returned to Kremnos with his friends and they just hid their identities, leaving Kremnos years later in a self-imposed exile," but the story gives us absolutely no indication that this realistically could have happened. Mydei never once mentions hiding his identity, changing his appearance, or living a double life in the city, and never explains how he would have had access to the inner city of Kremnos ("as befitting a crown prince") and the royal library, yet still go totally unnoticed by his father or anyone loyal to Eurypon, including Krateros. (There's also no explanation at all for why he would have wanted to return to a city ruled by someone who tried to murder him and where he would have had to live life under a fake identity just to get by, but you know...)

Instead, the game does give us several pieces of information indicating that the five Kremnoan exiles did not return to Kremnos after meeting Mydei:

First, Mydei's character stories confirm that Mydei deliberately hid his name while traveling in exile across Amphoreus, indicating that he knew he would be recognized by Eurypon/Eurypon's loyalists if he didn't hide his identity. This awareness suggests it is extremely unlikely that Mydei could have returned to Kremnos without being identified:

This also suggests that, at this point in this timeline, no one in Castrum Kremnos knew for sure that Mydeimos had survived being thrown into the Sea of Souls and returned. This is further confirmed by a memory fragment where Krateros says there has been a "rumor" that the leader of the exiled Kremnoan army is one who "defied death." Krateros alone makes the assumption that this could be Mydei and decides to defect to aid him:

This memory suggests two things clearly: Mydei was not living in Kremnos at the time Krateros defected, and the exile of all of Mydei's friends must have taken place before they met Mydei, years in the past, as there is no way an entire small army could have been exiled from Kremnos, with Mydei in toe, and not at all attract Krateros's attention until after they were gone.

The idea that Mydei never returned to Kremnos is further enforced by Eurypon, who did not recognize Mydei when he confronted him, to the point that he didn't believe Mydei was even Kremnoan. This suggests that Eurypon not only didn't know Mydei's true identity--he'd never seen him before at all, making it extremely unlikely that Mydei was walking around Castrum Kremnos, talking to Chryseus Leo, and reading in the royal library all under some false identity for years. Eurypon certainly wouldn't have been capable of exiling someone he'd never seen before from Kremnos, in any case!

Therefore, we can assume the series of events in this timeline is pretty straightforward: Mydei entered the Sea of Souls as a baby, came out nine years later, went straight into a life of exile with his five friends, amassed power and support for ten years, and then returned to seek vengeance on his father.

The only remaining question in this timeline becomes "When did Mydei join up with Okhema?"

I think, in this timeline, it makes the most sense for Mydei to have only joined up with Okhema after killing his father. In 3.1, Mydei confirms to Phainon that all his friends died before he was able to kill his father, and that none of them ever made it to Okhema:

Therefore, the final order of events for the more prominent timeline is:

Dumped into the sea as an infant, nine years in the Sea of Souls

Ten years in exile with his friends amassing strength and support

Returns to Kremnos, kills his father, and the last of his friends dies that day

Then he defects to Okhema, leading any of the Kremnoans willing to follow him there.

By itself, this story makes perfect sense. If this was all the information we'd been given, there wouldn't have been any gaps.

Unfortunately, we also have a whole other set of information that massively conflicts with these events, which can only really be explained two ways: Either Hoyo messed up (again) and really dropped the consistency ball when it comes to writing Mydei's backstory... Or there's an entire separate timeline going on. Personally, I'm leaning toward the latter, because there are just too many seemingly deliberate fingers in the story pointing toward the inconsistencies for them to feel entirely unintentional to me.

Therefore, I propose that Mydei's memories are actually getting infiltrated by a second, entirely different timeline:

The "Gorgo Lives" Timeline

From 3.0 all the way to 3.2, we're given numerous pieces of information that point to a wholly different order to the events of Mydei's life, contrasting the story that Mydei tells Phainon in the Garden. At first, these events seem scattered and nonsensical, contradicting the "main" timeline in too many ways to be anything but errors... But when taken as a whole, we can build a second coherent timeline out of these events if we make one assumption: There is a timeline where Gorgo lived longer.

In the second timeline which is intruding on Mydei's memories, there appears to be one key point of divergence: Gorgo did not die dueling Eurypon. Either she never challenged him to the duel, or (more likely) she was never successfully poisoned, and therefore it's possible she won the duel, allowing her to rescue Mydei from the sea.

Working from that possibility, a second complete timeline emerges:

Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as an infant but did not drift there for nine years. Instead, he was rescued and brought back to Kremnos, where he was allowed to grow up in the inner city, with access to both Chryseus Leo, who served as his teacher, and access to the royal library, which he is proud enough of to call "his" library. He is able to lead Phainon and the Trailblazer around Castrum Kremnos even in its ruined state because he grew up there, spending enough time there to know the city like the back of his hand:

This is where we can slot in the inconsistent memories Mydei has of Gorgo:

(By the way, although Mydei writes this scene off as a dream, you can actually hear Oronyx's whisper play in the black screen seconds before this "dream" occurs...)

But okay, let's say this is just a wishful dream. Maybe this scene never happened. If all we got of Gorgo supposedly raising Mydei was this moment in 3.1, I might agree that it was just a dream (other than there being no reason to play Oronyx's sound effect there, but you know). However, in 3.2 they then hit us with this:

That's multiple moments now pointing to a timeline where Gorgo raised Mydei. Once is handwave-able--twice? That's deliberate.

In this secondary timeline, Mydei appears to have grown up as Kremnos's beloved crown prince, being warmly embraced by his people (at least until Kremnos fell into calamity). Apparently his days consisted of eating pomegranates, training for combat, playing with Kremnos's kids, and hanging out with his five friends. We see snippets of this idyllic life (along with his five friends appearing to be roughly the same age as him--something that likely wouldn't be true in the "main" timeline, by the way) on Mydei's long march back into Castrum Kremnos:

I know some people took this to be Mydei hallucinating or just wishfully imagining a life where he was able to be happy with his friends, possibly even some metaphorical "encountering the souls of the departed in a paradise," but I don't think this is true. Every single time Mydei phases in and out of this "hallucination," the visual effect and the sound effect of Oronyx are distinctly played--the exact same sound and visuals that play when Trailblazer activates Oronyx's prayer to jump between timelines.

Mydei himself doesn't seem to quite understand what is happening to him in this moment, as you can hear him stumble and pant as he repeatedly goes through flashes of Oronyx's power. You can listen to comparison video clips on the prior post I made about Mydei's backstory.

Furthermore, if we work from the assumption that these moments actually represent a rupture between timelines, then the rest of the inconsistencies can finally be cleared up:

In 3.0, Mydei says that his choice to leave Castrum Kremnos was not a forced exile but a "self-imposed" one:

And this aligns with what he stated in the Garden of Life to Phainon, that he and his friends "left Castrum Kremnos" to go into this self-imposed exile, rather than having never returned to Kremnos from the sea:

Furthermore, this also aligns with the angry NPCs in the past version of Castrum Kremnos that Trailblazer and Castorice travel back to:

Remember that this version of Castrum Kremnos was supposed to be occurring while Eurypon was still alive, so there is absolutely no way this line makes sense in the same universe where Eurypon didn't even know Mydei had survived. There isn't any way, in "our" timeline, that Mydei could have been both the "crown prince" of Kremnos for these NPCs and completely unknown to his father, the king.

These NPCs, furthermore, directly accuse Mydei of "deserting Kremnos," suggesting that Mydei was living in Castrum Kremnos as their prince, and then abandoned them to join Aglaea in Okhema, getting himself and everyone who went with him labelled as "traitors to Kremnos" in the process. None of this makes sense in the context of a timeline where no one in Kremnos knew he had even survived.

Instead, all of these elements point to a different sequence of events:

Gorgo lived, likely winning her duel and thereby (likely) giving her the right to save Mydei from the Sea of Souls and bring him back to Kremnos. He was raised by his mother as the beloved crown prince of Kremnos. Then, years later, as his father and Nikador both descended into full madness, Mydei and the Kremnoan detachment defected.

But what would have triggered this sudden need to defect after years of leading Kremnos as a well-liked prince?

The flashback between Mydei and Eurypon actually suggests a possible reason:

Apparently, at some point, in some timeline, Mydei knew about Eurypon's plan to break Nikador's divinity into separate parts and seal him away, harnessing the power of their titan for himself.

Yet the Mydei of 3.0 seems to have no idea about any of this, never able to give any explanation for how Nikador has degraded so much nor why Nikador is seemingly unkillable. Castorice, Mem, and the Trailblazer have to come up with the idea to go back in time to the past Kremnos by themselves, because Mydei never makes any mention of there ever having been a plot to break up and seal away Nikador's divinity, even when they walk past the very blades that did the sealing.

Finally, there's one last piece of conflicting information: While talking to Phainon in the Garden of Life, Mydei states that all of his friends died before the detachment could ever join up with Okhema and that all of their deaths occurred by the time he went to kill his father. But this conflicts with the NPCs above, who state that Mydei had already defected to Okhema and joined the Flame Chase Journey as a Chrysos Heir while his father was still alive.

This inconsistency is further reinforced by a memory fragment with Krateros, who confirms that Mydei had joined up with Okhema already before killing his father:

Putting all of this together, the complete series of events for this second timeline becomes:

Infant Mydei is quickly rescued from the Sea of Souls, is instead raised by his mother, and grows up as the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos with his five friends.

At some point, years later, he discovers Eurypon's plot to break up and imprison Nikador's divinity, and he and his friends and supporters defect from Kremnos as a result.

Either they go straight to Okhema (I'm inclined to say that "ten years of wandering" doesn't fit, chronologically speaking, into this secondary timeline) or they do wander a bit, but ultimately, Mydei reaches Okhema and aligns with Aglaea before killing his father.

After aligning the Kremnoan Detachment with Okhema, Mydei returns to Castrum Kremnos to kill his father, possibly to halt Eurypon's evil plan to harness Nikador's power.

At some point in this timeline, presumably before Mydei returns to kill his father, Gorgo likely still dies (possibly killed by Eurypon and/or Nikador), which explains why the Gorgo in the Sea of Souls seems to be the one convinced that she raised Mydei.

And this is just pure personal speculation, because there isn't enough evidence to really confirm it, but I almost feel like we can even pinpoint how/when the whole decision to defect to Okhema took place. At the end of Mydei's flashbacks to the "peaceful" Kremnos, Peucesta says that Mydei has been away from Kremnos for a while.

Leonnius assumes that Mydei was away on some apparently extended training trip, but this moment specifically ends with Gorgo welcoming Mydei home and asking him one very important question:

Obviously these lines are doing double duty, symbolically welcoming the present Mydei back to the ruins of Castrum Kremnos and asking him whether he's finally ready to take on his role as the "Guardian of Amphoreus." But as the wiki notes, this takes place in a flashback to the past, and for the "Mydei of the past" (aka the Mydei of the alternate timeline), this could very well have been Mydei disappearing from Kremnos to make contact with Aglaea in Okhema, and Gorgo questioning him about his decision to commit himself to the Flame Chase Journey, leading up to an ultimate and permanent defection from Kremnos. (This is just speculation though, trying to tie the last few loose ends together.)

Anyway, when taken from this perspective, that there are two separate backstories here, one from a world where Gorgo lived and the more prominent one where she died, we can sort all the seeming inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory into two surprisingly tidy and complete timelines.

I haven't yet found anything in any Mydei scene that doesn't fit one of these two scenarios, so I'm starting to definitely feel optimistic here that this writing was intentional, and that the "contradictory" backstory we're seeing for Mydei isn't "the worst continuity Star Rail has served up to date," but instead an actual deliberate choice to present us with a character whose memories are a hodge-podge of two divergent timelines, snippets of one timeline constantly erupting and "filling in the blanks" of the other.

I think this would be a fascinating way to lead up to the idea that Amphoreus's world isn't real, that it's a cobbled together story or set of memories that someone is barely holding together, and that it's constantly cyclical in nature, with events repeating with slight variations across times. The idea that Mydei is actually experiencing two different sets of memories crushed together into a tangled jumble and that he's only just now starting to become aware of the discrepancies would be such an excellent way to reinforce the "unreality" of Amphoreus's plot as a whole.

I really hope this is the direction that they take the story... Or at least that I won't one day be looking at all my Mydei posts and sadly thinking to myself that I put a lot more thought into the character's backstory than his own writers did, RIPPPPP. 😂😂😂

Cope with me, people!

[deconstructthesoup]

One thing I absolutely adore about Dead Boy Detectives is the immaculate costume design. Specifically, how it perfectly encapsulates who the characters are, both as a whole and who they are in the moment.

From the very first scene of the show, we know immediately that Edwin is a bookish, somewhat stuffy guy from the Edwardian era who attended a boarding school, and Charles is a punk from the 1980's who's most likely the wildcard between the two of them, just going off of the way that they're dressed. Both of them have distinct color schemes and different styles, but the general shape of their outfits is actually relatively similar---both of them have collared shirts (Edwin's dress shirt, Charles's polo), something over those shirts (Edwin's vest, Charles's suspenders), a jacket of some kind (Edwin's suit jacket, Charles's flannel thing), a longer overcoat (Edwin's traveling coat, Charles's peacoat), something around the neck (Edwin's bowtie, Charles's necklace), slacks, and nice shoes. They're distinct, yet matching, two clearly defined separate characters yet part of a set.

Edwin's prim, proper, buttoned-up personality lends itself to the way he dresses throughout the season---in the first episode, he only dresses down when he's in the office with Charles, aka his safe place and his safe person, and he doesn't really dress down like that again for a good long while after getting stuck in Port Townsend (though, if my memory serves me correctly, he does take off the suit jacket while watching TV with Niko). But in episode six, he's changed up his usual look for a cozier, casual-looking sweater and a little bit of collarbone, and in episode seven... well, he's in his nightclothes, and he's about as open, raw, and vulnerable as you can get. Edwin's color scheme is also predominately blue, which lines up nicely with his logical and practical, yet deeply sad and closed off personality, and the only time he really wears anything other than his normal blue-and-brown outfit (willingly, that is) is when he's in that green sweater in episode six. And, uh... all I can say is that it's quite telling how blue and green---or, well, teal---are the main colors of the gay/mlm flag.

Charles, by contrast, dresses down a lot, and that makes a lot of sense when you consider the fact that unlike Edwin, he feels comfortable pretty much anywhere. On any given episode, he goes from wearing his peacoat to just wearing his flannel to ditching the flannel to not even wearing the freaking polo---though, again, the latter is something that only happens when he's in the office with Edwin. Safe space, safe person. And, well, plenty of people have analyzed Charles's polo shirt going from red to burgundy to black over the course of the series, and there being a little bit of red under the collar of his coat that's only visible when Edwin fixes it, and then it goes back to burgundy, and then it's red again when Edwin's out of Hell... for good reason! It's color symbolism at its finest! Not to mention, the red and black not only perfectly contrasts Edwin's color scheme, but it also lines up with Charles's personality---he's a rebel, he's hotheaded, he's bold and brash and loud... and yes, he's angry, but he's also so, so loving.

When we first meet Crystal after she loses her memories, her outfit choices feel very deliberate. They're stylish and vaguely trendy, they're arty and a little bit witchy---pretty fitting for a psychic who's also a showbiz kid, even if she doesn't know that last part. But all of her clothes appear thrifted, or at the very least vintage, and the patterns and the general vibe all feel natural and comforting. Her makeup's always fairly simple, her hair's either down or up in a couple of cute space buns... overall, this Crystal looks like the kind of person who'd make you tea when you're in a bad mood, who'll listen when you just need to vent, and who may not always know the right thing to say but will understand what you're going through. But when we see her in the flashbacks, her clothing's flashy and prioritizes high-end trends over comfort, she's either got her hair up or has it straightened, and she not only has dramatic makeup, but acrylics. This is a girl who talks shit about you behind your back, who's bitter and cynical and wants everyone to feel the same way, who makes up for the lack of love and stability in her life via material things. It's also worth noting that Crystal's color scheme has a lot of purple, which is a color that connects to wealth and luxury, but also creativity and magic---which, yeah, fits her two conflicting sides pretty damn well.

You cannot talk about Niko Sasaki without talking about her outfits, and the meaning behind each of them has already been talked about at length. However, one thing that really stands out to me is that the reason they're so iconic isn't just because of the monochrome color schemes, but because they're out there. They're weird, they're eclectic, they're a little mismatched in style sometimes, and they're so unapologetically her. Niko wears heart-shaped sunglasses, unironically. Everything about the way she dresses speaks to how, even though she's a recovering shut-in who initially doesn't want to be perceived, she's still very sure of who she is.

Jenny's design, like Charles and Edwin's, is a design that gives you the key information you need the minute she first appears onscreen. The dark makeup, the silver jewelry, the leather apron, and the hairstyle all point to a person who's tough, doesn't take anyone's shit, and has long since given up on caring what other people think---in other words, she's a badass. But the butterfly tattoo hints at a softer side, a side that we see time and time again throughout the series as she shows that she cares about Crystal and Niko, and even the boys... eventually. Also, Jenny's design is perhaps one of the most clearly queer-coded in the series, to the point where her being a confirmed lesbian is pretty much a no-brainer.

Esther's design oozes camp, from top to bottom. The fluffy coat, the bustier, the boots and the cane and the everything, speak to a woman who's kept with the times and yet has seen it all. There's really not a lot I can fully say about her design, other than what Charles has already said: "She looks like a witch... like, kind of a sexy witch, who smokes a lot." (Or maybe I'm just tired and running out of steam at this point, idk, I love Esther's design and I can't really put it into words.) It's also pretty fitting that her color scheme has a lot of yellow in it---after all, she's always striving for more, so what better color for her than the color of gold?

Everything about the Night Nurse's design speaks to a woman who follows rules and discipline above all else, from the pantsuit to the pinned-up hairstyles to the tie to the heels. She's also the most muted out of the main cast in terms of color, dressing mostly in browns, dull greens, and duller browns---and while I don't have a lot to go into detail about there, I feel like that's kind of a symbol of her narrow-minded and bureaucratic worldview.

And the animal characters... Jesus Christ, I fully forget that they're all being played by human actors. Tragic Mick dresses like a man who's always spent his life by the sea, layered denim and all, and it's never a stretch to see this sad, bushy-bearded, baggy-clothed fisherman and imagine him as a walrus lounging on a beach. Monty, at first glance, seems to only wear black, which would be perfectly fitting for a crow, but when he's in better lighting, you see that he dresses in layers of red and blue, calling to how he envies Charles and Edwin and clearly longs for something more---and this might just be me, but I think that even though his outfits seem fairly normal at first glance, they feel kind of like a costume for Monty more than anything else, like he's trying to emulate a teenager that he's seen on TV more than someone in real life.

The Cat King fits this just as well, with all of his outfits aligning perfectly with whatever his cat form is at the time---when he's a fluffy ginger, it's always sequins and fur coats and clothing pieces that are specifically designed to take up space and call attention, and when he's a black shorthair, it's sleek styles and shiny leather and pieces that are designed to cut an intimidating yet more subtle figure. And while I could go into detail about all of those, what really stands out to me is how clearly queer everything is---more than Jenny's alt lesbian attire, more than Esther's campy coat and corset. From the very first scene he's in, he's wearing a skirt, and it looks natural. Nothing about the way the Cat King presents himself is exaggerated, nothing about the way he dresses is played for laughs---he's flamboyant and feminine and flirty, and he looks so fucking hot while he does it. It's gorgeous.

So... yeah, uh, all the awards for the Dead Boy Detectives costume designers!

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Let's talk Galadriel x Sauron Sexy Times (Freudian symbolism)

@rey-jake-therapist inspired me to write this, and then a few other users started to question about it. Buckle up, this is going to be wild.

According to Tolkien legendarium, can Sauron and Galadriel "do it"? The short answer is: yes. As long as Sauron is in physical form, it's entirely possible. And he can even get her pregnant, too (but it would cost him). Not only that, but they might have already done it back in Season 1, actually.

The long answer is more complicated. Why? Eldar customs, probably decreet by the Valar. I already talked about this shortly in this post. Tolkien’s writings about wedding, love and sex among the Eldar (Elves) can be found in “Morgoth’s Ring, Part III. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: (II) The Second Phase: Laws and Customs among the Eldar.”

Right away, Tolkien makes a distinction between Elves and Men: according to him, Men are horny as hell. Elves not so much: they like sex (the act): "the union of love is indeed to them great delight and joy." Casual sex is a no; and for the Eldar sex = marriage. So much so, that a couple is considered married if they exchange vows to the Valar (Tolkien never specified these vows, only that Manwë is mentioned) and have sex (no feast or celebration required): this usually happens when the couple is in flight, and exile, and wandering. 

All textual evidence seems to point out that the purpose of this act is to have children: 

“. . . the act of procreation, being of a will and desire shared and indeed controlled by the fëa [soul], was achieved at the speed of other conscious and willful acts of delight or of making. It was one of the acts of chief delight, in process and in memory, in an Elvish life, but its intensity alone provided its importance, not its time or length: it could not have been endured for a great length of time, without disastrous "expense" . . . it is longer and of more intense delight in Elves than in Men: too intense to be long endured.”

Elves, usually, don’t have many children (Fëanor being the exception: he had 7 sons), because they spent a lot of both their body (hröa) and soul (fëa) creating them, and Elven pregnancies can last from 1 year up to 100 years (wild). They don’t need a magical pregnancy test, because both parents know when a child was conceived. This date is also the day they celebrate their birthdays (and not the day when they were actually born). They also don’t have children during war time.

The eternal bond (= marriage; because divorce is forbidden) between Elves happens during sex; when they have sex for the first time their bodies and souls become one (= “union of souls”), and it’s a more intense physical and spiritual experience than for Men. Elves who have not had that union together have not yet established that incredible bond.

After children, the Elves also lose interest in having sex all together, and devote themselves to “higher pursuits”. Meaning, once children are born, the couple is now celibate: with the exercise of the power (of generation), the desire soon ceases, and the mind turns to other things... they have many other urgues of the body and of mind which their nature urges them to fulfill.

According to Tolkien, "Elf libidos" only last for a period of one to several hundred years (in their immortal lives). And they look back at the memory of this time with nostalgia. By nature, Tolkien writes that the Elves are seldom swayed by the desires of the body only, but are by nature continent and steadfast. Meaning: they are able to control their urges.

Now, here's the catch.

Sauron, being a fallen Maia of Melkor, doesn't care about any of this. He doesn’t follow the Valar rules, and he hates the Eldar.

In "Unfinished Tales", Tolkien does point out Galadriel as an exception to all of these rules: Celeborn was the lover of Galadriel, who she later wedded. Again, Tolkien doesn’t goes into details here, so we don’t know if “lover” was purely romantic (kissing, for instance) or full-on sexual, really. Either way, it’s been established in “Rings of Power” just how “alien” she is among her kin, overall. And she is a rebellious spirit, going against Gil-galad, her High King, on several occasions, and against the Valar themselves.

Well, she ended up marrying Celeborn after him being her lover, but they only had Celebrían thousands of year later, though. And “Rings of Power” also created another question mark here, because Galadriel only mentions her husband one time: he saw her dancing, they got married, he went to war, and she never saw him again. In the lore, Galadriel and Celeborn, being royalty, most likely had a feast (ceremony). So… does this mean that in “Rings of Power” canon, Galadriel never had her “union of souls” with Celeborn? And that explains why she fell in love with Halbrand/Mairon?

In the lore, we also the have the “little” detail of Elves only having “libido” for a short period of time in their immortal lives.

This is sexual awakening right here. We’ve seen Galadriel being proud, strong-willed and rebellious, but in this scene she looks like a “teenager” (even though she’s thousands of years old, already). Mairon made her speechless with that look. And we also see Galadriel flirting with him after this.

But in “Rings of Power”, Sauron and Galadriel had their “blood marriage ritual” too, and this was their “union of souls”.

Now, we need to look at what Tolkien created in his legendarium: where sex = children, and, most likely, any sexual act that goes against that is frowned upon (consider a corruption to Eru’s creation).

But Mairon, being corrupted by Melkor, doesn’t have any problems in indulging in sexual acts what don’t result in any children (conceiving a child would also cause him to bind himself to his physical form at the time, and he probably doesn’t want that). Galadriel herself isn’t on the mindset for children, also, and she already rebelled against the Valar, herself.

Tolkien estate said no sex scenes, but we sure had a lot of sexual innuendo going on between Galadriel and Mairon, ever since Season 1:

First with Halbrand aka Repentant Mairon: with whim Galadriel had her “sexual awakening”. He pulls her out of the water, and she’s pretty much naked before his eyes. I already wrote a post about the physical attraction between them, so I won’t get into that here.

Freudian symbolism is associated with sex representations, and was developed by both Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung (dreams can reveal a person’s deepest unconscious wishes and desires), but it has been widely used in pop culture and cinema to illustrate several ideas.

Why is this sneaky bastard grinning about?

Well, in Freudian symbolism the mouth is also a symbol for the female genitals, while the spoon is a phallic symbol. The act of eating symbolizes sexual intercourse (= interaction between male and female symbols). What’s why Mairon is grinning: he’s fantasizing all kind of sexual scenarios here.  

In Freudian Symbolism, knifes/daggers/lances/swords (any object resembling the penis in shape or that can be used to penetrate the body and cause injury) are phallic symbols. Meaning, they represent the penis. An erection (in which the penis raises itself against the force of gravity) is usually represented in connection with an air element (it can be ballons, airplanes, missiles, rockets, flying, snakes, etc.).  

The Freudian symbolism behind this scene? Mairon has a boner, and Galadriel is touching it.

Recently, this scene has been talked about a lot (in reference to Celeborn being called a "silver clam"), but that's not the only symbolism happening in here:

The Númenórean smiths tease Mairon, and ask him how close is he with the "she-elf." This Maia is eating ("sexual intercourse") clams, here. Worldwide, the clam is a clitoral symbol, meaning it represents the female genitalia. What does this means? Eating Galadriel out is, probably, what Mairon wants.

Jealous Mairon peacocking for dominance:

Galadriel is right in front of his salad handling all of these swords (phallic symbol). And he wants to assert his dominance, here. The only “sword” she’ll be handling around here is his. And he’s the best at it, too.

Then, in Season 2:

Right off the bat, Sauron is using a snake themed armor. In Freudian symbolism, the snake is also a phallic symbol, representing sexuality, temptation, and erection; and also repressed sexual desires. Sure this is meant to illustrate him as the "great deceiver", but it’s possible to “kill two birds with one stone”, and he only uses this armor in this particular scene.

Now, we have to forget the fight, and concentrate on the dialogue and the symbolism here. 

It has already been noted by many fellow fans that this fight is meant to illustrate Galadriel and Sauron history in Season 1 (the places where Sauron injures Galadriel). And I agree: the entire fight scene was Sauron taunting Galadriel with their shared past. 

Fighting tactics speaking this whole move is very strange. Symbolically, it's pretty much on the nose, as they say: a crown (clitoral symbol) penetrating a sword (phallic symbol) = sexual intercourse. And Sauron does this very aggressively and right in front of her face. Then, he spins the crown and one sword in on his shoulder, and the other on Galadriel’s = they are joined.

Want details? Galadriel is on top (just like Tolkien intended), and then Mairon becomes “the lost king who could ride you” to finish.

And then we have Sauron sounding his most aroused and unhinged yet, while saying these words, with this expression on his face: 

The next dialogue is Galadriel accusing him of everything between them (back in Season 1) being a lie, and another of his illusions. To which he replies (with Halbrand’s voice): 

Then, enters Halbrand: he speaks to her almost whispering, a bit breathless, too, like a lover, and Charlie puts emphasize in two bits of his dialogue: “at your side” and “that feeling”.  And the expression on his face: Halbrand looks desperate, tormented, yearning and nostalgic.

Which makes me ask the question: if this fight is meant to illustrate their past history... does this mean that these two have been sexually intimate already!? 

Where, you might ask? In Eregion, of course. Where we have Mairon naked on a bed being healed, and both he and Galadriel stayed there, according to Elrond in 2x01, “for weeks” (which might suggest a whole month or more).

Some time after his “healing” and being working with Celebrimbor, we also see Mairon getting “touchier” with Galadriel, and whispering on her ear. What changed? When and why did he got so comfortable doing this?

We, the audience, assume that Mairon goes immediately to Celebrimbor’s forge after he wakes up, but is that true?

Celebrimbor asks him “shouldn’t you be resting?”. This can imply he had already awakened from the healing and he should be getting some rest instead of wandering around. And Galadriel, being in love with him, would surely want to be in the room when that happens. But he’s searching for her, instead. And the last scene we saw from Galadriel, was her and Elrond in the room where Mairon was being healed by the Elves.

And this is when they start to look at each other more passionately, too, like actual lovers (and not "just friends"):

Not only that, but he was already planning on forging two rings (surely, one for himself and other for Galadriel). In Elven tradition, the betrothals exchange two silver rings (in this case it would be mithril).

This would also provide a new layer to Sauron commanding his (new) Orcs to destroy Eregion right in front of Galadriel, to get a reaction out of her. He’s petty like that.

This could also explain Charlotte Brändström’s words of how Halbrand “really seduced her”, and how much in love with him Galadriel is.

Galadriel heartbreak on 1x08 and Season 2

Galadriel went through all seven stages of grief in Season 2, concerning Halbrand aka Sauron. We saw her crying or on the verge of tears. She was heartbroken, believing she was deceived, and all that she experienced with Halbrand was a lie. And she wanted to kill the motherf*cker, all by herself, until the bitter end. Do you have something to hide there, Gal? She even thrown Elrond under the bus with Adar in 2x06 just to get a chance to do it.

It has been noticed by some fellow fans, that Galadriel would, often, touch her lower stomach whenever having visions from Nenya, and we saw her planting seeds, too. This highly implies fertility. Now, this doesn’t mean she’s actually pregnant, mind you! But it can symbolize previous sexual acts.

It’s also worth mentioning that, in Freudian symbolism, jewels (such as rings) represent a beloved person.

What is Galadriel so afraid of? Wasn’t Halbrand “only a friend”? 

When Sauron appears in 2x08, Galadriel is absolutely terrified, unable to move. She’s not scared of him, per say; she dreads that he might still be on Halbrand form, and she isn't certain on how she would react to that. But he’s in Annatar form, and she doesn’t have any emotional connection to it. Still, she’s only able to attack him when he had his back turned on her. And then, her expression when she sees Halbrand is very telling:

Sauron and Mirdania

Of course the “great deceiver” who manages to “deceive even himself” got himself a Galadriel doppelgänger when he returned to Eregion to put his “rings of power” masterplan in motion. And he only gets touchy with her whenever he thinks of Galadriel.  

He also disposed of Mirdania when Adar arrived at Eregion (with Galadriel herself on a cage).

This whole business with Mirdania is something physical on Sauron’s part, because he sees the resemblance with Galadriel. And the fact that he touches her so tenderly is interesting to say the least, because (1) we’ve seen Sauron hating being touched throughout Season 2 (even by Mirdania herself), and (2) he’s an immortal spirit from the Unseen world (Maia); he doesn’t actually have any of these needs... Unless he's remembering touching Galadriel herself, and his sexual desire for her.

And what's the last injury that Sauron inflicts on Galadriel on their 2x08 fight?

Full-on penetration. And he doesn't go gentle with it, either. And it ends with him literally ejaculating (blood) inside of her (chest), aka blood binding.

This is pretty much what Tolkien wrote in “Unfinished Tales”, except the lover here is Halbrand/Mairon/Sauron, and he wants commitment (marriage).

Galadriel denies him in Season 1, and again in Season 2. And then, he forces them to bind together, all the same. This could also explain why Sauron was so certain she would actually bind herself to him, in spite of all the evil stuff he has done in Eregion. 

And we have this “lovely” description of Sauron during his war with the Elves (which will be Season 3):

Now Sauron's lust and pride increased, until he knew no bounds, and he determined to make himself master of all things in Middle-earth, and to destroy the Elves, and to compass if he might, the downfall of Númenor. He brooked no freedom nor any rivalry, and he named himself Lord of the Earth. A mask he still could wear so that if he wished he might deceive the eyes of Men, seeming to them wise and fair.

Sauron’s lust will know no bounds in Season 3, good to know. He already bore a hole in Galadriel for the rest of him to slither in, so, only Eru knowns what kind of mind palace shenanigans will he be up to… symbolically.

[rafesbabygirlx]

A Lot of Time has Passed | Part 5

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Season 4 Rafe x Maybank reader

Summary: Beginning at the time jump, the Pogues seemingly succeeded at something, Rafe is struggling with making amends and being a better person. JJs sister left the island after returning from South America. Returning after 18 months with a secret.

A/N: after this point you don’t really see Sofia, at least for a while. Maybe at 1 point but I haven’t decided.

I don’t know what Part 2 of the season will bring but from here on out it’s just a rewrite of events that will include Maybank reader instead. Also there’s some use of Y/N here since some conversations don’t happen with her. enjoy :)

2nd note: please let me know if you like this. I love the story telling and building the plot but wanna make sure it’s doing well. Don’t want anyone getting bored :)

Not proofread

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: nothing but soft Rafe tbh and setting up story lines. Next part will be fun

“I’m going to head out for a bit, okay? I have a few things I need to take care of. How about we meet up later at my place?” He asks as you and Rafe made your way down the path. You carried the cozy blanket and picnic basket filled with remnants from your breakfast, while he cradled Vivienne, their bond already evident in the way he held her close.

“Yeah, sounds good,” you say, a broad grin spreading across his face.

He lovingly passed you Vivienne after showering her with a load of affectionate kisses, and then, without missing a beat, he leaned in to give you a quick kiss on the lips. The warmth of that brief connection caught you off guard. You wouldn’t lie; while you had anticipated this moment, you hadn’t expected the domesticity of it all to hit you like this. It felt so natural for him, yet it brought a flurry of emotions bubbling to the surface for you.

The kiss lingered on your lips, and you could feel the warmth emanating from both Rafe and Vivienne, creating an intimate bubble that shielded you from the rest of the world. Rafe's ability to seamlessly blend fatherhood with his charming personality was surprising; he made the whole experience seem effortless, like it was second nature to him.

You couldn't help but marvel at how your relationship had transformed over the course of just a couple of days. Just a year and a half ago, Rafe was simply the bad guy, made to make your brother and his friends lives hell. Now, he was someone who shared quiet moments and laughter with you as a family. Holding the blanket and basket in your arms, you felt an undeniable connection forming. Guilt still creeping in. You wished you allowed him to experience her first year.

As you began to walk away, your mind twirled with thoughts about what the evening might hold. You both had created unforgettable memories together, but this moment felt distinct; it brimmed with the promise of something more profound. Perhaps it was the awareness that you were becoming an integral part of his world—a world filled with simple joys, late-night giggles, and unexpected kisses. As the sun raised above the horizon, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange, a smile crept across your face at the thought of the future and what lay ahead.

“Say bye dada” you tell V

“Bye dada!” V yells from off the porch

Rafe yells bye back and blows her a kiss. Driving off to do his business as you head inside.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

Rafe returns to his house, his thoughts racing as he walks through the door. On the way there, he texted Sofia, asking her to meet him. The weight of the conversation ahead loomed heavy in his chest.

Sofia arrives shortly after. “Hey, Rafe,” she greets him warmly.

“Hey.”

She steps in close and pulls him into a tight, loving hug, but Rafe doesn’t return the embrace with the same intensity. Her smile falters, and she looks up at him, concern etched across her face.

“What’s wrong? Did things not go well with your daughter?” she asks softly.

Rafe shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.” He gestures for her to sit with him outside by the pool. Once they’re settled, he continues, his voice a little distant. “She’s… she’s perfect. Vivienne. That’s her name. She’s the most perfect little girl to ever exist. She looks just like me. She’s so beautiful, so happy.” His words trail off, but Sofia knows there’s more. She feels a knot forming in her stomach.

“I needed to talk to you about some things,” he adds, his tone turning serious.

“Okay…” Sofia replies hesitantly, her heart beginning to race.

Rafe takes a deep breath. “I want to focus on her. On Vivienne. And… um… I want to focus on my family, with both of them. I never expected things to play out this way, and I’m sorry, but this is what I want. I need to be there for them. We need to end this.”

Sofia’s face falls, the words hitting her like a punch. “Oh,” she whispers, barely audible. Her mind scrambles to make sense of it. She thought what they had was special, that he felt the same. But now, he was going back—back to Y/N, back to his family. “Maybe you should, then,” she adds quietly, trying to maintain her composure. “It’s only right.”

Rafe finally meets her gaze, his eyes pleading for understanding. “It wasn’t planned, okay? You know that. But everything came rushing back—every memory, every feeling. And now that V is in the picture, I can’t deny it.”

Sofia doesn’t speak for a few moments, letting the weight of his words settle. She hadn’t anticipated this. She hadn’t imagined she’d be here, blindsided by the sudden shift in his priorities. She didn’t expect to become a ‘stepmom,’ but she had been willing to sacrifice for him—she had believed in what they had.

But now, as sadness sinks in, so does a flicker of anger. It drags her back to a few days ago, when everything still felt right—before Y/N came back into the picture. She remembers overhearing Rafe talking to Ruthie and Topper, saying she was just a hookup, that he could never be with a Pogue like that. Even though she knew it wasn’t true two times, one for you and the other her, the words had stung. They had left a mark. And now, with this revelation, they hurt even more.

In the days that followed, she had been tempted to meet with Hollis, after her dad suggested it. Initially, she’d rejected the idea because she had loved Rafe. She thought he loved her too. But after overhearing him she met with him. Took the money from her too. she planned to return it not being able to do it. But now, with Rafe pulling away, with him choosing another life—another woman—she has nothing to lose.

“I was thinking about that deal you mentioned,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “You should do it. I was hesitant before, but maybe it’s a good opportunity. It could be a way to build something for your daughter.”

Rafe looks at her, surprised by her sudden shift in tone. “Maybe you’re right. I still have to decide, but I’m leaning toward going for it. It could be a good opportunity.” He shrugs, unsure of his next steps.

They sit in silence for a while, the weight of their relationship hanging in the air. Finally, Rafe turns to her. “You have no idea how much you’ve helped me,” he says earnestly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just think my place is with Y/N and Vivienne.”

Sofia nods slowly, her heart aching. “I understand. You think you’re doing the right thing, and that’s all that matters.” She leans over and presses a soft kiss to his cheek before standing to leave.

Rafe grabs her hand gently. “I’m sorry, Sofia. Really, I am.”

“It’s okay,” she replies, her voice steady but hollow. “But you should definitely take that deal.”

Rafe smiles weakly at her, grateful for her understanding. As she walks away, leaving him alone by the pool, he takes a deep breath, the enormity of the situation sinking in. He knows he’s made his choice, but something nags at him—the way she had pushed the deal so hard. For a moment, it puzzles him, but he brushes it off as her wanting the best for him.

Sitting in the stillness, he lets his thoughts swirl before finally reaching for his phone. After some time alone, he dials your number, needing to see you, ready to move forward with the life he’s chosen.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

You arrive an hour later. V wobbles into the house, running straight to Rafe. “Dada!” You both smile, the word now coming naturally to her. Rafe is completely smitten. She leans in for a kiss, then holds up her stuffed turtle for him to kiss too.

Rafe looks at you with a serious expression. “I broke up with her.”

Startled, you ask, “What?”

“I ended things with Sofia. I know what I want—it’s you and V.”

“Oh… That wasn’t my plan, Rafe. I didn’t want to ruin everything you’ve built.”

“It wasn’t mine either, but I’m sure now. Is this what you want? Please say yes, because I need to show you something.” He steps closer.

“Of course, yes.”

Rafe leads you and V upstairs. It feels strange not being at Tannyhill, a place you knew so well. You stop at a door with a wooden “V” hanging on it. Inside is a complete nursery—books, toys, a beautiful crib, and a cushioned rocking chair. One wall is covered with sea animal wallpaper, the others a clean white.

“I had an interior decorator come yesterday after I found out. I wanted it done quickly. The wallpaper went up this morning. Kelce stopped by to make sure everything was right.”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” You pull him in for a kiss and turn to see V already making a mess.

Later, you all head downstairs for dinner. As you eat, Rafe opens up about a deal involving Goat Island, the same place your brother and his friends recently visited.

“What are you going to do?” you ask as he clenches his fist.

“I’m not sure. It could be great—for us, for her.”

“You’ll figure it out. It does seem strange, but maybe Hollis is really looking out for you. I’ll support you no matter what.” You reach for his hand.

“I love you, Banks. You’ve always been the best to me.” Your eyes widen at the old nickname. Smiling softly, you reply, “I love you too, Cameron.”

Taglist-

@maybankslover @eringaitskill @luissa266 @lolll505 @dayyzlol @calaryssia @eg-dr3amer3 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @rafestar @bigbonenative @writtenbyhollywood @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @leilanizcals

[tinyshyteacup]

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----------------------------------------------------------

Gif from @daryl-dixon-daydreams

TW: walkers (Zombies), tooth rotting fluff, physical contact, mentions of past abuse (briefly)

Part 29

Dead Weight - Part 30

Dawn creeps through the gaps in the barn's weathered boards, casting golden slivers of light across the hay-strewn floor. You wake slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves rather than the usual jarring alert that's become second nature in this world.

For a moment, you forget where you are—forget the walkers, the constant running, the gnawing hunger that's become your companion.

All you're aware of is warmth. Solid, reassuring warmth at your back and the steady rhythm of breathing that isn't your own.

Daryl's arm is draped over you, his calloused fingers splayed across your ribs where your shirt has ridden up slightly in sleep. His chest rises and falls against your shoulder blades, each breath stirring the hair at the nape of your neck. You can feel his shoulder pressed against you, a reminder of all the battles he's fought, all the times he's survived when others, so many others haven't.

For a moment, you allow yourself to simply exist in this space between sleep and waking, where the memory of last night lingers like honey on your tongue.

The storm had raged outside the barn walls, thunder shaking the old structure while rain pounded the roof in a relentless rhythm.

But inside, in your shared corner beneath a threadbare blanket, there had been only tentative hands. The ghost of his lips against yours, soft and hesitant, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard.

Daryl's hands had shook slightly, like he was handling something precious and breakable. The way you'd both settled afterward, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air, neither quite believing what had just happened.

You hadn't talked about it. Not really, you'd simply settled back into your sleeping arrangement—your cheek to his chest, his arm around your waist, protective even in sleep. But something fundamental had shifted between you, an invisible line crossed.

Now, in the soft morning light, you're hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. The way his thumb unconsciously traces small circles on your ribs. How his breathing changes slightly when you shift, telling you he's awake too. The fact that neither of you moves to break apart, content to exist in this quiet bubble before the world intrudes again.

"Storm's passed," Daryl murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and deliberately quiet to avoid waking the others. His lips brush your ear as he speaks.

"Mmm," you agree softly, not trusting your voice to remain steady. Your hand finds his where it rests against your stomach, fingers intertwining. Such a simple gesture, but it feels monumental.

Public, even though no one else is awake yet.

Daryl's fingers tighten around yours, and you feel him press his face into your hair, breathing deeply like he's trying to memorize your scent. "We should get up," he says, but makes no move to release you. "Others'll be stirring soon."

You nod but don't move either. Both of you understand the unspoken truth—once you separate, once the day begins, you'll have to navigate whatever this new thing between you is while surrounded by the group.

You'll have to figure out how to be around each other when everything feels different now, charged with possibility and uncertainty in equal measure.

Rick's voice cuts through the static, low but distinct enough to carry across the barn. "We need to find more supplies today. Food's running low."

The spell breaks. Reality seeps back in like cold water, reminding you of empty stomachs and dwindling resources. You feel Daryl sigh against your hair before he slowly, reluctantly, extracts his arm from around your waist.

"Time to go," he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. It sticks up at odd angles, and you have to resist the urge to smooth it down.

You sit up too, immediately missing his warmth, and begin rolling up the thin blanket you'd shared.

"You two sleep well?" Carol asks from nearby, her tone carefully neutral but her eyes dancing with something that makes your cheeks warm. She's packing her few belongings into her worn backpack, movements efficient despite the knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Fine," Daryl grunts, but you catch the way his ears redden slightly. He busies himself with checking his crossbow, hands moving with practiced precision over the familiar weapon.

You murmur something noncommittal and excuse yourself to use the makeshift bathroom area the group has set up behind a partition. As you walk away, you're hyperaware of Daryl's gaze following you, can feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.

Once you're out of earshot, Carol sidles up to Daryl with the casual ease of someone who's earned the right to tease him.

She settles beside him on an overturned crate, close enough that her voice won't carry to the others.

"So," she begins, her tone deliberately light.

"Sleep well?"

Daryl's hands still on his crossbow. "Told you. Slept fine."

"Mm-hmm." Carol nods sagely, pulling out a small cloth to clean her knife. "You know, I've been watching you two dance around each since before the prison fell."

"Ain't dancing around nothing," Daryl mutters, but there's no real bite to his words.

"Right." Carol's smile widens. "That's why you're watching her like she might disappear if you blink. That's why you positioned yourself between her and the door last night without even thinking about it."

Heat crawls up Daryl's neck. He'd slept better last night than he had in weeks, months maybe. With you tucked safely against his side, your soft breathing evening out as the storm raged outside.

"Don't make it into something it ain't," he says, but the words lack conviction.

Carol chuckles, a warm sound that holds no judgment. "Daryl, honey, I already told you, your screwed."

Before Daryl can respond, you reappear from behind the partition, and he watches as you take Judith from Carl so he can pull on his boots, your touch gentle and patient with the baby as you coo gently and bounce her softly. Something warm and sharp twists in his chest at the sight.

Carol follows his gaze and smiles knowingly. "She might even be good for you."

She stands and moves away before he can protest, leaving Daryl alone with thoughts that feel too big for the cramped confines of his skull.

When you glance at Daryl, you catch him watching you with an expression you can't quite read. There's uncertainty there, but something warmer too. Something that makes your stomach flutter with nervous excitement.

You offer him a small smile, and hand Judith back to Carl's waiting arms, before making your way back over.

"You good ?" You ask quietly.

Relief flickers across his features, followed by something that might be gratitude. He nods once, a sharp jerk of his chin.

The moment of privacy evaporates as Glen approaches with his pack already slung over his shoulder. "You two ready? Rick wants to hit that cluster of houses we saw yesterday before we move on."

"Yeah," Daryl says, standing and reaching for his pack. "We're ready."

But as he passes you, his fingers catch yours for just a moment. It's subtle enough that Glen doesn't notice, but it sends warmth spreading through your chest.

A promise that last night wasn't a dream, wasn't a moment of weakness brought on by the storm and fear. It was real, and despite the uncertainty, despite the danger of caring for someone in this world, neither of you regrets it.

The group moves with practiced efficiency, gathering the few belongings you've accumulated in your constant travels. There's little conversation—everyone understands the routine by now.

Pack light, move fast, stay alert.

The barn had been a good find, sturdy and defensible, especially with the storm, but staying in one place too long is a luxury none of you can afford.

You're checking your knife and the small pistol you now carry with you when Maggie and Sasha appear in the barn doorway.

They're not alone.

"Rick," Maggie calls, her voice carefully neutral but with an undertone that makes everyone stop what they're doing. "We found someone."

The man behind them is clean. That's the first thing you notice—his clothes aren't torn or stained with blood and dirt like yours have become.

His hair is neat, his face recently shaved. In this world of perpetual grime and desperation, cleanliness is almost suspicious.

"My name's Aaron," the stranger says, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture as Rick immediately moves between him and the rest of the group. "I know how this looks, how I look. But I'm not here to hurt anyone."

Rick's hand hovers near his gun, and you can see the tension in his shoulders. "Then what are you here for?"

"To invite you to my community," Aaron says simply. "All of you."

The words hang in the air like a challenge. Community. It's a word that's become almost mythical in its rarity. You've all heard stories—settlements that fell, safe zones that turned into death traps, groups that tore themselves apart from the inside.

"Community," Abraham repeats, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "And what makes you think we're interested in joining your little club?"

"I understand your skepticism," Aaron continues, his hands still raised. "But I assure you, Alexandria is real. We've been watching your group, and we're impressed by how you've survived, how you work together."

"Watching us," Rick repeats, his voice deadly quiet. "For how long?"

"Long enough to know you're good people. The kind of people we want in our community."

Aaron's smile is patient, practiced. "We want you because you're survivors. Because you've been out here long enough to know how hard it is alone. Because you have children." His eyes find Carl, then shift to Judith in Carol's arms. "And children deserve better than this."

You feel Daryl tense beside you, his distrust radiating from him in waves. His hand unconsciously moves closer to his knife, a gesture you've learned to read as a warning sign.

"What's the catch?" Rick asks bluntly. "Nobody offers something for nothing, especially not these days."

"No catch," Aaron says. "Just an audition."

The word hits the group like a physical blow.

Audition.

As if your survival, your worthiness of safety, is some kind of performance to be judged.

"Audition?" Daryl's tone is low, edged with distrust. Not aggressive yet—but coiled.

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

You watch as you glance between the stranger and Daryl. You can feel it, like heat coming off his skin—Daryl doesn’t trust this man. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And when Aaron’s eyes drift toward you—lingering a moment longer then Daryl likes.

His posture shifts. Subtle.

One boot steps forward, placing himself just slightly in front of you. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say anything.

Aaron's composure falters slightly at the hostility in Daryl's tone. "It means we need to know you're the kind of people who'd fit in with our community. That you share our values."

"And what values would those be?" Carol asks, her voice deceptively mild. You recognize the tone—she's gathering information, cataloging potential threats.

"Hard work. Contribution. Following the rules that keep everyone safe."

Aaron's answer sounds rehearsed, like he's given this speech before.

"Look, I know it sounds formal, but we've learned the hard way that not everyone who seems like a good fit actually is."

Glen steps forward, his expression thoughtful but wary. "What kind of community? How many people? Where?"

"I can't give you all the details until you agree to come with me," Aaron says. "Security reasons, I'm sure you understand."

Rick laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"You want us to follow you blindly to some mystery location and audition for the privilege of staying there? That about sum it up?"

"I have pictures," Aaron offers, reaching slowly for his pack.

Rick's gun clears its holster in one smooth motion, making Aaron freeze. "Just pictures," he repeats carefully. "To show you what you'd be walking into."

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Rick orders, nodding to Glen. "Check his bag."

As Glen carefully examines Aaron's pack, you catch Daryl's eye. He's coiled like a spring, ready for violence if this goes sideways.

The intimacy of the morning feels like it happened in another lifetime, replaced by the familiar wariness that has kept you all alive.

"He's got photos," Glen confirms, pulling out a stack of Polaroids. "And some kind of radio equipment."

Rick examines the photos, his expression unreadable. The rest of the group clusters around him, trying to catch a glimpse of what Aaron's offering. You see flashes of what looks like actual houses, gardens, people who look well-fed and clean.

"Looks too good to be true," Daryl mutters, voicing what you're all thinking.

"Because it probably is," you add quietly, earning a sharp look from Aaron.

"I understand your skepticism," Aaron says, his tone remaining earnest despite the hostility he's facing.

"You've been burned before. We all have. But Alexandria is real, and it's safe. Safer than this." He gestures around the barn. "Safer than constant running, constant fear."

"Alexandria?" Michonne speaks for the first time since Aaron's arrival. "That's what you call it?"

Aaron nods. "Alexandria Safe-Zone. We've got walls, solar power, running water. Houses with actual beds. A medical facility. We grow our own food."

It sounds like paradise, which is exactly why none of you trust it. Paradise doesn't exist anymore, not in this world.

"And all we have to do is audition," Rick says flatly. "Prove we're worthy of your generosity."

"It's not about worthiness," Aaron insists. "It's about compatibility. About making sure you won't be a danger to the people already there."

"And who decides that?" Daryl asks. "You?"

"There's a process," Aaron says vaguely. "People who make those decisions."

The evasiveness in his answer confirms your suspicions.

Whatever this Alexandria is, it's not the democratic sanctuary Aaron's trying to sell it as. There are people in charge, people who hold the power to accept or reject, and that kind of power structure has never ended well in your experience.

"Even if this place is real," Glen says quietly, "even if it's everything you say it is, what makes you think we'd fit in? We've been out here a long time. We've done things, seen things..."

"Survived things," Aaron corrects. "That's exactly what makes you valuable to our community."

"Valuable," Daryl repeats, his voice flat. "Like livestock."

"Like family," Aaron counters. "Like the kind of people we want watching our backs when things go bad."

The barn falls silent again as everyone processes this. The offer is tempting—more tempting than anyone wants to admit. Walls, safety, a chance to stop running, to stop watching over your shoulder every second of every day.

But you've all learned the hard way that safety is an illusion. That walls can become prisons as easily as they can become sanctuaries. That the living are often more dangerous than the dead.

"We need to discuss this," Rick finally says. "Privately."

Aaron nods. "Of course. I'll wait outside, give you space to talk."

"No," Rick says firmly. "You'll wait right here where we can see you."

As Aaron settles onto the ground with his hands visible, the group huddles together in the back corner of the barn.

Voices rise and fall in urgent whispers as options are debated, risks weighed, hopes cautiously shared.

Aaron voice rises after a few minutes. "I should mention—I didn't come alone. My partner Eric is waiting nearby. He'll come looking if I don't check in."

The threat is subtle but clear. Come quietly, or face the possibility of more complications. You see Rick's jaw tighten, and Daryl takes a half-step forward, his body language screaming violence.

"Easy," you murmur, just loud enough for Daryl to hear. He glances back at you through the curtain of his hair, eyes softening for half a second, some of the tension leaving his shoulders at your quiet intervention, before snapping back to Aaron, it's not the time or place for any kind of fight.

"Five minutes," Rick tells Aaron. "Then we'll give you our answer."

The morning that started with such promise has turned into another test of survival, another decision that could mean life or death for all of you.

Rick's paranoia warred with the group's exhaustion, their desperate need for something better than endless running and hiding. In the end, it was Michonne who tipped the scales.

"We need this," she said simply. "All of us."

The vehicles Aaron had mentioned were exactly where he said they'd be—a testament to either his honesty or an elaborate trap. You climbed into the back of the van with Daryl, Glen, and Maggie, while Rick took the driver's seat with Aaron riding shotgun, hands zip-tied as a precaution.

The second vehicle held the rest of your group, with Abraham behind the wheel and Eric—Aaron's partner—giving oddly enthusiast directions.

You found yourself next to Daryl as the van lurched into motion, he was quiet, his eyes constantly scanning the passing landscape for threats.

"You okay?" you whispered, low enough that the others couldn't hear over the engine noise.

His eyes flicked to yours, intense and unreadable. "Don't like this. Too easy."

"Maybe we deserve a little easy," you said softly.

He grunted, unconvinced, but his hand found yours in the space between you, calloused fingers swiped softly across the back of your hand, lingering almost like they wanted to curl around yours, before moving away. The simple contact sent warmth through you.

Glen was studying one of Aaron's photographs, showing it to Maggie. "Look at this garden," he said, wonder in his voice. "When's the last time we saw tomatoes growing?"

"Could be a setup," Daryl muttered, but you caught the way his eyes lingered on the image.

"Could be real," Maggie countered gently.

The journey took hours, winding through back roads and overgrown highways. You dozed fitfully against the window at one point, lulled by the engine's rhythm.

Each time you woke, Daryl was alert, watching, his hand never straying far from his knife.

Aaron kept up a steady stream of information about Alexandria—the wall, the homes, the sense of community.

Rick peppered him with questions, probing for weaknesses or lies, but Aaron answered everything with patient honesty.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Aaron directed Rick down a narrower road lined with trees. "Almost there," he said, and you felt the group's collective tension ratchet up another notch.

Daryl's shoulders stiffened, you could almost feel his tension.

Glen and you shared a glance, a silent agreement that, no matter what happens, you'd all have each other's backs.

The wall appeared suddenly through the foliage—massive sheets of corrugated metal and reinforced with large metal poles. It stretched far in both directions, an imposing barrier between the world you knew and whatever lay beyond these gates.

"Holy shit," Glenn breathed.

The van rolled to a stop in front of massive gates, when the engine shut off the sounds of children playing could be heard, actual children.

Your mind wandered to Lil Asskicker, you couldn't help it, Judith deserved safety, you all did.

The gates squeaked open without preamble revealing glimpses of the world beyond—paved streets, intact houses, the impossible sight of normal life continuing despite the world's ending.

As your group slowly emerged from the vans, you stayed close to Daryl, he remained silent and watchful, his body coiled with tension.

You could feel his unease, the way every instinct screamed at him to be ready to fight or flee.

The people of Alexandria looked clean, well-fed, soft in a way that spoke of safety but it might be a lie.

[basafritters]

half return - Kafka x Reader

1051 words | no warnings | BELOW THE CUT!!!

note: this one is just a short imagine I had for a half-baked idea

“You seem lost.” From between her lips, a puff of smoke is exhaled, and the cigarette is offered to you– enticing, yet with heavy consequences should you take it. Though, considering your current company, you fear you might be too far gone to care for consequence. You take it, pressing it against your own mouth. The taste of Kafka’s lipstick is bitter, an unknown flavor, but distinct. 

“I don’t understand why you had to do it.” 

“Elio said it had to, so it had to. I would’ve thought you’d been able to piece it together by now.” 

“Did you have to abandon her?” 

She falls silent at the question. Instead, Kafka leans forward on the railing of the balcony, fetching another cigarette from her pocket. Above you, the hotel’s balcony is covered by an awning–the only thing keeping you both dry from the rain. It falls fast to the street several dozen floors below, and the distance seems to call to you. 

“Destiny’s Slave said it had to be.” 

With a click, she lights the cigarette. 

“I wish you hadn’t done it.” 

“I wish I hadn’t either.” 

You wondered how Stelle must’ve felt. You wondered for hours, pacing the hotel room waiting for Kafka to return from Herta Space Station. Silver Wolf stopped by every half hour, at first out of duty, and then out of genuine worry that you might’ve been on the verge of causing harm to someone. 

Was she afraid? She’d have no memories, you were told. Everything you’d ever done with her cumulated to nothing but the set up for a pawn to be used by Elio’s great future. Kafka had done her part, certainly, and she was the girl’s favorite. But you loved her. You loved her so much, as if she were made from your very skin and you only felt nauseous imagining how scared she’d feel when she woke up with a Stellaron deep inside her. 

Beside you, Kafka tries to gently settle her hand on your shoulder. It’s shrugged off quickly.

“Don’t touch me.” 

“You know the rules. So do I.” 

“I begged Elio. I begged him not to let this happen, not to let her go.” 

“You know just as well as I do how stubborn he can be. The script says she’ll find her way back to us, some day.” 

“You can’t be alright with this.” 

She exhales, smoke rising into the air. 

“I only do what I’m told.” Then, she turns, with something of a sly grin. “And with some harmless fun on the side to pass the time.” 

The joke isn’t funny. She must know it, but times must be desperate considering you’ve shrugged off every invitation for intimacy since Elio showed you the script. Kafka didn’t need to agree to this, and yet she did. She chose to be the one to abandon the child you practically raised together. 

“I miss her. I miss her so much.” 

“Give it time, dear. She’s strong. She’ll get into trouble, but nothing she can’t get out of.” Her hand guides your face towards hers– and you let her. Even when she sounds somber, her face betrays nothing. It’s the way she’s always been. Is she grieving too? Or does she lack anything beneath that pretty face?

“She’ll be back. So, why don’t we enjoy this temporary time alone, hm? Relax a bit.” Kafka plants her lips against your cheek, then against your jaw, and further into the crook of your neck. As much as you’d like to pretend there’s passion in it, you can’t tell her true intentions. Is it boredom that draws her to you? 

In her spare hand, the cigarette continues to burn. You jerk away, and she pauses, pulling back by only a fraction. A cool breath is blown onto the newly forming bruises, but you put the sensation out of mind. It’s a method of distraction, and only that. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong?” You mock. “Stop acting like this isn’t… like you didn’t just leave my kid.” 

Kafka has enough sense to withdraw at least, and an uncomfortable gap grows between you two. The rain is cold, and the thin sweater you’d put on does little against the wind. You knew what would happen today, and yet nothing could’ve prepared you for the sinking dread of knowing it had truly happened. The reality is always harsher than the expectation.

Stelle wasn’t yours in any traditional way. But you taught her what she knew. You told her stories, you brushed her hair, you mended her clothes when she returned from a mission. 

“Kafka,” you begin carefully, “I don’t think I’m staying with the Stellaron Hunters.” 

Nothing is said. Her cigarette returns to her lips.

“I have to know she’s alright.” 

“You have a bounty, you know.” She reminds you. 

“And?” 

“It’d mean a lot of trouble if the IPC picked you up. Don’t put Bladie and I through the hassle of getting you back.” 

Between your fingers, you twirl the cigarette she gave you. Then, you drop it over the side of the balcony. You lose sight of it quickly, and you don’t care to search for it as you turn around to face the glass door. Kafka doesn’t stop you as you slide it back, and pause at the threshold.

“Elio’s script doesn’t need me, does it?” 

The pause is all you need to know. You step through the door, back into the cold dark hotel room. Kafka watches from the balcony as you gather your things, the only sound being that of the rain falling outside. Once your things are packed neatly, you place down the burner phone Silver Wolf provided you at the beginning of the mission. It sits on the bed like flowers over a grave. 

You never were that much of a Stellaron Hunter. Not like the others. Your specialties were only needed to ensure no one died of infection or malnutrition– but medicinal expertise was a common commodity these days, and they’d find a workaround easily. 

Turning back to the balcony door, you meet her eyes. Goodbye isn’t as hard as you expected it to be. Was that how she felt? 

“I’ll see you. Eventually.” You say, before slinging your bag over your shoulder and heading towards the door. 

“Eventually.” Kafka sighs.

[phoenixyfriend]

Hey have a fun AU I came up with the other day after reading a bunch of fics with related tropes

It's a raised Sith AU. Anakin was found by Sidious well before he was found by Qui-Gon. He was raised by the Sith, is a classically horrible monster stalking about TCW to be Vader (mask and all, just as an intimidation factor instead of life support) while Ventress and Grievous and Dooku do their own things in a different section of the war. He's got a Really Fucking Weird dynamic with Obi-Wan, mostly attempting to kill him etc.

At some point, Palpatine allows Anakin and Padme to meet. The romance that blooms is one that Sheev decides is useful to him, so he lets it happen.*

Padme gets pregnant. Sidious arranges for her death. Anakin loses his entire shit and tries to kill Sidious. Obi-Wan is off trying to save Padme, unaware of Anakin getting his remaining limbs cut off by his this-universe Master. (This is important, because Anakin does remember Obi-Wan trying to save Padme.)

So we have Anakin, who was raised Sith, and just lost the only things that have mattered to him since his mom died when he was a kid, and Palpatine has pushed him further into the Dark than he ever has. Anakin… knows more about the Sith Secrets in this universe.

Anakin finds a Sithly Time Machine. Maybe on Malachor. There's an owl? Whatever.

Anakin, someone who's been Vader for the vast majority of his life, wakes up at age nine. Maybe even younger, like six. His mother is already dead at Sidious's hands. He's already roommates with Maul. He's already being trained as a baby Sith.

Anakin, being a 20 year old war veteran, is much better at escaping than Sidious has planned for. He reprograms a medical droid to take out his slave chip, steals a ship, etc. All the stuff that Maul wasn't very good at, and Anakin was too young for, so Sidious didn't have the preventative measures in place for yet.

Anakin heads for the one place and person he thinks he can trust: Obi-Wan Kenobi.

(Obi-Wan is still a padawan. But this Baby Sith just declared him Adoptive Teen Dad, so.)

@lizasweetling (all indented bits from here will be hers):

Because Sith. Bad for mental health of the user and generally bad for their environs But also baby. And if hes dragging Maul around no doubt the dude is constantly himself confused why he is here Like yeah, Sidious sucked, and this 6-9yo is way powerful and knowledgeable on the dark side (?????) But why are we going to the Jedi? And not even trying to kill them apparently?????

Anakin is very much being affected by Baby Brain and Baby Endocrine System. He cries a lot more than he should.

I WASN'T THINKING OF HIM BRINGING MAUL BUT YEAH. THAT'S. THAT'S A POSSIBILITY.

Jedi Council trying to decide if this is more "Adult Sith got shrunk" or "child got evil man's memories." Vader wants to know why it even MATTERS. (He didn't actually plan on telling them, but he has very little self control right now.)

The first Good Act he does is tell them where to find Ventress and Ky. (In the original timeline, he viewed Ventress as like. Cool older cousin.)

Vader's right, that distinction does not matter Aaaw, she deserves that, that's nice Maybe she will be like 20% less homocidally traumatized

Anakin is furious when Maul and Obi-Wan pick him up under one arm like a package. He is a GROWN MAN he is an ADULT he was a SITH LORD and about to be a FATHER, he is TOO OLD FOR THIS.

They point out that he is Baby.

😂 sorry lord of evil, you're too baby, have a nap and maybe your feel better. Assuming the crisis on Naboo is still happening, and as such the vote of no confidence is right now, it might be a great time to report Sidious as a Sith lord. Post-escape from Sidious, both he and Maul definitely will need a nap. It's that kinda place.

Oh, it's probably at least a year before. Anakin keeps trying to sneak off to kill the man himself, but the Jedi are more ready for his Sneaking than Mustafar was, so he keeps getting caught before he can reach the Senate.

At one point he tries to just CHARGE the place and you get Mace and Obi-Wan sprinting after him. The News captures videos of this very small child getting chased by an older Padawan and a Master and they are mostly yelling for him to PUT DOWN THE SABER.

(Sidious might see him but what's he going to do? Might cause too many problems for Sidious to be aware of Anakin's presence with the Jedi, though. Best not.)

It's probably more expensive on average to hire an assassin on a child, just in general But on a jedi youngling??? If he can even find someone to do that, it will be so very, ridiculously expensive And likely 70%+ upfront payments

Ahsoka definitely seeks him out. Toddler baby child. She adores him for reasons unclear to anyone and everyone.

!!! Baby has baby!! Vader's probably a little thrown by this. Been a while subjectively since someone just loved him. And not even for like, a reason. Baby Vader coerced into sitting obediently for nap by tired kiddo: [The council liked that]

The number of times that vader could only be convinced to nap by Obi-Wan grabbing him, caging him in his own lap, and forced to Sit Quietly until he just fell asleep like that...

He has things to do, he's not tired 😡😡😡💢 (He's 9. Distances are between 150 and 195% longer when measured with steps, he's hungry (subjectively) all the time, and has only middling coordination He so is too tired)

Anakin doesn't know Qui-Gon at all but he keeps getting stuffed into the man's top because he's just. Small enough to fit.

Like the bomb boobs gif, but it's a small child.

the indignity

You just. You can't let him get too self-important.

Vader is Disgusted every time the pediatric healers try to talk down to him like they do to other 6yos.

The difference between this and other "Vader goes back in time to the Jedi" AUs (like Force of Many Sights) is that this Vader has never been a Jedi, and doesn't know anything about them except how they fight when he's trying to kill their friends.

Also Maul's there.

Because even he has a hard time taking himself seriously when hes so easy to manhandle Rest of the time; I am fear, I am death personified As luggage child: I am so small. The tiniest. I crave violence He's probably very annoyed they keep taking away his saber And hey! Obi gets practice not losing his! Woooo!

Something something Anakin clinging to Maul's back (piggy back ride) and chewing on his head or something stupid like that. Perfect height for head biting.

You know, the classic anime head bite

Maul probably has been nominally talked into this because this 9yo is a powerful darksider But he is also the world's most annoying tiny kid Maul would've thought his phenotype would make him immune to this ridiculousness He was wrong At least the teeth are a bit less pointy than his other little brothers'? Appreciating the little things

tfw your unwanted little brother drags you to what you think is a cult but actually they're way less culty than your last two places so you just stick around to keep an eye on the little shit

Anyway. ObiMaul for this one.

They're peers They're tired They just want to sit down and not have to chase this weird little murder child They have a lot in common 😊

They are all just a little bit stupid, I love them.

Qui-Gon is a Cool Mom (throws condoms at them and books it).

Yeah, that's about as much involvement as would be appreciated They probably did a lot of sparring before the tension broke Which did not relieve said tension, generally made it worse (Competence, athleticism, sweat-) Vader is confused, but probably doesn't mind He's probably glad they're distracting each other from stopping assassinating a certain someone (Which- that is 9yo hubris. He would need help to do that)

I still can't decide where on 6yo-9yo he falls but somewhere in there

Babies means easier hiding in shirt, teenie Ahsoka, and longer for him to convince the Jedi council to do a Sith hunt before the Naboo situation

Also longer for Maul and Obi-Wan to faff about being all Tension

* Vaguely inspired by the backstory of Rulebreaker/Wildheart, which is great but significantly more of a romance fic than this.

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 20: Checkmate at Check-In

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: It is a truth universally ignored by those who ought to know better that assembling the entire Bridgerton family, their friends, suitors, and rivals under one roof is a recipe for catastrophe. And yet—here they are. Arriving. Smiling. Plotting. What could possibly go wrong?

There was a distinct sound to arriving at Aubrey Hall.

The crunch of carriage wheels against gravel, the soft whinny of horses in the stable yard, the fluttering bustle of maids rushing to windows, and—above all—the low murmur of something about to happen.

 It wasn’t just the estate itself, although Aubrey Hall was nothing short of breathtaking. With its ivy-draped stone, tall windows glinting with morning light, and perfectly trimmed hedges, it looked less like a home and more like a memory waiting to be made.

No, it wasn’t just the house.

It was the gathering.

And as the final carriage doors closed and trunks were whisked inside, the great hall of the Bridgerton estate became a theater once more.

“Welcome to Aubrey Hall,” Violet Bridgerton declared with a smile that could freeze a battlefield.

She stood at the top of the staircase like a general surveying her troops, elegant and composed, clipboard in hand (metaphorically, of course—but one could feel it). Her guests clustered below, fanning themselves, glancing at one another with carefully arranged expressions that suggested both civility and the possibility of murder.

The entire ensemble had arrived.

You stood at the center of it all, elbow linked with Eloise’s as she muttered under her breath: “This is how the French Revolution started.”

Room Assignments: The Ceremony of Mild Judgement

Violet cleared her throat.

“Rooms have been prepared according to preference, history, and—as always—my judgment.”

Gasps? No. But there was the collective inhale of tonic water about to be spilled.

“Daphne and Simon,” Violet began, turning toward the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, “you shall of course have your usual rooms in the east wing, near the nursery.”

Daphne gave a gracious nod, Augie bouncing slightly in her arms.

“Lady Danbury, Lady Mary, and the Misses Sharma—”

A pause. A soft beat of tension as Anthony’s gaze flicked toward the trio.

“You shall be in the west guest corridor. Newton may roam the gardens freely, provided he does not chase the peacocks again.”

Newton barked once, as if in agreement.

Kate opened her mouth to protest—about the peacocks or the company, it was unclear—but Lady Danbury placed a hand on her arm. “We are here for sport,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Let the games begin.”

“My sons—” Violet said with precise formality, “—have their usual quarters. Try not to ruin them.”

Gregory whispered to Colin: “Does that include emotionally?”

Colin: “No, I think that’s encouraged.”

“Eloise and Hyacinth—”

“Together,” Eloise said quickly.

“I need someone to keep me sane,” Hyacinth added brightly.

“Y/N—”

Heads turned.

You straightened slightly. Violet’s tone was unreadable.

“You will remain in your usual chamber, adjacent to Eloise. If you require privacy, do let the staff know.”

Hyacinth whispered, “That’s the room closest to the garden, isn’t it? With the balcony?”

Eloise grinned. “Very poetic.”

You nodded politely. “Very convenient.”

And then—

“Lord Blackbourne.”

The room stilled just enough to notice.

Lucien tilted his head, eyes glittering as he slowly stepped forward from the edge of the crowd.

“Yes, Lady Bridgerton?”

Violet gave him a smile that walked the line between warning and welcome.

“We’ve placed you in the north wing. Top of the stairs, second door on the right. Close enough to the action, far enough to cause mystery. Should suit your temperament.”

Lucien grinned. “That sounds dangerously well-planned.”

“Oh, it is.”

Anthony said nothing. But his jaw twitched.

Benedict, to your right, murmured, “I do love when Mother starts arranging people like chess pieces.”

You: “Don’t you mean like explosives?”

Benedict: “That too.”

The gathering began to disperse, each guest peeling off toward their rooms, escorted by staff or trailing laughter.

Lucien caught your eye briefly as he passed. He didn’t wink. He didn’t smirk. He just looked. Directly.

You felt it. Like a secret.

And just behind him, Anthony watched. Unmoving. A storm waiting for its cue.

Aubrey Hall Grounds – Afternoon Light, Day One

The sun filtered through the canopy of old trees, dappling the gravel path in golden fragments. Aubrey Hall had taken its first breath of chaos—carriages had arrived, trunks were being dragged into rooms, and the air already hummed with the unspoken promise of too many people under one roof.

And still, somehow, Lucien Blackbourne had found a sliver of quiet.

He stood at the edge of the lower gardens, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the afternoon breeze tugging lazily at the hem of his waistcoat. He wasn’t lost in thought. Lucien never truly got lost—he simply wandered, waiting for the world to catch up.

So when a shadow approached behind him, steady and measured, Lucien didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Then—

“Funny,” came a voice from behind him, smooth as aged whisky. “I expected someone taller.”

Lucien didn’t flinch.

He simply turned.

And found himself face to face with Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings

Lucien's brow lifted, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And I expected a Duke with a deeper voice.”

Simon chuckled, hands casually tucked into his coat pockets, posture too relaxed to be anything other than intentional. “My wife has told me all about you.”

Lucien tilted his head, the light glinting off his cufflinks. “Only good things, I hope.”

“Only the best,” Simon replied smoothly. “Something about you being a walking disaster with exceptional taste in waistcoats.”

Lucien placed a hand over his heart. “I do try.”

Simon stepped closer, gaze flickering toward the looming estate behind them. “I’ll admit—I respect the chaos. Anyone who can set Anthony Bridgerton on edge without drawing a sword deserves a moment of my time.”

Lucien’s smile widened just slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “Ah. You’ve sparred with the Viscount yourself, then?”

Simon raised a brow. “He challenged me to a duel once. Said I compromised his sister’s honor.”

“Did you?”

“Repeatedly.”

Lucien laughed. “And he still speaks to you?”

“Eventually.”

The two men stood in companionable silence for a moment, the rustling of the trees above them the only sound between them.

Then Simon turned to him fully. “So tell me… what’s your plan here?”

Lucien didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze drifted toward the house.

Where you were.

Where he was.

“I didn’t come here to start a war,” Lucien said finally. “But I’m not above winning one.”

Simon considered that.

Then—quietly, “You’re already winning it. He just hasn’t realized it yet.”

Lucien exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to be a war at all.”

Simon’s voice dropped. “Neither was mine. But love has a way of turning quiet things into battlegrounds.”

 A beat passed.

Lucien looked at him again, sharper now. “So what now, Hastings? Are you here to warn me off?”

Simon grinned, teeth flashing like a sabre. “On the contrary. I’m here to join you.”

Lucien blinked.

“You and me,” Simon continued, taking a step forward, “may be the only two men in this house who’ve ever properly wrecked the Viscount’s composure.”

“I consider it a specialty.”

Simon tilted his head. “Then let’s test your skills.”

Lucien’s smile turned dangerous. “You’re asking me to team up against your wife’s brother.”

“I’m asking you to give him a reason to unravel. Fully. Dramatically. Preferably while holding a croquet mallet.”

Lucien offered his hand, slow and deliberate. “You realize this makes us enemies of the state?”

Simon gripped it without hesitation. “I’m a Duke. I am the state.”

They both laughed.

And as their handshake sealed a very specific kind of doom, the breeze shifted.

Somewhere inside the house, Anthony Bridgerton paused—feeling a chill run down his spine despite the summer sun.

He turned to Benedict. “Something’s wrong.”

Benedict didn’t even look up from his sketchbook. “Of course something’s wrong. Lucien’s on the property.”

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

[thecircularsystem]

As per the syscourse bracket challenge for this round…

Note: I’m putting this under a cut because, in the past, individuals have told me this take was horrifically triggering for their paranoia. Please continue at your own risk.

TW: Various types of harassment; mentions of sui ideation, doxxing, death threats, SA, and CSA; fakeclaiming and trauma denial; false memories

TL;DR: If we accept that endogenic systems are sometimes traumagenic systems who don’t know/are in denial, then it only makes logical sense that sometimes traumagenic systems are actually endogenic systems who don’t know/are in denial.

Long version:

Eons ago (like. A few years ago 3? That sounds about right), I got sent a bait ask with this take: “I believe some traumagenic systems are actually endogenic.” This was soon after I’d been discussing how some endogenic systems are traumagenic and just don’t know it yet.

At first, when I saw the take, I naturally balked. I mean… isn’t that fakeclaiming someone’s trauma? Isn’t that ableism?

But… the thing is, I KNOW there are endogenic systems who have hidden trauma. And I KNOW I have given myself false memories of, yes, trauma that never happened to me. I distinctly remember abuse based on my plurality that never actually happened, even if I know exactly how it played out. I convinced myself it happened, and I’ve had to do distinct work to remind myself it was my imagination.

So… is it possible a system has convinced themselves that they were formed from trauma… even if they didn’t? It seems possible. Common? No, I highly doubt it. But possible.

And moreover, what about endogenic systems who discover their systemhood and are immediately told by everyone around them that the only way to be a system is to have DID, so they must have trauma they don’t remember… so these systems would deem themselves traumagenic, even if they weren’t, because they genuinely didn’t know?

Anyways. I posted this take.

It led to me leaving my old blog entirely, panicked and getting countless suibait, death threats, and SA related asks, because I was clearly the worst person ever, fakeclaiming traumagenic systems. I was told I didn’t actually have DID if I believed that, and that I deserved the CSA I experienced. It’s why I stopped using “Mod (Name)” as a tag and changed to abstract tag phrases instead, since people attributed the take to a single alter, making our dissociative barriers grow (isolate him away from us to make others love us again so we stay safe).

I’m scared to post this again, I won’t lie. But… I’m tired of being scared of syscourse, yknow? It’s stupid. It’s pointless.

What does it matter if someone is traumagenic or endogenic or neither or both? What does it matter if someone uses the “wrong” label? Does any of this matter???

At the end of the day, we all deserve the help we need.

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 11 - Gags

Ghost x Soap - 4.3k (on ao3)

summary: Ghost has a unique way to get the mouthy new prospect to learn when to shut up. Johnny is more into it than he probably should be. (Soap POV)

cw: dom!ghost, sub!soap, undernegotiated kink, muzzles, johnny doesn't technically consent but he is into everything happening here, consensual oral sex

note: this doesn't feature gags very heavily tbh, but they are technically there so i'm counting it! also it's very unedited, leave me alone

Johnny scowls, poking the thing on the table in front of him with one finger like it’ll jump out and bite him. “The hell is this?”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, the worn mask covering any reaction Johnny might be able to parse. He’s hardly a foot from Johnny, staying at his side instead of keeping the card table between them. “You gone dumb?”

Johnny scowls, kicking back in his seat and balancing the metal chair on two legs, one foot planted on the ground and the other over his knee. “Och, ye ken I’m sharp. Dinnae ken what you want me to do with tha’, though. Ye’ve really got to learn to use yer words, Ghostie. Not sure how anyone ‘round here ever–”

Johnny doesn’t finish his sentence, the air knocked out of him as his chair is knocked off balance and he falls flat on his ass. He oofs when he hits the ground, blinking dumbly up at the man above him.

Ghost hooks his foot around the leg of the chair he’d just kicked over, shoving it back up and away from Johnny. “Sit properly, you damn brat.”

Johnny rubs his head a bit, sitting up and scowling. “Ye always been this much of an arsehole?”

He gets the distinct sense that Ghost is cocking an eyebrow, even if he can’t see it. “Yes. Now sit in the chair like a goddamn adult.”

Johnny obeys silently, mentally licking his wounds and giving Ghost a pointed glare as he sets both of his feet firmly on the ground, all four chair legs steady. 

“Good,” Ghost grunts, a pathetic excuse for praise that still has Johnny sitting a little straighter in the chair. “Now put the muzzle on or I’ll do it for you.”

Johnny’s eyes widen a fraction as they dart between the black lump sitting on the table in front of him and the biker now stepping close enough to touch. “Oh, no…” he says, nudging at the thing again with a knuckle until it lays a little flatter, the shape of it obvious now. “Ye’ve got to be kiddin’ me.”

Ghost is dead silent, tapping his fingers on one bicep as he stares down at Johnny.

“Ye want to fuckin’ muzzle me?” Johnny growls, lip curling. “Like a dog?”

Ghost’s head cocks to the side, eyelids low. “You clearly can’t keep your mouth shut. You know how much we had to pay off Keller to keep him from calling the pigs after that brawl you started?”

Johnny can’t stop his lips from curling up at the memory of that night – it’s not often a man gets the chance to see bottles and fists flying like that, and the vicious reaming he’d gotten from Price had been more than worth it. 

“Nothin’ for you to be smirkin’ about,” Ghost growls, planting one big hand on the table and leaning even closer. “You keep gettin’ yourself in trouble, just trusting we’ll be there to pull you out. You ain’t even a brother yet – no patch, no cut. You’re lucky we don’t string you up for the other prospects to use as a punching bag with the way you act.”

Johnny scowls, hackles raising. “I do more work than any of the other prospects combined. Ye tellin’ me the boys can’t handle some trouble every now and then?”

“It ain’t every now and then, and it doesn’t matter what we can handle,” Ghost says, leaning close enough that his nose is just inches away from Johnny’s. “You’re a prospect. Your job is to do the dirty work so the brothers don’t have to and to keep your head down. You,” he jabs a finger in Johnny’s face, tone deepening. “Are pissin’ people off.”

Ghost stands back up, grabbing the muzzle from the table and straightening out the two thick leather straps. “So I’m gonna set you straight. You’ll wear this until I figure you can be trusted with your mouth again.”

“Hold on–” Johnny starts, pushing himself up from the chair with flaming cheeks and an actively bruising ego. He doesn’t get a chance to finish his complaint, Ghost using one hand to force him back into his chair and the other to smack the muzzle over Johnny’s mouth.

“Mmph!” Johnny grunts, clawing at Ghost’s hands and trying to yank the leather off his face. Ghost shifts so his hand holds his jaw closed, but Johnny can already feel that the material is stiff enough around his underchin that he wouldn’t be able to talk even without the palm over his mouth. Something hard presses against his lips, and he seals them shut as best he can.

“Always fuckin’ bitching,” Ghost complains, his free hand shoving Johnny forward by the back of his head, moving behind his body and using his weight to hold Johnny’s chest flat to the table, arm laid heavily over his shoulder blades. “You just never shut up, do you?”

Johnny tries to shout, writhing as best he can under Ghost as he feels the straps being tightened around his head. One wraps around the back of his neck, connected to the bottom corners of the muzzle, while the other laces above his ears and around his skull, keeping the mask tight to his face. 

There’s something flat and hard in the bottom of it, pressing his jaw closed and keeping him from opening his mouth when the muzzle is fully tightened. With the way he’s being pushed into the muzzle as Ghost ties it, the hard plastic against his lips forces them open so it can rest between his teeth, just thick enough to keep his mouth open around it but soft enough that he can chew on it.

Ghost grunts as he pushes back off Johnny, hand planted at the base of his skull to hold him down. Johnny’s eyes fly wide in panic as he hears the soft sound of something metal clinking over his shoulder, two little cold spots coming to rest just beneath the straps.

“There,” Ghost grunts, his weight disappearing suddenly and letting Johnny up. He rockets away from the table as quickly as he can, hands flying to the mask and fumbling with it.

It’s made of good, thick leather, with something to hold the shape of a muzzle in the material and a few holes poked in front of his mouth and nose so he doesn’t suffocate despite the plastic in his mouth. The straps are thick, the metal buckles digging into the shaved sides of his head, and when he reaches back to try and undo them he feels small, metal squares hanging off each one.

A soft jingling sound yanks Johnny’s attention back over to Ghost, his heart in his throat. Ghost is tugging a necklace away from his chest, thumb holding it out far enough that Johnny can clearly see the little silver key dangling from the chain.

He tries to worm his fingers beneath the straps, then tries the edges of the muzzle. Neither work. He pushes his tongue against the thing between his teeth, but it doesn’t move even an inch.

“You’ll stay locked in that until Price or I decide you’ve earned another chance,” Ghost says, tucking the key back beneath his shirt. “If you fuck this up, you’re done. No more prospecting.”

That makes Johnny panic almost more than the muzzle, the thought of losing even the chance of a new family almost too much to bear.

Ghost barrels ahead, unbothered by the way Johnny’s chest heaves as he scratches at the leather. “You want to eat, you come find me. You want to drink, you come find me. We’ll get you taken care of. But you try and get anyone to take that off for you, and you’re never steppin’ foot back in the clubhouse. Understood?”

Johnny nods slowly, adrenaline begining to fade as the reality of his new position settles in. He forces his breathing to calm a bit, letting himself consider just how restricting the muzzle really is.

Ghost’s mask is as still and impassive as ever, but there’s the slightest hint of approval in his tone. “Good. Now get outta here, I got shit to do.”

Johnny’s not proud of how quickly he leaves, but his focus on getting to his room so he can hide just barely drowns out the harsh laugh coming from behind him.

Johnny doesn’t leave his room at all the next day. Hungry as he is, his ego hurts more than his stomach and the thought of facing any of the boys with this thing on his face is enough to keep him under lockdown.

Day two isn’t as easy, and reality begins to set in before the sun even rises.

He’s not getting the muzzle off. Ghost isn’t coming to him, he’s got to go to Ghost. That’s just the way it is, and Johnny has to find a way to work with it.

He creeps out of his room at five a.m., his hunger having kept him awake for most of the night. He’s far more focused on keeping himself near-silent than he usually is at this time, cringing at the thought of one of the boys coming out to see who’s slinking around and coming face to face with Johnny and his muzzle. 

He knocks on Ghost’s door as quietly as he can, thankful that the enforcer still lives in the clubhouse even if most of the patched-in members have their own places. It’s really just the prospects and a couple of the executive members who live in the main house full time, but luckily Ghost is one of them.

Johnny has to knock several times before the door is finally thrown open in front of him to show Ghost maskless and glaring, wearing only a pair of boxers. 

Johnny blinks a few times quickly, gives himself just a single heartbeat to glance at the miles of pale skin in front of him, then forces himself to make eye-contact, toying with the attachment between his teeth. He’s seen Ghost’s face a couple times before, usually in the gym, but it’s a rare enough thing that it still feels like a treat – even with the mean twist to Ghost’s lips.

“Do you have any idea what fuckin’ time it is?”

Johnny blinks innocently, holding up a five with his fingers. Ghost’s scowl grows, and Johnny finds himself thankful for the muzzle for the first time when it hides his smirk.

“Get in here,” Ghost grunts, grabbing Johnny by the mohawk and shoving him into the room. He stumbles, taken off guard, but quickly straightens back up and runs a hand through his hair, glaring at Ghost. 

“You spent all day yesterday hiding and pouting, makin’ Gaz do all your chores, then you wake me up at the ass crack of dawn,” Ghost complains, shouldering past Johnny to sit heavily on his bed, the mattress squeaking beneath his weight. “Let me guess, you’re hungry?”

Johnny nods eagerly, taking quick steps forward. It’s not quite as embarrassing as he thought it would be to wear the muzzle in front of Ghost. He doesn’t sit beside the enforcer, unwilling to risk pissing him off when his stomach is rumbling so strongly.

Ghost narrows his eyes before sighing and reaching up to pull the key forward, taunting him wih it. “On your knees, then.”

Johnny hestates, shifting his weight.

Ghost glares up at him, snapping expectantly. “Well? I can’t fuckin’ reach you from here, can I?”

Part of Johnny wants to mime his way through insisting that Ghost just stand to unlock the damn muzzle. Still, a much larger, much hungrier, much hornier part of him is more than willing to drop to his knees for this man.

He takes it a little far, maybe, inching forward until he’s firmly between Ghost’s legs and his knees are resting against the box spring his mattress rests on, kneeling up high and using Ghost’s thighs to balance himself. But Johnny’s always been a bit of a slut, and he can see the outline of Ghost’s cock through his boxers, and really he’s only a man.

Ghost pushes his head down until his chin is pressed against his chest, broad palm and calloused fingers easily holding Johnny in place so he can tug the small locks off. A moment later he laces his fingers through the thick mohawk, pulling Johnny’s face up and catching the muzzle as it falls.

Johnny can’t help but groan, stretching his jaw and rubbing it with one hand, leaning his weight to the side and onto one of Ghost’s thighs.. “Fuckin’ hell,” he complains, rubbing his face against the back of his hand. “Could hardly breathe in tha’ thing.”

Ghost scoffs, lightly cuffing Johnny in the side of the head. “Don’t be dramatic, you’re fine.” His nose curls a moment later as he drops the muzzle by his side. “Breath fuckin’ reeks though.”

 “Oh, I’m sorry,” Johnny sneers. “I couldnae exactly brush my teeth – ye see, a controlling bastard locked me in a fuckin’ muzzle!”

Ghost rests his big hand on the side of Johnny’s face, a threat of something more violent. “And you’re proving exactly why I did it right now with all that fucking chatter. If you knew how to shut the fuck up, you wouldn’t be here in the first place, and I wouldn’t be having to babysit you.” He smacks his palm lightly against Johnny’s cheek, smirking at the instinctual flinch. “Now stay.”

Johnny listens, but not without complaining, watching as Ghost lumbers to the en suite. “Muzzles, and now commands? Ye do know I’m a fuckin’ man, don’t ye? I won’t run through tunnels or wag my tail or whatever other weird shit you want me to do.”

Ghost comes back hardly a minute later, damp toothbrush with toothpaste laid out on it in hand and a distinctly unimpressed expression. Johnny’s smirk grows.

“Maybe ye’re into this, is that it? I won’t kinkshame, mate – if ye like yer ladies barkin’ for ye in bed, more power to ye.” He holds his hands up mockingly as Ghost settles back in front of him, feet set closer on either side of Johnny’s knees than they were before. “Doesnae work for me, o’ course, so ye’d probably get off quicker if ye found one of the club whores to–”

Johnny’s rudely interupted by the toothbrush being shoved into his mouth with no warning. He rears back, grabbing Ghost’s wrist to try and yank him away and utterly failing. Ghost levels him with an unimpressed look, eyebrow cocked as he roughly shoves the toothbrush to the back of Johnny’s mouth, scrubbing his molars.

“Do you need somethin’ in your mouth to keep you quiet, is that it?” Ghost asks, his other hand coming around to grab Johnny by the back of the neck and reel him closer, holding him still as he begins to brush his teeth. “Need someone to force you to do somethin’ with it or you just won’t listen, huh?”

Johnny grunts a disagreement, eyes twisted up as he cringes from Ghost’s rough treatment. Much more of this and he’s sure his gums’ll be bleeding. 

“Still,” Ghost orders, holding Johnny steady enough that he has no problem thoroughly scrubbing every bit of hit teeth. “Tongue out,” he says, and Johnny hardly hesitates this time, letting his tongue loll out and rest on his lip, albeit with a glare.

He doesn’t miss the way Ghost’s eyes heat at the sight, or the way the outline of his cock becomes more pronounced when the brush reaches far enough back in Johnny’s throat that he gags.

He plays it up a little. So what? Ghost is probably the hottest person he’s ever seen, and Johnny doesn’t shy away from a chance to work up the people around him, especially when they’re almost naked and shoving something to the back of his throat. 

When Ghost deems him clean – well, his mouth clean, he completely ignores the copious amounts of drool and toothpaste dripping down Johnny’s chin that neither of them have bothered to wipe away – he squeezes Johnny’s neck, once, pulling away.

“Go spit that out,” he says, nudging Johnny’s knee with his foot and passing him the brush. “Then come back and we’ll get you fed. Then you can leave me the hell alone.”

Johnny doesn’t even pretend that he believes Ghost’s grouchy tone, just smirks and crudely swipes at the drool on his face as he heads to the en suite.

When he comes back out the TV has been turned on to a channel playing some old reruns of a sitcom he just vaguely recognizes, and he sees Ghost typing something on his phone, feet still set wide enough to allow Johnny to sink to his knees between them again. He glances down when Johnny does that, but largely ignores him until he finishes whatever he was typing. 

“Another prospect’ll bring up breakfast in a few,” he says a few minutes later, phone discarded on the bed as he looks down at Johnny. “You’ll have to find a way to make it up to them, all these extra chores they’ve gotta do for you.”

Johnny scowls, insulted. “I carry my weight around here,” he defends, leaning back on his ankles a bit when Ghost only rumbles a low sound. “I do! I get more assignments than any of the other prospects, and I clean up after them when they make a mess anyway.”

“Still,” Ghost hums. Wrapping his hand around the back of Johnny’s head and dragging him closer. “You’ll have to keep doin’ all that, even now. You can’t just hide away until I decide you’ve earned your voice again.”

Johnny glares a bit, any heat that was building in his core fading rapidly as the conversation carries on. “I’m not fuckin’ hiding.”

“You didn’t leave your room once yesterday,” Ghost says, deadpan.

Johnny almost wants to growl. “I was tired.”

Ghost snorts, fingers scratching lightly at the shaved side of Johnny’s head. “Sure, pup. Whatever you say.”

Johnny forces himself not to reply to that, sure that he’d somehow just dig himself into a deeper pit. The muzzle still lays next to Ghost’s thigh, and it doesn’t escape Johnny that he’s got no control of when it goes back on his face. 

Silence has never come easily to Johnny before, but he finds it surprisingly not-diffuclt to indulge now, letting himself sit quietly between Ghost’s knees as the TV drones on behind him. Ghost’s hand shifts to the top of his head, fingers combing through his hair and his nails lightly dragging across sensitive skin. 

It’s no less than five minutes later when Ghost speaks again.

“You wanna suck my cock?”

Johnny considers, for a very brief moment, being offended. That passes quickly when he sees that Ghost is entirely serious, not even a hint of humor on his face, and Johnny cautiously shifts on his knees. “Ye serious? Thought ye liked the birds, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts, neither a confirmation or a denial. “You want me in your mouth or not?”

Johnny waits a second, considers it. He knows he’s going to say yes, but he tries to give the appearance of not being too easy. From the lazy way Ghost watches him, he’s sure that he’s not fooling the older biker, but he’s got enough pride to try.

Still, only a few breaths later he nods and says, “Pull it out, then.”

Ghost snorts, but listens, pulling his cock from his boxers and tugging at it lazily.

Johnny’s mouth starts watering as soon as he sees it, desperate to wrap his lips around the enforcer and taste his cum. He leans forward on instinct, tounge stretching out to try and lick Ghost and bring him to full hardness.

“No,” Ghost scolds, and the hand in Johnny’s hair suddenly shifts into a much tighter grip, holding him away from the cock hanging in front of his face. “I didn’t give you permission yet, did I? This is why you need that muzzle, pup, you’ve got no control over yourself.”

Johnny gives Ghost a look. “Ye like controllin’ me plenty for the both o’ us.”

Ghost smirks. “That’s why you’re gonna take me down your throat and let me lock that muzzle on with my cum in your mouth.”

“What about breakfast?”

Ghost finally drags Johnny closer, resting the ruddy head of his cock against Johnny’s cupid’s bow. “We’ll see if you can earn it.”

Johnny opens his mouth to defend himself, but before he can get even a word out, Ghost is pushing his head forward and filling his mouth with cock. 

Johnny makes a surprised sound, tongue squirming against the underside of Ghost’s length. His hands insticutally spasm against Ghost’s thigh, but he gets himself under control a moment later and relaxes into the slow push of the hand on the back of his neck.

“There you go,” Ghost groans, thighs falling open more on either side of Johnny as he leans into the pleasure. “Take all of me, c’mon.”

Johnny wraps one of his hands as best he can around Ghost’s thigh, holding on tight as he forces himself to breathe through his nose and gag as little as possible. He can’t help the way he tears up a bit, breaths puffing harshly from his nostrils. 

Ghost groans above him when Johnny’s lips seal around the base of his cock, throat working furiously to milk him. “Fuck, that’s a good mouth.”

Johnny tries to pull back a bit and start to really suck Ghost’s soul from his cock, but the hand on the back of his head doesn’t let him move an inch, only grinds his face a little more deeply into his crotch. Johnny reaches up brush away the few tears leaking from his eyes and nearly chokes when Ghost groans, thrusting up into his mouth.

“You look pretty when you cry,” Ghost rumbles, leading Johnny’s head in a slow journey back up his cock, not letting it slip from his lips. “Much prettier than when you bitch.”

Johnny tries to force himself to be offended, but he’s far too busy focusing on the way Ghost slides his face up and down his cock, trying to suck and lick where he can to maintain some control of the situation.

Ghost uses his mouth almost like a fleshlight, holding Johnny  so tightly that he can’t move any faster or slower than he’s allowed to, forced to stay at the exact pace Ghost wants. It drives him a little crazy, the total lack of control he has even though it’s his mouth making Ghost moan above him.

Ghost holds him closer to the tip of his dick for a few moments, just sawing the first few inches of his cock beween Johnny’s lips. On instict, Johnny lets his teeth graze the head just a bit, enough to be sure that Ghost can feel it, and a few thrusts later Ghost is shooting down his throat.

In the surge of his orgasm Ghost’s hand goes limp, and Johnny is able to shove his face down to the very base of Ghost’s cock so his cum goes right down his throat, milking him as best he can. Ghost’s groans are loud from above him, and Johnny palms his own half-hard dick as he drinks the spunk down. 

When Ghost finally lets him pull off, Johnny can’t help but smirk proudly, brushing the back of his hand over his lips to clean off any drool and practically preening between Ghost’s legs.

The older man only huffs, tucking himself back into his boxers and looking down at Johnny with what almost seems like fondness.

“Should’ve told Price I’d keep you gagged like that instead,” he muses, reaching forward to thumb at the corner of Johnny’s lip. “Put this mouth to good use instead of just shuttin’ you up. Two birds, one stone, yeah?”

Johnny scoffs and rolls his eyes, but leans into the hand on his face. “Ye’d never get any work done. I’d have you sucked dry before ye could even have breakfast.”

Ghost snorts, and Johnny feels his chest warm a bit at the sound. It only cools the slightest bit when Ghost reaches for the muzzle, straightening the leather in his hands a bit.

Johnny leans back on his haunches, trying not to scowl. “What about letting me eat?”

Ghost tilts his head, considering. “You let me put this back on you until food’s ready and I’ll let you hump my leg to get yourself off, how’s that sound?”

Johnny hesitates a moment, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Or,” Ghost continues, rolling his shoulders back and straightening until he truly looms over Johnny. “You can keep this off and kneel between my legs downstairs, let everyone see how much better behaved you already are.”

Johnny scowls at that, cheeks flaming. He leans forward, pushing himself up with his palms on Ghost’s thigh and presents his face for the muzzle. He doesn’t bother saying a word, letting his half-glare do the work for him.

Ghost only smirks, locking the muzzle around his jaw with an efficiency that speaks to practice. Johnny opens his mouth easily for the attachment this time, jaw aching slightly at the forced spread. 

“Good choice,” Ghost says, locking it tight around Johnny’s head. He leans back a moment later, pushing Johnny down with a heavy hand on his shoulder and shifting a leg between his. 

“Now,” Ghost says, tapping his foot on the ground and running a hand over the smooth leather covering Johnny’s face. “Why don’t you get yourself off so you can relax, hm?”

Mask hiding the feral smile growing on his lips, Johnny wraps his arms around Ghost’s leg and lets his hips work against the muscle pressed against him.

[silenzahra]

Hello little sis. Thank you for the ask for the author and fanfic ask game. I’d like to ask you these questions in return: 2, 9, 12, 14 and 31.

Please don’t rush and take your time, okay? 🫂😊

Based on this fanfic ask game ✨

Hello big sis, it was my pleasure! 🥰 And thank *you* for sending me an ask too! It'll be a pleasure to answer it 💖

2. Which of your fics is your pride and joy?

Aww this question is so hard to answer... I love all my fics so so much since they all represent something different for me and are linked to the distinct moments when I wrote them. But I'm gonna go with an easy one and say: Anything for him. Why? Because it was the very first fic that I wrote right after watching The Super Mario Bros Movie back in April 2023, when I was SO obsessed with the brotherly love between Mario and Luigi that I simply couldn't stop thinking about it. The movie made me want to go back to replaying some of my favorite Mario games, including Luigi's Mansion on my Wii, and... that's how this story was born!

It's special too because it became my very first posted fic, as well as, to date, the longest one with three chapters and a total of 15590 words. And it's among my most popular fics which means the world to me, as it means that it's made TONS of people happy ever since it was posted 🥰

And, in all honesty, after all the work it entailed, after how much I struggled to write the third and final chapter... I'm quite proud of the final outcome. And, again, I owe that to you, big sis 🥰💖

9. How did you get into writing fanfiction?

Oh wow... This story is long 😅 It was a total of three factors that got me started back when I was 13... and Super Mario was already involved! 😄 Please make sure to grab a drink or something because this is gonna be LONG 🤭😅

Okay so, back then, I was starting to become both a writer and a bookworm and used to read on a daily basis. There's this Spanish writer called Laura Gallego who always writes young-adult fantasy novels, sometimes also children books, and 12-13 is the perfect age to start reading her books (she has more than 30, she's one of the most popular young-adult writers in my country, if not THE most). The first book that I read by her was The Valley of the Wolves (one of the few that was translated into English) and I fell in LOVE. There's a great plot twist towards the end of the story, and it somehow ignited something in me that made me wanna go and write a little something that was inspired by it. Yeah, back then I had no idea, but I was already writing my very first fanfiction! 😄

The second thing that was a huge influence was the TV show Lost. Now that I think about it, perhaps I shouldn't have watched it when I was 13 😬 But I just found out about it quite randomly and got so hooked that I became obsessed. This show is about a crash plane that occurs on a VERY mysterious island, and the people that got stranded there weren't rescued, and MANY weird things started happening... So there you have me: writing my very own crash plane story with my own set of characters, and I also played with the flashback thing ALL the time 😅 Maybe it wasn't exactly fanfiction per se, but I did take A LOT of inspiration from this show even if it were with my own characters, so... I think it still counts.

And last but not least, I was also 13 when I discovered Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga! 😄 Gosh, big sis, can you believe that I still remember the moment when I got into the videogames section of the mall and was immediately drawn by that cover in which we saw not only Mario, but also Luigi, and the many characters around them that I had no idea (yet) who they were? 🥹 Ah, the good old memories of teen me playing this game for the very first time and immediately falling in LOVE with the silly animations, the combat system, the story that was just SO original and different for a Mario game, the music, the places, the characters... Gosh, now I really need to go and replay this game for the millionth time 🤭😍

The thing is... Superstar Saga altered my brain chemistry. FOREVER. It was thanks to it that I fell in LOVE with Mario and Luigi's bond (as well as each of them as characters), so much so that I needed to write about it. And I did! I remember grabbing a notebook and narrating the scenes from the game, and adding little things here and there to delve into the characters' feelings, focusing (obviously) on the brothers' bond. It wasn't the great thing, I didn't have any original ideas yet, but it was the seed of who I am today as a fanfic writer 🥰

I'm sorry this was so long 😅 I just couldn't leave any of these things out as all of it influenced me in one way or another, and it's thanks to them that I'm here today! 💖

12. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Well, according to my previous response, that has to be the Laura Gallego fandom 🤭 I know this is linked only to my country, but really, this author is HUGE here in Spain. Especially back when I was a teen, she even had a forum where her fans would gather, discuss about her many novels (as I said, she's written more than 30), and they even shared their own stories, and sometimes the writer herself would leave a comment here and there to help her readers grow and evolve as writers! 🥹 Aw, I'm seriously getting so nostalgic with these questions 💖

14. What makes you happiest? New fic comments, kudos, bookmarks, user subscribers, story subscribers, or Tumblr asks?

Hmm 🤔 Honestly, all of this makes me so happy! It means that people genuinely enjoy my stories and want to somehow support them, and that alone means a lot 🥹 Still, if I have to choose, I'd say it's a tie between new fic comments and Tumblr asks. The first, because they give me LIFE and they allow me to see what each reader enjoyed the most about my stories, and I even get to interact a bit with them and share a little bit of my writing process and such. I simply can't get enough of it all! 🥹

As for Tumblr asks, they are always MORE than welcome as I really appreciate that people take the time to get to my blog and surprise me by sending something to my inbox! Everything counts to make me quite happy: asks that have to do with games like this, a random thought or idea that has to do with a character or something like that, a simple sentence to maybe start a conversation, some questions to get to know me better... Or, of course, something that has to do with my stories or my writing in general. Like when @bberetd sent me this ask about my girl Violet. I still get so thrilled whenever I think of it! 🥰

All in all, I know that everything is important and I appreciate and welcome all of it 💖

31. What fic meant the most to you to write?

Aww another hard one... Okay, even though I could say all of them for various reasons, I'm gonna choose Keeping you warm. This fic and I go waaaay back, as I originally had the idea to write it when I first played Mario & Luigi: Dream Team, which, if I recall correctly, happened around 2015-2016. This game, just like Superstar Saga, also inspired me A LOT when I first played it... only that this time I did get some original ideas 😄

Unfortunately, when I got the little seed for what would end up becoming my beloved Dream Team fic, my hype was winding down a bit and I never found it in me to actually work on this story... For which, I have to say, I'm quite glad, as it means that, when I finally wrote this fic last year, I had learned and evolved A LOT as a writer and did so much better than I would have almost a decade earlier.

Everything happens for a reason! 😄

Big sis, I'm so glad and grateful that you sent me these questions! I really had so much fun responding to them, especially because of the many memories I've gotten with them 🥹 I really hope my long response wasn't too boring hehe, and hopefully you got to know me a bit better as a writer 🥰

Thank you sooo much! 💖

[clau1r9i]

The Role of Fashion in the Magical Subcultures in The Ancient Magus’ Bride

Hello, I finally ended up writing this, it took me a long time because I read the entire thing, taking notes to write this as best as possible, I hope you enjoy it!!

I think this manga presents a rich and intricate world of magic that is deeply intertwined with various subcultures. These groups possesses distinct visual and stylistic identities that reinforce their philosophies, practices, and roles within the magical society. Fashion in this universe is not merely a means of aesthetic expression but a crucial element that symbolizes power, tradition, and belonging.

1. The Traditional Elegance of Mages

Among Mages we can find two quite distinctive ways of dressing, to understand it better I have separated it into two groups, mages born before the 20th century and mages born after the 20th century (20th century included).

Mages born before the 20th century, often wear long robes, cloaks, and garments inspired by historical periods ranging from the first centuries of the Middle Ages to the Edwardian era. These designs reinforce their ties to ancient traditions and their mystical, timeless nature. 

Magicians born in the 20th century and later have not been as separated as the rest, living through the two world wars or being born after them in a world where the massacre of mages that happened is remembered has made them live more in contact and collaboration with normal humans, sorcerers, witches, etc. In addition, their way of dressing is more aligned with current trends, but they still have a very marked style since although "young" most of this group is still 70+ years.

Beyond individual characters, the mages clothing often incorporates intricate embroidery, symbolic patterns, and high collars, which reflect their reverence for history and knowledge. Some wear amulets, sashes, or belts adorned with sigils, reinforcing their connection to the magical arts. The use of darker, muted colors, combined with flowing silhouettes, enhances the perception of mages as ethereal and wise figures who exist on the border between the mundane and the arcane. Additionally, mages, much like the fae, do not have a rigid concept of gender, and this is reflected in their clothing. They often wear garments that blur traditional gender norms, emphasizing fluidity and personal expression over societal expectations.

The best example of this is Lindel, but actually Elias’ coat pattern is a mix from a woman´s coat pattern of the Edwardian era with like ‘magic’ sleeves, same thing happens with his shirt.

That there are two aspects of such marked styles gives us a clue to the great generational gap that exists within this subculture, in addition to the fact that, on both sides, individualism is so marked that it causes loneliness, since they are the only group that does not have a feeling of community.

This is reflected in how badly they seem to cope with the passage of time (constant memory of the past), falling into constant monotony which makes them have that aura of "I wish we were extinct now" all the time.

2. The Pragmatism of Alchemists

Unlike mages, alchemists prioritize functionality over mystical aesthetics. Their attire is often contemporary and practical, featuring lab coats, aprons, and minimalistic yet refined clothing that reflect their scientific approach to magic. While they still engage with supernatural forces, alchemists tend to favor efficiency and utility, which is evident in their choice of materials and silhouettes.

For example, alchemists are frequently seen wearing fitted garments that allow for ease of movement, ensuring that their work with potions, metals, and reagents remains unhindered. Many also wear gloves, boots, and protective eyewear, emphasizing their role as experimenters and researchers. The color palette among alchemists is often composed of neutral and earth tones, such as browns, grays, and dark greens, further differentiating them from the more ‘flamboyant’ mages and ethereal fae.

Accessories also play a significant role in their appearance. Pouches filled with vials, belts adorned with small tools, and pocket watches suggest a sense of preparedness and intellectual rigor. These elements reinforce the idea that alchemists operate within a structured, almost scientific domain of magic, distinguishing them from the more intuitive and nature-bound practices of traditional mages.

However, the fact that they are the subculture most similar to humans from outside the magical world has its consequences, they suffer from practicing the same social norms, gender roles, prejudices and discrimination.

All this makes the most logical subculture the most illogical at the same time, falling into hypocrisy as can be perfectly seen in the St George family.

It is known that sorcerers come from magicians, that at some point in time the two branches separated, so doing 'mage' things while performing rituals is fine (crossdressing in St George case) but doing it in society is simply unacceptable.

3. The Ethereal and Otherworldly Fae Fashion

The fae creatures exhibit a dazzling variety of styles, reflecting their diverse origins, magical abilities, and roles within their own societies. Unlike humans, who are often bound by practical concerns, the fae express themselves through elaborate and fantastical attire that defies conventional rules of dress. Their clothing often seems to be a direct extension of their surroundings, appearing woven from leaves, petals, mist, and even moonlight.

Some, like Titania, wear elaborate and regal dresses adorned with natural motifs, symbolizing their status as rulers of the supernatural realm. Her attire incorporates flowing fabrics, shimmering textures, and organic elements, creating an image of both grace and power. The delicate embroidery and iridescent sheen of her gowns make her presence mesmerizing and almost untouchable, reinforcing her divine status among the fae.

In contrast, smaller woodland fae often wear garments that mimic the flora and fauna of their environment. Their clothing, though intricate, blends seamlessly with their surroundings, making them appear as though they are a natural part of the forest itself. Their materials may include silk spun by magical creatures, feathers, or even bark, adding an element of the surreal to their overall aesthetic.

Another key aspect of fae fashion is its lack of rigid structure. Unlike the tailored garments of humans, fae clothing appears weightless, as if it flows and changes shape according to their whims. This fluidity of design mirrors their free-spirited and often unpredictable nature, emphasizing their detachment from human constraints and rules. Like mages, the fae do not adhere to strict gender binaries, and their clothing reflects this philosophy. Fae attire often incorporates elements traditionally associated with both masculinity and femininity, creating a dreamlike and androgynous aesthetic that highlights their otherworldly nature.

4. Church-Affiliated Attire and Holy Symbolism

The Church-affiliated magic users, such as the hunters and those who enforce divine laws, incorporate religious elements into their clothing, using their attire as both a symbol of authority and a means of protection against dark forces. Their garments often include long coats, crosses, and modest yet imposing robes that signify their devotion to their cause. The strict, almost militaristic nature of their fashion choices reflects their rigid ideology and their mission to maintain order between the human and supernatural worlds.

The use of heavy fabrics, high collars, and structured silhouettes conveys a sense of discipline and restraint. In some cases, metallic or leather elements are incorporated into their attire, further reinforcing their role as warriors against malevolent forces. The contrast between sacred iconography and the practicality of their outfits highlights the tension between faith-based power and the chaotic nature of the magical world.

Their color palettes are often composed of dark hues, punctuated by silver or gold accents that symbolize divinity and righteousness. These elements create a striking visual contrast with the more fluid and organic styles of mages and fae, making them instantly recognizable as figures of law and order within the magical realm.

So much rigidity when it comes to dressing gives us a clue that the collective thinking of the order is prioritized, where individualistic thinking is not welcome and will be eliminated if encounter.

5. The Wild and Mystical Attire of Witches

Witches represent a balance between nature and magic, and their clothing reflects this connection. Their attire often consists of layered fabrics, asymmetrical designs, and a mix of rustic and mystical elements. Unlike mages, who tend to favor more structured and refined garments, witches embrace a raw and untamed aesthetic that aligns with their close relationship with nature.

Many witches wear cloaks, patchwork dresses, and garments adorned with natural motifs such as feathers, bones, and dried herbs. Their clothing is often dyed in deep, earthy colors—burgundy, forest green, and dark purples—reinforcing their ties to the wilderness and ancient magical traditions. Accessories such as talismans, charms, and animal-inspired elements further emphasize their role as intermediaries between the magical and natural worlds.

Witches also share the fae and mages' fluid approach to gender expression, with clothing that does not conform to strict masculine or feminine norms. This allows them to embody an air of mystery and autonomy, setting them apart from the more rigidly structured sorcerers and church-affiliated figures.

It should also be noted that they are the subculture that seems to adapt best to the passage of time, being the ones who dress the most contemporary and seductive.

If we take the coven seen in Tamb as an example, both black and face veils are used as ceremonial garments, which can also symbolize that when they have to decide about the good of their coven, they have to leave their individuality behind and only think about the communal good.

That sense of community is probably what has allowed them to keep up with the passage of time better than mages.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Jones confirms that, just like in Rice’s books, Armand is the one who turns Daniel into a vampire. “Will we see that moment of turning? No, but Armand finally made a vampire and clearly made him out of spite,” he says with a laugh. “It looks like it was really not a great moment [between him and Daniel], but that connects those two characters. They will have scenes going forward, obviously.”

This is from the latest Rollins interview. I feel like an idiot now, I was desperately hoping that we would see the turning next season - but while I think Rollins may not reveal everything I don’t think he would outright lie. So we won’t see the turning.

I walked into the finale open to an exclusively present-day DM that might(!) kick-off and I didn’t expect too much given what screeners had warned about. I never thought Daniel would be turned completely off-screen however… I know there’s rumours they might write DM into the past still, but I’m a fan of Daniel and Armand outside of the ship as well and knowing we won’t see Daniel’ turning, probably won’t see anything of his first time with becoming a vampire (because of the time skip) and seeing that Armand might(?) actually have turned someone out of spite makes me just sad.

I also feel a bit off-put by how Rollins is speaking about if, feels a bit like he’s trying to affirm to fans well see more of them together (maybe surprised that so many people are invested?) but also just gives off the vibe that the DM if it all wasn’t fully planned out in the moment of writing. Which sucks when you decide to have one turn the other! This frankly does not inspire confidence and make me feel like my favourite characters been reduced to plot devices (in good writing characters can be both character and plot tool but now this doesn’t feel like it).

F*ck I’m sorry, I realise this is not a fun post to read, I just feel really upset. Thank you for hearing me out!

Okay. So.

I let this simmer a bit (and I still have a lot of catching up to do with the interviews, since, well, vacation 😅, so thanks for the quotes).

BUT.

You know what I was chewing on? Armand and… spite.

When does Armand do something out of spite.

And… I came up only with one distinct event that I, personally, would call spite, namely when he goes and has that affair with that english guy - to spite Marius.

Marius. Not yet introduced as a character, but more than hinted at. The one Daniel has also a relationship with in the books.

And here we’re back to my theory that DM did happen in the past… and that Marius wiped Daniel‘s memories.

Eric let spill recently that there might be something between Raglan and Daniel and… well on one hand… but you know if Raglan, as I also theorized, is actually Marius… then that would make a lot of sense.

DM happened in the past. Marius intervened (like he likes to do). Standing order is to leave Daniel alone (maybe). But… Daniel gets sick. They redo the interview. The “surprise“ after dinner, that never comes to pass (Louis wanting to turn Daniel for Armand?!). Louis leaving Armand with Daniel, (utterly pissed at Armand and therefore retracting his promise to turn Daniel) forcing Armand’s hand… Armand… knowing that if Daniel leaves now he will die soon.

And Armand turns Daniel - out of spite.

But not to spite Louis, or Daniel. Nor are they enemies (that‘s BS and given how Assad has talked about Loumand and what it has been on the show I do call BS here).

No, he does it to spite Marius, who wants Daniel mortal (for whatever reason). He does it IN spite of Marius‘ standing order. THAT woukd make sense to me.

And it would also explain why Armand isn’t there after… Marius might have come by for a… chat.

I know this sounds wild.

But honestly - spite? Anger?!! No. That doesn’t make any sense to me. And, I‘m sorry Assad, but I‘m side-eying your statements there after the Loumand ones. *shrugs*

So.

It sucks that we maybe won’t get the turning.

But I BET - I bet they have a good reason for that. Because it would contradict what they’re trying to establish for now.

It will be a big twist for show-only fans after all when it will be made clear why Armand turned him truly.

So. These are my thoughts, after chewing on it for a bit. Knowing Rolin likes to troll a bit obviously plays into that as well. And Hannah‘s tweet.

We‘ll see how it will hold. :)

[kiwi-luminaryofthestars]

02/20/2025 “Fiction and Feast” Progress Update:

Eyyy we finished editing section two of the first chapter. One more to go! We're at about 11K for the first chapter right now, anticipating maybe close to 13K for the final. Then the whole two-shot will likely be about 25K-ish in total. Certifiable yapper, that's me!

Was not feeling well and ALSO both of my eyes started to swell (love it so much, thank you body!!!!!!) so I ended up staying home from both jobs. Off-days are always a love-hate relationship for me, because on the one hand, I'm like "Yes! More time to write!" and on the other hand, I know I should probably actually rest lol. So I tried to do both: slept for a while; read some mutuals' fanfics (still making my way through Poor Unfortunate Souls and my my my I didn't know how much I needed a mermaid AU in my life until now); theeeen I wrote, hence the finished section.

Void journal time lol. Shut me up, honestly, what am I even talking about half the time. Today it's writing-related, though, so cool!

It's been raining the majority of the day (which isn't abnormal, it's the season) but it got me reminiscing about childhood writing days. As I've probably made abundantly clear, fanfiction is new territory for me, as is ao3, tumblr, and really everything else lol. But I have always always always loved to write. Writing has been a beacon of light my entire life. I used to carry a notebook around everywhere I went from elementary school all the way up to high school just writing what I saw. My favorite place to write, though, was inside a pink-roofed dollhouse in my mom's backyard, and it had such a distinct sound when it was raining. I've learned as an adult it was just the sound of hollow plastic, but I always think about it when it rains like this.

Short stories are my forte; I've written a lot of them. This is the first time I'm diving into long, complex stories, and I think one of the consequences is I try to have a lot of things happen in the narrative all at once. You don't get a lot of time to establish a world or characters or really anything in a short story; you gotta throw yourself right into it. So I apologize if much of the Phantom Thief AU feels like it's moving so fast, at least in terms of Shuichi and Kokichi's relationship developing. I say slow-burn, and I do mean it, but I think this slow-burn is more "slow-burn toward the relationship where lies stop happening".

Sometimes I feel like I'm a bit too self-indulgent when I reveal things like that. Know I don't consider myself a fucking fantastic writer by any means, probably exactly the opposite lol. I'm always desperate to improve. There are some fics I've read these past few weeks where I both SQUEAL at how well it's written, and then despair because hot damn I wish I could write like that. I haven't finished reading this one yet but an example is "so tonight that i might see" by avii, a komahina fic about Nagito waking up from the Neo World Program without any memory of it. And just what EXQUISITE prose this person has, oh my Lord. I'd like to include a snippet from the third chapter that just GETS me:

"[Nagito] watched the way the water pushed and pulled in upon itself. He listened to the waves grow and collapse. He was not the most symbolic of men, not by a long shot, but he thought the ocean must be the greatest thing to ever exist. It was hauntingly beautiful, but not only that, it was powerful. What else could have the might to all at once be so destructive, and yet stand so serene? It blanketed the planet, even dying as the planet was, expanding out to the very edges of its reach. So shallow, and yet so deep. If he were to walk in, breathe that water in, and let it carry him out, he'd never be found again. It would be thrilling. It would, in a way, maybe even be poetic."

Just... WOW. So lovely. Eat me up and chew me out so I may be branded with this level of talent. I want to describe everything so beautifully like that.

Anyway, sorry this one's long again. Ahhh but you should expect it from me by now. Everything is long with me, it's just how it goes.

I hope you have a lovely night. And I HOPE my eyes stop swelling tomorrow. This weekend will not be super open for writing (ugh) but I will still try to get this silly thing done by then so you can read my intensely experimental vampire saiouma fic. Uhhh hopefully it's a good experimental?? We'll see, we'll see. Either way it's been fun to write, so that's all that matters.

[xshingie]

Exploring The Narrative Significance of Edouard's Blue eyes

Something that piqued my interest was the fact that Annette was so insistent when she saw NightCreature!Edouard, she was so convinced it was him and she would not consider any opinion otherwise. Initially, one might think it speaks to the implicit depth of their connection that she would recognize… but perhaps, what if it speaks more to Annette might have perceived how well she /thought/ she knew him? What possibly would have occurred for Annette to retain Edouard's eyes in her memory so vividly?

This below quote from All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren serves as the springboard for my inspiration for what eventually became my Annette/Edouard short story, Yours Truly https://archiveofourown.org/works/51906367 (I also sampled the phrasing as well):

"I suppose that that day I first saw Anne and Adam as separate, individual people, whose ways of acting were special, mysterious, and important. And perhaps, too, that day I first saw myself as a person. But that is not what I am talking about. What happened was this: I got an image in my head that never got out. We see a great many things, but that is different. We get very few of the true images in our heads of the kind I am talking about, the kind which become more and more vivid for us as if the passage of the years did not obscure their reality but, year by year, drew off another veil to expose a meaning which we had only dimly surmised at first. Very probably the last veil will not be removed, for there are not enough years, but the brightness of the image increases and our conviction increase that the brightness is meaning, or the legend of meaning, and without the image our lives would be nothing except an old piece of film rolled on a spool and thrown into a desk drawer among the unanswered letters."

I took inspiration from the concept described above: In Yours Truly, Edouard had tried to tell her something she didn't have a concept of understanding at the time. And yet, it's with narrative irony that when Annette looks into his eyes, despite color being so clear, but she couldn't really get a good "read" into him. The most we know about Edouard is through Annette's lens, and she describes him in a very romanticized, idealized manner -- which hints to me that she views him in a special way, but doesn't understand him -- not really.

This is veering into headcanon territory by this point, but a distinct vibe I picked up from Edouard is that while he is friendly and appears to be warm, kind and collegial, he seems to almost keep people an arm's length distance, revealing almost nothing (vulnerable) about himself in his interactions with others. If you look at these screencaps, his eyes are so bright, but his smile is very subdued and tight-lipped -- even his eyes don't really convey any turbulent emotions. I think Edouard might have been kept a lot to himself, which partially contributes to Annette not really understanding him on a deeper level. Hence the feeling of staring at something, which is calm, serene… but tells you nothing about the person themselves. Although it may sound romantic when I describe the feeling of looking into Edouard's eyes "as reflecting her soul like a still gemstone", what I had actually intended to convey that relationship between Annette and Edouard, while undoubtedly close and Annette grew to understand herself on a deeper because of him, this very quality actually was capped the limitation of Annette/Edouard's connection.

Edouard seems to give off a vibe that he keeps people at a certain arm's length, all the while being able to charm people (""I make them [the nobles] happy, and they lower their guard and loosen their tongues.") while keeping is own guard up, I took a lot of care to weave in in a lot of subtleties that showed both a mismatch in understanding and Edouard keeping an arm's distance. Edouard sidesteps her question and doesn't tell her who exactly who he's writing to. He brings up that everyone has their own reason for fighting, but he doesn't reveal his own. He tries to get Annette to get interested in writing, explaining letters on an abstract romantic level; he shares a personal story about his grandmother, but all Annette's response is that she doesn't understand.

What was Edouard keeping to himself, that he never shared with Annette? Perhaps he was reconciling with the inner conflicts of his mixed heritage. Perhaps he was dealing with his own demons or vices that would have condemned him to Hell to enable him to become a Night Creature in the first place.

This "image" that Annette had of Edouard's eyes in her mind, represents the image that continued to stay with her, as she gradually begins to understand what Edouard was trying to convey to her on a deeper level.

(and why yes, to write this I did spend an inordinate amount of time starting of screencaps of Edouard to try to incisively capture the vibe of what it feels like when Edouard looks at you with those gorgeous AF eyes of his lol)

A huge thank you to ladyeama/@pansexual-chocolate for being an amazing headcanon partner in all of this!

[blue-marbles]

Delta Squad Week, Day 3: "Blaster" & "I dreamed about you."

Demagolka (2695 words) by BlueMarbles

Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

It had been years since the war ended, years since Walon Vau had last seen most of the Commandos he trained. Yet, the memories of what he did to them still linger and haunt him more than any time spent on a battlefield ever could. Working through nightmares and memories, he has to ask himself how deep his guilt goes, how to live with the regret, and whether there can ever be redemption…

Warnings: Depection of Violence in dream sequence, blood, trauma, regret, loss, guilt,

Delta Squad Week Day 3: Prompts "Blaster" and "I dreamed about you."

Does not feature any of the Deltas in person, but in memories and dream sequences, and explores Vau's relationship to and feelings for them.

Written for both prompts.

I know this is the second angsty fic in a row. I promise, tomorrow's work will break that pattern!

Jango Fett opened his mouth to scream, but no noise escaped it. His dark eyes were wide with unbeknownst fear. Walon Vau stared at him, horrified by what could have gotten this reaction out of the great Jango Fett. Then he realised that the man wasn’t Jango. 

How could he have missed the bright red line of raw flesh starting under his right eye, running all across his cheek, ending on the left side of his chin? The expression he had believed to be terror was anger, hatred, wrath, now that Vau thought about it. He deserved it, he knew. He wanted to say something, to reach out to Atin, to apologise, but he couldn’t. It was as if he didn’t have a mouth. 

Atin blinked, and the scar vanished again, the face staying the same. His mouth and eyes were still wide open, but lifeless. Vau realised that he was holding the head by its hair, and that there was no body attached to it. He looked down, to see where the body might have gone and realised, to his horror, that in his other hand he was holding his bes’kad, all bloody. 

“What have you done, Walon?” he heard Fett’s voice. “How could you let this happen?” Had he killed Jango? The disembodied head seemed to believe so. “Do me the favour and at least grow the balls to look me in the eyes, hut’uun,” it said. Vau followed that order.

When he met Jango’s eyes, he realised that it wasn’t his head he was holding. Nor Atin’s. It was another man, another boy in the body of a grown man, he had raised. “Why did you leave me behind, Sarge?” The head asked. It was shaking because Vau’s hand was trembling. He let go of the hair, and the head dropped to the floor, rolled a few steps, then came to a halt. It stared up at him, eyes full of disappointment. 

“I didn’t, Sev, I swear…” Vau tried.

“And why am I not with the aliit then?”

“I tried to find you. Track you down on Kashyyyk. I… just couldn’t. You have to believe me, I tried.” The head seemed to contemplate that revelation for a second.

“Still,” it then said, “you never got the others out of Imperial ranks. As if they had never been your business.” It huffed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, though. After all, you did raise us like cattle for slaughter. We were never meant to live. And you treated us accordingly, keeping us at arm's length to make sure your weak little heart, all covered in poisoned beskar spikes, didn’t get hurt, didn’t you? Better hurt us than let you feel the pain.”

Vau swallowed. The bodiless Sev was not wrong. He hadn’t managed to find him. To get the other Deltas back. Or anyone else of his former trainees. And he knew all too well what he had done on Kamino.

“You know what you are, Vau? What I think of you?” the head concluded. “Demagolka.” He spat out the word. 

Vau felt his chest tighten. He didn’t want to see the head, that face, anymore. He closed his eyes. “Demagolka. Demagolka. Demagolka,” he heard the head say. Iit was not one voice anymore, but many, almost identical, yet distinct. 

When he opened his eyes again, it was far more than one head on the floor. About one hundred, he guessed. And they all were staring at him, making a swelling cacophony out of one of the worst insults known to the Mandalorian language. It got louder and louder, overwhelming him, and all he could do was stare at the bodiless faces of the 104 men he should have called his sons.

And then, he was falling into the raging seas of Kamino. 

Clan Skirata Homestead, Lysatra, Wild Space, 0437 hours, 8 years after the end of the Clone Wars

With a gasp, Walon Vau woke up. It took him a moment to realise where he was, lying in his bed, breathing heavily, his wet shirt clinging to his chest. Not real. It had not been real. 

Soldiers were used to nightmares. But most dreamt of battlefields, of trenches and artillery fire. Vau was haunted by the ghosts of his past. But good soldiers were taught techniques to deal with the quirks of their psyche.

He sat up. “Five things, I can see,” he mumbled. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness.

Mird, curled up, sleeping at the end of my bed.

The dark sky through the small window high up on the wall.

My DE-10 handblaster, next to the pillow.

Leaning against the wall next to the bed, a verpine slugthrower.

The small chair and table in between the bed and the door.

He swallowed. “Four, I can feel.”

My shirt, sticking to my chest. 

The mattress.

The DE-10. He caressed the handle.

My feet touching the floor. 

Mird stirred in its sleep. “Three, I hear.”

My heart, pounding in my chest.

Mird’ika, snoring.

The wind outside. 

“Two I smell,” he mumbled.

My cold sweat.

Mird’ika.

And finally… “One thing I can taste.”

He reached over to the nightstand and put a small candy into his mouth. Immediately, it was filled with a cool, yet spicy taste that burned in his nose. He tried to breathe evenly.

The nightmarish image from his dream was still lingering, as if it had burned itself into his retinas. Feeling cold in his sweat-soaked shirt, he pretended that the moisture was why he was still shivering and got rid of it. If one trick didn’t work, he would have to move on to the next one.

Then, he grabbed his blaster and got up, moving through the dark over to the table. He sat down, placing the blaster carefully in front of him. He grabbed his belt, and pulled a small toolkit out of one of the pouches. 

Then, with the routine of a long-serving soldier, he began taking his blaster apart.

He ejected the power pack and put it down on the far side of the table. 

Sev’s face flashed up behind his eyes again, but much younger this time. No, not Sev. Boss. In the beginning, when he had first started training his batch, he had a hard time telling the clones apart. “Sir, can we have a break? Four-Oh isn’t feeling so well,” he heard the boy say. Then his own voice echoed, cold and distant: “Denied. In battle, you push through, or you die. That is what soldiers do.” 

The face blurred as he tried to focus on the DE-10 in front of him. With a well-practised movement, he ejected the tibanna cartridge, too, placing it on the other end of the table, away from the power pack.

He saw little boys running, blasters in their hands. “Give them a break, Vau. They’re just boys,” Kal Skirata said next to his ear. It sounded so real, he had to turn his head and check if the man hadn’t entered his bedroom. No. Kal’s voice, all in his mind, had sounded younger than it did nowadays. He swallowed. He remembered him saying that to him. And he remembered what he had replied, “They are soldiers, Skirata. Mando’ade. Commandos. The best of the best.” He hadn’t been wrong. But neither had been Kal. 

He twisted his wrist, and the barrel shroud came off, followed by the cooling fins.

Lights flashed behind his eyes. Live fire rounds, aimed at Delta Squad, who were trying to cross a Kaminoan training course. They looked older now, but Vau knew their looks were decieving. He watched as they made a mistake and didn’t clear an alcove behind some barrels. A battle droid emerged. He could have stopped the exercise at any time, but he knew he hadn’t. The droid raised his blaster right next to Scorch’s head. He could see him notice, turn, eyes wide in realisation and horror behind his clear visor. The droid fired. The blaster malfunctioned. It was all Scorch could thank his life for. Vau saw Sev jump at the droid, hacking at it with his vibroblade. He felt a knot in his throat and blinked away the memory, tracing his blaster with his fingers.

Carefully, he started to unscrew the barrel assembly, taking a deep breath in and out with each turn. He removed it and put it next to the tibanna cartridge. His ghosts were still with him, and he could only try to keep them at bay.

He could almost feel a knife in his hand, a knife that wasn’t there. The sensation pulled Sev’s face back up from memory. He looked younger than he had during the war. “If you need to fight one of us, fight me. I volunteer,” he heard him say. His face had been grim and stubborn. Vau knew that Sev had tried to throw himself in the way of his brother being punished for his negligence during the exercise. Vau had let him. He had hoped that this would become a learning moment for the entire squad this way. Something to teach them to always check every corner of a room when clearing it. Something to keep them alive in the long run. Something to give the purpose, and, above all else, manda. Something to make them Mandalorian. 

He swallowed. His eyes were burning. He was tired. Yet, he tried to focus. Sleeping meant going back to the dreams. Vau carefully removed the galven circuit, and sighed. He knew that, everything taken into account, he had tried to be a good sergeant, a good trainer. And that many of is trainees had seen him that way. But that hadn’t always been enough.

The emitter matrix joined the galven circuit. As a good trainer he should have objected to the Kaminoans “decommissioning” cadets, as they had called it. But he hadn’t. He had trusted that… that what, really? That Jango had known what he was doing when he started the whole thing? That clones weren’t humans after all, let alone kids? Shab, now he was trembling again.

The trembling made it hard for him to get off the trigger-housing’s screws with his wrench, but he managed. “Demagolka,” his dream echoed in his mind. Had his boys been right? Was that what he was? Had his subconscious mind been correct, and that had been how the clones had seen him? Sev’s face flared up in his memory again, turned into Atin, back to Sev, then Boss, then Scorch, then Fixer. A never-ending roulette of faces, most of which he hadn’t seen in close to a decade. Many of those he would never have the chance to see again.

He grabbed the barrel, turned on the light, and inspected it, cleaning it. He should have switched the lights on earlier, he thought, realising how much more it seemed to bring him back to the present to just see his room clearly. He hadn’t wanted to wake up Mird, though, who was blinking lazily now, before jumping off the bed and putting his head in its master’s lab. “Morning, Mird’ika,” he mumbled.

The animal stared up at him, worried. He knew how eerily perceptive his strill was.

“Don’t worry. Just bad dreams. Bad memories. Of the Deltas. Of Sev.” Mird started whining. “I’m going to be alright, ad’ika. No reason to get upset over your old man.”

Outside, it was dawning now, with the sky turning into a deep shade of red. He continued cleaning his blaster, trying not to dwell too long on his memories. Not on the day they had been deployed to Geonosis and the Cuy’val Dar had stayed behind on Kamino, uncertain of their trainees’ fates. Not on the day he almost killed Atin. Not on the day he messed up Atin’s face. Not on the day on which Atin had tried to get back at him for that and kill him, only stopped by Bardan Jusik. Not on the day Sev went MIA. Not the time he had spent in Kashyyyk’s jungle trying to locate the boy, obsessing on the hope of him still being alive. Not on the day the Republic fell, and the remaining Deltas, like all of his surviving Commandos, had slipped away from him. But the faces remained, as did the pain. 

Somebody knocked on his door. He sat up straight. “Come in.”

The door swung open, and Atin entered. It was not the Atin he had seen in his dream. The bright red line was of a faint white now, his once pitch-black hair salt- and pepper around the temples. He had gathered some more wrinkles, too. “Morning.” He held a steaming mug in each of his hands, and the smell of caf reached Vau.

“Morning, Atin.”

“I noticed you’re up already, so I figured I’d bring you some caf.” Vau could sense Atin looking him over, before putting down one of the mugs in front of him.

“Vor’e.”

Atin just nodded, seemingly about to leave again.

Vau pushed aside the faces of the six brothers Atin had lost, the ones who had been trained by him. “Demagolka,” his mind echoed again. 

“Atin? One moment, please.”

He turned back to him. “Yes?”

“Do you… if I may ask… do you still hate me?”

Atin frowned and slightly tilted his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. It has faded. It is more like… indifference, these days. Yet, you’re part of the aliit.” He paused. “Why are you asking?”

“I was just thinking. Wondering.” Vau fought the urge to tell Atin that he had dreamt of him. Of his long-lost brothers. And of the Deltas.

“Hm.”

“I say their names every evening. All of them, you know.”

Atin contemplated him, his face unreadable. “If it is absolution you are looking for, Vau, it is something I am neither willing nor able to give to you.”

“I know,” Vau whispered, and paused. “And Delta? Boss, Sev, Scorch, Fixer? You reckon, they hated me, too?”

Atin frowned. “No. Not exactly. Rather the opposite, I figure. They tended to defend you verbally when I expressed my, let’s call it, dissatisfaction.” He shrugged, then turned. “But if you excuse me, then, I want to wish my wife and the kids a good morning.”

“Yes. Yes, do that, Atin. You are a good buir, you know that?”

Atin indicated his head only ever so slightly, then he left.

No, Vau wasn’t looking for absolution, nor redemption. Both would mean never seeing his ghosts again, and he couldn’t bear the thought. Even if it was torturous at times, it was all he had left of them. He blinked away tears.

Pull yourself together, Walon, he thought, and buried one hand deep into Mird’s folds, feeling its texture. 

He started to put his blaster back together, fastened the trigger housing and the grip plates again, and reattached the emitter matrix and galven circuit. He paused and drank some caf. The barrel assembly, including the barrel shroud and cooling fins, followed. Then, after making sure there were no micro-fissures in the tibanna cartridge, he reinserted it, and, finally, the power pack. He powered up the DE-10 and ran a full diagnostic. Everything seemed to be the way it was supposed to be. His nightmare, his memories, had faded further into the background. 

He gently shoved Mird off his lap and got up to get dressed. 

No, he couldn’t ever achieve absolution, nor redemption. Nor closure. Not even if he managed to find Sev alive and well after all these years, nor if he managed to get the other Deltas finally to come home, if they were still alive. Too many things he had done that could never be undone. Too many boys and men were gone forever, before he had been able to show them that he cared.

He strapped on his armour. Finally, he slipped his blaster into the holster on his thigh. He knew there was nothing that he could do to change his past. But he also knew one other truth: if you can't fix it, you've got to stand it, and stand it he would.

Some of you might have noticed that I stole a segment of the final sentence from Annie Proulx's Brokeback Mountain. The line was just too good and, in my opinion, too quintessentially mando, to not use it.

@deltasquadweek: Thank you for replying when I reached out about being unsure if this work still fits into the event's framework! I hope now that you see it, you are still okay with it.