#but it's never been more important to at least say something

[thebestsetter]

Sae's nutritionist has been having a hard time ever since the athlete started a family with you.

Sae has always followed his diets strictly. Never ate chocolate, avoided sugar the best he could and mainly ate only fruits and vegetables. His behavior was always praised by all his nutritionists because of how easy it was working with him.

Sae started to "disobey" his diet when he moved in with you.

It all started when you began to cook him lunch for after morning practice. You knew he had to follow a strict diet, so you never made something too unhealthy. Sometimes, you even sneaked some sweet treats for him, but it was too little to do any harm, so his doctor just pretended not to notice it.

But this?? This was too much.

"Sae-kun" he said, pointing at the pink princess pot on Sae's hands "W-what is this?"

"My daughter packed my lunch today" Sae smiled softly, just like he always did when talking about you or your daughter. The doctor would've thought the whole ordeal was cute, if not for what was inside the pot: a box orange juice you buy on those vending machines (it's orange color was almost radioactive. God knows how much sugar there is in it), a (very) poorly made pink cupcake, with rainbow sprinkles all over it; and scrambled eggs (thank God at least one healthy thing).

"You can't possibly be thinking about eating this" his doctor deadpanned, but quickly added "T-the cupcake and the juice, I mean. The eggs are fine"

Sae's smile instantly fell, and he stared at the nutritionist with a frown

"What's wrong with my daughter's food?" It wasn't a question. Sae was daring the doctor to say something bad about the cupcake his sweet, lovely daughter made, staring at him with a cold and almost dangerous gaze.

The poor doctor should've stopped there. He really should have. But if he let Sae eat this Chernobyl looking cupcake, he might as well just throw his nutrition degree on the nearest trash can.

"It's not good for your health" the nutritionist said, staring at the Cinderella that was painted on the top of the pot "As an athlete, you know it's important to lose old eating habits. You can't eat this."

Sae stared at the doctor for what felt like centuries, but finally looked at the cupcake and carefully picked it up, holding it in his hands like it was the most valuable thing he ever held.

The way his gaze softened just by looking at that sorry excuse of a pantry almost scared the doctor. One second, he was looking at him with what could only be described as pure hatred. The other, he was looking at an ugly cupcake like it was a masterpiece.

Anyways, Sae's doctor was just glad this was over with. Itoshi obviously was going to throw the cupcake away, eat the eggs, and just order something else to compliment his lunch. It would all be okay.

Or so he thought .

"You know" Sae started, peeling the paper that was carefully wrapped around the sweet treat "It's interesting that you talk about losing"

"Why?" The doctor asked, not really liking Sae's voice

Sae stared at the man for a while, then slowly looked at the cupcake and brought it up to his mouth. Just as he was about to take a bite out of it, he stopped and stared at the man again

"Cause you just lost your job"

"What?"

"You're not deaf" Sae said "You're fired. Grab your stuff and get out of my sight"

"You can't do that!" The doctor screamed at him, which only made Sae roll his eyes

"I can and I did. Out. Now."

The nutritionist knew it was useless arguing with the stoic Sae Itoshi. With a sigh, he turned away from the player to go and collect his belongings

"Just one more thing before you go"

He heard Sae say, which urged him to turn around. The moment he laid his eyes on Itoshi, the footballer took a bite out of the pink cupcake

"This is fucking delicious."

The doctor would NEVER eat a cupcake in his life again.

[valdevia]

Very funny that tumblr is having discourse about whether my art is misinformation or not, after I've been posting it all over the internet for years without any controversy. So let's talk about it!

I know people arguing are a vocal minority, but I'm not going to dismiss anyone's concerns. It's an actually interesting topic that I really consider, and it touches some important issues in society. So here's my (rambly) two cents.

My art is meant to misdirect, in some way. Photomanipulation and the tone I typically use are meant to briefly confuse the person reading it into thinking they're hearing a real story, at least for a few seconds.

The Intended Experience™

In this sense, I feel like my art can be misinformation! And it's not only people who don't think critically about things like "how come I never heard about mermaids being real before?".

So, no disrespect to anyone that fell for one of my pieces! My work plays with reality, so if you fell for it for more than a minute, it just means my tone and style worked a little too well for you! And there are legitimate reasons to be confused when you see something online, too. For example, there are people who can have trouble telling real and fictional things apart. When you post something that goes out to a million people, you'll get one million different reactions.

That's why I always take care to make it really clear, outside the main piece and snippet of text, that my art is no more than fiction. There are tags, the tone of my account, even my profile picture is meant to reinforce this. I also have a website which, in part, is meant to capture the clicks of people to wonder if my stuff is real and google it, so they can find a real source that's clearly an art website. You can try googling "mycelium infection 1806" or "pupillosarcoma" to see how my website tends to appear first.

If I get this comment I know I've done something believable!

But let's say, for the sake of argument, that my art wholly constitutes misinformation. What we need to understand is that misinformation is not the same as disinformation. Misinformation is just incorrect information. It's your grandma seeing a little bit of a found footage movie on TV and thinking it really happened. She might be spooked, but nobody is harmed. Disinformation is false information that's purposefully crafted and spread in order to cause harm, division, or further a political view.

Now I ask you: what real world harm does my art create? The worst that can happen is that a tiny percentage of those that see it get a little scared thinking a weird bug is real, or that mushrooms really grow on faces, or that scientists have released millions of trilobites into the oceans. Is that really that bad?

Anyway, that's my take on the topic! I'm obviously biased, but this being my style, I do put a lot of thought into it and I'm always open to people's opinions! (Just don't scream at random people on the replies or you'll get blocked!)

[prettyboykatsuki]

there’s something about oliver that’s . sympathetic with you where he’s really not with other people. you’re childhood friends. you’ve crushed on him kind of one sidedly for most of your life and you’ve never really done anything to pursue it

because you’re just two very fundamentally different people. it was always kind of impossible. and plus, oliver grows up to have a bad personality. he’s a womanizer, and a bastard. the most important thing is that he’s your friend, and he’s the most important person in your life regardless of where you stand.

and then, out of nowhere, you get a confession from him. and obviously, you don’t believe it for shit

but oliver has . all of these memories and moments with you. he admits to knowing of your crush and ignoring it, and how— he could ignore it for so long until you decided to truly give up and began dating and it just drove him completely over the edge.

still, you’ve been in love with the bastard for ten long years. so you’ve sort of got this lingering insecurity that he doesn’t actually like you. that he’s just seeing you as another interesting conquest, that he’ll sleep with you and get bored. so convinced of it there’s a time you’re sex friends only because you refuse to even try to date him.

but then—you run into one of oliver’s exes with him. horrible timing really. she’s beautiful, like model pretty and more than that, acts familiar with him in a way that makes your gut churn. she sits with you both (you insist, because you’re a masochist of some kind)

and she starts crying about her current relationship. you’re expecting oliver to act the way he always acts with girls. and in way, he does. at least his tone and voice are the same.

but it dawns on you that it’s different. you can really, really tell in the way he talks to you vs how he’s with her. and you hate yourself for noticing but oliver is just… so so gentle with you.

always sympathetic, even when sarcastic. always earnest almost to the point of being childish. he’s always cared about you more than anyone else. always. your whole life it’s been that way.

but it’s in a moment where you get to see how he acts with someone else, and think of all the times you’ve been in the same situation. how he’s always, always taken your side. if it were you crying to him, he’d just be so much more honest. honest with his childish anger, honest with his stupidity. genuine sympathetic down to his bones. kind.

oliver is nice with her. he says all the right things, but the meaning in his words is cold at best. it’s based in reason less than pure sympathy. oliver is always licking your wounds for you, but this is simply tending them. you find the former more intimate

it’s in that it really dawns on you. oh. he loves me. if it were me, he’d let me whine and joke and comfort me. if it were me, he’d probably get petty jealous on my behalf.

you hate yourself for it. you do. but at the same time it makes your heart beat so fast it hurts

[poooooooooao3]

You must have room temperature IQ if that's what you got from that. Look at the date of the article, cum stain.

Oct. 9th 2023.

the quote from the same article:

Which goes against the claims that this was already occurring prior to the attack, which, according to your hamas butt boys, was the "reason" they attacked.

Any country any fucking where no longer has an obligation to feed, clothe, treat or care for the same people that attacked them. Would you criticise Ukraine (the Slavic bread basket) for doing the same thing after the Russian invasion? Probably not. Why?

The slaughtered people and kidnapped them. They still have a large number of them. What should Israel do? Roll over and say 'harder Sinwar'?

You think Gazans are helpless because of your bigotry of low expectations, and you think Israel is to blame because you're saying this part out loud with your actions.

You can't stop something that never started in the first place. Such as all the aid that was and now is going through Israel to Gaza. The cessation of goods was brief, but you'd know that if you were capable of looking for recent sources. I guess that does't fit your narrative though, am I right?

Anyway time moves the fuck on, and here we are, in 2025. We know more now, or at least the adults do.

Let me guess. Propaganda? Thanks for opening that door too, remember?

I addressed that here:

As for Genocide, it isn't. It's a war. The deaths, which have been obfuscated and inflated, are lower than is usual for urban warfare. Something you would know if you could get that useless lump of tissue between your ears to work without the cognitive dissonance.

Source 1

https://www.wsj.com/opinion/the-u-ns-anti-israel-genocide-purge-c8feef1a

It's giving, "I don't like your findings, Madame Expert, because they don't agree with my opinions." Kind of like you. Hey, you should ask they for a job. You'd fit right in.

As for the inflated and deliberately wrongly reported numbers?

That's right here, by an independent study group. Out of the UK.

Source 2

https://henryjacksonsociety.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/HJS-Questionable-Counting-%E2%80%93-Hamas-Report-web.pdf

Hmmm? If that's how they feel about their fellow Palestinian, manufacturing a 'genocide' for people like you, useful idiot that you are, seems to be in their best interest.

His father is Sheikh Hassan Yousef, a co-founder of the Palestinian Islamist organisation Hamas.

I guess you'll look him up on wikipedia though right? Bad idea.

That's okay for you though right. Hey, turn that frown upside down. There's good news you can trust.

Hamas is winning everything. You don't have to worry about your little genocide.

Anyway, been fun playing but you can crawl back into the hole you came from, toilet demon.

Israel being accused of deliberately starving Gazans.

Also Israel:

I will never get tired of how easily disproved these allegations are, yet the rest of the world when confronted with evidence by the literal truckload be like:

[guarddog-of-proendos]

Image descriptions

- written by a visually impaired person

What is an image description?

an image description is exactly what it sounds like, a block of text describing the content of an image. this is important for many people but especially for blind and visually impaired people who cannot see the image (at least, not well enough to understand what's going on)

(people also cite that this helps people with slow internet, if you add that to this post I am hitting you on the head with a stick. our access to the internet is enough of a reason to add image descriptions, they don't have to help abled people as well.)

image descriptions serve the purpose of providing the same access to content and context in a post that you, a sighted person, have. the goal is to allow equal access for visually disabled people and other people who struggle to access images.

have you ever been stuck scrolling through Tumblr while images are refusing to load? was that frustrating? imagine how we feel every day, all the time.

How to write an image description

writing an image description is a skill. it's okay if you aren't great at it at first. not being great at it is not an excuse to not try. I'm tired of people telling me they can't be assed to try writing an image description because it might not be perfect. I would much rather read an imperfect image description than have no image description at all.

when you're describing an image the key point is to describe what's relevant, what you look at in an image. if the image is a tweet, describe what the tweet says. if the image is a picrew of an alter, describe what that alter looks like in the picrew.

You don't need to include every detail

a lot of guides will, with well intentions, tell you to describe a lot. sometimes, describing a lot is relevant. if you're describing a piece of art or photography then describing a lot is important because the point of the photo is to appreciate all of the photo. if you're taking a selfie, I truly do not care that your walls are blank and white. sometimes, more detail is less accessible. I don't want to scroll through paragraphs up on paragraphs for a photo that sighted people can just glance at and get the gist of.

take for example, this post divider I just used:

you could describe this as: a post divider with a large star in the center surrounded by a halo of the moon phase in gold. 2 horizontal lines come from it in the center with a pattern of alternating sun, moon, sun, and star symbols.

... that's really long. the point for sighted people is to break up the text with something pretty. it's not to admire all the intricacies of the image.

a more appropriate description would be: a star themed post divider

text, on the other hand, should always be transcribed in full. do not describe your DNI banner as "a DNI banner" that tells me nothing. put down all the text, all of it, because all of the text is relevant.

never use AI to write an image description! it's insulting and often inaccurate. problems with generative AI aside, throwing an image into chatGPT and then copy and pasting the sludge it spits out makes me feel like I'm not worth taking a minute to actually write an image description. AI generated image descriptions tend to be impersonal, inaccurate, and hard to follow because it just throws up all the random details it picks up on rather than describing the point of the image. with the editing required to fix a chatGPT image description you could have written your own and it would be better.

I truly cannot write an image description

ask for help. if you have no one you can directly ask, add a note to your post asking for help writing the description when you post it. when someone writes a description for you, copy and paste it into the original post. there is no such thing as image description theft, the point is accessibility. you can't steal accessibility. copy and pasting is not just okay it's encouraged!

on other people's posts (regardless of whether or not you can write an image description) you can often find image descriptions in the notes. taking a minute to check for image descriptions before reblogging an undescribed post is something fast and kind you can do for the people who need image descriptions. often you'll find a description and then hurray! that inaccessible post is now accessible!

....but I don't have any followers who need image descriptions!

yes you do.

if you truly don't it's probably because none of them can access your blog. fix that and suddenly you will have followers who need image descriptions

why is this in the pluralgang tag? none of you describe images.

Questions are encouraged

(if you have any)

[timetobeaghost]

Just wondering if people who keep insulting jews for supposedly being Zionists have any clue what they are talking about? I mean I' doubt it...

So, Zionism is the idea that Jews move back to Israel and build a state there. To finally be safe btw. Now if that is a smart idea or not is no longer a problem we need to discuss, as it already happened. Israel was founded 75 years ago, generations have been born there. Right now Zionism means supporting the continued existence of Israel.

So this right up there is something you would hold against a person? And if you truthfully answer yes, do you think there is any justification for that, other than you wholeheartedly agree with a genocide of Jews and think even Jews should agree or have it coming?... You have thought through what the Fall of Israel means and for how many million people?

[ruvviks]

HIIIIIIII BONES what faction(s) does tiberius join? and which companions is he closest with? :]

HIII EZRA THANK YOU SO MUCH :] this got insanely long because i have. so much to say about this game it's unreal i'm very sorry in advance. but hope you enjoy ^_^

so in my canon of fallout 4, there's a couple of things different from the game because i personally don't think of tiberius as a leader in any sort of way, mainly because he's like. 23 years old. that's a literal baby. he was only born yesterday fresh out of the freezer

so!! that means that the minutemen are already very much established in the commonwealth again when he emerges from the vault, and there's a lot of sprawling settlements to be found in places where you'd otherwise have to build them yourself in game; so sanctuary isn't abandoned at all, and tiberius returns to his sister's home with a special surprise waiting for him (every other house in the neighborhood is now home to a bunch of strangers centuries into the future! welcome home boy!)

that said, tiberius DOES end up sort of joining the minutemen?? but not officially. he meets preston in sanctuary who helps him get settled in in this new and strange world and in return to show his gratitude tiberius helps out wherever and whenever he can, but considering the path of revenge he's about to go on he doesn't really consider himself good enough of a person to like. fully be part of it if that makes sense?? especially since the minutemen aim for as much peaceful resolution of things as possible, and he is not like that :(

tiberius massively dislikes diamond city, and feels a lot more at home in goodneighbor. he does some mercenary work there for a while and that's also how he ends up with the railroad, which he Does officially join :] a bunch of my other fallout ocs are also railroad agents; max, who's also general of the minutemen (don't ask how she finds the time to juggle all these different jobs she doesn't know it herself either); magnus, who's a goodneighbor guard; and nikolai, an ex-raider who now does a bunch of stealth operations for the railroad. tiberius takes his job as agent very seriously and through his new connections becomes more involved with the minutemen as well, now that he knows the two work together to give escaped synths a new and safe home and such :]

he does NOT join the brotherhood of steel. he hates them so fucking much it's unreal. to him they're literally just invading the commonwealth with the way they're terrorizing settlements and forcibly establishing their own outposts and whatnot and it causes a lot of chaos everywhere which is NOT ideal at all. max is handling most of the situation but she's clearly under a lot of pressure and it makes tiberius want to blow some shit up. which he eventually does when everything has escalated so far that there's not really another way to deal with it anymore

he only joins the institute to infiltrate them for the railroad, and he is NOT having a good time during it. he dislikes shaun (his nephew, not his son!) so fucking much but there's nothing he can do about it. i'm trying to make the institute a bit more interesting but it's still a work in progress because well the game leaves a lot to be desired on that front to me personally but either way, the whole place makes him super paranoid and he quickly realizes that it's a LOT bigger than what it's making itself out to be. the area he's allowed to be in seems just a little bit too well-organized and streamlined as if it's all pre-programmed and he constantly feels like he's being watched. which he is! because he ends up finding proof of a lot more levels that go much deeper into the ground and while a lot of them seem to be abandoned, he does end up finding evidence that there's more people holed up Somewhere. and they're watching everything that's happening in the area of the institute he's allowed to be in. it's all part of something bigger and he does NOT like that shit

lastly, tiberius ends up with the children of atom :] kind of against his will?? but also he's not really being forced to stay so it's kind of a gray area really. basically what happened is that he went to the glowing sea, ended up passing out because he went by himself like the stubborn mf he is and the children of atom take them to their crater to nurse him back to health but also give him like. some sort of special radiation cocktail of some sort which ends up making him a bit of a freak. much more resilient, much more absent as well, a bit faster than he used to be. he's basically their chosen one because i feel like out of all factions it'd make most sense for the children of atom to be weirdly obsessed with him like he's a perfectly preserved human from before the war. that IS kinda fascinating

either way tiberius doesn't really mind being part of them all that much because it puts him in like a negotiator position if that makes sense?? the other factions all have their other touching points where he isn't all that needed to create connections and stuff but having this extra connection with the children of atom who are mostly feared by the rest of the commonwealth helps a LOT with keeping peace and all that, so it's beneficial for all parties involved because it also means that tiberius can just freely enter any of their outposts and he can rely on them if he needs them for anything :] the children of atom are a lot more willing to assist him with something that may be a bit shady than the minutemen or railroad would basically so it's a good backup to have LMAO

as for companions, tiberius is closest with preston 100% :] when he emerged from the vault, preston was the first person who talked to him and didn't treat him as a possible threat, and he helped him get settled in which tiberius will always be grateful for because he was so so scared. and preston made everything a little bit easier. he's very caring and patient and matches tiberius' funnyman energy surprisingly well when they're joking around, which would all remind tiberius a lot of his sister stella. preston Would in fact be like a brother to him :]

he enjoys hanging out with piper and nick, but only sparingly so since those two just love to investigate stuff and a lot of their time hanging out ends up turning into business of some sort and tiberius does NOT have the detective's spirit! he likes being clueless. he does not always need to know everything. he does like tagging along but sometimes he just wants to SIT and have a beer or something

which, naturally so, makes hancock better company for him. tiberius did a couple of gigs for him personally (and got to know him much more intimately during a wild night with both him and magnus but we don't talk about that) and he likes to stop by goodneighbor regularly for a drink and to talk about shit that's been going on lately. since magnus and hancock are together, magnus is there a lot as well but tiberius sees him a lot more regularly at the railroad too :]

that being said, the railroad is definitely tiberius' main hub for hanging out with people he loves the gang SO much. his best friends there would be nikolai, glory (she's alive yes obviously), deacon, and tinker tom :] and also max but tiberius sees her a LOT more at the castle since that's by the end of the in-game events also a place he can be found at a lot. he doesn't take a lot of minutemen jobs but he does help out on location with whatever they need, plus the castle is a huge and busy marketplace which would be super fun to visit (especially at night) so he just likes hanging out there in general! that's also where he hangs out with cait and roxy (max' wife) whenever he gets the opportunity

tiberius' relationship with x6-88 is. strained. on a surface level he likes the guy, but his loyalty to the institute definitely gets in the way of their friendship a lot at first. i haven't entirely figured out yet how to like, get x6-88 on tiberius' side in a satisfying way that doesn't feel out of character for him?? but that's basically what i'm aiming for, because the two DO spend a lot of time together away from the institute itself which would give tiberius a lot of opportunities to show x6 what the commonwealth is really like. and what the institute's reputation is and all that. and with x6 getting attached to tiberius during all of that he WILL be forced to pick a side at the end of it all. and i personally don't think he would side against tiberius after spending all that time building up an actual friendship for the first time in his life

surprisingly enough, tiberius and maccready did NOT!!! get along well at first AT ALL. when tiberius was taking gigs in goodneighbor he was unbeknownst to him stealing away a lot of mac's clientele so naturally mac has very one-sided beef with him. especially because both of them are like. babies. i can't remember maccready's exact age but that's a baby. and tiberius is one too. and they're both competitive and kinda stupid so when they first "officially" meet there's this insane tension between the two of them and every conversation they have is just a pissing contest. they've been kicked out of goodneighbor together on at least one occasion because of their near screaming competitions

(at some point after the battle of bunker hill and tiberius has temporarily broken ties with the institute because shaun's attitude pissed him the fuck off he goes to goodneighbor with his friends and after a drink or two too many he agrees to a bet maccready makes with him about killing elder maxson. tiberius succeeds by knocking out a brotherhood pilot and pretending to be the pilot instead, sort of successfully flying a vertibird up to the prydwen, somehow knocking out a guy in full power armor to then steal said guy's power armor, killing elder maxson (who by then has committed enough war crimes including but not limited to laughing max in the face when she tried to talk to him about a possible collaboration in hopes to keep the peace in the commonwealth) with a pipe pistol, and then jumping down(!!!!!!!!!) in the power armor to make his escape by walking over the bottom of the ocean on the shoreline in the power armor. he brought the guy's coat and dogtags with him as proof. maccready was turned on and angry about it)

but after traveling together for a while, tiberius and maccready learn they have a lot more in common than they initially thought and they grow closer over time :] i adjusted mac's story as well by making lucy his older sister rather than his wife (HE'S A BABY. HE DOESN'T NEED A WIFE AND A CHILD IN THIS ECONOMY) and duncan his nephew, so it's still a direct parallel to tiberius' story except lucy is still alive but missing, whereas stella is in fact very much dead. at first it makes tiberius feel frustrated and upset in a very selfish way, but it helps him with like, allowing himself to grieve for the first time since he exited the vault which by then is a LONG time ago, and then it also helps him with moving on from it rather than staying stuck in the past. helping mac with curing duncan and finding lucy helps the both of them and after all that they end up getting together :]

SO YEAH. very bumpy road for tiberius all in all and he makes connections in a bunch of different places, but he's always just a gear in the machine rather than the one operating the machine if that makes sense :] he feels a lot more at ease when he can actually make a difference at his own pace rather than having everyone look up to him constantly, the closest he got to that was when he was the one to infiltrate the institute and he has NEVER been that stressed before in his life. he makes it out alive and relatively unharmed but good lord. he's never doing that shit ever again

[lonesilverw0lf]

Chess student: The cult has become locked itself in this building, we need to clear them out.

Football student: We know where they are, so let’s just bum rush them and take ‘em out.

CS: Don’t be rash. We have to do this methodically so we ensure they’re gone for good.

FS: We have them cornered, just get in there and get it done.

CS: We don’t know how many of them are left, what kind of traps they have, escape routes, or what. We can’t take any chances that they’ve set a trap themselves or that they can escape.

FS: They just got in there after two days of running. They’ve been caught with their pants down! We need to bust down the walls before they have a chance to rest and regroup!

CS: Or walk right into a trap? This is the real deal, we can’t make any half baked decisions.

FS: You’re not the active type, even back in school. You don’t have any idea on what actually goes down in the split seconds, nor any say on what it takes. You’ll let a perfectly good opportunity waltz by as you try to come up with some half clever scheme!

CS: You’ve never thought ahead once in your life. You always rush headlong into things and end up in a bigger mess than what was originally there. Or even create a mess because you didn’t know left from right!

FS: At least I choose to do something instead of sit back like a coward!

CS: I’ve seen better intelligence in a monkey than anything you try to pull!

???: Guys!

FS and CS: WHAT?!

Art Student: You two need to find something to make up, your arguments almost broke my concentration several times. Guh. My farsighted isn’t great, but I did manage to get as much information on the inside as I could. *hands over a stack of papers with sketches of the building and the insides*

CS: That’s great! The more intelligence we have the better we can plan ahead.

FS: Just point out where the boss man is so I can get in there and knock his head in.

AS: At least tell me you can tell what it’s supposed to be? I’m an abstract expressionist not a realist.

FS: Looks clear enough for me.

CS, flipping through the drawings: Ok, so a dozen and so cultists, a couple of horses, a loft, I guess that’s a weapons rack, so far so expected. Hey, what’s the story with this one?

AS: Which one? Sorry my headache hasn’t given me my sight yet so everything’s kinda blurry still.

CS: The one guy with more details than the rest.

AS: Dunno yet. I can only draw what I see using my Sight. I don’t know what it is I’m looking at until I see what I drew.

FS: That sounds stupid.

AS: They say that it’ll get better with time. Right now I’m too low level for that. Huh, that one guy is a lot more detailed than the rest. Weird.

CS: I didn’t get all the details on your Ability. Why is this so important?

AS: My mentor said something about things that I’m more familiar with tend to come out clearer. People I know, places I frequent, they stick out a lot more. Even if the place has changed significantly like a fire or battle happened, or if a person is wearing a disguise or something.

FS: So who would be so familiar to you in this random group of cultists?

Realization dawns on the assembled trio.

FS: Ok CS, your plan is good. We surround the building and- huh?

AS: I just blinked. Where did CS go?

CS, punching a hole into the wall of the building like the Kool Aid man: YIPPE KAI YAY MOTHER FUCKERS!! WHERE YOU AT BLORBO?!

MC, who infiltrated the Cult to feed the local militia information: How the hell do you guys keep finding me?!

The standard 'entire class gets isekai'd to a fantasy world and the outcast MC is basically discarded' anime setting, where the MC, now assumed dead, decides to instead help the class of Heroes in the shadows, making sure they live up to what the people need.

However, the entire class knows that he's alive and are hellbent on dragging that son of a bitch back into the spotlight and to give him the recognition he deserves.

(And maybe because he was basically the entire class's Little Guy™.)

[ggukkiedae]

personal spiel im adding in the tags again bc im once more feeling kinda emotional

[jasontoddstherapist]

PSA |

Yes this is a Jason Peter Todd centric blog, but it's also 100% supportive of Talia al Ghul. There will be no slander here. No perpetuating of the racist, misogynistic bullshit that drove the narrative divebomb of her character.

[avelera]

I expanded on this a bit on Twitter but I kinda wanted to talk about it here where people actually read my meta lol

I want to clarify that I think (Arcane) Jayce would eventually rise to the occasion. He always does.

I just think that Jayce has the most uniquely vulnerable situation if he theoretically went to Noxus, even when compared to every single other Arcane character. Yes, I'm including Heimerdinger and Cait. And here's why:

We've already seen Jayce get manipulated by not one but two Noxians, Mel and Ambessa. And Mel was nice about it! Jayce does eventually figure out Mel's manipulation of him but that's only after months of soul searching with literally nothing else to do (and then he APOLOGIZES to her, after eventually realizing too that Mel wasn't entirely to blame, just to be clear, but he ended the relationship over it IMO).

But Jayce is a unique example of the one character we've seen fall for Noxian manipulation more than once, with different Noxians. And, I would argue, there's nothing else in his arc to indicate he's gotten smarter about it, even at the end, other than figuring out Mel and only in relation to Hextech.

I don't think he's necessarily any better armed against Noxian manipulation after his arc, or manipulation in general. Another Noxian using slightly different tactics to get what they want from him would probably still work.

Jayce also has a unique combination of:

1) A relatively privileged background that makes him more trusting of others (unlike the Zaunite characters) and just being a nice guy in general, which lends to this.

2) An amount of self-confidence that he doesn't necessarily see manipulation coming because he generally tends to see himself as the primary mover of events in his own life which makes him a prime target for a master manipulator (like Ambessa when she masterfully pushed him into a sense of helplessness and rage that ended in his raid on the Shimmer factory). Not saying Jayce never feels helpless, he just has a background and personality that tends to see himself as able to regain control if he loses it and to see himself as a primary mover of his own destiny even when he's being puppetted

3) but most important: he has something Noxians would want and have wanted and would continue to want since we saw Swain's raven go for the gem in his hammer: Hextech. If Jayce went to Noxus, he'd be a target of EVERYONE THERE because of Hextech, either for weapons or for Hexgates. Or, if not Hextech, then the mind that created Hextech is still a worthy prize for anyone trying to get ahead there.

And funny enough, I think every other character in Arcane has more defenses than Jayce, even Cait, even Heimerdinger.

Heimerdinger may be naive but he's also 300+ years old and he's been around the block. I think Heimer's first response to being a target of manipulation in Noxus would be to get the fuck out of Noxus, I mean I can't imagine a country less suited to his whole deal, but he'd know to get out of there and he'd know to be on guard.

Cait post-S2 would be well equipped to recognize Ambessa's tactics in others, but even pre-S2, she's a detective used to reading people. Her instincts are stunted by the grief over her mother's death but she's clearly putting together that she can't trust Ambessa from the start. Cait despite also having a privileged upbringing like Jayce from the start has more tools at her disposal when it comes to understanding and analyzing people to have at least some prayer in Noxus, unlike Jayce the Engineer.

Then when you get to literally any Zaunite character, I think you get a healthy dose of suspicion towards outsiders to make them better able to defend themselves against Noxian manipulation or use.

Not saying it still couldn't happen, but a Viktor or a Vi would definitely be skeptical from the outset towards anyone trying flattery on them and would be immediately resistant to anyone using them for weapons or as fighters.

Jinx is too chaotic and slippery to be used, I'd argue, but she also in general just doesn't work well with others outside of long, long term relationships of trust (and even then). Really, anyone on the list of Zaunite character (Silco, Sevika, Ekko, etc.) just has that healthy dose of skepticism that I think at least puts them in a good position to be aware that everyone in Noxus is potentially looking for a way to use them.

But not Jayce. Oh, I don't think he's stupid, I definitely do not think he's stupid. But I think he could fall for, say, a two-man con, good cop/bad cop, once more obvious manipulator and a second person pretending to protect him from that person thus winning his trust, even in S2.

Now, I do want to add that one caveat to this, as I said, I think Jayce would rise to the occasion. He'd eventually figure out that he's being used and if it's for Hextech weapons, or weapons of any kind, he'd probably catch on sooner.

I think Jayce would probably, in an action story, turn around and drop-kick anyone trying to use him by countering them with his own flashy weapons and skills before long (say hello to this neat trebuchet he just built out of garbage and say goodnight, motherfucker).

I also think that his general demeanor would lull a manipulator into a false sense of security, until he boldly outplays them with him classic "Moving in very direct straight lines and fuck anyone who gets in the way" manner of dealing with intractable problems.

I actually think a "Jayce in Noxus" arc would be delicious, since we've already seen him played on his home turf, I'd like to see his incremental progress forward in figuring out how to be a more savvy player in the belly of the beast.

Alas, I can't imagine we'll be seeing him in an actual Noxus show but if you also are dying for "Jayce in Noxus" now, I'd highly recommend the "Break, repair" series by Lapsi, where the second installment involves just that.

My first impression of Noxus in Fortiche's style:

Oh, this country would have eaten Jayce Talis alive, huh?

[hauntingblue]

We got koby today.... tashigi could cut the hand like zoro did in dressrosa but we got koby today....

[featherymainffins]

Ough I fucking hate holidays because it is my duty as a child to visit my parents and just take whatever the fuck happens to me.

[thelordofgifs]

Part 38! Many revelations.

It has been long since last that familiar mind brushed against Curufin's.

In Himring's courtyard with the hordes of orcs clamouring at the gate, Maedhros would not look at him. His attention then was all for frail shivering Maglor, as though Curufin was of as little import as the horse he sat upon.

But now – now Maedhros is calling for him. Now he says, I need help.

Help? Curufin returns, trying to project naught but proud disdain. What help can you possibly need from me who only ruins things? Leave me alone.

Curvo, Maedhros insists, his speech-in-thought laced by something approximating a fraternal caress. Please. It's important.

Had I wanted to remain under your command I would not have left, Curufin says angrily. Himring is fallen; you are my liege-lord no longer. Ask Káno's help if you are in such need.

I cannot, Maedhros answers, and there is something jagged and splintered about his response, as though his mind is buckling under the strain of reaching out.

Belatedly Curufin recalls Amras' words: He is missing, he has disappeared from Barad Eithel, they have heard nothing of him for weeks.

Where are you, Nelyo? he asks, suspicious.

That does not matter, Maedhros returns swiftly, it is only that – I cannot do what needs doing at present, and you are the only one who may—

Do what? Curufin demands. I am not your errand-boy to fetch you cool water and sing you to sleep at night!

But at that such bright searing pain flares across Maedhros' mind that he subsides.

Need I remind you, Maedhros says, chilly in an instant, of what you owe me?

He bombards Curufin with a quick, tightly controlled sequence of memories.

Curufin himself riding through Himring's gate, his voice cool and flat, They're dead, they're both dead. All the world glossy and distorted and artificial, a monstrous demonic thing lurking under Curufin's features. The swift sure snap of Maedhros' left wrist as his knife plunged into Maglor's side—

Enough, says Curufin, pulling his mind away, enough. Believe me, you need not retell my own wrongs to me.

Were it not for you— Maedhros begins. Again the odd fractured quality to his thoughts, as though some sharp burning thing is pressing down hard on the fragile thread of their minds' connection. He seems then forcibly to calm himself. If you will not obey my command as a brother, obey your own twice-sworn Oath at the very least. Morgoth has sent forth the Silmaril from Angband.

What? Curufin tenses instantly. How can you possibly know that?

Never mind, says Maedhros, and his mind is beginning to tear a little now, in the manner of old fabric shearing under too much strain; all that matters is that I do know it – I have reason to believe Sauron has requested it of him. He lingers now in Taur-nu-Fuin, we saw him emerge from that land to issue against Barad Eithel. But you might have a chance of intercepting the Silmaril if you circle around the highlands and reach the Anfauglith with sufficient speed—

On foot? Curufin demands. You're mad. How will I ever reach it in time?

[what happened to Curufin's horse, you might ask? he took it when he abandoned Maglor, didn't he? dw this one is actually fine. he set it loose to pasture in Estolad]

Well, how am I supposed to know where you are? Maedhros asks tersely. You've been missing for a year and a half. His mind spasms oddly, the link between their thoughts going shaky for a moment; inexplicably, Curufin's mouth fills with the taste of blood, and shooting pains run down both his legs.

Before he can do more than gasp, Maedhros adds, I have to go, there's a – council meeting. Bring that Silmaril to Barad Eithel, Curvo, else we will all be cast into the Everlasting Darkness until the end of time. Do not let me down for once.

Then he is gone.

Reeling from the finality of his departure, Curufin takes a moment to regain his bearings.

Maedhros is lying to him, he knows. Plainly he is not in Barad Eithel at present; and it makes very little sense why he would not go after the Silmaril himself, if indeed Morgoth has consented to part with it.

But Curufin has no choice either way, for all his protestations. He is Oath-bound to pursue even the breath of a rumour of a Silmaril; little though he likes it, his path turns northward now.

He thinks briefly of Celebrimbor, imagines his expression of unsurprised contempt.

Then he sets out on his thankless journey.

Meanwhile in Dor-lómin:

Lúthien is on her hands and knees in Indor's entrance hall, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the floor.

"Tinúviel?" Beren croaks from the stairway. His face, when she glances up, is drawn and horrified.

"Come and watch," she says, making her smile as inviting as she can. "There is something very satisfying in it."

"In scrubbing?" Beren says. "If your father knew—"

"—there would be nothing he could do about it," Lúthien says firmly. "I'm trying to be helpful, my love. And I do not mind the work, if it is unglamorous. Look!" She sits back on her haunches to examine her handiwork. "I tried to sing the stain out, but it would not budge, I cannot fathom what could have caused it. But half an hour with a bucket of water and vinegar and it is already so much faded!"

"Vinegar?" Beren repeats numbly. He does not seem as pleased as she is.

"It's acetic," Lúthien explains, "and does very well for dissolving grime and the like, I'm told. Oh, Beren, do not look at me so! I am enjoying myself. Sometimes – sometimes work is hard, and dirty, and uncomfortable. But it behooves us all to do it anyway."

“O, my cherished one,” Beren breathes, and then he kneels beside her and kisses her right there on the grimy floor over the metal bucket, tangles his fingers in her neatly-bound hair and draws her in closer, and it is every bit as lovely as those kisses they would share in the flowering glades of Doriath with the birds singing sweetly above them.

When they have broken apart Beren says, his voice yet regretful, “It is not the life I would have chosen for you.”

“But I choose it for myself,” Lúthien says. That is missing the point, she knows. "Still I know – I know it all pains you." She waves her hand vaguely, trying to encompass the housework and the desolation and the look on Beren's face. "I would make it better for you, if I could."

"You do," Beren tells her, "by being mine. And if it does grieve me – unable as I am to give you the home you deserve—"

"But you do," Lúthien murmurs, "for my home is where you are. O, my love, I count myself luckier by far living with you in this borrowed space among your people than I do the very High King of the Noldor, for all his glory! I knew what I was choosing, when I chose you. I can never regret it."

"Nor I," Beren says, and he looks at her so tenderly that she can only smile at him for long moments.

But after all this is not the forest of Neldoreth in the springtime, and they two are not the only people in the world, their fortune not everyone’s fortune.

A heavy thing to have to bear, Lúthien reflects, thinking of Morwen’s stoic suffering and Maglor weeping on her shoulder. “I wish – I wish everyone could be as happy as we,” she says quietly.

“My tender-hearted one!” says Beren, with a smile. “I too perhaps have been mired overmuch in my own misfortune to consider another’s. But what troubles you today?”

Everything, Lúthien wants to say, and your own unhappiness most of all.

But she is learning that to speak all of what is in her heart is not always for the best. “I grieve for Maglor,” she says instead. “He does not seem inclined to write to me any longer. But I know his brother’s disappearance was a cruel blow to him.”

"Strange to think how little you might know a person," Beren muses, "for surely he had no inkling Maedhros was planning such a thing. And in his letters to me too—" He breaks off sharply.

"What?" Lúthien asks, looking swiftly at him. "What is it, Beren?"

"Maedhros’ letters," Beren breathes. "The letters he sent me, Tinúviel – he asked me about Dorthonion. Its geography, its weaknesses, its secret ways. He was very interested to know where one might conceivably set up a base there."

Lúthien thinks she understands, and does not think she wants to. "Because he suspected Gorthaur lingered there, after I cast down Tol-in-Gaurhoth," she says. "And he was right – Gorthaur showed himself during the battle."

"And now Maedhros has gone to seek him out," Beren says. "It all makes sense. He is in Dorthonion, Tinúviel. I know not why, but he has gone to Gorthaur."

Lúthien thinks of Maedhros' eyes when last she spoke with him. They were desperate eyes.

"You are right," she murmurs. She swallows. "Beren, I have to go to Barad Eithel."

She is by far the swifter rider, between the two of them. They both know it.

Beren smiles at her, and his eyes are warm. "Come back safe to me."

"I will," Lúthien promises.

Within the hour she is saddling up her horse for the ride through Hithlum.

Too late:

Fingon, recovered from his mishap, is holding a banquet.

He tugs off the bandages around his shoulder – see, Makalaurë, it's barely stiff at all – and calls for his heaviest, most ornamental robe, all blue velvet and gold brocade.

He has never been much at ease in ceremonial finery. But he does not need Maglor’s pointed glances to remind him he had best put on a show of splendour today.

Despite all this the feast is not so bad. His lords all seem relieved to see his injury was not severe, and the food is nice.

Maeglin is especially solicitous. “You were very greatly missed, uncle,” he says gravely, passing Fingon a plate piled high with the table’s choicest delicacies. “I hope you will take better care of your health in the future.”

“I will certainly do my best to avoid any orc-blades I run into!” Fingon says lightly. “Beyond that I fear few promises can be made. No King is he who skulks behind his stone walls, after all.”

He casts a glance to his right as he says so, wondering whether his words will provoke some reaction; but Maglor, tense and taut as a harp-string, picks at his food in silence, and says nothing.

If Maedhros were here — oh, if Maedhros were here he, not his brother, would be seated in that place of honour, and he would manage the more barbed comments with a sharp smile of his own, and trade wry quips with Fingon as they ate, and perhaps take a turn about the dance floor with him after—

But then Fingon remembers the way Maedhros looked at him, when they kissed after the battle. It is all fantasy, really.

“You might try to be festive,” he hisses at Maglor, more sharply than he really means.

Maglor smiles wanly at him. “I am feasting, am I not?”

His plate is nearly untouched, but Fingon does not press the point. He touches his cousin’s arm in conciliation. “Will you sing for us after, perhaps?”

“All right,” Maglor breathes. It is, Fingon knows, Maglor’s own apology, for his prickliness in recent days. He does not sing very often now.

In the end Maglor does not get the chance to sing.

Not long after dessert is served there is a commotion from the direction of the entrance hall. One of the guards posted at the fortress’s gate comes in in a flustered rush, and announces without ceremony, “My King, this… messenger insisted upon speaking to you at once.”

According to all protocol Fingon should tell him to wait. He ought to conduct diplomatic work in private, and besides the feast is not yet finished.

But his pride bristles at the thought. For too long now have his lords implied that he is not fit to rule; let them see how well he handles kingly matters!

“Let me see him, then,” he says, ignoring the swift dart of Maglor’s sidelong glance at his words.

But his voice fails for a moment in his throat when the messenger is brought in: a tall ragged elf with copper-brown hair and old scars on his face, who walks as though every step causes him pain.

The resemblance is superficial, but Fingon knows from Maglor’s sudden inhalation that he sees it too.

In crisp, classical Quenya, enunciating every thorn, the messenger says, “Hail, Findekáno the Valiant, High King of the Noldor! I come from Sauron the Lord of Werewolves, who sends you his greetings. He has a great desire to bargain with you."

There is an odd ringing in Fingon's ears. Through it he says, "I have not the slightest desire to treat with a common thief and a murderer — one, moreover, who showed his own weakness so decisively when he fled at the very sight of the lords of the Noldor. You may depart my lands, and tell him so."

The messenger executes a strange, too-sharp bow, as though puppet-strings bend him in half at the middle.

The light brush of Maglor's thought puts into Fingon's mind the image of Sinda thralls taken by Morgoth long before the Sun's first rising, the jerky quality of their motion and the jagged over-brightness of their smiles, and the damage they wrought until the Fëanorian camp learned at last to turn them away.

This unlucky elf is likely a more recent captive of the Enemy. There are rumours that not all those prisoners freed by Lúthien when Tol-in-Gaurhoth fell made their way to Nargothrond and safety; Fingon does not think it so implausible that some dwell now in Sauron's new lair.

"My lord foresaw that you would speak so," the messenger says now. "Far-reaching and all-seeing is his wisdom. But he bade me insist upon your hearing me nonetheless: for, he says, he has happened upon a prize that may well intrigue you."

Fingon manages a harsh laugh. “No craven torturer has anything that will tempt me.” He nods at his guards, who move to march the messenger out.

“Not even,” says the messenger silkily, and his voice now does not sound elvish at all, “the location of Maedhros your lover? Faithless indeed are the Kings of the Noldor! It was told once that you loved him well enough to brave all the forces of Angband for his sake. But perhaps it is otherwise now.”

Just in time Fingon holds up his hand to stop the guards from seizing the messenger. “You lie,” he manages to croak. “Where is he? You lie.”

The hall, previously so cavernous, feels suddenly very close and tight. Every breath seems to hurt.

“He is a guest of my lord,” says the messenger, “and being treated with all the dignity owed one his rank. And so my lord poses the question to you, o King: once before did you win your back kinsman with a great feat of courage. If you choose to do so again – well, my lord awaits you.”

A flurry of movement to Fingon’s right. Before he can snatch at Maglor’s arm his cousin has taken three swift stumbling steps down from the dais to stand before the messenger.

“When last such a missive was sent to me, there was at least a token with it,” he snarls, his voice a jagged, splintered thing. “Could Sauron not summon up so much as a lock of hair to lend some credence to his lie? Or are we supposed to take the Deceiver’s word on faith?”

“Not at all,” says the messenger. “There is this.” And from his ragged, filthy cloak he produces a dagger.

At this Fingon leaps to his feet with a shout. “Makalaurë!”

The guards leap forward at once, their faces blank with shock – there must have been some enchantment on the blade, for it to evade their search—

But the messenger seems very calm. He meets Maglor’s eyes, and then plunges the dagger into his own right side, as deep as it will go.

Entrails cling to the blade when he pulls it out again, and he crumples to his knees, still smiling.

Fingon cannot hear anything, over the commotion in the hall and the clamour in his ears. But he looks at Maglor, and Maglor looks back at him, white-faced, the pool of blood at his feet beginning to seep into his shoes.

(to be continued)

the fairest stars: post vii

Yet more of the "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" AU! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr and AO3 here.

Part 35: on stories, and the ways they repeat themselves.

Finrod goes to Mandos' throne room, and kneels – such as it is – in supplication before the Vala.

"Son of Arafinwë," says Mandos. "Having turned down our boon, have you come to ask another?"

"Not for myself," says Finrod. "But for my cousin."

"Whatever vow you have made," says Mandos, "Turkafinwë Fëanárion is not ready to be released from my Halls, even were he willing."

"Not – not Celegorm," says Finrod, "but Amrod his brother. Has no judgement been passed on him? It is many centuries now since he burned to death at his father's hands."

"The judgement was passed," says Mandos, "when he swore his Oath, and bound himself to violence. No one compelled by such a force can be released into the peace of Aman."

"But he regretted it," Finrod argues. "He meant to turn back as my own father did, and beg pardon of the Valar. He would be free of it, if he could."

"But he is not," says Mandos, implacable.

Finrod is good, and pious, and faithful. Finrod is not going to lose his temper with a Vala.

"Is there no pity in these Halls?" he asks. "Is there no way to set him free of a bond he does not want?"

"Lúthien your cousin asked a similar thing when she came before me," Mandos says. "And I will tell you what I told her: it is beyond my power to undo an Oath sworn in the name of the All-father. The Valar are not gaolers, child. Telufinwë's chains were of his own making."

"It wasn't his fault," Finrod says tightly, "it was his father who bound him—"

"I cannot give you what you want," Mandos says, interrupting him.

"Then pass the boon you have given me onto him," Finrod says; "transfer it away from me, I do not want it. Grant him his release, he has lingered here long enough."

"That is not how it works," Mandos says. "You are free to leave these Halls whenever you desire. It is not my way to retract mercy once it has been offered."

Do you call this mercy? Finrod does not say. He takes his leave instead.

“You did not need to do that,” Amrod says, when he returns.

Finrod is in no mood for Fëanorian self-pity. “Do you want to rot here forever, then?” he asks sharply.

“So it was decreed,” Amrod says, “and I told you already that I never expected any mercy for myself.”

“Yet you would have me extend it to your brother,” Finrod says.

“That,” says Amrod, “is not precisely what I said.” He makes some spirit-approximation of a shrug. “You know Tyelko as he is now better than I do. Is he past saving? Perhaps. But it is for your own sake that you are trying anyway, I think.”

“But if even you are condemned to remain here forever—” Finrod says, unable to keep himself from bitterness.

“I’ve killed people, Ingoldo,” Amrod reminds him. “Three of them, in fact.” He shudders briefly. “Why me? Why Tyelko, for that matter? There are many worthier souls in these Halls to demand your attention. After the Dagor Bragollach the Exiles came pouring in here in their thousands, and every one of them lies under the Doom of Mandos – all except for you. You could be pleading for any one of them, instead of your Kinslaying cousins, who are anyway bound by a greater chain.”

“Because,” Finrod says, irritable, “chains can be broken. And I cannot bear to see you deny that, again and again – you as well as your brother! Forever need not always mean forever. There are brighter things in store for you, for all of us, than to mourn here for eternity in the dark. Valar help me, I did not fully realise it, until Lúthien showed me it was so – and yet—” He stops suddenly.

Amrod looks at him with sympathy. "It is not only us you are angry with," he says.

"I do not want to be angry at all," Finrod says wearily. "I want to find a way out, I want to believe that there is hope for all of us – for you and me and your brother and my Ten and those we lost on the Ice and all the doomed and damned and grieving Noldor – can it be so? Or is it always the same story over and over again, all of us trapped in our roles until the end of the time? The Ainulindalë had space in it for new themes, did it not? So why must we condemn ourselves over-hastily, name these chains unbreakable for ever?"

"Perhaps they are," says Amrod, "for the rest of us, if not for you."

"I do not believe that any more," says Finrod. "And I am going to speak to my brother."

Back in Middle-earth:

Finduilas and Celebrimbor have ridden swiftly, their journey uneventful. They are coming now to the borders of the Girdle of Melian.

Finduilas smiles at Celebrimbor, more bravely than she really feels. "This is where we part ways."

To her eyes the Girdle is clearly visible, a sharply demarcated shimmering in the air, whereas all Celebrimbor can make out is a blurred sort of wrongness, as though the world itself is bending around Doriath's border.

"It isn't too late to change your mind," Celebrimbor tells her. "We can go back to Nargothrond, we can tell your father we only got lost in the mists—"

"It has been too late for that for a long time," Finduilas says, decisive. She smiles again. "Don't fret, Tyelpë! The worst Thingol can do to me is speak harshly. I am not the one in danger."

"I will be fine," Celebrimbor tells her. "It is the northern stretch of the Girdle where danger lies thick." He thinks of the desperate flight from Himlad after the Dagor Bragollach, and shivers a little. "You had better not tell Thingol that I am here, not after what my – my father tried."

"You aren't your father, Tyelpë," Finduilas says softly. She leans over to kiss his cheek. "Take heart! With any luck my errand will not be a long one, and we will have an escort of Iathren marchwardens to take us home."

Celebrimbor thinks that is overly optimistic, but he only says, "I will be here when you return – and good luck, coz."

He watches as she rides away from him, through the Girdle and then into the darkness of whatever lies beyond it.

It is a perfectly nice clearing they have chosen for their meeting-place, and he spends some time the next day setting up camp; then he gets bored, and invents a better mechanism for collecting rainwater for drinking, and then makes himself a makeshift chemistry lab out of the weird plants growing near the Girdle; and then he carves every fallen stick in a mile's radius into a miniature wooden animal, and ends up with a host of Eagles and an army of bears and No Dogs At All; and then and then and then

He's really bored tbh.

In Barad Eithel:

One thing about Maglor is that he needs a Job or he will go a little mad.

He is like Maedhros in that, Fingon reflects, and tries not to indulge the stab of the thought.

Unfair, to blame unhappy Maglor for not being his brother, for not having Maedhros' smile and Maedhros' bright thoughtful eyes and Maedhros' commanding presence—

Anyway: usually this does not pose much of an issue, because Maglor has made Maedhros his Job and attends to him both capably and contentedly.

Now, on the other hand, he is restless, and when Maglor is restless he hovers.

Fingon does not mind this most of the time. He likes his cousin's company, despite everything, and also Maglor is a better and more sensible advisor than most would give him credit for.

But there is really not that much for him to do today, and he is maybe driving Fingon a little crazy.

"Makalaurë," he says, "you might go down to the armoury."

Maglor smiles drily at him. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"No," Fingon lies, "only it occurred to me that you are certainly the most skilled person here at testing the metal for minute flaws – the same way you use its resonance in swordplay. And it would be good to make sure everything is in good shape while Morgoth seems to be unwiling to attack again."

“You are trying to get rid of me,” says Maglor, not really offended.

An hour later finds him in the armoury, sorting swords that need mending from those whose metal sings cleanly; he is so absorbed in the work that he does not at first notice there is someone else in the room, until Maeglin comes to stand before him.

“I did not know you had any interest in metalwork,” Maeglin says, in lieu of any other greeting.

“Not particularly,” Maglor says mildly, “but my father was the greatest smith of the Noldor, even so.”

Maeglin’s expression seems to imply that he intends to change that.

Maglor decides he might as well try to be friendly. “We have spoken little since you came to Barad Eithel,” he says; “forgive me, I have been too absorbed in my own affairs to greet you with the courtesy due so close a kinsman. But I am glad to meet Írissë’s son at last.”

Maeglin says, “Were you close to my mother?”

“Not as much as my younger brothers,” Maglor admits, “but even so I thought her fearless, and kind, and never reluctant to speak her own mind.”

“She was different,” Maeglin says in a low voice, “when I knew her.”

Maybe it would be good to change the subject.

"How well do you like Barad Eithel?" Maglor asks. "You have made friends among the lords of the Noldor already, I am glad to see."

Maeglin is looking at him guardedly. "Everyone has been very kind," he says, his voice neutral. "Although my uncle has had less time for me than I hoped."

Maglor bites his lip. "He has much to trouble him at present, too," he says, as evenly as he can. "But you should know he speaks highly of you."

"I am glad to hear it," Maeglin says. He looks at Maglor in silence for a little while, and then says, "You are close in his counsel, I think."

Maglor is kind of regretting his decision to be friendly.

"We have been friends for a long time," is all he says.

"But not as close as he was to your brother," Maeglin says, watching Maglor very carefully as he speaks.

"You were on the field after the battle," Maglor says, trying to keep his patience. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Forgive me," Maeglin says then, and flashes Maglor a quick rueful smile. "You are all names I have only ever heard in half-complete stories. There is a great deal I must learn. And nobody had ever told me that the High King was wed to his cousin."

"They are not wed," Maglor says automatically, Maedhros' customary rebuttal; then he wonders why he is still making Maedhros' arguments for him, still playing the lieutenant when the war is long since over, and the weight of his loss seizes him around the throat anew.

Belatedly he realises Maeglin is speaking. "Turgon my uncle was not happy to learn of it," he says. "But perhaps it does not matter so much now, since your brother is – well." He has the grace to look vaguely sympathetic, at least. "Some of the other lords are beginning to say that it would be wise for the King to take a wife, now that he is free of any other attachment. But that seems to me unkind."

"Unkind," Maglor asks, "or just contrary to your own hopes, which rather depend on his remaining unwed and heirless?" He raises an eyebrow.

Maeglin tenses. Maglor's eyes rest on him the way Idril's used to, as though seeing some ugly nub inside him, invisible to Maeglin himself.

Maeglin does not want to think about Idril.

"I have told them it would be cruel," he says, "to raise the matter to him while he has so many troubles."

"I see," Maglor says, and some of the pressure of his gaze relents. "Since they seem to listen to you, you might tell them that Fingon loves my brother, and is not so faithless as to waver in his affection now." He manages the flicker of a smile. "Or perhaps it would be wisest if you do not say that: they might like you less, then, after all."

"You are determined to mistrust me, I see," Maeglin says stiffly. "Strange, when half the court thinks you a spy for the Enemy, and your brother his puppet."

"Those accusations," Maglor says, "are older than you by many centuries, and have lost much of their sting. I am not a spy, and Fingon knows that. But you mistake me, Maeglin. I am not determined to mistrust you. I am only worried – for you, not just because of you." He looks directly at Maeglin again. "You are very lonely, I think."

Maeglin lifts his chin. "I am perfectly content," he says, his voice clipped, "and have very little need for your concern, thank you."

Maglor decides to take a risk. "You are not the only one," he says softly, "who knows what it is to drag the weight of a father's madness behind you. I too understand a little of that grief – it is a heavy thing, and solitary. But I am here if you wish to share some of the burden."

But Maeglin bristles. "What do you know of my burdens and my griefs?" he asks, scornful. "Spare me your pity, please. I do not need it – least of all from one cast so low as you. What now is the House of Fëanor but a set of traitors and invalids, clinging to glory they have long-since lost? In truth I think you envy me – envy that the High King trusts me, and gives me duties the likes of which you cannot imagine."

Maglor cannot stifle a laugh at this speech. "Yes," he says, "that must be it."

Maeglin glares at him and then storms out.

"At least you tried," Fingon says later, when Maglor relates the story.

(Some of it, at least. He does not think Fingon will take kindly to hearing about the speculation on his taking a wife; and Fingon is already rather too prone to lashing out at his lords at the moment.)

"You ought to spend more time with him," is all he says. "For your sake as much as his. He is rather too invested in who shall be named your heir, I think."

Fingon smiles drily. "Well, at least someone is looking to the matter of the succession," he says; and when Maglor gives him a Look, he throws his hands in the air and adds, "he's barely out of childhood, Makalaurë! Do you really think he's sneaking about plotting to poison me in my bed? My brother trusted him, clearly."

"Everyone trusted Curvo, too," Maglor mutters, "and look where that got us."

But when Fingon glances sharply at him he subsides. He does not have the appetite to argue with Fingon.

Fingon changes the subject. "I have not heard you speak so of your father before," he says quietly.

Maglor's ears twitch uncomfortably. "How unthinkingly we bound ourselves," he says, "gave up our freedom and our will and our innocence because he asked it of us – and how could we ever do otherwise? He was our father and we would have done anything for him." He draws a shaky breath.

Fingon has his own complicated feelings about his father, but he is simply Not Engaging With Them. "He has been dead a long time, Makalaurë," he says after a moment.

"I know!" Maglor says, bitterly. "I know: and we are still not free. I am tired of it."

Maedhros' name hovers in the air between them. Neither of them speaks it.

"You know my thoughts on your Oath," Fingon murmurs instead. "Chains can be broken, Makalaurë. Just because you have done evil before does not mean you are obliged to do it again." He gives Maglor a sympathetic look. "I am a Kinslayer too, you know."

"Did you tell Nelyo that?" Maglor asks, breaking their unspoken pact, and Fingon flinches.

[this is known as failing the Maedhros Bechdel Test]

After a moment, Maglor says, "I used to think – to hope, even – that maybe you were right, that Lúthien was right to tell me I need not lament forever. But here we are! Five hundred years have passed and the Oath still binds us tightly as ever it did, and he is gone, it has taken him from me once more – must it always be the same story over and over again? Shall I never be singing anything but the Noldolantë – must its themes echo through time for ever? I am tired, Finno."

"I know," says Fingon, "I know," and he puts his arms around Maglor, and Maglor leans shivering into the embrace, but it is not enough.

In Doriath:

Finduilas' entry into Menegroth has gone smoothly, and she is privately beginning to believe that Celebrimbor's fearmongering was just that.

Nobody has stopped her on recognising her (for she came here often, with her father, in the peaceful days of her youth before the Sudden Flame).

Nor does Thingol turn her away when she goes formally to her knees before him in his great throne room, and says, "I have come as an ambassador from Nargothrond, in the name of Orodreth my father."

"Little niece," says Thingol, with a flicker of humour at the corners of his mouth, "strange are the days when you whom I dandled on my knee not so many years ago now come to treat with me as a foreign king. But you will always be welcome in Menegroth, child."

Finduilas beams at him, and feels her confidence wax – until she hears footsteps behind her, which halt abruptly.

"What's this?" Lúthien asks sharply.

Finduilas spins around to face her.

Lúthien looks – good. Flourishing, even. Mortality suits her, adds some shimmering quality of transience to her loveliness, as if some light beyond the circles of this world is already shining through her skin.

A far cry from how she was when Finduilas last saw her, her face blotchy with tears, her nails ragged and torn – help me, cousin, please, let me out—

"Cousin," Finduilas says, summoning up a smile. "I am glad to see you again."

Lúthien ignores the greeting, looking past her to Thingol. "What is the meaning of this, Father?" she demands. "Why have you allowed her past the Girdle?"

Thingol looks troubled. He does not think he has ever seen Lúthien speak with such untempered anger. "The kin of Olwë my brother have always been welcome here, Lúthien," he says.

"Kin," Lúthien repeats. She looks at Finduilas now, her eyes hard. "That is one word for the way they treated me, certainly."

"I am sorry, cousin," Finduilas breathes. "I did not look to find you here, or else I would have come prepared with some gift of apology for you: but it is for that reason that I have come to plead Nargothrond's case with your father, because I am ashamed of how things happened, we are all ashamed – and my father has cast the sons of Fëanor out of the city—"

"I know that," says Lúthien, "they tried to kill me after he did so, you know."

Finduilas bites her lip. This is not going at all how she pictured it.

Lúthien makes a disgusted sound. "I can't do this," she says, and turns to her father again. "Either she leaves or I do," she says; "you know ultimatums are not my habit, Father, but I will not dwell under the same roof as she again."

She walks out.

Once she is gone Finduilas falls to her knees again. "Uncle," she says, "uncle, please. I have come for the sake of both our realms – please, give me another chance."

Thingol's eyes are colder now. "It is not my intention," he says, "to go against my daughter's wishes again."

"Let me make it right with her," Finduilas pleads, "she has every right to be angry, but I would see our old friendship renewed, if I can."

Thingol hesitates a moment, and Finduilas holds her breath. If he turns her away now, it will all have been in vain—

But at last he nods, and Finduilas is directed to Lúthien's favourite haunt, a clearing aboveground (for Lúthien above all other Elves cannot bear to be caged out of sight of the sky).

She stiffens when Finduilas comes across her. "Still here?"

"I know you are angry," Finduilas says, in a low voice, "and I have come to apologise. I should have protested harder when Celegorm sought to imprison you – I should have found some way to set you free – forgive me, cousin. It was not what I wanted: and I was not brave enough to speak against them."

Lúthien makes no indication that she accepts the apology. "Why have you come here, Finduilas?" she asks. "You were never the sort to pay much attention to politics."

Finduilas chews at her lip. "Nargothrond is weakened," she admits. "My father does his best, but after what the sons of Fëanor did – our unity is failing. Nor is he willing to ally with the High King in the north. I would not have us lose all the friends we once had."

"The friends you had," Lúthien says casually, "when Finrod was your King."

Finduilas does not want to agree, does not want to acknowledge that her father is not the king his brother was. But perhaps her silence is agreement enough.

"So you are here to win back Doriath's might," Lúthien muses, "afraid, perhaps, of the prospect of it mustered against you."

Finduilas feels hot with embarassment. "No – no, you mistake me, cousin," she says. "I want to make things right. Nargothrond grieves what was done to you."

"Nargothrond," Lúthien says, her voice now very sharp, "was complicit in it, every single one of you who were too afraid to do what you knew you be right, too cowed by the sons of Fëanor of all people – two cowards who were bested by Beren and a dog, a dog who had more courage in his heart than your whole rotten city put together—" She draws a furious breath.

Finduilas blinks back tears. "I am ashamed of it," she says unhappily.

"But you still do not think you are really to blame," Lúthien says. "Dear little Finduilas, o best-loved niece and least-noticed daughter, the last princess of the Noldor: who could ever fault you for anything? Why do you think my father allowed you to stay? He too holds you blameless in all Nargothrond's failings, naught but a pretty spectator." She looks coldly at Finduilas. "I do not. You should have done better. You should have helped me." She pauses, as if gathering her strength for the blow, and then adds, "Finrod would have lived, had you helped me."

Finduilas draws a breath.

"I was only hours too late for him," Lúthien says, very softly, her eyes distant. "Had I come sooner, he would have been saved." She shudders, and then looks at Finduilas again. "So do not speak to me now of Nargothrond's troubles. They are of their own making."

Finduilas' eyes are stinging again. "Tales are told of your friendship with the eldest sons of Fëanor," she says angrily, "and yet you will not spare so much as a sliver of pity for your own kin?"

Lúthien shrugs, undeterred by the barb. "Call it selfishness, perhaps," she says. "Darling little cousin, did you think to take me for your model, to come here and win my father's quarter with your smile, and carry home some great boon? Give it up. You are not me."

"Does it mean nothing that I am sorry?" Finduilas cries. "Perhaps I am not brave like you, or clever like you, or so well-favoured by the Valar: but I grieve what was done to you! Does that not count for anything?"

"Not really," says Lúthien; "not until you are willing to realise the part you played in it." She looks at Finduilas then and manages a smile, a real one. "You are part of this world too, coz, a strand of the Great Music just as much as all these great lords and princes. Own it: and once you have done so perhaps we might reach some sort of understanding. But for now there is little I can say to you."

Finduilas walks away at that, and Lúthien manages to exhale.

She was harsh, she knows. Unfair, to blame Finduilas for all Nargothrond's crimes, to think of the blood underneath Lúthien's own ragged fingernails as she clawed desperately at the door and pin it all on her little cousin as though she was Lúthien's sole gaoler.

It was Sauron, Lúthien reminds herself, who killed Finrod.

Still she cannot keep the hot tears of guilt from her eyes.

Back outside the Girdle:

Celebrimbor is still Bored.

He is also quite worried about how angry Orodreth is going to be with him for absconding to Doriath with Finduilas.

It would have been easier, he thinks sometimes, had he left Nargothrond with his father and uncle.

Not better. Not right. But easier, maybe.

If Finrod had lived, if he had been the king Celebrimbor had thrown his allegiance behind, it would have been better received, he is sure.

But he could not have gone with his father either, he reasons to himself. Look what became of Curufin! Nobody even knows where he is; but the stain of his deeds marks all Beleriand yet.

Perhaps Celebrimbor might have stopped him and Celegorm from attacking Beren and Lúthien, had he been there.

Perhaps Huan would have stayed – would have lived, if Celebrimbor had been there.

Easy to fantasise. But Celebrimbor did nothing when he had the chance, did not speak against his father and Celegorm until it was too late to mean anything, left Lúthien sobbing in her lonely gaol instead of working to free her.

Lost in these unhappy musings, he does not at first notice how quiet the forest has grown: but there are no birds singing, suddenly, and the rustle of small mammals through the undergrowth has stilled.

It might be the Girdle, and the strange effects of Melian's magic, Celebrimbor reasons to himself.

Then he hears the growl.

The problem is – for just one crucial moment – his traitorous heart stills – and he thinks, Huan is here, he is come back for me as he always did—

The wolf-pack is lining the clearing by the time he realises his mistake, cutting off his chance of running.

Ah.

Celebrimbor has seen true wolves before, as a child in Valinor.

Once his father took him on a hunting-trip in the wilds near Formenos, just the two of them, and bade him be very quiet when they came to the sparse northern plains; and then he whispered in Celebrimbor's ear, Look! and, looking, Celebrimbor caught sight of an animal nearly bigger than Huan and snow-white all over, with a fine thick tail and a proud snout.

Typical, he thinks now, that Sauron could have perverted even so noble a beast: for the werewolves surrounding him now are mangy and thin, their frames twisted in the same painful way orcs are built, their eyes like dull hungry flames flickering in their heads.

It is not fair, a childish part of him wants to cry out, Tol-in-Gaurhoth was cast down, there should be no wolves roaming these lands now—

But Celebrimbor is a Scientist. He knows better than to trust what he believes over what he sees.

He scales a tree.

The wolves close in around its base, snarling up at him.

No Carcharoths, these, only relics of Sauron's experiments: but that will not matter, when their teeth sink into him.

Everything about you is derivative, some ugly voice seems to whisper to Celebrimbor, its sibilance woven into the wolves' growls; Celegorm your uncle was slain by a greater beast than these poor prototypes, and Finrod Felagund whom you loved at least saved another before they killed him, but you are going to die here, alone and forgotten and unmourned—

Celebrimbor grits his teeth, and ignores it.

He is not going to jump out of the tree to some foolish death. He is going to live forever, and leave a greater mark on the world than that of his father the traitor – he will not end like this—

Besides, Finduilas is expecting him to wait for her.

He leans against the trunk of the tree and settles in for a long night.

By the morning things are rather more dire.

The wolves have not tired; Celebrimbor, on the other hand, is very thirsty, and also growing worried for a new reason.

Finduilas is expecting him to wait for her.

If she comes back to the clearing where she left him, and the wolves decide she is an easier target—

She could perhaps run back to the safety of the Girdle in time – but the wolves are fast, and hungry.

Celebrimbor briefly imagines riding alone back to Nargothrond to inform Orodreth that his daughter is dead.

No: he will have to find a way to drive the wolves away, and quickly, for he does not know how much longer his cousin will be.

He grips his sword-hilt and then hesitates.

There is a pressure on the back of his neck, an oddly disapproving one, as though to say, Don't even think about it, child.

"I am not a child," Celebrimbor says aloud, and the wolves look up at him, snarling as though in agreement.

Finduilas is in danger, Celebrimbor reminds himself, and then he draws his sword and jumps down from his branch.

The wolves are upon him almost instantly. There are many of them, but Celebrimbor is quick, and moreover learned to fight wrestling with Huan long before he was ever given a sword.

He ducks and weaves and rolls, slashing with his sword as best as he can; but then one wolf lands a lucky blow with his claws on his thigh, and another collides with him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the ground—

Celebrimbor closes his eyes, and does not bother to cry out, for nobody will hear him.

Then he has the brief muddled impression of a thud, and sudden pressure on his chest, and then before he can catch his breath or work out what is going on the weight on his legs is lifted, and someone is snapping at him, "Get up, Tyelpë!" and his sword is suddenly back in his hand—

Celebrimbor knows that voice. He scrambles to his feet.

Standing before him, currently locked in a struggle with one of the last few wolves, dishevelled and bloodied but very much alive, is his father.

(to be continued)

[reignpage]

Lying To Himself

Content: in which toji is left alone and how he deals with your temporary absence

You have to leave for two weeks, something about a mission in another city. Your boyfriend, Toji, swears it'll be okay, even insists that time will pass by in a blink of an eye. 

“‘m not a fucking child, ma. I’ll be fine. Just take care, yeah?”

And so, you peck him on his lips and wave goodbye before you get in the car. Then you’re disappearing in the distance. Toji shrugs, going back in feeling pretty excited to have the house to himself for two weeks — this has never happened before. As he sits on the couch, bottle of beer in one hand and tv remote on the other, he thinks about all the things he can do now.

The toilet seat can stay up, the bins will be full for longer, same goes for the dirty dishes in the sink, and he can watch whatever he wants; no more of those sappy romcoms with predictable plots and cheesy lines. 

“’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, a growing grin on his face. 

A couple days pass in relative silence, he stays out late, sleeps till noon and eats all the junk you’ve banned from the house. Toji cooks all the steak he wants and leaves the beer bottles to collect dust on the coffee table. And he accepts every invitation from his buddies to go out for drinks, watch basketball at the bar, and plays a couple games too.

He stays up all night, on the evenings he's not getting stupid drunk, playing videogames -- the violent ones you cringe at. During the day, he walks around the place in just his boxers, sometimes not even that, and it's liberating. All a man needs is to be free to be balls naked in their own kitchen.

"You're not missing her at all?" Shiu asks, smoke blowing in his face as they stand in the back alley, leaning against the wall of the bar.

Toji snorts. "What am I? Five years old? I can last a couple weeks without being sappy."

His friend gives him a look, half amused, half disbelieving and a hundred percent smug. None of them miss the death grip he has on his phone, the way his knee is bouncing, and how he isn't even looking at the hot chicks that sway their asses as they walk by.

It’s been great. Really fucking great. 

You haven’t been texting much. Sure, you check in here and there, letting him know you’re alright, you’re safe, and making sure he’s watered your plants. However, there are rarely any opportunities for phone calls longer than five minutes, no FaceTime either, and sometimes he goes to sleep without a ‘goodnight’ from you. 

It’s fine. 

At least, he can sleep at whatever time he wants without you whining about needing cuddles.

More days pass just like that. 

And now he’s rarely leaving the house, finding his drunk friends boring, obnoxiously loud. It’s like he's suddenly realised they’re kinda fucking stupid. He starts to get sick of all the steak and fried chicken and takeaway, and instead he’ll text you for the recipe of your lasagne or that smoothie you make him in the mornings that’s always greener than the last. 

His feet tap on the floor when you don’t reply straight away. And when his phone lights up, he practically dives for it and grips it tight in his palm, screen threatening to crack when it’s not from you. 

“God fucking dammit, Shiu. Don’t fucking talk to me if it’s not important.”

The movies he’s been dying to watch are pretty shit. There’s no depth, no proper pacing, and the dialogue’s cheesy as fuck. Usually, you’d throw popcorn at the screen and complain about all those things, but he finds that he has to mutter them to himself for white noise. Even smirks when he thinks he got it exactly right, guessing what you’d say as if you’re yapping right in his ear. 

“She’d totally find that shit stupid. And that blood looks fake as fuck. What was the fucking budget for this shit?”

Most of the phone calls on his history log are from him, more reds than greens. What the fuck have they got you doing over there anyways? 

When you do reply to his ‘g’night’ and ‘hey, sleep well?’, he’ll have a go at you for taking so damn long. It’s just fucking ridiculous that you’re clearly sleeping well when he has to hit the gym and tire himself out to even get an hour of shut eye nowadays. Sometimes, he can’t even get any and he just paces the length of the living room waiting for a notification from you to pop up. 

“Fucking come on! Y'r phone better be dead or something.”

Toji hates having dinner on the table; the seat opposite him is empty, the placemat bare and he feels a freaky fucking soreness in his chest. When that happens, he never finishes his dinner. Must be a symptom of early heart disease. Gotta talk to the doctors about that. 

Instead, he eats on the sofa or in his car.

Eventually, you find time to speak to him for an hour, recounting all the crazy things you’ve seen and had to do. He doesn’t interrupt, he just grunts here and there, not even really listening but he urges you to keep talking when there’s a pause, like you’re unsure if you’re talking too much. And when you try to turn the conversation on him, asking about his day, he gives one word answers and then throws you another question. 

“Yeah?” He grunts. “What else? Speak up, ma. Wanna hear ya. D’ya go to that shop? Yeah? Y’ buy anything? Send me a picture.”

He gets two nights of decent sleep after that.

But then…

The guys at work know better than to open their fat mouths around him when he turns up with an extra wrinkle and a ticking in his jaw. Toji is somehow even more sadistic and violent and eager for blood. Even finally accepts their invitation to go out for drinks and drowns himself in the extra strong shit. Assuming he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, they don’t question his sour mood. 

But what they don’t know is that you texted, just a day before you’re set to come back, to let him know you’re staying another week. 

Fucking texted. 

Didn’t even get to hear it from your own voice. 

He buries himself in more work and stays at the gym for even longer, pushing his body so far, his mind quiets down and he don’t gotta think about the fact that he’s started sleeping on your side of the bed, that the house is losing your scent, and that divot on the couch where you always sat has flattened out. 

Everyone knows he’s losing his mind. They can tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he’s started snapping at women who are either flirting or just doing their jobs. And sometimes they even have to block his view of couples practising PDA. That’s the closest to hell they ever want to get around Toji. Suddenly, everyone’s hoping you throw the guy a bone and send a nude or something. Literally anything to rein him back in.

The day comes, though, when you’re finally returning home. 

“Y’ sure? Not gonna flake again? Be fucking sure, ma. Alright, get back safe.”

Toji throws all the rubbish out, washes the dishes and dries them, double checks that the toilet seat is down, and he’s followed your recipe for beef stew to the letter — it’s cooking in the oven, and it looks fucking great. Even exfoliated in the shower like you’ve been asking him to, almost took off an entire layer of skin. He doesn’t want to admit he feels pretty fucking fresh. 

The door handle rattles. 

He sits up. And then stands. Walks over to the front door, arms crossing and then uncrossing. 

You’re here. 

“Hey, Toji—“

Your greeting is smothered in his chest as he threatens to suffocate you with the hardest bear hug in the whole world. And though he’d never hurt you, if you weren’t a sorcerer, you’d have been in big trouble. 

“Y’ hungry? Or y’ wanna shower first?”

His hands are all over you, lifting your chin to search your face for any scratches, even squishes your cheeks to be sure, and he’s patting you down for bruises or just to make sure all your limbs are intact. There’s a frown on his lips and it’s pretty darn cute. 

“Aw, Toji, baby. Did you miss me?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not a child, blah blah blah.”

Walking past him to take your shoes off, hang your coat and roll your suitcase to the side, you’re inhaling the air and moaning about the delicious food in the oven. Oh, God. You’ve been craving homemade food for so long now. You might actually die if you don’t eat. 

“Come here.” Your eyes dart to him, still standing by the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching. Toji looks furious. You look closer. No, he looks…embarrassed? “Said come here, ma.”

“Why?” You ask, head titling in curiosity and slight suspicion. 

He grunts. “What? I gotta spell it out for ya?”

Laughing, you tap your foot on the ground and retort back, “Yeah, you might because you need to have a good reason from keeping me from both a good shower and a warm meal.”

Toji rolls his eyes and stalks over to you, yanking you back to his chest so he can wrap his arms around you and keep you still. It’s much softer than before, but you feel the same sense of passion, something that verges on desperation.

It’s almost like…

No. 

It can’t be. 

Oh, but when you feel his face bury itself in your neck and you hear that long inhale, followed by a deep groan vibrating through his chest, you’re absolutely sure. 

Toji missed you. 

An overwhelming feeling of love fills you, so does a sense of victory, and you just hug him back, inhaling deeply too. He smells like home, like reluctant cuddles, pats on the ass, and early morning sex. You thought you’d have the most trouble in the two weeks, which turned into three, but as it turns out, he didn’t fare much better. 

Though he’d never admit it with his own mouth, his body betrays him.

Toji doesn’t let you get very far without a hand on you somehow, whether that’s a hand on your thigh as you eat dinner side by side, instead of across from each other, or you sitting on his lap as you watch the movie you want to watch. He even waits on the toilet lid as you shower, though that only lasts a couple minutes before he’s stripping and joining you. 

“Y’r not washing y’r hair right,” he tuts. 

Getting into bed is even worse because he’s practically lying on top of you the whole night, still sniffing your neck, and with his hands exploring your body. Not really in a sexual way, which is odd for him, but as if he just wants to feel you. He wants to feel your warmth, your softness, and reassure himself you’re home. 

Soon, he’s out cold and you mumble a goodnight against his forehead.

He wakes up feeling completely refreshed, like a newborn, stretching and grinning about getting ready with the day, and frowns when you’re still fast asleep. Part of him wants to make sure you’re getting your rest, but that part doesn’t win for very long and the much bigger part is shaking you awake.

“Come on, ma. Fucking bored here. Wake up, yeah? Let’s get some breakfast. Wanna talk to ya.” 

And when you do wake up, grumbling at how loud he’s being, he ignores the glares you’re giving and the swatting of his hands. Toji gives you a rare, wide, toothy smile and he says, 

“There’s my gorgeous girl. Good morning, baby.”

Yeah, this man totally missed you.