#but regardless of that I had to share this

[alexmasonistired]

Id like to start this off by saying that this is an absolutely lovely post; thank you OP for making it. Now I would like to share our own experience with the education system in general, and what our state called- “Critical minds classes”.

Now if you don’t know what that is- it’s a thing in our state where 30 kids are chosen by the state to go into these special critical minds classes. We in particular were put in critical minds math and let me tell ya- IT FUCKING SUCKED.

All the class was, was us sitting in a certain spot that we could not move from the ENTIRE OVER AN HOUR THAT WE WERE IN THERE in SILENCE while working on these list of MathXL links. And if you know how MathXL works- yeahhh it was absolutely awful. Some of the worst parts of that class though, was that we had to keep our bags up front the entire time and we wouldn’t get anything because we wasn’t allowed out of our seat, and worst of all- the teacher that lead the class, always seemed like she just didn’t wanna be there. She felt intimidating to us so we never were able to approach her with our getting insanely nervous. She reminded us of the bodies mother with the way she looked so that made it worse. (Also edit: I just remembered- I believe for a good chunk of the first half of the semester she was watching our computers??)

Btw- remeber those check lists of MathXL links that I mentioned earlier??? Yeah. There was like- 18-20 of those links on these checklists that we used to have a month to complete! But then it was shortened to only a WEEK because the semester was ending and she needed to get grades in ig.

We had a whole ass panic attack infront of our history teacher becuase we were on list SIX, and there was TEN of these things to do. And I swear it felt like each list just had more links- we fucking hated it. I believe we finally made it to list eight before we eventually gave up and let the burn out take us over and just wrote in our diary the entire period. Except for the days we had quizzes and did blookets, which was hardly ever. At that point we were just SO fucking done of just not being able to understand ANYTHING put in front of us no matter how hard we tried. We just barely passed that class with a D.

I also remeber that we went to summer school after seventh grade because our grades were so low our teachers didn’t know if they could pass us. It was the same with in fifth grade, the teachers were nervous to let us go into middle school because we were just barely passing. Our grades were that bad.

We got to this point(the whole critical minds math thing and giving up,) because ever since like- second grade, we had been having massive trouble with math and grades and over all just confidence in general. Especially in the math field.

I remember we began cheating on a lot of our assignments and tests in second grade because our confidence had been bumped down that badly, and we just couldn’t really understand it. Or at least I believe that we couldn’t understand it- I’ll get into second grade math in another post. Regardless, we ended up sizing cheating as a last ditch effort a lot in school because we got to a point where we felt like we didn’t have a choice.

We would try so hard at something in math, only for our brain not being able to remember it, how to do it, and for it to also not make sense in our brain. It absolutely crushed us one day when we ended up in an argument with the father one day over another bad math grade and we yelled: “Is my best not enough not for you!?” And he just yelled back: “NO!” That day crushed us. The father always says that we just weren’t applying ourselves enough, which hurt even MORE because we WERE applying ourselves more, we WERE trying, and as hard as we could too! But we can only do so much, but it honestly seems like the parents, especially the father, just cannot realize that. And it hurts us, so much.

We always saw our friends in school absolutely soar and it was fucking awful how they would be getting into honors classes, getting to go up a grade or even graduate early, and then we would be sitting here in what is supposed to be an “extra help” class when in reality it didn’t help us at all. Due to our mental disabilities/Illnesses, we weren’t able to learn like the other kids were able too. All we’ve ever wanted was to be smart enough to be able to fly through school like our friends, study efficiently, and get our diploma normally like any other kid, but no. We didn’t have that experience and we never will due to our life and the way that our brain works and we fucking hate it.

There was also of times where we felt stupid, useless, and pathetic for not being able to keep up with our allistic, and non-ADHD-having peers. It especially was rough considering that that was the standard our parents set us too all the time, and we just could not reach the standards that she and the father set for us.

We tried tutoring a few times, but it honestly didn’t help much either. We never ever got the help that we needed growing up and I know that we never will get the help we need. And I hate it. So many people failed us when it came to education and I look back and can’t help but feel bad for us. We were just a young, neurodivergent kid with a dissociative disorder along with many other disorders alone with it, and a complete mess too. A mess that no one really bothered to help with. It was awful.

What we needed back then was one-on-one assistance with someone who could understand us and what was going on with us, we never got that. And that was because everyone around us failed us. Either failing to recognize our needs, or just not thinking that we needed them because it wasn’t super duper obvious that we did.

Kinda fucked up that we all coo and sympathize with "former gifted kids" but never talk about the students who had to stay late after school or over the summer for remedial classes/clubs, who struggled to get above a C, who were given up on or punished. Who tried so hard to understand or just couldn't. Who were grouped with the "stupid kids" (a classmate called us that in remedial math btw)

Autistic kids and adhders who can't relate to their gifted peers and are constantly alienated by them. Kids who struggled in school due to dealing with a chronic or mental illness or physical/learning/developmental disability. Those of us who have had to drop out of highschool or college. Kids who worked so hard and wanted to be seen as smart, but never were. Who watched as their peers seem to fly by them in school, while they were left behind. Who were bullied and put down by those in the gifted and honors classes. Whose confidence was absolutely destroyed by education.

I love you all and I'm so sorry the school system failed you. I'm sorry you weren't properly accommodated and given the education you deserved. I'm sorry people put you down for something that they never had to fight for.

[felassanis]

I genuinely think Lavellan is the first relationship Solas has had. Especially an explicitly romantic one.

Veilguard Spoilers ahead. But regardless of what the primary nature of his relationship with Mythal was. There clearly was an infatuation. A dedication so raw back then that I genuinely don't think Solas was looking at anyone else but Mythal. Either because he longed for her in some (arguably unrequited) capacity or the loyalty he had for her trumped any other distractions.

But then. She dies. And he grieves, and he ultimately destroys the world in that grief. And he's spent thousands of years away from Mythal. And while he's still obviously dedicated to her, the rawness of that bond has simmered.

And then he meets Lavellan.

"It's been a long time," he says when you tease him about him using fade tongue. And while yes, you could see this as Solas confirming he has had prior romantic relationships. I actually think it refers to Mythal, to the fact it's been a long time since he's felt so close to somebody.

We know ancient elves felt operated differently than modern-day elves when it came to expression in a relationship. What we think is romantic might not have been as such back then. So I'm NOT saying Solas is inexperienced, but rather, I do think the only bond he's had that consumed him completely, that was loving, was Mythal. Until he meets Lavellan.

There is a genuine...newness to the relationship. There are so many instances where Solas seems so mildly surprised by Lavellan's actions. For the care she puts into their relationship. My favourite being when Lavellan promises to protect him in Haven from anyone looking to hurt him because he's an apostate elf. The way his eyes widen and he says "...thank you," like he's never experienced someone looking out for him so...outwardly. So willing to put his safety as a priority. (And that makes me sob cause oh my god I wonder if anyone cared about Solas's safety ever)

And I genuinely think his bond to Mythal coloured Solas's expectations when it comes to any relationship, especially a romantic one. It's like Solas isn't used to someone reciprocating HIS feelings lmao. And that's doubly apparent in the Solavellan ending, I think. Lavellan and Solas's interactions are so interesting because Solas GENUINELY has not let himself believe for nearly 10 years that Lavellan forgave him. Cannot believes she is even there, willing and wanting to save him from himself.

This does not strike me as someone who's used to relationships. To the give and take. The safety. The sustainability....

I think Solas spent so long yearning for the reciprocation he never received from Mythal only to get it finally with Lavellan. He longed for Mythal to reciprocate, and she didn't. Not until she finally shared the burden of their actions at the end. And there is no comfort in that burden now being acknowledged by her. She releases him from her service and vanishes as he's left to double over by himself.

At least he would be, but lavellan is there to lower herself to his level and comfort him. They're equals where Solas and Mythal were not. Solas is not Lavellan's lapdog. And she is not warped and changed by him as she offered to do so back in Trespasser. He didn't let her come with him to avoid the fate that befell him when he followed Mythal. They're Partners. Lovers.

And even THEN. EVEN THEN. Solas is shocked Lavellan wants to go with him to the Fade. To the point his eyes tear up, he CRIES. Warning her away but you can see in his face he is fucking DESPERATE for her to follow. Because he wants to love and have that love returned at long last.

And it is. It finally is.

[cannibalisation]

every inch of me is full of pain

luigi mangione/fem!reader

idgaf how anyone feels abt the ethics of writing ff for luigi, ppl literally be writing for the worst individuals ever so… 🤷🏻‍♀️ and i will add that this fic is not a reflection or representation of luigi, i aim to humanise him in the ways the media won’t. tumblr pls don’t ban me 🙏🏻 (1.1k words)

caution. rpf, reader and lu have matching chronic pains lol, ambiguous relationship (yearnful situationship type 😈), flower symbolism, set before his incarceration.

THE grip held on your own palm is unbearable. The metallic stench of blood breathes through the crevasses of your skin. The pain of the wounds has generally died down now, leaving only the numbing sting of regret.

Luigi is asleep; you couldn’t bear to wake him up.

It was a deal the two of you shook on. If the pain was too much to endure alone, you’d let the other know. It was mutually beneficial, this relationship.

No, you weren’t dating; he introduces you to others as a friend, and you do the same with a racing heart. It was more of an oath, a pledge between two bodies, tied to the earth by a turn of phrase.

His body is warm beside you, rising softly with each breath. His back faces you head-on, the ripples of muscle and skin stretched with growth are prominent in the dim light of your bedroom.

A breath hitches in your throat. How domestic it is for him to be like this. Safe and content in the comfort of your bed. Normally you’d laugh at the scene of him swaddled up in the blush-coloured sheets—teasing him at the idea of the forget-me-not flower patterns. But now, all it does is let guilt pool in your gut.

Your hand trembles under the weight of your form as you press it against the mattress. He is safe here; you hope to keep him safe for as long as possible.

With a dismissive scoff, you pull up off the bed, and it squeaks under the release of your form. These thoughts aren’t good for your conscience; you'd hate to let it make you keel over.

The hallway is dark, but after the past month and a half of living here, you’ve become used to it. While you navigate the length of your apartment, an all-too-familiar pain builds in your lower back.

The winter weather fell short on aid when it came to your aches; you could only pray that the wind wouldn’t shatter you whole.

A faint light bursts through the kitchen curtain, leaving a hollow glow of orange. Regardless of the chilling air, the light brings warmth to the room. Non-fluorescent lights were always a must in your living spaces; they were the most efficient to your mind.

Green tea typically helped with the heated fuss of pain, but you had forgotten to grab some during your last stop at the grocery store. Luigi had been kind enough to offer to go and purchase some for you, but you had declined. It was a rainy day when he did; you wouldn’t ask him to go forth into it just because of your poor decisions.

The effects are more placebo-like in your mind anyway.

Cinnamon has always been a common item in your pantry, on account of your mother’s teachings. Paired with the acidic juice of a lemon, the tea proves worthy to combat the stir of aches and pains.

The water will take a few minutes to boil, and even then it will be too loud. Perhaps it would be best to have lukewarm tea, just so the squeal of the kettle doesn’t wake Luigi up.

He bears a similar inflection to you. That’s really the main reason as to why you both get along so well. There’s a reciprocal understanding, one that is unknown to everyone else. You don’t expect anyone else to be aware of it—nor do you want them to be.

No words have to be shared for the pair of you to understand.

The moment the kettle starts to let out a faint whistle, you pull it off of the stove.

A rich aroma of cinnamon fills the space, and you already start to feel the tension leave your spine. As you reach out for the handle of the refrigerator door, a pair of mellow footsteps sounds out from the dark hallway. Despite your mindful precautions, you still somehow managed to wake him up.

The jug of milk is heavy in your grasp as you briefly lock eyes. His are sleep-ridden and squinty; it almost causes a smile to form on your face.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

The hushed tone leaves your throat, croaky with lack of use. Luigi stands to the side of you, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. The shirt he has on is straining over his shoulders; it’s one you recognise as yours. He had a habit of raiding your wardrobe whenever he was over.

“You should’ve.” Was all he said back, voice equally as quiet. From the corner of your eye, you see as he brushes a hand through his messy curls. He’s stood beside you now, lent down so he could rest against the kitchen counter.

In a show of guilt, you smile lacklusterly. It was a part of the deal to make sure the other knew when it got particularly bad—but something in your heart was telling you to act differently.

How would you know if he were to do the same? How many sleepless nights has Luigi gone through merely because he didn’t want to burden you with it?

The tea is hot against your lips; the cinnamon is overpowering, but you like it; at least that makes you feel something. The liquid is murky; the milk manages to convince you that it’s anything but a placebo-featured remedy. Hot chocolate would be nicer.

You tilt the mug towards Luigi as an invitation. He takes a moment to peer into your eyes, like he’s searching for something so specific it’s unseen to the naked eye. The eye contact makes your heart pound wildly, the intensity of his gaze picking at you like one would whilst analysing a century-old painting.

Unfazed by his own sudden actions, he takes the mug from your hand with a hushed “Thanks,” and you lean back against the counter. You subtly push at your sternum, aiming to quiet your racing heart.

Silence envelops the room once more, and somehow, you couldn’t be more at ease. Luigi has a knack for making you flustered but always manages to keep you sane. His presence beside you is anchoring. It’s a lingering feeling, warmer than any cup of cinnamon tea. You wonder, does he feel the same about you? Does he feel content, just alone, in your company?

The mug is handed back to you with a gentle brush of touch. He doesn’t flinch at the contact, so you don’t either.

“Lu,” you start, teeth tugging at your lips, “I’m.. tired.”

He hums, bringing his hand up past your shoulder. His fingers start to toy with the baby hairs at your neck.

He says nothing, and neither do you.

No words have passed, and yet, you’ve both said all that was necessary.

[mikailakay]

You seem to assume that Harry already had a fully formed identity as a toddler or an inherent essence embedded into his soul that defines him regardless of how his environment shaped him. That is simply not true. That’s not how human personalities and behavior develop in real life. Due to the significant differences in Lily’s and Harry’s lives and upbringings, it’s clear to me that these two couldn't be more different in terms of personality and how their minds interacted with the world. While they might share some surface-level traits, such as stubbornness, a sense of justice, and martyrdom, these traits do not tell us who a person actually is, and that applies to Lily and Harry as well. These traits could easily be present in other individuals who still act in opposite ways and could also manifest completely differently in both Lily and Harry.

What makes a full personality is the interplay of traits within the context of a person’s behavioral patterns, decision-making, worldview, relationships, emotional processes, problem-solving, and more. So while I agree that the narrative suggests Lily and Harry share some surface-level traits that are unique to them and distinguish them from others, I also believe these traits manifest differently in each of them and that their full personalities and mental processes function in very different ways. Comparing them symbolically makes sense, but comparing them individually does not.

harry potter is NOT james potter.

I love parallels. I love people reminding others of those they've lost along the way.

But Harry Potter is not James . And that is so vital to his entire character.

When people see Harry, they see James. They see a James who sees the world through Lily's eyes. When they see Harry, they don't see Harry.

And that is so vital to his entire being. It's vital to how people see Harry. The people that didn't know James, see the Boy-Who-Lived.

The people who did, who were close to Harry, to James, to Lily. They see James and Lily Potter. They see the people who died, people they were close to, people they miss every day but will never see again.

Remus, Sirius, Snape, McGonagall.

At first, they see James and Lily. And then when they meet him - apart from Snape- they quickly realise he is anything but.

Harry is not arrogant, rich, spoilt. He doesn't have an ego, he doesn't play pranks, he isn't a chaser, he doesn't pick fights.

Harry isn't exceptionally bright at everything he does, he isn't inconceivably forgiving for those who don't deserve it.

He is not Lily and James.

When peole write Harry as a golden retriever, as effortlessly good at everything, they aren't writing about Harry.

Harry who grew up not wanted. Harry who grew up believing something was wrong with him. Harry who was forced into the wizarding world with no knowledge. Harry who is as stubborn as a mule,. Harry who is loyal to a fault, who forgives those he loves, Harry who isn't his parents.

He has traits of them, their anger, their ability to love, and much much more.

BUT Harry Potter isn't them. He isn't the 'best of them both' he isn't James or Lily or Sirius or Regulus.

Harry Potter is Harry. Just Harry.

And that is why he doesn't get along ith Snape. That's why McGonagall believes Harry dragged Neville out for a joke in first year.

When people see Harry, they don't see Harry. And by writing Harry as somebody else, or as 'so-and-so's child' you're not doing the character justice.

'I want a complex character with complex relationships'

'i want an angry character'

'i want to read a book that makes me think'

you couldn't even handle Harry Potter.

[eddiazx]

stuck on you - eddie diaz x reader

based on this request: Do you take requests? I was hoping for an Eddie x reader where they were friends in high school but lost touch and they end up meeting again when Eddie's on a call...

It was supposed to be a routine call.

Two people stuck in an elevator in the building with no injuries; only one of them with asthma who was getting anxious cooped up in the metal box. 

“LAFD! Step back, we’re coming in!” Eddie calls out, before prying open the elevator doors with a Halligan. Eddie sees an older woman, presumably the one with asthma, with the way she held a hand to her chest. Surprisingly, the woman had a bright smile on her face and didn’t look too shaken up. 

“You okay, ma’am?” Eddie questions while looking her over, quickly assessing whether she was having any shortness of breath or wheezing. 

“Yes, I had lovely company to keep me sane.” The woman responds cheerily, nodding towards the other person in the elevator before Eddie directs her out towards Chim. 

The other person laughs, and Eddie follows the melodic sound. A melodic sound that sounded oh so familiar. He looks at the person, he looks at you, and flashbacks hit him like a film reel. Passing notes to each other in English class, sneaking into rated-R horror movies, staying up late at night to talk about fears and life plans, and finally, the long, lingering hug that the two of you shared before you got into the car to move across the country with your parents. His best friend during his most formative years; the one who he had wanted to be more before your time together was cut short.

You somehow look even better, the years treating you extremely well. Regardless of your age, Eddie could easily recognize the mischievous smile and bright eyes that landed the two of you in trouble many times during his childhood.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie smiles softly at you. 

“Eddie.” You breathe in disbelief, eyes already glistening with unshed happy tears, before you throw your arms around his neck in a tight hug. Chim and Hen exchange glances and raise eyebrows at this, but neither Eddie nor you could be bothered to explain right then.

Eddie closes his eyes and cradles your head, his nose filled with the scent of you. The relief, the feeling of finding the last puzzle piece of his heart, the feeling of being home, overwhelms him. 

Somehow the seemingly regular call ended up being the one that Eddie would never forget.

[voxina]

JADE has recalled her stint on The X Factor, saying she didn’t know anyone who came away from the show without “some sort of mental health issue”.

The singer-songwriter featured on the talent search programme in 2011 and joined girl group Little Mix when she was 18 years old, an experience she has reflected on in a new interview with The Independent.

The ‘Angel Of My Dreams’ singer admitted that being on The X Factor involved adjusting to “pretty fucked up” things, namely sharing bunk beds with other female contestants, regardless of age.

“Even at 18, I knew there were people who weren’t mentally well in there, keeping everyone up at night,” she said. “I don’t know if there was even security outside the house. It’s scary to think about now, but I was too young to realise that at the time.”

Her comments come after many entertainment world figures have demanded more protections be put in place for young artists following the death of One Direction star Liam Payne, who auditioned for The X Factor during the same series as Thirlwall.

Although she didn’t address Payne’s passing directly, she did mention thinking the series “had to end” after its 2018 conclusion.

“I don’t think that kind of show can exist any more. We’re in a different place now,” she added. “We wouldn’t put someone that’s mentally unwell on a TV screen and laugh at them while they sing terribly. The concept of a joke act on a show is just cruel.”

She said the concept was “all very Roman empire” while joking that it was the “best training ever” for her to enter the music industry. On a more sombre note, she continued: “I don’t know anyone that’s come off that show and not had some sort of mental health issue on the back of it.”

Thirwall also admitted to feeling “conflicted” about criticising the show. “It changed my life,” she explained. “I was from a very normal working-class family up north, I had tried sending demos in to labels, I’d gigged all over, I was doing everything I could to make it, and I needed a show like that to give me a chance.”

She continued to say that she’d guess “five per cent of the people that went on there have come out of it not unscathed, but having survived; the other 95 per cent have suffered in silence.”

Reflecting on how people readjust to normal life after participating in something like The X Factor, she said: “How do you go from being on that show to back to your nine-to-five? How do you get signed to the label, think you’ve made it, and then once your song doesn’t hit the Top 10, you’re just dropped? It’s so savage, this machine that we’re a part of. Even back then, we knew how lucky we were every day that we were still signed.”

[Full article]

[webism]

You make a spur-of-the-moment detour to your exes house on his birthday.

ex!Toji Fushiguro x afab reader. 4.2k. read on ao3

cw: a little bit o' angst, some drinking, oral (reader receiving), unprotected sex, toji doesnt wash his sheets i know it.

One dark night cursed with rain is all it takes to bring you back to Toji’s front door. Knuckles rapping on wood despite your own mind— it’s the warmest night of the week, humidity seeps into your bones. 

Toji opens his door and greets you with silence. You stand, a vision of something desperate. The man who had once loved you so tenderly watches you with stale eyes. You feel sick for remembering it’s his birthday. You also feel sick knowing he’s spent it in this damn house.

Not a word is shared, sweet nor acidic. Oh your Toji, stoic and silent. Not a thing has changed. 

He steps to the side, offering you refuge from the dreary weather. His eyes are on his driveway, left empty: you walked here. It’s apparent in the way your hair shines wet with rain. 

He used to lecture you for having wet hair in late hours like this, even when it’s warm. His mother used to tell him, hand gentle on the side of his face, ‘Toji, you’ll get a cold.’ 

He’s silent still as you walk past him, and cross the threshold into the house you used to waste away in. You don’t bother to take your shoes off: maybe in an attempt to convince yourself not to stay long. Though you do feel hauntingly warm trapped within such cold walls. 

The door clicks shut. Twelve seconds of silence ensue— you count. 

His first word, “Wine?” 

You ponder the butterfly effect. What total disaster will occur as a result of playing into this fever you’ve been having? How many casualties will you be accountable for? Will blood stain your hands? An ugly pit settles in your stomach. 

You nod regardless, there’s nothing in this house that can’t be nursed with a drink. Toji nods and god have you missed those eyes that soften just a little at the corners when he looks at you.

He only has the cheap stuff, and he has to shuffle through a few empty bottles to find it. Red. It pours smooth, Toji’s hands tight on the neck of the bottle as he bleeds it for you. The rain outside gets heavier: you think of it as a sign you left at the right time. Though, if you hadn’t left at all you’d still be dry. 

It’s been months since your last drink. You down the glass in two sips, you hate the taste but accept when Toji offers you another. What’s a night like this without relapse?

A step forward. 

“This place hasn’t changed,” you note, watching as Toji walks from kitchen to living room, steps heavy and haunting. He stands a few feet from you, back pressed against the wall. “You should move into something more comfortable.”

“A townhouse?” He teases you.

Yes. A townhouse like you. Yours, maybe— or the one across the road that’s just gone up for sale. It has a privacy screen you know he’d love and no broken tiles and no bad memories. You could walk the hot pavement to ask for some sugar when you’re out, and he could tell you he doesn’t have any, because why would he have sugar? And when you would go home deflated, he would run out to buy a bag of sugar, two— one white and one brown because you never specified— and leave them at your front door. Yes. A townhouse. 

“No,” you look down. “You’re not a townhouse type of man.”

Toji exhales. He asks you, in a tone laced with something dark, what type of man he is. 

You gesture around you, the wallpaper is beginning to peel. He’s this type of man.

Toji looks at you, and he asks ‘why are you here? it’s been a year and your life is finally stable again,’ but he asks with his eyes, because those words would never leave his lips. You hate that you can still read him. You wonder if you’ll speak his language forever. 

“Happy birthday,” you say. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Silence, and then– “good.”

You could have emptied your wallet for him with ease. You know he needs things: new socks, a watch that isn't broken, a new beginning. Toji has never taken anything from you though, not gifts or favours or cuddles after sex. You hate that about him: always a provider, never being cared for. Such a shell of a happy man, you count yourself special for having seen him smile. Such gifts have always been your favourite.

“How's…” he trails off, a frail attempt at not suffocating you in the silence he knows you hate. The words don't meet his lips, though: how's your new life? Finally on a comfortable wage? And how are the neighbours? Are they noisy like mine are? Do you stay up laughing at their awkward sex noises like we did? Do you fuck a warm body to drown them out just like us? Do you live trying to recreate domestic life with me? Do you miss the filth? The broken sleep? Were you ever happy? Why are you here?

Toji  bites his tongue. “More wine?”

“No, thanks.”

The rain continues. Despite the roof over your head, you feel heavy with water: something uneasy settles inside of you, and Toji steps closer. He’s wearing black, as usual, and his sleeves are short so you're able to notice he’s added onto his tattoos. Your initial still sits untouched just by his elbow, he’s held onto at least some of you.

Maybe words don’t need to be shared. You step forward. He follows suit.

Before you can stop yourself, you are standing toe-to-toe with Toji Fushiguro. You can watch his shoulders raise with each deep breath he takes, and as you lift your gaze, you look death in the eyes. Sorcerer killer. As beautiful as ever. 

You feel small and powerless, without purpose or justification. Must you always think for yourself? You’re tired of wrestling with that mind of yours. In the cold house you once shared with him, you suddenly forget how to make good decisions. You raise your hands, and touch his lip with your fingertips. He has a new scar, one that runs from the corner of his mouth downwards. You want to kiss it away. You wonder if he pays it much attention in the mirror, is the memory of getting it as bad as the memory of you?

“You shouldn't be here,” Toji slips his large hands to your waist. You feel at home. “Left for a better life.”

“Yeah.”

“I can walk you home.”

“Shut up, Toji. It’s your birthday.”

Relapse: god it tastes good. Toji kisses you like it’s his first and last taste of you. It's deep and yearning and laced with lust and anger and an awful fear of loss. But at the same time, he kisses you like it’s a tuesday evening, and he's just now home from work and you’ve been busy all day with the house, which is quaint and clean and not run-down like his. Maybe a townhouse.

His tongue slips into your mouth, and he kisses you like he had once planned to on your wedding night: your back hits the wall, but his hand is behind your head to cushion it. A tear slips down your face, overwhelmed by the presence of who has haunted so many of your dreams. You want more of him, you want to indulge yourself on the forbidden: what a taboo his touch has become.

“Please,” you speak against his lips. 

“On the bed.”

Toji steps away from you, and nods down the hall. You know your way, you know this house like it's built from your own bones. Memories flash through your mind with each step you take towards his bedroom, the one that used to be yours, too. You let yourself smile, remembering being carried to bed after a drink too many, or spending hours curled up under the sheets waiting for your love to return home. Eating breakfast in bed together, the sex that would follow.

His footsteps are heavy against the wood behind you, he shadows you as you walk into his room, once yours too. The bed has moved, it’s pushed against the wall now— you suppose there isn’t need for someone else to have room to get in on the other side. You wonder how many people he’s fucked to forget about you in the sheets that used to smell like you. 

You can only worry so much, jealousy doesn’t do one well when it’s barely justified. You sit on the edge of the mattress, running your fingers along the soft covers and try not to think of all the times you've been here before. You used to sit and watch him get dressed, the troublesome time it would take to get his clothes on worth the sight of his bare skin covered to remain for your eyes alone. You’d daydream sometimes of watching him dress for different circumstances; maybe in another life you’d sit in the master bedroom of a townhouse and watch your Toji dress for the picket-fence desk job dream rather than for murder.

And yet, the bed seems to swallow you whole. This room, even after you left, remains half yours. A cursory glance to the wardrobe shows it still half empty, dust laden over the dresser your perfumes once sat atop. The curtains covering his window are the same ones you had picked out on sale in the spirit of making a house a home. You still linger. 

Toji leans against the wall by the window, his toned arms crossed over his chest as he watches you look around. His lips part slowly, but he closes his mouth and clears his throat when you lean back on your elbows. You stare ahead at nothing in particular, thinking of all those nights where you laid awake, watching him in his sleep, worrying about whether he’d come home in a box the following week. You never stopped worrying, really.

With every passing second you feel more and more guilty. Selfish for imposing on Toji's life without you, estranged for leaving a townhouse nine blocks over to return to the home you had left so long ago.

“I miss you,” you say softly.

Toji doesn’t move, doesn’t speak— you can hear the rain worsen outside. You think you’ve fucked things up—ruined the relapse—when Toji pushes himself off the wall and reaches you in two long steps. He looks down at you, large frame towering over your body in a way that makes you feel both small and seen at the same time. You sit in his shadow, under his punitive gaze, looking up at the man you had once promised a forever to. 

Toji leans down, meets you in height and kisses you once again. This time, the kiss is slow, languid and gentle in a way you remember once hating. You’d always yearn for the rough, mean side of Toji that could make you see stars in seconds. You used to want the Zenin to come out and settle your hunger. But now, with the gentle way in which Toji takes your lips between his, you couldn’t imagine wanting anyone but him.

He kisses you like a man home from war which, in a way, he always will be. When his hands come to rest on your waist, you’re confronted by the memories of his touch: soft on your skin, tender and caring despite the roughness of his very being. When he draws your thighs apart and kneels between them, you hate yourself for ever leaving. How cruel you were. 

Toji sets his fingers under the waistband of your pants and pulls them down, panties too, in one swift movement aided only by the raising of your hips. He looks at you, bare and desperate, and his throat goes dry. He tries desperately to clear his mind of all the memories that start like this, with you spread out and laid back in wait of him. He pressed a gentle his to your thigh, then sinks his teeth into your flesh—anything to leave a mark on you again.

“Ow,” you whine, buck your hips up a little in hopes of pleasure to chase the pain. Toji doesn’t relent, he bites your thigh again, this time a little higher. “Toji.”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, catches your skin between his teeth and moves upwards. “Like you’re still used to this. Like we’re fucking for the third time this week. That’s gone.”

You take a breath in and close your eyes. You can feel yourself deflate a little, his words are sharp and poking but his lips are gentle as they kiss over the indentations left by his teeth. Another kiss, even higher, and he’s soon pressing his lips to your clit in something you can only describe as reunion.

It can’t all be gone, because he darts his tongue out to circle around your clit in a way he’s done so much before it’s now muscle memory. As is the way your hips buck upwards just to be caught and pinned by his strong hands. You’re held down and ravaged by your Toji, who dips his tongue down through your folds before latching onto your clit like he’s trying to find comfort in your taste. Maybe he finds it, because he lets out a sigh and presses his forehead to your pelvis as he takes a breath.

“You taste the same,” he mumbles, dipping forward again to practically make out with your cunt. He’s always been messy—hungry. You can feel his scar against you, it’s new and not something you attach to him just yet, but maybe that's a good thing. Your fingers curl into the silk sheets you brought on sale two years ago. 

“Your tongues the same, always fucking teasing.”

“Deal with it.”

You try again to buck your hips up in protest, but his grip on your waist is too wrought. He’s mean, holding you down and denying you the chance to chase pleasure, but he’s always been this way—Toji will do anything to hold control. He returns his attention to your needy clit and eats you out at a pace you can only call familiar: too fucking slow. You want to protest, to whine and beg for more in the hopes his ego will take the buff and make you cum on his tongue, but before you can even part your lips to speak, he’s mumbling against your pussy.

“Just let me savour this.”

Oh and who are you to deny him after so long, after the withdrawals of losing his tongue you’re eager to end it so soon? No, you’re driven by lust and not giving your heart a moment to voice whims. You tighten your grip on the sheets, feel the slow coil in your stomach pull further, and let out a breath. You feel him wholly, each flick of his tongue over your sensitive achey clit, the dig of his thick fingers into your waist, his breath against your skin as he moans into his ministries. 

You’re close before you can start entirely savouring it. “Toji,” you try—but he knows you, he feels it already.

“I know, ma, you can take some more. Know you can, always been a fuckin’ slut for my mouth”

You can’t—you both know it. Toji wants to feel you unravel against his lips and give himself reason to punish you for it. He pushes two fingers into your fluttering cunt and curls them upwards just to torture you further. You’d chide him if you weren’t choking on your moans already, practically begging him with your sweet noises for that oh-so-wanted relief.

And he obliges, of course, because your orgasm is a rarity he used to taste daily. Something he missed, the taste of your relief, the way you’d shake under his touch and let him kiss you better afterwards. He doesn’t deserve you, but he’s been good enough of a man to deserve this, at least once more. 

Your orgasm wracks through you like a wave would a desolate beach in a storm. Emotional. Restorative in a way. Sobering. You half expect your eyes to open and find yourself back at home in the comforts of your new bed with your hand down your pants and your fingers soaked at the thought of your Toji, as so many nights go. But no: he’s here and lapping up your release like a starving man would. 

He stills by your pussy for a few moments, and you know he’s trying to will his erection down even just a little bit. His pants are strained and even friction against the mattress doesn’t do much for him—still, he doesn’t know if you want to take all of him again. He’d be okay with just your taste, but every second that passes without him being inside of you feels somewhat torturous–debilitating. You pick up on his struggles and tug at the strands of black hair you used to shampoo each evening.

“Toji,” you hum. “Want you inside of me. Need to feel it again.”

Your ex lover, though calling him such leaves a horrid taste in your mouth, climbs over you and takes both of your wrists to pin the above your head with one hand. He looks down at you with something in his gaze that you can’t quite pinpoint: anger? Hurt? Heat?

Regardless, he used his free hand to line up with your sopping entrance and push forward. Catching your lips between his in a kiss as he does so, Toji moans into the gasp you let out as he stretches you open. This is hauntingly familiar, the burn of his first thrust—so big that you can’t  completely get used to him no matter how often he’s working you open on his cock. You love it, you’d call yourself an addict if it were appropriate. 

He bottoms out, buries himself to the hilt inside of you and rests his forehead against yours. You half expect him to be mean. He used to fuck you rough when you were together and he was particularly stressed: he’s wrap a strong hand around your throat or push your face into the pillows and fuck you so hard he had to carry you to the shower to clean off. 

But Toji isn’t rough, even with his cock splitting you open and the anger of your leaving, he isn’t rough. He lets your wrists go and moves his hand to cup your face and just stare for a moment. You know the look in his eyes too well, something overwhelming washes over him, and you swear you can see a slight tremble to his lips. He’s beyond beautiful, eyes darting all over your face in hopes of memorising your every feature—as if you’re not already burnt into his mind. Like you’re not what he sees whenever he closes his eyes. 

“Too much?” you ask, feeling the tremor in his hands. 

Toji looks down at you and, with a dry mouth, manages a small “yeah.”

Your hand finds his face, thumb tracing over the scar on his lip in gentle strokes. Something soothing, you hope, for a man far from finding comfort. “You wanna stop?”

“God no,” Toji shakes his head. “Do you want to, uh—”

“Flip us over, Fushiguro.”

With his length still hidden inside of you, Toji swiftly flips the both of you over so that his back hits the mattress and you’re sat on his cock and staring down at him for once. His hands find your hips, still with a slight tremor to his grip but a little more comfort than before. Gravity helps you take Toji a little deeper than you had, so you lean forward a little and rest your hands on his chest. His heart thrums beneath your touch, not quite pounding but fast enough to make you smile.

“Let me take care of you,” you roll your hips a little. “It’s your birthday, after all.”

Toji looks almost like he’s going to protest, but ultimately takes his bottom lip between his teeth and nods; letting you slide up on his cock just to drop yourself back down. “Fuck, I–” 

He trails off, eyes screwed chut, and you lean forward to kiss the subtle curve of his nose. “You what?”

“I missed you,” his eyes are glossed when he opens them again to meet yours. You only get a glimpse of them before you’re pressing your lips to his in lieu of a million things you want to say to him. “Fucking missed you.”

Pulling away, you lift your hips up, feel the drag of his cock leaving you empty before you drop back down again and make the both of you moan in tandem with each other. Your eyes lock, his start to pool with tears. You can’t tell if he’s overwhelmed or upset or starting to be fucked so dumb he’s gone soft on you—but regardless, it’s a sight that tightens your beating heart.

You quicken your pace, revel in the way he fills you up: how he completes you. Your knees dig into the spring-loaded mattress as you ride his cock like you used to all that time ago. Every squeeze of your cunt around him makes the poor man choke a little on his breath, though you don’t slow down, not even when the tears start to fall. His cheekbones are painted glossy with his tears and, in favour of wiping them away, you dip down and lick a long strip up his cheek to taste the salt of his emotions on his tongue. It’s only fair, your taste still lingers on his. 

“I don’t like seeing you cry,” you whisper, kissing gently at his wet lashline. He grounds himself with his hands on your hips and takes a shaky breath in at the kisses you press across his tear-streaked face. He doesn’t try to hide his vulnerability—he knows there’s no point around you. Not when you’ve seen every broken part of him and still kissed him with a gentleness that stung more than any injury could.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs as you ride him. “You do this to me.”

You slow your movements just enough to offer a reprieve, the steady roll of your hips becoming languid, deliberate. “I don’t mean to,” you reply softly, your lips brushing against his as you speak. 

Toji huffs out something between a laugh and a sob. “Liar. You always know what you’re doing.”

You let out a small breathy laugh and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. You start your pace up again, even faster than before: your thighs burn with the effort, but it’s worth it to see him unravel beneath you.

His head falls back against the pillow, exposing the column of his neck, and a low, desperate moan slips past his lips. He grips your thighs, but there’s no force behind his touch—only a trembling need as he lets you take control.

“You’re so good like this, letting me take care of you.”

His breath hitches, and his hands tighten on your thighs. “I—fuck, I can’t—” He’s rambling now, his words slurring as his breath becomes laboured and his hips start to thrust skywards into you. “Please—don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

“Shh,” you soothe, your hands sliding down to lace your fingers with his, pinning them to the mattress on either side of his head. “I’ve got you. Just let go, Toji.”

Wholly at your mercy, Toji screws his beautiful eyes shut and nods. Each heave from his chest stokes the flames that coil in your stomach  in desperate hopes of a release. He’s first to teeter over the edge of pleasure, with a wild thrust up into you and a very raw moan, or sob, that rips straight from his throat, he cums. He fills you up and, for only a moment, you’re thrown back a year into the past and this is any other night spent together. The heat of him, the sheer force of his climax, pushes you to your own precipice.

You follow him into oblivion soon after, your back arching and your head falling back as your orgasm crashes through you. The muscles of your core tighten around him, drawing out his pleasure even as yours consumes you in wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy. You milk him for all he has, every last drop of release that you’re greedy enough to take within you.

When the storm passes, you collapse onto his chest. The both of you are sheened with sweat and the cum that leaks from your cunt around his cock and it’s messy and sticky and domestic in a way you can’t explain. The rain outside starts to taper off, but you’ll use the weather as an excuse to stay the night regardless. You doubt Toji would let you leave even if you tried. 

“I love you,” he says. 

“I love you.” you reply. 

You don’t know what will happen come morning. The two of you are from two very different worlds now, but Toji’s hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. You can feel his heart beat, you can hear each intake of breath, you’re connected to him physically and, in a way, spiritually as well. 

You’re in his bed, the one that was once also yours. You’re safe, feeling nostalgic, and Toji Fushiguro is warm. Much warmer than any insulated townhouse.

taglist: @jadeis0nline @feelingfaye @sooouth @lavenderdaydream97 @kyiyoko

@gojoscinnamonroll @loafteaw @echodead @aldebrana @aviesnapkindoodles

@acrazybiotch374 @jaehyunberries @sophi-anna @pissibly @florallyarranged

@toruswrld @mikasasgfs @gojosbedwarmer @sugubear @hellokittyish

@enananshinonome431 @wizardzvi @ladytamayolover @xixflower @akamci

@luvvshazel @bozos-r-us @madamechrissy

[liberalk1tsch]

while i agree katniss and peeta are bonded through trauma, they are not trauma bonded, as that would entail a pattern of one abusing the other and creating an unhealthy psychological dependency on the abuser as opposed to two friends growing closer through shared experience. unfortunately these terms have become buzzwords of sorts and are all too often mixed up these days😅. i think you’re thinking of codependency, which they do experience to an extent, but i disagree that it’s a defining factor in their relationship and/or why they get together at the end.

katniss was showing very clear signs of interest in peeta before the games even started, to the point that she had to try to actively convince herself he was trying to kill her, even before his ploy with the careers. on the other hand, she has to go out of her way in cf to try to convince herself she has feelings for gale and it still doesn’t work.

peeta was dying in a cave and still asking katniss about her favourite day and using what very well could’ve been his final breaths to just talk to her.

he also spends time with her all day for weeks on end when she hurts herself in cf, helping her work on her family plant book and getting to know her as a person outside of all of the games talk. gale is healing at this time, yes, but he’s also had 5+ years on peeta to do anything remotely similar, he just doesn’t. it’s very much a case of the whole «if he wanted to, he would» cliche.

katniss also spends an entire paragraph describing peeta’s eyelashes at this point, when her description of gale is usually something like «he’s conventionally handsome, i guess.»

i could go on, but my point is essentially that katniss and peeta’s relationship holds an element of closeness and caring (regardless of their trauma) that is simply not present in her relationship with gale.

also! they didn’t exclusively have each other in the end. katniss had a close friendship in jo, and peeta had that in annie and delly. not to mention haymitch and sae, and the fact that katniss is an unreliable narrator, so there were probably loads of other people who cared about their wellbeing postwar that she never even brings up. katniss and peeta weren’t each other’s only option in life following the war, but they were each other’s chosen option.

this is not me trying to get into a big long argument😅 i just felt it needed to be clarified:)

hot take: gale was never that close with katniss.

their friendship was one of convenience and bonding over shared trauma, but it was never all that personal. sure, they were great hunting partners, but not much else. the second he was involved in anything pertaining to katniss’ life outside of hunting, he would become irrational and angry. even katniss herself narrates that the worst part about losing gale would be «good hunting partners are hard to come by.» he’s like that one coworker who you always spend time with at work, but then that energy doesn’t transfer outside of your shared obligation.

not to mention the hostility toward peeta. and i dont just mean in a «boohoo he’s jealous» kind of way, i mean to the point of offering to murder him in mj.

do i understand he’s a complex character? yes. i also understand the majority of his anger is misdirected frustration with his circumstances. does that make him a good/close friend? absolutely not.

[starlightandfairies]

Sleepy ~Joel Miller~

Description: Reader returns from work at the farm and curls up with Joel in bed

Warnings: she/her pronouns, swearing,

(View whichever Joel you want, show or game. I don't have any in mind. Regardless of what the gif is)

Key: Y/N = Your Name, L/N = Last name, POV = Point of view

Word Count: 1,007

The Last of Us masterlist

First person's POV

Out of all possible responsibilities in the Jackson community, farm duty was possibly one of the better ones, I hated going beyond the gates. I have no fucking idea how I survived for the first twenty years this shit-show has been going on for. So, now that I have a safe place, I don't want to ever leave it. Working on the farm, while yucky at times, was super nice, I got to play with the lambs, collect eggs from the chickens and milk the cows. Honestly, got no clue how we even got these animals but you know, food is food and survive, survive, survive. 

I made my way to the house Joel and I shared. It was around 8pm, I had gotten all the animals into the barn and locked it up to prevent any incidents like last spring. Joel spent the day around the community, today, normally he goes out for runs out of the community to deal with the infected but he wasn't called in for anything like that today, he got to chill at home or try and do something productive because the poor man doesn't know how to not do anything. 

Joel always has to be doing something, can't just lie around or chill. Always working about, especially during the days. Nights were normally easier, he would play his guitar and he would read too. It was how I found him in bed tonight, after kicking off my boots by the front door and tossed my jacket on the couch and began making my way to the bedroom. 

Joel placed his book down across his chest, welcoming me with a warm smile, I groaned as I crawled onto the bed, moving under the blankets and nuzzled into Joel's side. I kissed his cheek, smiling as he snaked one arm around me to pull me closer into his side. 

"How was your day?" Joel murmured, resting a kiss on my forehead, his thumb stroking up and down my arm. 

"I helped one of the sheep give birth. It was gross but you know, kinda cool." He let out a warm chuckle, it was comforting and music to my ears. It always was. 

"You've killed so many infected and that grosses you out?" I shoved him lightly, grinning at the deep chuckle that left his lips. It rumbled in his chest and gave me tingles due to having my cheek pressed against his chest. 

"They creep me out too! How could they not? Besides, I ain't ever watched farm animals give birth before, not even before the outbreak in any kind of movie. Besides, those stalkers, always giving me a fucking heart-attack. I have every reason to be grossed out by both." Joel smirked at my remark, rubbing my arm again and rested another kiss on my forehead. 

"Yeah, I don't like them either. Don't know they're there until I'm caught in a damn grapple." Joel murmured, moving his arm as I rolled away, I pushed myself out of bed and grabbed what's close enough to a pair of pyjamas and crept into the bathroom, I did what I had to do and then made my way back out to bed to find Joel reading again. I hopped back into bed, placing my head on his shoulder to read the pages with him, once again he wrapped an arm back around me, trapping me within his hold, stuck between him and the book. Joel adjusted his hold on the book so I could read the words better. 

"What's this one about?" I whispered, quickly skimming over the pages he had opened, trying to see if I could guess what it was. Sometimes, before I decided to settle into the community and never leave the walls again, whenever, I went on a run, I'd always try and find intact books. It always made me happy whenever Joel, picked one up that I specifically chose for him. 

"The Shining by-" 

"Oh, by Stephen King? Hmm, I remember that Simpsons episode where they take off it. When the... I think it was Willie and he goes 'The Shinning!' Gosh, I miss tv." That was one of my favourite Halloween episodes that show did. Joel returned his attention to the book, at first I could read the pages fine, but with the silence and Joel's gentle touch along my arm, the words started becoming like hieroglyphics and my head started hurting from trying to understand what the fuck was going on. Nothing was translating and I knew I should close my eyes at this point but I wanted to stay in Joel's company awake. 

Joel's POV

I had been reading for a good twenty minutes, lingering on each page for a little while so y/n could catch up if she fell behind. However, she became very still, her breathing slow and steady. I finished the page, using the bookmark y/n made for me after one too many times of being berated (teasingly) for doggy-earing the pages and demanding that I use a bookmark for the foreseeable future. 

I placed the book on the bedside table, slowly removing my arm from underneath her, before rolling out of bed and ensuring she was lying comfortably, I froze as she nuzzled into her pillow the action and her quiet murmurs startling me into thinking she was waking up. Y/n really deserved to be sleeping more than she was, lately it had been nothing but work, sleep and getting up early. I just wanted her to rest up and not be pushing herself as badly as I normally did to myself. 

"Night, darlin' sleep well." I whispered and rested a kiss on her forehead. I wasn't tired myself just yet, so I turned out the light and made my way downstairs to sit on the porch with my guitar and enjoy the brisk air and the silence of the community. 

[lexiecon-mp4]

Jayvik and Butterflies || Arcane Meta

The butterfly motif has put everyone into a chokehold (myself included) and has had me brainrotting so hard for the last few days that I felt compelled to make my first Arcane post.

With how repetitive the butterfly motif is within Viktor and Jayce's lives throughout Arcane, I thought it would be fitting to do a meta looking into what that symbol might mean.

So first things first; where do we see this symbol pop up? In presumed chronological order of in-universe events, here are some of the following;

1. Viktor when following his toy boat (S1E6)

2. Jayce after being saved by the mage (S1E2)

3. Mechanical butterflies shown during Progress Day (S1E4)

4. Butterfly at the Fissures when Jayce and Viktor talk about failing to "do good" (S1E9)

5. A flash frame of a butterfly appears when Jayce hits the Arcane with his hammer (S2E3)

6. The hammer itself is shaped like a butterfly after Jayce emerges from the Arcane (S2E5)

7. Viktor and Jayce vaguely form a butterfly-type shape when they sacrifice themselves (S2E9)

(If I'm missing any I apologize, but these are the memorable examples that I think embody the themes I'm going to discuss. Feel free to comment more!)

I'm not including Jinx's mechanical butterflies here since they are more reminiscent of Firelights, but it is fitting that she has taken a symbol associated with progress from Progress Day and retrofitted it to her own design, just like she does with Hextech itself. That already serves as a manifestation of how Jayce and Viktor's shared creation can lead toward a dangerous path.

Ultimately, I think there are three main themes that I believe fit both characters respectively along with their arcs.

1. METAMORPHOSIS

Viktor goes through a literal metamorphosis of his own as a result of the glorious evolution, both physically and emotionally. Like the change of a caterpillar to a butterfly, his evolution is one that he perceives to be an "improvement" on his prior form. Simultaneously, his obsession with perfection (due to his own insecurities, struggles and oppression) shifts his focus. His original ambitions to help the people of Zaun and beyond are lost as he prioritizes using the Arcane to "improve lives", even against their own will. For the final step of his evolution, he sacrifices his humanity and breaks out of his "chrysalis" as a changed man. Viktor become utterly unrecognizable to everyone, even to his own partner; until the last scene between the two.

Jayce has seen that he has become something completely different than the Viktor he knew before. But regardless, he sees him as beautiful in the context of his current "perfect" AND prior "imperfect" state. The caterpillar and butterfly are one and the same, just like the man he knew and the "Machine Herald" that stands before him. He sees under the facade (a literal mask) that Viktor wears, knowing that his partner is still there.

What distinguishes Viktor from the butterfly is that his metamorphosis doesn't end with the "glorious evolution." While the evolution was intended to be a point of no return, it was eventually shown to be another step in his ever-changing arc. Viktor doesn't revert back to his original state, but makes his sacrifice alongside Jayce because of the growth of his character. The final, glorious evolution he always wanted was in liberating everyone from the Arcane, not enslaving them.

The metamorphosis theme also applies to Jayce, as he has obviously "evolved" after touching the Arcane. Yet despite his own evolution, he never loses that humanity that allows him to keep hope for Viktor still being in there. Both of them become something more in the end. I especially love that this happens by each accepting their flaws and acknowledging one another as beautiful. Jayce would still love Vik if he was a worm the caterpillar, since that was the first and original iteration of the man he admires.

2. THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

The butterfly effect is one of my favorite thought experiments related to chaos theory; the underlying patterns/laws of the universe's systems that seem random but are actually dependent on initial conditions. The effect argues that a simple flutter of a butterflies wings could lead to a chain of events that cause something completely different and significant. Arcane has several of these "butterflies" (e.g. the note Vander wrote for Silco) but the most prominent one yet again connects Viktor and Jayce.

Old Viktor explains that in every universe, he gave young Jayce a different rune in order to invent Hextech, presumably with the hopes of preventing the apocalypse as well. He knew that Jayce was the only one who could show him the truth about perfection, but without the right rune, he couldn't get there. It was the specific choice of an acceleration rune that allowed for the events of season two to occur. This small change gives Ekko a chance to fight back and Jayce the chance to talk it out with his partner.

(My personal theory is that the acceleration rune allowed for Ekko and Jayce to travel to a different dimension through the Arcane. This led Ekko to create the Z-Drive and gave Jayce the knowledge of his and Viktor's fates. The rune in his wrist was likely what brought him to Old Viktor in the first place. Otherwise, it's likely that Ekko, Heimer and Jayce would have been absorbed/disintegrated in the process.)

At the beginning of S2E6 Viktor describes Jayce as having "a singularity simultaneously self-replicating and self-annihilating." While the singularity seems to be driving Jayce insane and irate, it contains the chaos needed to stop the influence of the Hexcore over Viktor, Piltover, and Zaun.

In the end, both are able to intersect the "chaos and order" of the Arcane, connecting the rune embedded in Jayce's wrist with Viktor's Hexcore-ified body. The disorder of the Arcane in Jayce seemed random at first, just as the rune given to him did. Yet it was these initial conditions that determined the fates of everyone involved, including the closure that he and Viktor were able to have in the end.

The way that these two are able to break the terrible fate determined for them if they ever met, while still being able to resolve their conflicts at the end, is some extremely beautiful storytelling.

3. MIGRATION/THE JOURNEY

Finally, the act of migrating is one that I feel applies most to Jayce in season two, but also is present in Viktor's backstory and struggle against his disabilities.

There's a specific species of butterfly that migrates every fall, which are the Monarch butterflies that are native to North America. These creatures must brave difficult conditions as they travel down south to more temperate climates. It is a physically demanding trip that tests the resolve of the butterflies, which in Jayce's case, also shakes him to his core.

He has to endure many perils and pains when the Arcane transports him to the "bad ending" universe. He travels through Zaun, gets stuck in the Fissures for a while, then finally climbs the Hexgates to learn the truth about his dream. While the sufferings of the journey itself feel unnecessary, it's a path Jayce must take in the end no matter how painful. Like the monarchs, he perseveres and makes it out of there alive.

But unlike them, this difficult pilgrimage is necessary to shape Jayce's character. He essentially speed-runs Viktor's personal journey as a Zaunite; born in Zaun, being poisoned by the Fissures, and "pulling himself up by his bootstraps" all the way up to the gilded heights of Piltover. It's a perilous and painful trip, made more difficult by his injured leg. Yet when Jayce reaches the top, none of the achievements matter to Viktor in this universe. After everything he had done, there was only the empty husk of his loved one and the truth it carried that remained. His illness and "imperfections" were cured, but at what cost?

This puts everything into perspective for Jayce. At the end of his travels, he realizes what he really wants to save isn't Hextech, or his dream, but his partner. In turn, it saves the lives of everyone including that of Viktor's, who comes out of the other side of this journey loved rather than alone. Perhaps their presumed deaths aren't the most happy ending for both of them, but they certainly made it to clearer skies together.

(One last additional note: I love that the alternate universe only has dragonflies instead of butterflies; the connecting symbol between the two is missing in this universe because they couldn't save it in the end.)

So ultimately, the motif of butterflies for Jayce and Viktor represent the change, resilience and interconnectedness of the pair. Throughout the entire two seasons, this symbol follows them on their respective arcs like a red string of fate. As Viktor calls it, they are "two sides of the same coin, inextricably bound." The final two variables needed to solve the Arcane, and they could only do so together.

(i hate these guys they have irrevocably rewritten my brain chem)

Thank you for reading if you made it this far!

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

I saw a anti Kataang post that says this:

“Kataang shipper: Katara ending up with Aang is more romantic and more revolutionary because Aang and Katara are both victims of the Fire Nation and are both sole survivors of genocide.

Also Kataang shippers: Katara and Zuko can never have a healthy relationship because having the shared trauma of losing their mothers makes any romantic relationship they might have toxic!

Please, I beg you, please, please look up the actual definition of trauma bonding before throwing it around so casually.”

Then the tags says “#why is sokka always forgotten when we talk about being a victim of the Fire Nation? #I don't think that word means what you think it means #empathy is the word you're looking for”

What do you think of this?

I actually don't care for the whole "they're both survivers of a genocide" when it comes to symbolism for Kataang, because although it is there, it is not that interesting to me as the PERSONAL role that plays for them.

Aang is the reason Katara ever left home and became a master waterbender, and that positive change in her allowed her to be his teacher, which allowed him to grow stronger and defeat Ozai, thus bringing justice to both of their nations - and not only they did give each other the tools to fight, they were there for each other emotionally during hard times, something Zuko couldn't do because he was actively playing an antagonist role to them in said hard times.

Zutarians calling that "trauma bonding" is not only absurd, it's a blatant attempt of both downplaying how key of a POSITIVE figure Aang was in Katara's life, while Zuko was nothing but negative for 90% of it, literally being a threat to her well-being and to her loved ones.

Also, VERY bold move of them to try to use "Sokka is traumatized too" and "trauma bonding" as some kind of "gotcha" against Kataang fans since Zutarians constantly go on and on about how "they both lost their moms!" (like nobody else in the show lost a parent, like Sokka didn't lose the same mom as Katara) and how it's "two nations coming together" (like there aren't TONS of both fanon and canon ships to which that applies to, including Kataang).

Once again, it's just zutarians being mad that Katara's bond with Aang is super meaningful to the narrative as a whole and to her individual arc, regardless of the romance side of it. Pure jealousy.

They WISH Zuko and Katara had that multiple-season dynamic of mutually saving each other in every way, that's why the hyperfixate on the events of the finale and straight up LIE about Katara having anything to do with Zuko's motivation to redeem himself or having been Prince Karl Zuko Marx that made her realize she didn't have to do all the chores at camp (which she canonically never fucking had to endure)

[fewsystemsinonebody]

haha we just had this conversation twice in the last few days if not more

we usually say we're transmasc because it's easier for singlets to understand but we would love them to see us individually so one host who's a girl but dislikes it to be pointed out, AFAB body and 30+ male alters - every single one of us has their own gender and slightly different sexuality, we dislike to call ourselves collectively anyhow and labelling ourselves when it comes to attraction is even worse (on dating apps for example) so we prefer to just say - we only date women

sure! we do have gays in our system, we have many more bisexuals but because we were born a girl and our host (and some other alters) are afraid of man if they simply not dislike them (trauma, type, stereotypes, the fact they don't treat us as a man and more) makes us choose only gal pals for safety and comfort

when it comes to dealing with the fact we have boobs and period? we learned to cope, have our own ways I might share personally, not publicly, we have dysphoria but with time we don't notice it that much and parts of our look we even seem to enjoy

Gru (blurry?)

TW SA

... what am I even talking about actually, they were never safe nor comfy but at least SA didn't make us pregnant, right? still they were toxic af

those days we basically are against love (or at least non believers) so we don't have to care much about dating but still all people are horrible regardless of sex it seems

DID is fucking with my gender rlly bad and my friend said I should reach out so. Trans systems with complicated genders reblog so I know ur out there???

I would love to hear ur experiences bc I’m getting my ass kicked by gender

[frozenjokes]

a new moon in the sun’s lonely system

convex week day 1 - sun/moon - next

Cub had always been sensitive to changes in temperature, he chilled easily, and he didn’t very much like company for a multitude of reasons, but it appeared today was his unlucky day.

It was cold. There was a moon around, maybe more than one. They had a pulsing sort of presence, fighting the heat of Cub’s star, and though ultimately dwarfed by it, a moon still left their mark. Well, whatever it wanted with him, it certainly wouldn’t find Cub just wandering around. Their silver frost stood out like a lone star in Cub’s domain, while Cub’s fiery orange blended right in with the rest of the landscape. Not to mention the cold. It wasn’t long before Cub found the inquiring soul.

“Hello-“ Cub didn’t even get to finish before the moon startled, yelling in a display of fright that was so exaggerated it couldn’t have been genuine. Cub pursed his lips, waiting for the moon to collect itself. He did not want to risk speaking lest the entity screamed again; Cub did not like the sudden noise.

“Well- Well hello there! Goodness gracious, you snuck up on me! I thought I was a goner!”

“Unless there are any new moon-eating predators roaming the skyscape today, I don’t think it’s untrue to say you don’t have anything to worry about.” Cub had to squint against the moon’s light, rather, his own light reflected back at him. Why was this one so bright? Cub didn’t think he recognized it, but with nearly three hundred in the system, who knew. Cub only remembered the names of the particularly annoying ones.

The moon laughed like Cub had said something legitimately funny, and it didn’t seem disingenuous, but still Cub felt his own walls climbing higher.

“Oh, this is great! I’m so relieved, I’ve heard bad things about- nevermind, you just seem like a perfectly nice guy! I’m Scar, newly promoted moon, and I thought I ought to trek out here and introduce myself!”

Ah, this made sense now. Moons didn’t typically come around to introduce themselves, even after recent promotions, but some were simply drawn to the sun. Or married to formalities, Cub supposed. Politely, Cub ignored that first comment, for the most part at least. He had a reputation to keep up. “You already know my name, then.”

“I do, but I’d love if you introduced yourself regardless!” Ah, married to formalities then.

“Well, if you intend on sharing all the boring, gory details of this encounter with your fellows, you can call me Cub.”

“Unfortunately, Cub, I have no fellows of which to share this with!” Scar’s voice took on an odd lilt, and Cub thought for a moment he might be making fun of him until the moon swiftly continued, “All alone, I'm afraid. A real shame! But it’s an important job, big deal, big deal, there’s all sorts of life down there on Earth that depends on me doing my thing!”

Cub made a valiant effort not to scoff, though given the light in his eyes, he was likely already scowling. The Earth moons were always the most obnoxious. Cub would miss the last one; she almost never visited, and what a reprieve that was, good grief.

Cub had nothing nice to say, so he said nothing. Scar seemed like he quite expected Cub to say something with that wide, wanting stare, but Cub didn’t want to say anything, he wanted Scar to go away and his sun to return to its proper temperature, he wanted to be alone, however, for a moon who had taken up one of the loneliest jobs in Cub’s system, Scar did not seem to share this ideal. A bad sign. A desire for company and an ego larger than Cub’s sun made for a disastrous combination in Cub’s quarters. If this moon was planning on bothering Cub often, he was going to have to start falling back on old tactics (hiding).

“You know, I don’t think you’re an asshole, you’re just like, really awkward.”

Cub blinked at him, slow, unthinking. “You’re mistaken.”

“No, you’re definitely awkward.”

“I’m mean.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“You’re not, really, you’re not,”

“I am mean!”

“You’re almost nice!”

“I am not nice!”

[lucienarcheron]

Spirit Meets the Bones XXXIV

Genre: Angst/Romance/Drama Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse. Author’s Note:  Thank you for reading <3 I hope you enjoy this next chapter and where the story is going :)

thank you @riorsonxaden for always being my beta <3

tagging: @climb-the-mountian / @vanserrass / @positivewitch / @animezinglife / @zenkindoflove / @rosewood-cafe / @clockwork-ashes / @carnythian / @secret-third-thing / @runningwiththeoceans / @that-golden-lyre / @thedarkinmansfield / @readychilledwine / @goldenmagnolias / @mali22 / @readthelastpaage / @maidr-00 / @electromagnetic-waves / @eastofatlanta / @moobell55 / @bibliophiliaxvignette / @devilsfoodcake22 / @weesablackbeak / @ladywhilemia / @alohaangels / @feysandfeels / @corcracrow / @dawneternal / @gracie-rosee / @mage-neve / @illyrianvalkyrie / @saint-stella / @carolynmezzosoprano / @rainbowsnowflake / @queenoftheworld1998 / @wolvesnravens / @lalaluch /

Find it all here.

The morning had arrived in a blink and proceeded to be a whirlwind. 

The Forest House was fueled in chaos as final preparations for the Autumnal Equinox ball took place, and the house staff and sentries were coming and going to make everything perfect. 

Eris had never been this on edge in his whole life, and he had survived Under the Mountain. A mix of dread and restrained panic pumped through his veins, but the leash he had on himself was held tight. He and his brothers had one moment this morning—they shared one glance across the room to ensure everything was going accordingly, that Mikel's signal ensured Theo, Cosette, and Helene were fine, and then dispersed to go about getting ready. 

Now, Eris stood in his bedroom, fixing his cufflinks as he glanced at himself in the mirror then smoothed his hair on the side and adjusted his crown. He looked every bit of the favored Prince of the Autumn Court in a fitted dark maroon suit, golden embroidery decorating the sides of his coat. A suit he wore like armor, that told the people of his court that he may follow his father’s every word but he was power. His suit, the crown, and the devilish smile he wore like a mask – one he wore so well to hide the true purpose of this night. A purpose he’d prepared for in three different ways: a bandolier under his jacket, the Made dagger given to him long ago by the Night Court sheathed at his side, and his magic. Did he truly believe he needed weapons when his magic thrummed so violently beneath his skin, itching to be released? No. But when it came to taking down Beron Vanserra every moment, every measure counted.

He made himself take a deep breath. He would dress to impress, regardless of how many people he’d run his blade into tonight. 

“Help me with my dress?”

Eris turned and at the sight of his wife, his head emptied. 

His beautiful, beautiful wife. 

She knocked the wind out of him on any given day but gods fucken damn it, did she look magnificent dressed up. 

Iris stood before him in a beautiful maroon A-line dress. It was lace covered in a mix of sequins and beading with full sheer sleeves and if the cinched waist didn’t do him in, the modest sweetheart neckline giving him a teasing glance at her cleavage certainly would. She smiled at his reaction and Eris took another moment to admire the light makeup dusting her face and the styling of her hair. Her eyes were lined with light kohl, her blush giving her a lovely glow, and the terracotta shade coloring her lips made him want to desperately ruin it. His eyes zeroed in on the delicate necklace of olive branches he had left as a suggestion with her dress and his wretched heart swelled that she had actually worn it. 

Eris was certainly particular about his appearance and his wife matched his vision exactly. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you with your hair up,” he commented quietly. 

“Do you like it?” she asked shyly and Eris’s smile was soft in a way it only was with her, especially when his eyes locked on the tiara he had chosen specifically for her to wear. 

“Oh, I love it,” he replied, his soft smile blooming into his signature smirk. “Dare I say, you look absolutely delicious.”

Iris flushed prettily, lifting her nose in the air. “Only delicious?”

Eris chuckled, a hand reaching out to gently touch a curl framing her face. “You look like a goddess of autumn,” he murmured, his smirk softening again. “And I am but your humble devotee.”  

Iris couldn’t help the rapid beating of her heart at his compliment, her flush deepening. “If you keep being nice to me, I’ll be forced to be polite to you.”

“Heaven forbid you be polite to your mate. How dare I,” he said with a snort and Iris flipped him off, earning her a chuckle. He gestured for her to turn, regretting it almost immediately at the scooped neckline of the back as well, more of her skin on display. Before he could stop himself, Eris traced a hand down the bareness of her back and Iris shuddered beneath his touch, glancing at him over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing playfully.

“Don’t you start touching. We won’t be able to stop,” she warned and Eris’s grin was full of male smugness.

They had spent last night all over each other and this morning, Eris had awoken to Iris’s hand sliding down his body and they lost another hour exploring each other. 

It had been very hard for them to stop.

And now, like any respectable husband, he couldn’t help but leave a featherlike kiss on her exposed skin before calmly zipping up her dress. 

When she turned back to him, the two stood face to face, taking each other in quietly, and the longer he looked at her, the harder he had to fight the anxious dread wrapping around his chest like barbed wire. Gods, he had so much to lose. 

This day may have been a long time coming for Eris but he had never thought he’d have someone by his side through it all. Someone who was all his. His Iris, who watched him with that knowing look, read into his emotions better than anyone else. 

He never thought he’d be understood. And yet, as Iris stood before him, despite all that would happen today, the tentative smile she gave him soothed his jagged soul. He felt a fluttering of peace in his chest. He felt her. 

This was the closest to heaven Eris knew he’d ever be. 

“You really do look beautiful,” he said softly and the smile bloomed further on her face. “A crown suits you.”

“Thank you. My husband has a good eye,” she said, taking in his suit and how it lined his body so well. She couldn’t help but reach a hand and run it down his arm and somehow, Eris felt his body relax. “You look…”

“Handsome? Dashing?”

Iris rolled her eyes. “If you’d give me a second to compliment you, you’d know,” she said and swatted his chest gently. His answering grin was so boyish, she wanted to kiss him senseless. “But you do look very handsome.”

“And dashing?”

“Very dashing,” she confirmed and let her gaze slide over his body again. “You look so very royal.” 

“I am a Prince, you know,” he said and Iris snorted.

“A prince of being a pain in the ass.” she muttered and his answering smirk made her blood heat.

“Well, we haven’t really had a chance to explore –”

“Do not finish that sentence.” 

Eris couldn’t help his wicked chuckle and Iris shook her head, fighting back a smile. 

The words that had sat on the tip of her tongue for weeks now threatened to burst out of her but Iris held, even as her cheeks flushed lightly. She wasn’t foolish. She’d read stories upon stories of what love felt like. She’d yearned for years. Never truly believing love would find her or something she would experience. 

Yet, Iris knew exactly where her heart stood and despite how their story may have begun, she knew there was no doubt in her mind of what she felt for her husband. Her husband who would be walking into a battlefield at this ball, who could use a moment of peace – a little distraction. 

Eris’s brows furrowed as he looked at her but Iris only leaned up to give him a chaste kiss before pulling away. She couldn’t stop herself from running a hand down his suit again before clearing her throat and giving him a small, shy smile. “I have a gift for you.” 

He blinked in surprise. “A gift?”

“Yes,” she said with a chuckle and turned to walk over to their vanity, pulling out a small box from the top drawer. “It is the Autumn Equinox and regardless of what is happening today, it is a day to celebrate so I wanted you to have a little something.” 

She turned to find his expression carefully blank as color spread across his face and Eris cleared his throat before quietly saying, “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know.” she replied then licked her lips before continuing, “But you…you give me so much. I wanted to give you something from me.”

Eris felt his heart nearly crumble. He didn’t know what to do with himself. What to do with his hands. In the middle of all this chaos…she had thought of getting him a gift. Eris had certainly gotten her a gift but hadn’t expected anything from her in return. His windpipes threatened to crash on him.

He glanced at the rectangular box and said so quietly, “I can’t remember the last time I received a gift.”

Her expression softened. “Well, I hope you’ll like this one then,” she said and Eris slowly took the box from her, his eyes never leaving the gift. “I had it custom-made from your mother’s favorite jeweler.” She waved her hand excitedly. “Open it!”

At her tone, he finally looked up from the box she’d given him to catch her wide smile and Eris felt his heart spasm at how beautiful she truly was. Gods…he had to be so pathetically obsessed to feel a little breathless at how her face seemed to brighten when she looked at him. How she kept smiling at him. At him, of all people.

He couldn’t stop his mouth from curling upward as she watched him and Eris took a breath as he slowly, almost reverently, opened his gift and then blinked rapidly before glancing up at his wife.

Iris’s smile turned sheepish. “I know you usually wear your insignia on your armor but I wanted to give you something a little more…subtle to wear for nights like these,” Iris explained, blushing slightly. “A way to keep the pups with you.”

Eris felt the tips of his ears heat as he glanced down at the gold chain lapel brooch. The two pins were adorned with leaves, one engraved with his initials and the other had his insignia of two baying hounds. “Iris…”

She shrugged, her blush deepening. “It’s not easy to get a gift for someone who pretty much has everything but I hope you find it worthy of your fashion sense,” she said and let out a little chuckle but Eris had to swallow hard, emotions bubbling in his chest. 

He was going to vomit.

“Thank you,” he whispered and Iris felt her chest ache.

“You're welcome,” she said with a smile. “Consider it a good luck charm.”

Her tone was as quiet as his own and Eris felt himself drowning. He had woken up overwhelmed – his head had barely been above the water for weeks. The night had barely begun and this unexpected gesture was the one threatening to send him over the edge. 

“I think…” he began then paused. Eris felt his face heating and he had to clear his throat as the words he never thought he’d live long enough to confess to anyone slowly formed in his mouth, “Marrying you seems to be all the good luck I need.” 

Color stained her cheeks as Iris’s heart beat to an erratic rhythm that seemed to match his own. She had been nothing important to anyone. She had lived her whole life as a ghost, alone. 

And now she was supposedly a prince’s good luck. She was the wife and mate of a future High Lord. Iris couldn’t put into words just how much this meant. How it made her swell with pride to be held in such high regard to him. So she gave him a half smile and said, “Even with the constant stabbing threats?” 

His chuckle was breathless, his throat tight. “I think you’ll find I don’t mind a little knife play.” 

“Kinky.” she whispered and the corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile.

He held up his box. “Will you do me the honor of putting it on for me?”  

Iris grinned, taking the box from his hand, and gently started pinning it in place. Eris stood still beneath her touch and tried not to be too obvious as he breathed in her scent. Tried to keep his stupid hands from shaking as she focused on pinning the brooch into his lapel. 

It didn’t help that he scented himself all over her. To know how their scents mingled in the one place he didn’t have to glamour them.

He had to breathe deeply to calm his raging heart, to resist the urge to wrap himself around her and not let go. All that was to come…there were so many things that could go wrong. So many ways she could get hurt –

“There. All set.” Iris ran a hand over his jacket and stepped back with a knowing smile.

Eris watched her for a moment and he couldn’t help the heat rising through him, his blood set aflame at her smile. At her thoughtfulness, knowing today would be hard enough as it is. And though she was barely a step away from him, he gestured with a finger for her to come closer, “Come here.” he murmured and the blush in her cheeks deepened as instead, she took a step back.

“I don’t trust that tone.” she said, her eyes narrowed in suspicion and he huffed out a dark chuckle, his gaze turning molten. 

“You don’t trust your husband?” he teased in a low tone that made her pulse race.

“Not when he’s talking to me in a tone that suggests whatever he’s going to do will ruin my hair or makeup.”  

At that, Eris couldn’t help his quiet laugh, making Iris’s lips twitch and it never ceased to amaze him how she could ease him in moments like this; the way she always knew what he needed to calm his raging head and heart. “What if I promise not to ruin either of them?” he asked, his small smirk sending a thrill down her spine.

“You are saying words but the tone of that promise suggests the opposite,” she said and narrowed her eyes again, pointing at him. “You have your lying face on.”

He snorted in disbelief. “My lying face?”

“Yes. It’s when you smirk and look like a posh princess. You’re lying.” she said matter-of-factly. “You will ruin my hair and makeup and I will not stand for it.”

His smirk widened and Iris’s toes curled at the sheer arrogance in his gaze. “Fine,” he said and Eris took that little step closer to her until they shared a breath and Iris had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, her lips twitching. “I will keep my hands and mouth to myself and you can kiss me.”

“Oh? Is that all you were going to do?” she asked a tad breathlessly and the slight roguish smile was like a branding on her skin. Gods, she wanted to tackle him. 

“Of course,” he said and his tone was so sincere, Iris’s lips twitched again. “I only want a kiss for good luck.” 

Iris pursed her lips, trying not to laugh at the devilish look on his face, heat pooling low in her stomach. “Well, how am I supposed to deny you that?”

“The idea here is that you won’t.” 

“Ah, but what if I did – to make you pant a little?” she teased and he made a displeased noise.

“But what if you don’t, and in return I give you the gift I have for you?”

Iris blinked then flushed happily. “You have a gift for me?” she asked in a hushed tone and her fingers went to the necklace at her throat. “I thought the necklace was a gift!”

He shrugged as nonchalantly as possible and without his eyes leaving hers, slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a square velvet box. “Our first Autumn Equinox together and you think I didn’t prepare a gift for you?” he said with a chuckle. “I’m not one to spit on traditions. You just stole my thunder, little gazelle.”

Iris sucked in a breath, her eyes widening, glancing at the box and then back at him. Another beat of silence passed before she whispered, “And what might that be?”

Eris felt the tip of his ears heat again as he swallowed. “You made a comment a few weeks ago about how I never proposed to you,” he said and the corner of his mouth curled up as color stained her cheeks. “Many things about how this marriage began were stolen from us but…I don’t want this to be one of them.” 

And Iris felt herself softening all over again. “Eris…”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You and I have the basic traditional bands but I wanted you to have a ring worthy of your healer hands,” he said and Eris had to work his throat before continuing, “I daresay I think it’ll sparkle nicely as you play the piano too.”

A choked laugh slipped from her lips and she shook her head in disbelief. He hadn’t even opened the box and Iris already knew she’d love whatever kind of ring was in there. 

“We could’ve waited on that,” she said but Eris only hummed. 

He didn’t want to ruin the moment by explaining that he had also wanted to wait on it. His original plan was to propose to her after he became High Lord, starting that new chapter of his life with her the right way. In a way she deserved.

But nothing was guaranteed. And Eris didn’t want to have any regrets when it came to her. 

“Why wait when we already know your answer?” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as Iris huffed out a laugh.

“That is not a proposal.”

He lifted a brow. “And how is this not up to your standard?”

“You holding out the box and telling me you already know the answer is not a proposal, Eris.” she said with a choked laugh. 

“Are you really going to say no?”

“Well, I might now.”

Eris couldn’t help his eye roll despite the twitch of his lips. “Your resistance is pointless. We both know you can’t live without me.”

“Wow,” she said with a hum. “There you go projecting your delusions again.”

Eris was fighting back every instinct in him not to laugh as he cooled his expression, grateful — always grateful for these moments with her. Moments when he could laugh. “If that’s your answer, the ball will be filled with quite a few potential brides I could —”

Her hand flew out to yank him by his lapel and his answering smirk was filled with male satisfaction. “Don’t you dare finish that thought,” she warned. “Continue with your botched proposal before I pull out my knife and stick it somewhere you won’t like.” 

Eris’s eyes lit with delight. “I think I like this color on you, wife.”

Iris shook her head, the beat of her heart as wild as his own and as she shared a breath with her very annoying husband, it struck her that this was exactly the kind of proposal they would have. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be down on one knee?” she asked with a raised brow and Eris’s gaze turned molten.

“You’d like me on my knees, wouldn’t you?”

“Just as I think you like to be there.” 

Eris had to restrain himself from leaping at her for the way she knew exactly how to tease him, how to distract him. Gods, he really was in love with her. 

And so he did something he’d never really imagined himself doing at any point in his life.

Without breaking her gaze, Eris slowly slid to one knee and held up the box. His hand was somehow steady as he opened the lid and relished in Iris’s small gasp. 

“Oh. Oh, wow.” 

The ring was exactly what he had imagined for Iris. It had been custom-made and Eris had nearly sent the jeweler into cardiac arrest with how picky he had been. Given how his wife was staring at it in delight, he knew it had been worth it. 

He wouldn’t have settled for anything less. 

Iris couldn’t help but feel her emotions bubbling inside as she stared at the ring. All at once, she was equal parts thrilled and pained, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears threatening to escape. All because this male – this male who she was once so terrified of being in the same room as, had somehow by the fate of the cauldron, become much more. Had remembered a throwaway comment of hers and hadn't hesitated to make it a reality. 

For most of Iris's life, she had been neglected. Never taken seriously, never worth anyone's time, barely thought of. Until Eris. Until this time with him. 

She would never take a moment of this for granted. 

“Well?” he asked her and the look he gave her made Iris’s heart unfurl in a type of joy she had always yearned for. Today would be hard and what came after was unknown. But this, here with him? This would be the constant. Now and forever. 

“I thought you knew my answer.” she said with a small smile that he returned. 

“All that complaining and yet you still won’t actually say yes.” he teased quietly and Iris couldn’t help her soft laugh, brushing her thumb to his cheek. 

“How could I say anything but yes with such a handsome male on his knees for me?”

Eris’s gaze was smoldering as he stood and again, the heat pooling in Iris’s stomach tightened.  They watched each other quietly and despite the feverous energy between them, it always did soften in the silence. Eris could read all the emotions crossing her face and knew his wife’s internal struggle matched his own; it was all too much. There was too much at stake. Too much on the line but this ring…he wanted her to know just how much of a choice she was. And that bridge between them – it had held strong despite how long it had taken them both to find each other. 

It held as they chose each other over and over again. 

Iris held out her hand and slowly, Eris slid the lovely ring on her finger.

Their mating bond seemed to vibrate at their shared smile and Iris couldn’t stop herself from finally leaning in and kissing him quickly, a hand touching his face.

And as it fell silent between them again, her thumb continued caressing his cheek, the words – those feelings that had been haunting Eris for weeks, clogged his throat. He took in her beautiful face and as desperately as he wanted her to know, he wanted to savor it a little longer. For a moment better than this.

But he could hear it in the silence between them. He knew she could too.

Eris glanced down at his hand in hers, the ring gleaming, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I told you it would suit you,” he said quietly then looked up. “Do you like it?”

“It’s stunning, Eris,” she replied and squeezed his hand. “In fact, it’s almost too nice for me.”

His brows flattened. “And why would you think that?”

“Daughter of a fiend, remember?” she said with a weak chuckle and Eris’s gaze narrowed. 

“You have nothing to do with that fucker anymore,” he said firmly. “You’re my wife. You are mine. And once a Vanserra, always a Vanserra.” 

Iris couldn’t take her eyes off him, his expression so serious and gods, her heart wanted to leap out of her chest at how he claimed her. Someone who cared for her this deeply was all she ever craved, all Iris had ever wanted. And he was standing right in front of her. 

She knew what this gesture meant to him – those words  — that no matter how this night ended, she was his and he would be hers. In actions, in words, and with a bond that wrapped around them as lovingly as the ring on her finger.

“Once a Vanserra, always a Vanserra,” she repeated softly then took a breath, straightening her shoulders. “And as a Vanserra, am I as demure as usual or do we get to be ourselves?”

Eris watched her carefully for a moment then squeezed her hand in his. “If by being yourself you mean tossing a chair at someone, I’d ask you to refrain from that,” he said and Iris swatted his chest gently. Despite the heaviness of what was to come slowly tightening his chest again, he focused on his mate. “But if you mean, we try to enjoy being dressed up and dancing as we execute a murder, then yes – let’s do that.”

Her lips twitched. “So no cowering wife today?”

“Never again,” he promised solemnly. “Today…we ignite.” 

And as they watched each other once more, the silence between them slowly shifted, sobering, as the minutes ticked by. Iris’s expression dimmed and she forced herself to take a deep breath.

She squeezed his hand and Eris glanced down at the ring shining on her finger, working his jaw as he held her hand tightly. “Whatever happens tonight, we will be alright.”

Eris couldn’t help how his expression tightened and without words, Iris knew he was thinking of the exact opposite outcome; it was almost as if he couldn’t help but expect the absolute worst and Iris couldn’t exactly blame him with so much on the line.  

She opened her mouth to ease the tension, to bring back a little of that earlier distraction but Eris rolled his shoulders back, shifting gears.

“Your dagger is with you.”

“Yes.”

“Should anything happen, you use it. This night will be full of snakes. You will not be afraid and you will not hesitate,” he said, his expression darkening. “You will not worry about anybody else. Make anyone in your way bleed and run. I will find you.”

“But –”

“I will find you,” he repeated firmly, and then his tone softened. “I need you to take care of yourself.”

“I need you to take care of yourself too,” she whispered. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll do whatever you can to stay safe.” She gripped his arm, the sight of her pleading gaze a punch to his gut. “Please, Eris.”

His mouth went into a thin line before he sighed, knowing if she hadn’t been holding him, his hands would be trembling. “You know what we’re up against…but I will do my best,” he said quietly and though the answer made her chest feel tight, she nodded.

“That’s all I can ask.”

[sirsagrell]

The holidays have passed so it's time to yap critically about Veilguard some more.

So. I like to project themes and meanings on Dragon Age stories that weren't even necessarily intentionally put there by the writers. And how well Dragon Age used to lend itself to that favorite pastime of mine, was, I think, one of its main strengths.

Hear me out.

Dragon Age is a game, and a game is not a book. A Dragon Age narrative is not done being written until you the player play through it and fill in the blanks. And you don't just play a role, as in define the player character and make choices for them. Through the interplay between your character and the world, trough the influence you have on the world and the people in it, you pick out the themes and meanings that your very own Dragon Age narrative explores and expresses.

It used to be a damn fantasy writer simulator. No wonder it inspired so much creativity.

Some of it was intentional, and some, probably, not. Some, but far from all of it was due to the infamous Dragon Age Grey Morality(TM).

(Where that Grey Morality(TM) was executed well, and where not is a separate conversation, and that conversation has very much been had, extensively, over the past ten years. I'm not getting into that here.)

Most of this effect, however, relied on the simple fact that Dragon Age never presumed to tell you what the correct themes and meanings of a Dragon Age story were. (Yes, you could arrive at some really unfortunate themes and meanings with the story building blocks given to you, yes, I know. But you never had to.)

You were asked questions (Yes, some of them were stupid questions). But if you were in any way interested in thinking about the messy source material presented to you, you immediately arrived at questions even deeper than the writers ever intended to ask, and weren't some of them just fascinating.

Veilguard, I feel, almost stopped asking questions. Worse, when it does try to ask them, it tells you what the answers are supposed mean. Literally. In a tooltip (!) in the interface (!!). There's a correct way to read Dragon Age now, somehow.

I'd say the most egregious example of this shift is Rook's unquestionable heroism.

We, Dragon Age and I, used to ponder the meaning of being celebrated as the hero, regardless of what kind of person you really were. Or the futility of trying to be the hero when all the societal systems work against you. Or the terror of being the hero, when you're suddenly forced to become a whole societal system yourself. My Dragon Age protagonists had a really sad and shitty time being protagonists. 'Twas good for their souls.

Enter Veilguard and Rook.

You start the game and you're introduced to Rook, the game's hero. You are repeatedly reassured that you're the hero, and Were Chosen For Reason. You can attempt to express doubt about maybe having made the situation worse, and you're immediately assured by your companions that you shouldn't. "You got this Rook", the game repeatedly says. (It's thankless work, fixing the world, Solas shares, but Solas is from a different game and probably didn't get the memo.) Everyone is actually super thankful to Rook, even the people you left to be blighted, you're a universally good influence, after all, and you couldn't be two places at once, any reasonable person understands. You're doing your best. Don't you worry, your best will be enough.

Oh, and just in case you're still having doubts, Rook, all your antagonists are mindless and/or power-hungry fools, and, like, elfy Thanos. It is objectively correct to oppose them. By doing so you're not just saving people but helping the world move past the violence of the past and into a brighter safer future.

Honestly, I don't think I have ever played a game that went to such lengths to assure you you're the Good Guy here. I've never played Marvel games though, are they like that? Is this why…

This is getting too long. So I'll sum it up as best I can.

Veilguard isn't juvenile in meaning, not really. In tone, yes, in meaning, for the most part, no. It does tackle some heavy stuff. But Veilguard knows what exactly it means to say and it will beat you over the head with its message, until you know it too.

And that, to me, for a Dragon Age story, is just sad.

[tkdb-hell]

Hii! Your writing is amazing, so romantic... I saw the list and noticed nobody asked for Ritsu. Could I ask 41 with Ritsu Shinjo? Thank you!!

#41 - Kisses shared under an umbrella.

Kisses Prompt List • Kisses Masterlist

(I do my best to write the reader as gender neutral unless otherwise specified - if you send me an ask and prefer masc or fem, please let me know)

♡ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ♡

The rain had begun as a light drizzle, soft and refreshing, but quickly evolved into a relentless downpour that left no path dry. You cursed your luck, clutching the thin fabric of your jacket tighter as you hurried across campus, water pooling at your feet.

A sharp voice called out, “You’ll catch a cold like that.”

You turned and saw Ritsu Shinjo standing beneath the cover of a pristine black umbrella, his sharp grey hair glinting even in the dim light of the storm. His light sky-blue eyes bore into yours, no trace of hesitation in his gaze. His presence was as commanding as ever, his uniform crisp despite the weather.

“You’re unprepared,” he remarked. “Do you often make a habit of disregarding forecasts?”

You stammered out a reply, but Ritsu was already moving toward you. He extended his umbrella without a word, its wide canopy enveloping you both in dry reprieve.

“Come. I’ll escort you to the Mystery Diner,” he said matter-of-factly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As you began walking together, the sound of rain tapping against the umbrella filled the silence. The closeness forced by the shared space was undeniable; his shoulder brushed yours with each step, and the faint scent of his cologne—a blend of cedar and something sweet—lingered in the air.

“You’re too kind, Ritsu,” you said softly, trying to fill the quiet.

“It’s simply efficient,” he replied. “Article 217 of the Japanese Penal Code states that endangering another person by leaving them exposed to harmful conditions constitutes negligence. A lawyer must not only understand such laws but act in accordance with their spirit.”

You blinked at him. “Are you saying it’s illegal not to share your umbrella?”

“I’m saying,” he began, glancing down at you with a faint smirk, “that it’s the right thing to do, regardless of legality.”

The journey was short, but the Mystery Diner’s warm glow in the distance felt like a promise of dry comfort. Yet, as you reached the doorway, neither of you made the move to step inside. Instead, Ritsu lingered, his grip tightening slightly on the umbrella’s handle.

“I—” he started, but his words faltered, his usual confidence wavering. His eyes softened as he looked at you, the rain still drumming steadily around you both. “You’re important to me, you know.”

The words took you by surprise, a warmth blooming in your chest. “Ritsu…”

Before you could say anything more, he leaned in, his hand tilting the umbrella just enough to shield you both from the rain. His lips found yours in a kiss that was soft but deliberate, like him. The coolness of the rain around you made the moment feel even warmer, his presence grounding you as your heart raced.

When he pulled back, his usual composure returned, though there was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “It’s ill-advised to stay out here in this weather,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

“Then let’s go inside,” you said, a smile playing on your lips.

As the two of you stepped into the diner, you couldn’t help but glance at him again. Ritsu Shinjo—the ever-dedicated lawyer with an umbrella big enough for two and a heart far softer than he let on.