#but that instinct is in fact Very Pretentious

[leohtttbriar]

lots of angry people in the notes of my kai winn joke post. i am afeared they might assume i agree with their visceral hatred of her. i do not.

[suzukiblu]

If you feel up for it, for the writing meme prompt, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor, with the song You And Me by Lifehouse? If it's not your thing I totally get it though and hope you have a great time and fun writing the things that do catch your fancy!

I think we ALL knew that I was gonna do baby Kon for this, lbr. Also ngl, this came out way more cracky than the prompt would suggest it should've but it is absolutely my favorite thing I’ve written for this meme so far, as the necessity for the following cut should help attest, haha.

Unfortunately, Lex takes one look at Cadmus’s progress report on the newly-crafted Experiment Thirteen and realizes he has paternal instincts. 

Well, that’s inconvenient. And a little disgusting, honestly. Certainly a disappointment. 

He supposes it could be worse. He could be Lionel about this. 

Anyway, that’s how he has a physiological four year-old on his lap when he hears the news about Superman coming back to life and fistfighting an evil cyborg with his own face about it, because of course the man didn’t have the decency to just stay dead. Why would he, after all? 

Lex needs a drink. That would be a bad example for the physiological four year-old, though. 

Then again, Experiment Thirteen should be completely immune to the effects of Earth-based alcohol in about another four to six months of consistent yellow sun exposure, so . . . 

Lex is halfway through his second brandy when Superman shows up on his balcony at super-speed wearing a very pretentiously dramatic black suit and looking both winded and bewildered. And still alive, unfortunately. 

“Don’t you have a murderous cyborg to be ensuring is in custody?” Lex asks dryly, deciding to just not acknowledge the presence of the physiological four year-old who’s moved on to messily but methodically coloring on the floor underneath his desk. Lex didn’t actually give Experiment Thirteen either a coloring book or crayons, mind, but he appreciates the clone’s resourcefulness in breaking into the office supplies. Anyway, it’s useful for developing its hand-eye coordination and fine motor control. 

Superman’s pupils are pin-pricks, barely even there at all. Which is an unusual reaction from him, and Lex notes that fact reflexively but doesn’t particularly care about it. Meant-to-be-dead people do unusual things, especially the alien ones. And it isn’t as if–

“Baby,” Superman blurts, his eyes wide. 

Lex . . . pauses. Takes a slow sip of his brandy. 

Alright then. 

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he settles on eventually, raising an eyebrow at him. Experiment Thirteen peers out from under the desk, immediately decides Superman isn’t an interesting presence, and then goes back to coloring all over Lex’s floor. It seems to be drawing either a puppy or a chain of complex genetic sequencing, but judging by the kinds of things it’s been drawing so far, it’s fifty-fifty. Lex has been getting the impression the clone actually likes art, which is a baffling interest to find in his own progeny, but how does that quote go . . . “I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet”? 

Or something like that, anyway. 

“No, I–baby,” Superman stresses, looking bewildered as he floats down a little closer to the open balcony door. 

“. . . yes, I’ve noticed,” Lex repeats, raising his eyebrow again and taking another sip of brandy. Superman looks frazzled, bobbing up a little higher in the air again to get a better view of Experiment Thirteen under the desk. Experiment Thirteen keeps ignoring him in favor of its coloring, displaying no apparent interest in the most powerful uninvited guest in the history of illegal immigration. Lex experiences a moment of overwhelming paternal pride, which is such a bizarre and unanticipated experience that he doesn’t even know what to do with it. 

“Where’d he come from?” Superman asks with a wondering expression. Ugh.

“A cloning lab,” Lex replies dismissively, setting his near-empty glass down on the desk. It’s hardly worth lying about Experiment Thirteen’s origins at this point. He didn’t want to murder everyone in Cadmus to keep the secret. He might need them if there’s an issue with Experiment Thirteen’s genetics later, after all. “We mixed it up a couple weeks ago while you were off wasting everyone’s time being dead."

“You had my baby?” Superman says, tilting in the air and still staring at Experiment Thirteen, as if he's somehow forgotten both how much kryptonite Lex owns and how much kryptonite he keeps specifically in this office. “While I was dead. You had my baby while I was dead.” 

. . . alright then, Lex thinks again, both eyebrows raising this time. 

“I really wouldn’t put it that way, personally,” he says. “Also, I don’t recall saying it was in any way yours.”

“Baby,” Superman repeats inanely, then lands on the floor and ducks down into a crouch to peer under the desk better, his pupils still reduced to barely-there pinpricks. Lex is so mystified he doesn't even activate the security system or the weaponized red sun lamps. Experiment Thirteen frowns at Superman–Lex, again, basks in unanticipated paternal pride–and then turns its back on him and hides all its drawings from him as seriously and carefully as if they were under NDA. 

It's almost adorable, frankly. 

Not that Lex finds things adorable, of course. 

“His heartbeat's so cute,” Superman says, looking absolutely fascinated. Which is surprisingly useful of him to mention, actually, since Lex had previously been vaguely concerned that Experiment Thirteen's odd thrumming heartbeat might be a sign of a heart defect, but apparently it’s just a Kryptonian thing. A . . . “cute” Kryptonian thing, according to Superman. 

Lex is increasingly mystified by this interaction. 

“Can’t say I’ve spent much time listening to it, personally,” he lies, because he has in fact obsessed over that heartbeat’s health and stability since first finding out about its unusualness and has done a truly aggravating amount of research into heart murmurs and conditions and the like. But that’s hardly Superman’s business, now is it. 

“. . . what’s his name?” Superman asks hesitantly. Lex is possibly having an out of body experience. 

“Experiment Thirteen,” he says. Superman immediately looks offended. 

“We need to give him a name, Lex,” he says. Lex, again, has an out of body experience. 

“‘We’?” he repeats incredulously. “I made it, I get to decide what it’s called.” 

“He’s got my DNA!” Superman protests, looking indignant. Lex has absolutely no idea how to process that expression. 

“It has both our DNA, in fact, yours was too irritating to stabilize alone,” Lex informs him dubiously. More accurately it was literally impossible to stabilize alone, but he’s not mentioning that to Superman. “So it has my DNA, and I made it. And also put eight point two billion dollars into its production, as a lowball estimate. Therefore I’m the one who decides what its name is, thank you very much.” 

“Lex,” Superman says disapprovingly. “You can’t call a baby Experiment Thirteen.” 

“It’s physiologically developed enough to complain if it doesn’t like it,” Lex retorts, narrowing his eyes at him. Superman frowns at him. Lex has never had a more ridiculous conversation with the man, including all the times Superman’s tried to appeal to his nonexistent “better nature”. “Well it is.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Superman says, then ducks back down and peers at Experiment Thirteen again, gentling his voice to address it while Lex is still incredulously mouthing “ridiculous”? to himself. “Would you like a real name, kiddo?” 

Experiment Thirteen sticks its tongue out at him. 

Lex is finding parenthood to be a very rewarding experience, actually. 

[ms-scarletwings]

Endearing through the Alien Lens: A Clue About the Primitive Irken?

I love literary xenobiology. I love it a whole lot, in fact. There’s a paradoxical line I dance across, between criticizing intelligent fictional aliens for their likeness to our species, and criticizing them for their unlikeness. It’s a pretentious and laughable dance between “Come on, the sky’s the limit, there’s no real reason for a bucket of different extraterrestrial races to just all be more flavors of quirky humanoids! Boring, show me something actually alien!!” and the yearn for the use of alien races as a funhouse mirror of mankind’s own evolution. I think the way Irkens nonchalantly dwell somewhere on that subjective tightrope is a good part of why I can’t seem to stop thinking about them.

They are inspired and yet creatively original. They are truly alien, and yet, they can still play foil to the bottomlessly decadent humanity that Vasquez’s Earth has set the stage for.

Before, in the very first brain dump I let loose about them, I noted a few of their parallels to the worst in Homo sapiens and the insects they resemble. This time, something is chewing on me that i haven’t seen another put into perspective. A something that seems contradictory to our collective view of the heartless, sexless, atomized conquerors that all of the cosmos will fear:

They… have parental instincts.

I didn’t necessarily say drives or wants; however, they undeniably havewhat seems to be an actual, instinctual “cuteness response”. Like us, like social pack animals which invest a great deal of resources and time into their young. Given that the closest thing that 100% of smeets born on the home world get to call a parental figure is a literal cold, unfeeling, automated machine, this seems kind of weird, doesn’t it? They’re not even born like mammals or nested like birds, they’re mass produced, like hived wasps or ants, miles beneath their actual society and out of the business of the adults. So, what the heck with them being written to be humanized with this baseless, arbitrary trait?

But, ah ah ah, nitpicker Scarlet, it’s not baseless. It’s only ✨vestigial✨

Y’all could probably make a good guess to what the cuteness response is and why it exists in Homo sapiens, but to sum up- it’s the phenomenon of when we see something we find “cute” and it makes us react to it in a protective, nurturing fashion- or also want to bite/squeeze things, weirdly, if it’s just too damn cute. Well, what do humans find cute? Things that resemble human infants, basically. It’s a biological reflex that makes us want to defend and provide care for our kind’s absurdly dependent and slow-developing young, rather than abandon them in the shrubbery like they’re just screamy, food-leeching paperweights.

“Pff, really? Well I must be special cause I don’t even LIKE babies. I think babies are icky gross, not cute! So, genetic instinct my ass!”

I hear you, sure, but what about… harp seals? Or koalas, or pandas and puppies and fawns and kittens? Or funny little cartoon blorbos? At bare minimum you’d have to be an alien yourself to feel nothing looking at photos of young hedgehogs

See, the fact that a lot of us may often find baby animals a great amount more endearing than even humans’ is not even in conflict with this understanding of cuteness.

The concept of the “baby schema” was formally proposed in 1943 by Konrad Lorenz, an Austrian ethologist. Fun fact is he was also the same researcher who originally observed and described imprinting behaviors, as seen in newly hatched waterfowl. Point is that his “Kindchenschema” idea grouped together a handful of infantile traits that make fireworks go off in the parts of your brain that wants to keep things alive and baby-talk to them. Included on the list were features like proportionally large heads, big eyes, round faces, short noses, etc. despite the name, the baby schema’s effect is something applied not to just actual babies, but children generally, and even in our reactions to non-human animals.

It’s the hypothesis behind both why we’ve jacked up the skulls of so many small dog breeds in the name of aesthetics and why we generally find the portraits on the left side of this image more appealing to look at than the ones on the right.

The consistency of these features across many species may also give some hint that they experience a similar phenonemon, especially given that these are traits shared among bird or mammalian offspring which require significant attention and protection to survive. And, it may also explain why this image likewise gives me a huge dose of that sweet, sweet response.

Awww, look at that lil’ mans! Look at his teeny noodle arms!! I just wanna pinch him like a marshmallow!

YOU are not immune to cuteness psychology, and neither are the proud Irken warriors. I’m going to cite Zim’s proclivity to what I can only describe as paternal bonding as a demonstration of this response, but before you go reminding me about his pak defects, it’s far from the only evidence that this is a natural Irken trait.

Check out little Timmy (importantly, the surrounding response to him), a hilariously out of place youngster who appeared briefly in the trial transcript for the sole purpose of a dark gag and to get us some lore revealed.

Take further note of the complimentary nature of smeets themselves.

Suddenly finding themselves alive, fresh Irken babies too, like the hatched gosling, begin to immediately seek an emotional attachment with the first animate thing they see. While mobile and fast learners, smeets are far from being able to truly fend for themselves. They’re tiny and naive and they need lots of mental enrichment/teaching. They also play and form something akin to friendships, much like human children. In the bygone era before Irkens were so reliant on Paks and all of the advanced technology of the modern empire, smeets would have been exceedingly vulnerable. All signs point to a phase in Irk’s natural history where they were once nurtured after by adults of their own kind, and commonly bonded with their caretakers. This could mean compact family units, or maybe even a communal raising situation, akin to penguin crèches (Personally I like to headcanon that the tallests/queens were traditionally the only breeding members of the population but that’s neither here or now). Either sense, the evolutionary remnants of a parental creature are still around.

Taking all that to note, instead of perceiving Zim as the bizarre outlier to the Irken condition when it comes to having this soft spot, I instead see him as an opportunity to see natural behaviors in action without the suppression of his militarized society and its distractions. Even someone as warped and selfish as he can be is still very, very full of love to give that he doesn’t even understand enough language to describe. He pretty clearly shows he has no cultural understanding or reference of cuteness, and still, he’s not so different in this “weakness” than the very humans he manipulated into fawning over Ultra Peepi. It just took an example his own sensibilities could relate to instead of an unfamiliar, repulsive alien rodent.

And when he’s given the rare circumstance to show that potential, well-

*(With the rough shape/size down, no nose, and huge, bug-like eyes, Li’l Meat man may actually be a great approximation of the key “smeet schema” features. More importantly, it was made to specifically resemble Zim himself)

- I feel that’s downright adorable.

[writingescapades]

Rafayel the Vlogger

To promote his new art installation and collaboration with another beauty company, the marketing team suggesting Rafayel vlog his life for 2 weeks to get people interested, especially the younger generation. How does our fishy cope?

A/N: We're going to pretend that Rafayel doesn't have a bounty on him.

Rafayel’s first instinct is a HELL NO. He’s an introvert. A private person. He doesn’t anyone to know about him and his life.

              Thomas: It’s for your art sales, Rafeyel!

              Rafayel: I’m okay with being poor.

Somehow Thomas coerces Rafayel into the idea. Probably threatening to send him off on long promos, forcing him to spend less time with you.

So, begrudgingly, Rafayel starts his vlogs. First video is him going, “I don’t want to do this but because we’re collaboration with REDACTED company, you now get to see this face for a week”.

Despite being unwilling, Rafayel knows his vlogging game. You bet he’s coming in with that aesthetic portrayal of his artistic life. The irony is that it’s not even pretentious or false. He really does live the life his vlogs depict. Goes really hard with ocean themes in his videos.

Doesn’t really show how he paints. He might bring his viewers to the art room, maybe play with the sound so that you hear his paintbrush. Or he’ll provide random aesthetic shots with music that capture his mood and thoughts while painting. But you’ll never see his actual work.

In fact, you see very little of him in the video. Rafayel prefers to show you his life, not himself. so his head is almost always out of shot, and sometimes all you will see are his hands. He’s a master at video editing, and enjoys using the videos to play with new editing techniques.

Loves shorts, but only uses them for 2 situations. The first to capture something beautiful and momentary like a rainbow appearing in the rain. The second is for those “what the” random as hell moments that make you crack a smile.

LOVES showing the food he’s making. It’s the only time you’ll see his full face as it focuses on dicing whatever he’s cooking. Always, always shows his platting and ensures that viewers see 2 plates. Only really cooks if you’re coming over, so when viewers see him cook, they know you’ll be around.

Speaking of you, Rafayel does not really show you in his vlogs. He respects your privacy, and doesn’t want the world to come down on you just because you choose to be part of his life. Also, he finds it creepy to film your relationship. It feels staged even if the emotions are real. Despite that, viewers do know he has a partner. They might know you when you accompany him as his bodyguard. And in his vlogs, they would have seen brief shots, often candid ones when you were just doing your own thing. But he never wholly includes you in these vlogs, and he always shows you what he filmed and gets your permission before posting them.

Despite not being a part of the vlogs, that doesn’t stop Rafayel expressing his love for you. The whole world knows just how damn much the man loves you. He’s not cheesy or ridiculous about it. In fact, he barely verbalizes it, no those words are meant for one person’s ears only. But they see it when they see him cooking you favourite meal, always having a cup of tea ready for when you appear. They see it in the little things you leave behind and the space he’s made for your life.

He really enjoys night routines because of how relaxing they can be. Loves it when you’re spending the night over. Again, he won’t film you, but viewers can tell you both are getting ready for bed and boy does he go hard with the ocean aesthetic here. Depicting animated sea creatures following the two of you as you prepare for sleep. The video sound itself, quieting down to calming ocean waves, and finally the depths of the sea as the camera fades out.

But after 2 weeks, Rafayel calls its quits. Despite the overwhelming popularity, he doesn’t like how much time it takes to edit the videos. Frankly, he finds his life not very interesting, and he doesn’t really want the world to shatter the little niche he’s carved out for himself. He thinks its more interesting to learn about people from what they leave behind and the mark they make in the world and in the lives of other people. He might try it again if the fancy takes him or if another company requests him to do so, but it’s not a hobby he wants to regularly do.

[oceansssblue]

For the requests,,, Alpha male x Omega Hunter? 👀 mayyyybee heat?

Yes siiiiir 🫡

Wasn't sure if you wanted them in a relationship or for them to be strangers, if you wanted full smut or tease or fluffy... Just decided to go with my gut. Not checked for errors, so sorry! Hope you like it!

"Bite me"

ALPHA OMC / OMEGA HUNTER

WARNINGS: just the classic omegaverse shit; heats, bite marks, dynamics blablabla. You know what you're here for. Smut, establied relationship, fluff 💖🔥

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Hunter was used to taking care of things. Of his squad, of Omega, of strategies and plans... It was just how it had always been. With no shortage of supressants, and considering they distributed them to all the clones periodically, the kaminoans hadn't paid much attention to the fact that the sargeant was –a surprise for many– an omega; but without their endless resources, and their new life on the run from the Empire, it had been Hunter's time to face a truth he had been long ignoring. Sometimes he wanted someone to take care of him.

It had taken a long time for him to come to terms with that. He wasn't used to it, always the leader of his squad; needing someone, feeling that deep-soul desperation tugging at him... It had made him feel weak. On top of that, his sense of smell had all but intensified; migraines worsening as well. And oh, let's not even start with the heats... His body burned, and his conscious mind always went on a vacation trip. Hunter hadn't done drugs; though he imagine it would feel something like it.

The clone had always had a fair share of silent admirors. Woman were usually attracted to his toned muscles and tattoos, his overall misteriousness; men liked his long hair and narrow waist. The attention had nothing but increased with the release of his feromones; but he had promised himself he wasn't going to grow distracted by any pretentious alpha, and... Well, he technically hadn't. Because Einarr wasn't pretentious.

Einarr Barkla had been a mandalorian bounty hunter they had crossed paths with for one of Cid's chaotic missions. Between his knowledge of Mando'a, his precision with a blaster, and his calm and soothing personality, Hunter had jumped from simple genuine admiration to a hopeless crush in a blink of an eye. While Hunter fought against his natural instincts, trying to shove everything down, Einarr had continued adressing him with unwavering politeness; not making a single comment about his very obvious feelings, noticing the omega's trouble.

After two months of torture, it was Hunter who had finally confronted him; perhaps not in the best of ways. He had all but pushed Einarr against a wall; asking him to stop playing mindgames in an angry snarl. When a frowning, confused Einarr had questioned him about it, Hunter had hissed that he knew exactly what he meant; that he was using his feromones to call him, that he smelled him everywhere, from miles away, and that he was fucking tired of it. After hearing the rest of his synthoms, Einarr's expresion had switched from irritation and confusion to amusement; and for once, Hunter knew what cheekiness looked like in the mandalorian.

"I don't know, Hunter. Sounds like your omega side likes me" he had smirked at him.

Hunter's eyes had widened in a mix of surprise and realisation.

"Why does this come to you as a surprise?" Einarr had asked, confusion making a come back. "Surely you've experienced this before..."

Hunter had still been too out of place to have the mind to lie about it.

"No. I haven't... I've been on surpresants all my life. I've just recently come off".

Surprise and understanding had mixed on the bounty hunter's face. Einar had placed a warm hand on his shoulder in a comforting way.

"Oh. It's alright, Hunter. You'll learn to get used to it and filter things with time, then".

The sergeant liked his emotional intelligence oh so much... Hearing those soothing words did things to his insides.

He had tilted his head up –Einarr was fucking tall–; and the man must had seen something on his eyes, for he had smiled softly but sensually.

"Do you want something from me, mesh'la?" He had asked; and Hunter had almost whined.

The rest was history. They had been together for a whole year now; a year that started with exciting –and sometimes scary– exploration and ended in wonderfull, safe understanding. By now, Hunter knew every inch of his body; his omega side, his want and needs, his limits... And all of Einarr's. He really was an excellent alpha; he was lucky to have him.

<< Have him... Yeah... Cock inside me, please... >>

In the present time, Hunter's mind was already spinning. He had started his heat half an hour ago; retired to Einarr's apartment as soon as he had detected the synthoms starting. He went through his mental list; lock all windows and doors, send Einarr a mesage, place the water bottle besides the bed, lubricant, and get completely naked. He knew his alpha would come home as soon as he could. His alpha...

Hunter moaned, inevitable humping against the matress at the thought of his boyfriend coming home to help him.

"Alpha, alpha, alpha..." he chanted in a whisper, almost in automatic. Then, a key was introduced in the front door, sending an electric shock through Hunter's bent spine. "Alpha!"

This time he called for him out loud, and he received an answer back.

"Hey, handsome" his voice was low and gentle. His figure inmediately stepping into the bedroom and taking the scene in. "Mm. As ready and good as always".

Hunter whimpered; back bending so that his ass was stuck up in the air and forehead almost resting against the matress. He had been extremely selfconscious of this position in the past; but a lot of time and love had happened since then.

"Please..." he could do little more than beg. "Einarr..."

"Shh" the alpha soothed him, undressing as quick as he could and kneeling in the bed behind him. "I got you, baby. I'm here".

Einarr brushed a kiss on a hip, hands coming up to caress his shoulders and spine; and Hunter sighed, turning into a puddle at the reverent attention. His mind swimmed in happiness.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous" the mandalorian whispered. One big hand travelled down between his legs, teasing the wetness he found there. "Did you play with yourself while I was away?"

Hunter moaned and squirmed. His cheeks warmed.

"Just a bit" he confessed. "I... It was too... I tried waiting..."

Einarr smiled.

"Mm. It's okay, darling, no need to get your mind in a twist. You know I don't care if you give yourself an orgasm to try to relax a little. I know I'll be able to pull a few more from you afterwards..." Einarr sinked a finger into Hunter's hole, and the omega clenched around the please t intrusion.

"F-fuck" he panted. "Y-yes, Nar, please..."

"More?" The alpha asked with a smile, eyes darkened and voice slightly raspy.

Hunter nodded at least four times.

"Yes, please..."

"Mm" he answered, and gave him what he asked for.

Soon, Einarr had three fingers inside of Hunter; and the beautiful man started to beg for his cock.

"Please, please. Your cock... Please, give me your cock..."

The alpha groaned. He slipped his fingers off; then lined up his hard on over Hunter's entrance, teasing with just the tip.

"More" the omega whined, own hips moving back and trying to impale himself impatiently.

"Here you go, baby" the man answered, holding himself and firmly and slowly pushing in.

Hunter's breathing hitched; voice quietening while he adjust and then breaking in a pleased whine.

"F-fuck, a-alpha...".

"Too much?" Einarr asked, waiting patiently, worried.

"No" the omega answered, releasing a happy sigh. "So, so big, so good..."

Hunter clenched; and the alpha moaned. His hands seized both sides of the smaller man's pretty waist.

"You feel incredible too, baby" he praised, and Hunter turned to smile at him, head still resting on the matress.

"Fuck me, please?" He asked, and the mandalorian could do nothing but obligue.

It was slow, sweet and gentle at first; though it was soon consumed by Hunter's heat and need and turned to a rough pounding. Hunter got reduced to endless whimpers and moans; fingers clenching around the bedsheets and eyes closed in bliss, half-bent half-slumped under his alpha's powerfull form.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes..." he chanted in tiny whispers, voice almost muffled against the matress of the bed.

One of Einarr's hand grabbed a handfull of his hair and tugged.

"F-fuck!" Hunter whined, voice forced into a proper deeper V, the spot his boyfriend was ramming slightly shifting inside of him.

"Wanna' hear you" the other man panted, still pouding inside of him. "Wanna' hear your pretty voice cry for me..."

"Alpha" Hunter all but cried to him, stimulation almost too much to handle for him. His body felt on fire, his wetness travelled down his thighs, his alpha was fucking him so good and deep and... "Please knot me. Please knot me, alpha, alpha..."

Einarr moaned at his lost babling. He loved when Hunter reached this state. Fuck, he was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

"Yeah?" He grunted with effort, tugging Hunter's hips back onto his cock. "Want me to knot you, little omega? Pump my cum deep into you?"

"Yes. Yes, please..." he really was a mess by now, but he didn't care. He felt loved and safe. "Alpha, please, put a pup in me..."

"F-fuck" Einarr's pacing stuttered. "Kriff, yes, gonna' fucking breed you, love, pretty, dirty little omega..."

"I'm gonna' cum" Hunter whined, one hand flying back to claw at Einarr's forearm. "I'm gonna' cum, gonna' cum, gonna' cum..."

Einarr groaned and sinked his teeth into Hunter's neck; hard enough to leave a temporary mark, but not enough to draw blood.

The omega cried and clenched around his cock, cumming in long, warm ropes onto the bedsheets. The beautiful sight of Hunter succumbing to the highest of his pleasure was more than enough to pull the alpha's own orgasm out of him; Einarr groaning one last time before pushing his hips flush with the omega's one and knotting him, pumping him full of his seed.

Strength abandoned him, and he more or less dropped on top of Hunter; trying to homd himself up to not crash him completely. The omega didn't look at all bothered by it; Hunter lowered both of them down slowly onto the matress, knot still connecting them, humming happily.

"You okay, handsome?" asked the alpha, kissing the back of his neck affectionately, breathing finally slowing.

Hunter hummed again, body relaxed and mind completely void of worries.

"Mm. Yeah" he turned his face to the side to smile softly at his boyfriend. "Love you, Nar. Thank you".

The alpha grinned. He really was the luckiest man on the galaxy. At least on Ord Mantell.

"Love you too, mesh'la".

THE END.

(Accepting omegaverse requests!)

Omegaverse masterlist here:

[babymockers]

I was going through my drafts the other day when I found this, written in the peak of my Graham Coxon obsession, a couple of years ago. Since it's so long, I had to cut this story into two parts (I was very creative 🙄).

I don’t know why I’m sharing this, but enjoy!

"I can’t see what you see in me"

Graham Coxon x female reader.

Prompt: Graham was having a really hard time with himself during a photoshoot and you had a great idea to cheer him up. Heavily inspired by Blair and Serena stealing Eleanor Waldorf's clothing line clothes on Gossip Girl (s1, e4).

Place/time: during the late 90's.

Reader description: reader is a French model trying to make herself a name in the industry, while being reduced to be in her boyfriend's shadow.

Fluff.

Part 1.

Graham was alone.

He was sitting on his stupid chair, drinking tea from his stupid cup, feeling even more stupid than he did before.

Now, for the amateur eye, he didn't seem that much alone. He was surrounded by people: make up artists, stylists, cameras, all that stuff. But he was, in fact, alone. Alone and bored.

Also, it was a terribly cold winter and a storm was probably coming at any time while they were stuck there working outdoors in a park.

So he was falling asleep on his stupid chair. Again.

Suddenly, he heard an excited voice calling his name, a voice that he knew a little too well from the person that he loved the most.

"Graham!" you shouted and he quicky turned his body towards the direction of the sound, standing up. You ran onto his arms and hugged him tightly making him almost lost balance. Even though he was surprised, his arms reached out for your body instinctively.

Still in his arms, you took his face with your soft hands and placed a sweet kiss onto his lips, him melting at the touch.

Alex, sitting next to that romantic scene, looked at you with genuine curiosity, trying to make something of your face. Wondering if you two have met before.

The truth was: you haven't. It may have sounded strange considering that in the past couple of months, you had been omnipresent-like to the Blur guys. Your name was always there, filling not only the empty spaces of the rehearsals but filling Graham's mind completely. You were present whole-heartedly in Graham's dreamy smiles and little giggles that came out of nowhere and in every new song that came with a dumb look of im-so-in-love. Present in the purple-ish marks on Graham's neck or like a stolen kiss from his plumped lips. Present in Damon's laugh every time he made fun of his best friend's infatuation but secretely holding an enormous respect for you that made him feel almost rotten to jealousy. "He doesn't need me anymore. He's got Y/N now. She'll take care of him" Damon used to say. But he didn't meant it. Not really.

You were great, the best one Graham ever had. The other ones were either boring or pretentious cunts, in the singer's own words. But he couldn't help to feel overprotective towards his best friend and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit jealous of the fact that Graham was so in love with you.

Damon loved attention. And Graham's attention was like crack because it was hard to make him interested in someone for real.

And the other times, you were there in body and soul, sitting in a corner taking pictures of whatever you founded interesting enough or simply hanging out.

So it was really weird for Alex to not have met you yet. Sure he heard the name, but Graham had been smart enough to make Alex and you not cross any paths. He knew Alex too well to trust him.

Dave chuckled and wolf-whistled, making Graham's cheeks turn red and he separated his lips from yours, unable to hide the big smile plastered on his face.

He never had anyone loving him like you do. So intense and passionate, so caring and gentle like a little child, rushing into his arms and calling his name for the whole town to hear it. Making him feel special, wanted. You could have anyone but, and here's the big but, you wanted him. And proudly so, as you always said.

"W-what are you doing here? I thought you weren't in England" He asked in confusion.

Your smile turned into a frown "And I thought you'd be happy to see me...”

"No, no. Please don't get me wrong. I'm just confused. I mean..." He started to panic.

You cut him off with a big smile "I'm joking, Gra. Turns out i don't have to work this couple of days because the collection got ruined by the rain and the photoshoot had to be rescheduled. The CEO was so angry, you should've seen him. He treated us very badly and that left me feeling sick to my stomach. So I remembered you were having a photoshoot here and I took the plane and well... I got an impulse. It's okay, right? I won't bother you. Just here for moral support" You said in a rush. "Oh, hi Dave". Dave waved his hand. Then you turned to Alex "I believe we haven't met yet. I'm Y/ N". You offered him your hand. "Alex, right? Heard lots of things about you".

He took your hand and gently placed a kiss on it "Good things I hope. So you're the famous Y/N". He turned to Dave but shot a quick look towards Graham, who was eyeing carefully at the exchange that was occurring in front of him, looking quite uneasy. "I must say I never expected that our little Graham was shagging such a pretty bird. Where are you from, Love? You've got a lovely accent". Graham tensed.

The awkwardness of the situation was only intensified by him pointing out your accent. You knew Alex didn't mean any harm, but that didn't sooth the rage in Graham's throat.

You've been officially named "Graham Coxon's New French Girlfriend" by the media and while you've told Graham so many times that it was a honor to be his girlfriend, he knew you were more than that stupid title. After all, you had a career of your own. You coincidentally met him at an event and now you've been living together in England for almost a year. But it just sort of happened. It wasn't your problem the media became obsessed with you.

And also you really wanted to get rid of the accent.

You opened your mouth to say something but before anything came out, Graham spoke in a condescending tone:

"She's french, Alex. You should know since you seem to get along so well with the french gals".

"Well... Alex begun.

"Where's Damon? I thought this was a group photoshoot" you interrumpted him trying to distract the tension away.

As if summoned, Damon appeared with a lopsided grin, always in his very own world. He kissed your cheek in a scandalous way and put his arm around Graham, although his best triend didn't even look at him. He was too busy shooting Alex with his gaze.

"Graham, it's fucking cold out here, put something on, mate. Jesus, you look like you're going to kill someone and I'm not in the "hiding a corpse" mood" Damon said completely oblivious to the fact that he was the one wearing only a suit and Graham was wearing a big jacket. Classic Damon. Then, he continued: "Well, the photographer, that bastard, just said he needed both of us, Alex, in front of the camera 'cause, I quote him: "Alex could make the suit work 'cause he's a good looking fella". I told him he could kiss my ass or my face, whatever. I quite fancy him. But not like I fancy you, Graham" He said battling his lashes, kissing Graham's temple. "You look sexy when you're angry. Love it".

Alex rolled his eyes, tired, and grinned at Graham

"Don't be mad at me, you twat. I was joking". Then he said to you: "Nice meeting ya, doll".

"Careful there, Alex. He's not playing around when Y/N is involved. Quite jealous he is" Damon laughed before the two of them started walking towards the photographer, who was already waiting for them. Damon rushed onto him, giving him a kiss on the cheeks.

You laughed at his childish behavior.

Dave patted Graham's shoulders and excused himself before making his way towards the improvised trailer the team managed to put together.

Graham lit up another cigarette letting the nicotine calm his burning insides and peered over the working crew to see Damon and Alex both wearing 1930's suits and posing as camera flashes exploded in their faces. He sat in a little bench, you by his side: "They look great. I didn't look as great as them".

You took his hand in yours. "You okay?"

"What is it like?" He said after a moment of silence, not looking at you but somehow giving you all his attention. "To be a model, you know. To have all of those people looking at you and telling you to make faces or something".

"Well, it's definitely not as fun as it may look. I used to think that it would be easy, that you only needed to be pretty and you'd be fine. But it's exhausting, actually". You smiled sadly "I often think l'd be better behind the cameras, being the one taking pictures”.

"You took some lovely pictures the other day..."

You smiled. "And how's it like being a rockstar?".

"Don't let Damon hear you say that. He says Blur's not a rock band. I say Blur's whatever the fuck Blur wants to be". He laughed humorless.

"And what does Blur want to be?" You asked.

"I'm not quite sure. Probably not a rock band".

You both laughed.

You moved your body closer to him. "And what does Graham wants to be?"

"I don't know. He certainly would prefer staying in bed cuddled up with you. Take me away from this big bad world and agree to marry me". He said while he leaned back on the bench, resting his head on your lap and putting your hand on his head, practically forcing you to stroke his hair.

You giggled "Mmm... You just made that up?" He nodded. “It sounded like a song". You said while he looked up at you with a sly smile. You leaned in and kissed his forehead as you started: "Alex..."

He interrupted you: "Alex is a bastard, you should know that. He's far up his arse and thinks he's got the right to do anything 'cause he's sexy or whatever. It doesn't sit right with me sometimes. Let's forget about him". You nodded.

A couple of minutes went by with none of you talking and you thought he was falling asleep. You loved watching him sleep. It was like all the darkness there inside of him left his body and he was finally at peace with himself. Then he broke the silence: "Do you find him a handsome bloke?"

You struggled, trying to find the right words "He's alright. Big egos aren't really my thing, though. I think you're way more handsome than him".

He frowned "You can't possibly think that. It doesn't take too much to see that Alex and Damon are more attractive than me. I'm awkward and too self conscious. They're the handsome ones. They could "sell the product". And I-I-I'm not, you see? I don't sell the product. I’d probably won't look half as great as them in those ridiculous 1930's suits. I don't sell what Blur wants to be. Fuck, I don't even sell myself. I'm just here...”

You took his hand in yours, leaving a kiss in it "I think you're all those things you said about them. You're there being yourself with all your flaws and strenghts. And I think that's beautiful about you. You don't need to sell the product because there's no product at all. You're Graham Coxon, not the guitarist or the guy from Blur. You're the person and you're the most attractive to me because you feel and you love in a way that none of them do". You looked at his eyes intensely. "And you also look quite sexy when you're jealous, Damon's right, I must say”. You added, trying to relieve the tension on his shoulders.

He gasped, pretending to be offended "I wasn't jealous".

"Sure you weren't" You said mockingly causing him to laugh.

Then he went silent again.

He sighed "I just can't see what you see in me".

You looked at him. The tenderness in his factions. His big brown eyes full of the melancholic feeling that consumed him daily.

You just knew he was more than enough. You knew since the first time you met him. He was incapable of holding your gaze yet somehow he managed to got you blushing all night. He didn't knew a single word of French yet you understood him so well. You communicated through your souls. Words were unnecessary.

Graham, so fragile and so broken. Yet, he put together the broken pieces of yourself, the ones left bruised. Now you were glowing, sparkling.

You wanted to do the same for him.

.

Part 2 here

[iamthemaestro]

would you perhaps regale us with tales of your time at sea (i am so curious what reenactment is like when youre traveling on an actual historical ship)

Ah, I *wish* I could say about the reenactment part but unfortunately the Lady Washington does not do much in terms of historical interpretation anymore—they definitely used to but they've gone through a lot of major changes in the past few years and it seems that was one of them. Frankly that would have been the only thing that could have made me more excited to be there lol.

However I appreciate the chance to infodump though since my brain is still very much in Ship Mode with nothing to do with itself... not sure if I have many *tales,* per se, but I did tons of fun stuff and tried to push myself hard in terms of trying things that scared me. On my last day I went up to furl the fore t'gallant (topmost yard on the foremast) which was probably the most physically difficult thing I did during my whole stay—while the climb up the t'gallant shrouds was fairly scary it was honestly much harder to just remain upright against the yard because the footrope was so shallow. On the topyards it's quite comfortable because you can functionally "stand" upright and lean against the yard at about stomach level while you're working, but here if you tried to stand upright the yard wouldn't even come up to your hips so you have to put all this weight into your knees, sort of crouching in order to have it in a good position to lean upon. I'd like to say I got pretty decent at furling in general but man... that one was a doozy. If I had had more time to practice it maybe it would come easier, but as it was we only set the t'gallants twice while I was there anyway. I will say I was surprised at how non-panicked I felt while I was hanging out there on the shrouds waiting for a wake to pass, not clipped into anything, held there by my own strength probably 50ish feet in the air—initially one of the hardest psychological parts of going aloft was staving off the intrusive thoughts, being a person very prone to them, but by the end I was actually quite impressed with how calm I felt up there. It's the best seat in the house, after all, second only to that of the main t'gallant: at first it feels dizzingly, unfathomably high, and when you look down you have this gut instinct of fear—I don't think humans were ever meant to be this high up, frankly—but the wind is whipping past you and your crewmates are like ants on the deck below you and all around you the shore disappears into fog on the horizon, and you're here; you swallow your fear and think, despite everything, "isn't this wonderful?"

My last day was a good one; during our transit from Port Orchard to Everett, the Seattle Krackens sent a film team out and had us set every sail we physically could along with a bunch of Kracken flags for their promotional video this season—we even rigged the main royal just for fun, despite the fact that it was too late for it to be caught on camera. Though I doubt I will ever see it, hypothetically there's some awesome footage of me loosing the bunt from the fore topsail with that fantastic WHOOMF as all that canvas drops—it looks so graceful from afar but when you're up there handling all that canvas it feels powerful more than anything else, all held up by the singular little midshipman's knot you undid with one hand, clinging to the jackstay with the other and watching the sail fall from the sky below you.

That night we also had a "shanty night" which I am very glad I got to experience, given my background as a musician, and it was a great time. Unfortunately I had no way to travel with my mandolin so I was armed only with my tinwhistle, but some crew members seemed genuinely pretty impressed with my ability to pick up tunes, which, at the risk of sounding extremely pretentious (forgive me) I am accustomed to thinking of as a rather mundane thing, but it was nice to feel appreciated. One of my crewmates, very drunk at the time, told me very earnestly that my "improsov" was very good and a "skill I should cherish," and honestly I don't think I'll ever forget that—when I picked up with the verse to Spanish Ladies everyone else had forgotten he cheered obnoxiously for me and kept up a steady stream of enthusiastic interjections where he didn't know the words, and while I am not generally fond of being the center of attention, I was fond of him for that.

Over the course of the trip I was introduced to a great number of tunes I'd never heard—which is something I value deeply—most of which I probably won't remember the names of, but of those I do I am making a point to learn. I love this sort of exchange—folk music at its most authentic—especially in a place like this, late in the evening on what, by the end of my time, I had decided was the most beautiful ship in the world, where our singing and our laughter carried across the water and into the night and my heart, though saddened by the air of finality that pervaded it all, was full.

Excuse me for getting a little prosaic—it's hard to describe the feelings you experience sailing a vessel like this one, at least to me, and it's been a dream of mine for a while. I miss it already and have full intentions on returning in coming years, but for now thanks for the opportunity to talk about it lol!

[emmalostinwonderland]

Emma Happy Friday!! and a Ficlet prompt for ya

🥾 Walking tour for firstprince plz 💚

Thanks for the ask! I also got a 🥾 from @tailsbeth so this is for both of y’all. Sorry for the late submission 🫣

This is just absolutely un-fucking-fair. Alex has been giving food tours in New York for a couple years now – it's the perfect side gig for a college student trying to stay in shape and get to know a new city – but despite bad weather and Karens and the occasional scheduling issue, he’d never been tempted to quit on the spot. Until now, of course. This one guy with his blondness and his posh accent and his pink, pouty lips has no business taking his tour and practically fellating everything they try. He looks like he’s having an orgasmic experience at each stop on the tour, and Alex is… barely coping. “Oh, it’s been absolutely ages since I’ve had good gelato,” the guy moans at their Eataly stop. “This is just divine.” “I can’t say I disagree,” his companion, the beautiful, dark-skinned man with teal hair, replies. Alex briefly considers the appeal of being the filling in their sandwich so-to-speak before he shakes the thoughts away. Keep it professional, he thinks to himself. Blondie doesn’t seem to notice his blatant thirsting anyway, thank fuck. He’s moved on to asking Fashion Colors what kind of gelato he ordered. “Pretty sure it’s technically sorbetto, dear heart, but I simply could not ignore the passionfruit. My instincts were correct, of course; it’s delightful. What’s yours then? Mint?” “Pistachio.” Oh and how Alex both loves and loathes the way this guy pronounces pistachio with a hard C like the Italians do. So pretentious, and yet… well. “Ah, of course. You always have been a slut for the nut though, Haz.” “Pez! Some bloody decorum, if you please,” Blondie hisses at the other guy, and Alex can’t help but scoff. “Like you’re one to talk.” Both men turn and stare openly at him, leaving Alex to finally realize that he was the one who just fucking said that. So much for a good review. “Pardon?” Blondie asks, looking incredulous. Alex glances around to make sure his other tour group members are distracted. “You’ve eaten everything this afternoon like you’re filming an OnlyFans video, man. Not judging, just like… I dunno, I assumed you knew.” “I– I absolutely have not,” he splutters, his forgotten gelato dripping onto his fingers and nearly driving Alex to distraction once again. His mouth has gone completely dry, and he lets his subconscious run wild imagining all the scenarios in which he could lick the guy’s fingers clean. “Well,” the other man (Pez? Surely not his real name) adds in, “he’s not entirely wrong, darling.” Blondie looks like he wants to melt right through the sidewalk along with his pistachio gelato. “It’s cool, plenty of couples are like that,” Alex says as casually as he can manage. The words burn his throat on the way out. “Are y’all newlyweds? Honeymoon in the Big Apple?” “What? Us?” Blondie’s shock is about equal to his horror. His companion doubles over laughing. “Pez, stand up, you’re making a scene. We, er– no.” “No?” Pez, wiping tears from his eyes, straightens up. “No. Lifelong mates, though only in the English sense. Henry here is completely unattached, in fact. You wouldn’t happen to know any strapping young lads seeking a hopeless romantic with a fondness for good food? He’s new to the area, you see, and I think he’d benefit from being shown around the city.” “Fucks sake, Pez–” “Funny you should ask because I do have someone in mind, as a matter of fact.” Pez grins as Henry falls silent. “Do tell.” Alex clears his throat. “He’s actually a tour guide, so he’s friends with half the restaurant owners around here and can get a last-minute reservation practically anywhere. And he’s free tonight.” “Please be referring to yourself,” Henry says softly. “I don’t mean to overstep, of course, but–” “I’m absolutely referring to myself, sweetheart. Can I take you out after this?” “I’d like that very much.” Pez claps each of them on the shoulder. “Wonderful. You two go on mooning over each other; I shall be inside buying more pasta than I know what to do with. Henry, I’ll see you at home eventually — don’t hurry back.”

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Like A Bird To You — One

masterlist

victorian!silco x f!oc [6.9k] [1/12] [AO3]

cw: i give silco a last name

summary: Escaping an oppressive marriage and family, Selene Shrike finds herself turning to East Piltover’s de-facto leader, believing him to be the only one with sufficient power to grant her autonomy and retribution against her family.

story tags: victorian themes, f!oc, politics, slow burn, marriage of convenience, age-gap, yearning, sexual tension, eventual romance, silco & oc flirt through ideology convos, oc is morally dubious, eventual smut, implied/referenced/attempted rape, slightly angsty, not betad

a/n short-form multi-chap incoming! been playing around with writing styles and this was one of the outcomes, so here ya go. set in piltover still, but some aspects of victorian england are present. this is basically a songfic, shoutout hozier's 'shrike' and 'be' for inspiring this mess

felt so pretentious while writing this but to fuck with that!! it was fun to write, it's like being possessed by an ancient spirit telling me to write sexual tension and smut for fictional characters.

i dedicate this to the merriam-webster dictionary website. learnt fuckton words just to write this.

requests are open & lmk if you want to join my taglist and for which kind (silco/viktor/a specific story/etc)

How readily the heart, when imperilled, warms to the notion of murder. Such was the lamentable case for one Selene Shrike. It must be noted that she was not, by nature, of a particularly homicidal character—quite the contrary; even in her manner of dress, she bore a striking resemblance to a librarian whose deity was routine, rather than a miscreant of the criminal persuasion.

However, it came to pass that the most unfortunate of circumstances (her husband, Leonard) had befallen (returned from his daily labours) to her immediate vicinity (within the confines of her kitchen) whilst she found herself in a most precarious state of mind (consumed by a scarlet madness so profound that even the most vibrant rose might have cause to envy her).

Selene had been engaged in the preparation of the evening's repast, deftly wielding a carving knife, when she was confronted by her unsuspecting spouse. He, with little wit (and indeed, he had never been blessed with an abundance of it to begin with), proceeded with a shocking lack of caution to inquire as to why she had not instructed the household staff to make haste with the supper preparations.

It was, as fate would have it, the singular day when the domestic help had been granted leave of absence—a fact which Leonard, in his perpetual state of forgetfulness (that is if it was committed to memory in the first place), had failed to recall. Thus, the responsibility of serving the evening meal had fallen squarely upon Selene's shoulders.

Leonard stood in such tantalising proximity, with an air of nonchalance, as if beseeching the embrace of her blade. His very demeanour seemed to wave the crimson flag of incompetence before Selene’s eyes, as though she were a raging bull provoked beyond measure. Her grip upon the implement had whitened in a most alarming fashion, her molars grinding against one another with a ferocity that threatened to shatter the enamel, and every muscle in her being was clenched as though she were a coiled spring.

She envisioned the terrible arc of her arm as it might plunge the blade into his chest—that ghastly crack of bone, that gush of crimson—but no. It was a notion most abhorrent. It was, indeed, a contemplation of utmost wickedness. And what would become of her should she succumb to such base instincts? Her father, that loathsome creature, would undoubtedly lay claim to her person once more. Her financial autonomy (which, in truth, was never hers to begin with, but Leonard was exceptionally susceptible to her honeyed words, such that it was as though she possessed her own fortune) would slip from her grasp. Moreover, she would be compelled to face the even more abominable horrors that lurked beneath her father's oppressive roof.

Thus, in a moment of agonising clarity, Selene found herself opting for a fate far worse. Something along the lines of vengeance: a notion most unbecoming of a lady of her station, which she would have undoubtedly realised had she afforded herself but a minute more of contemplation before hastily departing her domicile.

Alas, Selene Shrike was, much to her detriment, of hare-brained inclinations. This characteristic, while occasionally lending a certain vivacity to her demeanour, more often than not led her into circumstances of a most precarious nature. This particular occasion was, to more rational mind: ill-advised at best, and utterly ruinous at worst.

She had travelled for hours, traversing treacherous landscape by hired hoof then her own foot beneath a most tempestuous storm. Her parasol, that delicate accoutrement so essential to a lady's outdoor attire, had long since been torn from her grasp by the merciless winds. Wherever it decided to flee, it fled with greatest haste and grace as it billowed frantically. But in its stead, she was compelled to employ a coat she had fortuitously packed as a makeshift cloak, shielding both her person and her valise from the relentless onslaught of the elements.

Consequently, upon her arrival at the Vonharker Manor, she presented a most bedraggled spectacle. Her attire, once the epitome of refinement, now hung wind-licked and storm-slopped, darkening their meticulously polished floors with each puddle-forming step she took. Yet, despite their reputation for harsh dealings, the staff had shown a modicum of grace (in the parts where it mattered, anyway. And she did not deem it ‘matter’ enough that they did not smile nor offer conversation), sharing with her a warm cup of tea before ushering her to her desired appointment.

“Good evening, Vonharker, Sir,” she intoned, bowing her head briefly in a gesture of forced deference. Her gaze, however, could not help but drift from the gentleman's paper-littered desk to survey the chaotic scene before her. The state of disarray was positively shocking. She found herself utterly incapable of comprehending how one could function, particularly in a position of such importance, amidst such disorder.

Even the air was stifling; thick, swampy smoke clogged the airways, casting a grey pall over the entire room and obscuring one's vision most dreadfully. Disorganised piles of documents clothed every surface, each stack a veritable tower of Babel threatening to topple at any moment, their contents ready to be misunderstood, lost, or misplaced at the slightest provocation. Even the illumination was offensively inadequate, the dim light casting long shadows that seemed to mock the very notion of clarity—as if the lightbulb itself was refusing to achieve its base purpose.

The gentleman seated behind the desk deigned to raise his gaze towards her, instead proffering a languid gesture of his hand. “Just Silco,” he uttered with an air of indifference.

Selene, with admirable patience, tarried a moment longer, anticipating that he might decide to bestow her the courtesy of his attention, thus allowing her to present herself in the manner she deemed most fitting. However, as the seconds ticked by with agonising slowness upon the mantle clock, the gentleman remained steadfastly engrossed in his correspondence and papers, as though expecting her to simply state her business without the benefit of proper introduction.

This flagrant disregard for niceties rather vexed her, and a slight furrow appeared upon her brow, betraying her indignation at such impropriety. How, she pondered, could a man of such repute and standing in society ascend to such heights when he appeared wholly ignorant of the most basic tenets of polite discourse? It was as though she were naught but a wisp of smoke, utterly beneath his notice.

“It is most discourteous to deny one's guest the common civility of the merest degree of attentiveness,” Selene observed, tone didactic and almost patronising, for which she did not hold back on and deemed necessary in this case. “Sir,”

This utterance appeared to draw his eyes towards her—or rather, one eye, for the other was concealed beneath a sable patch connected to thin leather around his head. The free eye was frigid blue, penetrating the tobacco haze, and showing inscrutable sentiment to which Selene found herself quite at a loss to respond. “Might I be so bold as to remind you, Madam, that it was your good self who so vehemently… banged on the office doors demanding upon an audience with my person, when you had provided neither intimation of your impending arrival nor expressed any prior desire for such a meeting,” he gestured with a flourish towards the documents strewn before him. “And thus, most unexpectedly, I find myself obliged to attend to two matters simultaneously,”

Selene's features momentarily betrayed her astonishment (whether it was his remarkably forthright manner of discourse, especially at a lady, or the smoke-clothed timbre of his voice that so gently lilted in the air—she knew not which, for both were equally unanticipated), her lips parting in a most unbecoming manner as the veracity of his statement dawned on her. However, she swiftly regained her composure, assuming once more the mien of a proper lady, and offered a slight inclination of her head in acknowledgment. “But is it sufficient justification for a want of common courtesies?” she maintained her resolve, observing as he tilted his head ever so slightly, his countenance remaining stone impassive. It was at this juncture that her gaze alighted upon a most grievous disfigurement beneath the his eye patch—a scar that marred one side of his face, as though some feral beast had struck him with its talons, leaving a wound that time neglected to mend.

Once more, and so curiously, she thought, he gave another tilt of the head, the blue eye traversing the contours of her face in such intense study that bordered upon unseemly. “So you have come with the express purpose of delivering a lecture on my want of propriety?”

A satisfied hum escaped her, finding light jest in his riposte. “As well as such an endeavour appears to be at present, unfortunately not, but perhaps we may revisit it at a later date,” she flashed a small smile and shook her head, advancing towards his writing desk and assuming a seat.

Silco’s gaze followed her closely without movement, and she found herself wondering as to the nature of his thoughts at that precise moment—as was the harmony of things, she’d noted, that the less revealed was the more desired.

“I come to offer you my services,” Selene declared, steeling herself for the customary reactions she had grown accustomed to encountering: a derisive chortle, a mocking sneer, or perhaps a narrowing of the eyes that bespoke a profound disbelief in her capabilities. Such responses never failed to elicit a most disagreeable tempest within her chest. However, Silco offered naught but a single arched brow, denoting a measure of interest that she found most unexpected. How very peculiar indeed, she mused, finding herself quite at a loss to interpret his unorthodox demeanour.

“And what precisely is it that you offer?” his voice was laden with a most palpable scepticism, a ghost drifting towards Selene. His singular eye, keen as rapier, scrutinised her with an intensity that might have caused lesser individuals to wilt.

Selene squared her shoulders. “Instruction, Sir,”

“Instruction?” Silco echoed, tone betraying intrigue.

She inclined her head in affirmation. “Indeed. It is my understanding that you wish to better the lives of the impoverished denizens of East Piltover—Zaun, I believe you have christened it?”

He gave a light nod, silently encouraging her.

“And while you have undoubtedly achieved remarkable success in numerous spheres—governance, sustenance, and the like—there appears to be a most lamentable… deficiency in the realm of education. It is precisely this void that I propose to fill. I am not merely educated; I am impassioned. I can bestow upon your… establishment a wealth of knowledge,” she pursed her lips, ‘establishment’ feeling rather inadequate, but she pressed on. “Moreover, I can instruct others in this noble pursuit, so that they, in turn, may do the same. I would posit that it is precisely this that your enterprise lacks and why it may be stalling as of late,”

Silco’s hand ascended swiftly, a wordless command that would have silenced many a valiant soul. However, Selene, steadfast in her resolve, was not to be deterred. She leaned and interlocked her gaze with his—perhaps challenging, perhaps duelling, or perhaps merely an attempt to better discern the soft crystal blue half-lidded in thought.

“I do not come before you as a supplicant seeking employment,” she persisted, though her words belied the truth of her circumstances. In point of fact, her need for gainful occupation was most pressing, as the state of her purse was a lamentable and barren sight, devoid of coin. “Rather, I present to you an opportunity of considerable merit. Your endeavour, as it pertains to this domain, is woefully, and I must confess, surprisingly insufficient,”

A flicker of something—perhaps indignation, or respect—flit across Silco’s features. “Insufficient?” he mused. “A most audacious assertion,”

Selene offered a slight shrug. “Mere astute observation,” she rejoined, punctuating her words with a decorous nod. “Sir,”

He reclined in his chair, lips pursed in a manner that bespoke contemplation upon her proposition .

Selene observed in silence, her hands delicately interlaced in anticipation, gaze floating the expanse of his writing desk. Her attention was suddenly arrested by an ashtray, upon which she discerned the faintest hint of pink pigment adorning one side, as though it had been deliberately turned away from prying eyes. A child, perhaps? Her gaze returned to the gentleman as he sank deeper into his ruminations.

In truth, he bore not the slightest resemblance to a paternal figure—no warmth, no welcoming demeanour that might indicate even a passing acquaintance with such sentiments. One could only surmise that either he maintained a most rigorous separation between the spheres of his existence, or that the child in question was suffering a most deplorable neglect.

“You may take your leave," Silco pronounced with a dismissive wave of his hand as he returned his attention to the documents before him.

Brows rose in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

He cast a fleeting glance in her direction, hand once more finding purchase upon his quill, poised in the midst of committing thoughts to parchment. “I reiterate, you may take your leave. It is not my desire to subject you to the tedium of awaiting in this silence,”

Selene regarded him with a studious gaze, her face betraying a thread of uncertainty.

“I concede there is…. truth in your assertions—indeed, I’ve not allocated sufficient resources towards the pursuit of education, a matter which is undoubtedly in dire need of attention,”

She nodded, hope seeping into her posture, pushing her shoulders upwards.

“However, the question of your employment is a separate consideration upon which I must further deliberate,” he set aside his quill and interlaced his fingers. “Pray, enlighten me as to the nature of your background,” he inquired, eye briefly flicking upon her hands before returning to meet her face.

Selene could not figure what it was that was dancing in her chest at the behest of his speech, his voice—perhaps the nerves of conversing with a stranger? “I am... my father is a man of grand operation, not unlike yourself,” she pursed her lips, careful not to utter lies, though curbing the concise truth because, yes, by ‘grand operation’ she meant ‘My father is a part of the council’. “And my siblings and I have been afforded the privilege of a most comprehensive education throughout our formative years,” she swallowed, words plucked from the air with great deliberation. “I harbour profound interests in the realms of language, music, and have had the pleasure of instructing my siblings in both disciplines. I consider myself sufficiently well-versed to undertake the role of an educator, though I must… I must confess a desire to further refine my skills, should such opportunities present themselves,”

His shoulders quivered momentarily, mouth twisting as if holding back an expression. “And what—is this your grand design? Cultivate a society of authors and minstrels?”

It was evident that this image amused him, as if such an outcome were most improbable or undesirable.

“Wherefore not?” she riposted, earnest demeanour swiftly dispelling his comedy. “Is it not the hallmark of a thriving populace?”

He tilted his head, his gaze wandering in contemplation. “You fancy yourself a nation of poets, Ms. Shrike,” he delivered his words with an air of amusement, the idea ticking his lips to a strange smiling curve that denoted his disbelief or disapproval.

Selene shrugged. “Should that be our trajectory, then so shall we proceed,”

“You posit that triumphant uprisings beget poets?”

She tsked. “I contend that triumphant uprisings beget liberty,”

His attention returned to her, one eyebrow arching in curiosity. “And this liberty, in turn, engenders poetry?”

“It engenders art, that is certain,” affirming, she bobbed her head gently, mind awash with the image of a nation of authors and musicians. “One generation toils in politics so that their progeny might revel in science, so that their progeny might revel in artistic expression,”

Her words appeared to seep into the depths of his rumination, causing his attention to drift once more. She pondered which aspect of her discourse had stirred his thoughts so. “Only so slightly naive, and full-heartedly romantical. Then what transpires thereafter?”

To this, Selene found herself bereft of a ready answer. Thus, she offered a subtle shake of her head. “That… remains to be seen,"

He seemed to take this in, eye narrowing almost imperceptibly. “And your husband granted his consent for you to seek employment?”

“My h—” she faltered, composure stuttering and momentarily deserting her. She arched a brow at him, who appeared to derive a slight of satisfaction from having caught her in such an unguarded state. Had she made mention of a husband? She was quite certain she had not. The notion that Leonard should become a topic of discourse was utterly bewildering to her, and she had no intention of divulging her marital status.

Silco inclined his head towards her hand.

Selene's gaze was drawn downwards, her eyes cast upon the subtle pale and smooth line on her finger where her ring had once resided. How had he managed to discern such a minute detail? She found herself wishing he had not, for now it seemed as though he had gained some manner of advantage over her. She raised her eyes to meet his once more, striving to conceal the faintest hint of discomfiture that threatened to betray her.

“Mere astute observation,” he remarked with cool detachment, shoulders rising in the slightest of shrugs.

She found herself grasping for the composure she had maintained earlier in their discourse, squaring her shoulders as if such a gesture might undo his observation. “He and I are estranged," she declared with resolute dignity.

“Then, perhaps, your father," Silco continued, as though consulting some invisible ledger of propriety. “Has he gran—"

“No. He has not," she interjected, eyelids fluttering momentarily as she summoned every ounce of self-possession to maintain a countenance as impassive as his own. “And I should not think it a matter of consequence, at least not as it pertains to your good self,"

He tilted his head, entire being now focused upon her with a burn that had heretofore been absent—his form, his face, his singular eye all fixed upon her person. “And what leads you to such a conclusion?"

Selene offered a slight shrug of her shoulders. “That you do not hold such matters in high regard," she remarked, nudging her head towards the door through which she had entered. “While I acknowledge that such considerations are customary in polite society, I doubt that you subscribe to these… particular notions,"

“And what notions do you believe me to disregard? In exact?" he inquired, rising from his seat behind the escritoire, his palms resting upon its surface as he gazed downward with an air of keen interest.

Selene observed as the gentleman made his languid progression around, his movements as fluid as the wisps of smoke that permeated the chamber. “I do not believe that you harbour any particular concern as to whether a woman’s husband or father has granted their permission for employment,”

“Hm—indeed?” he had now fully circumnavigated the table to stand before her, one hip inclined in a manner that might be deemed informal in more genteel company.

Selene found herself compelled to raise her gaze, silently pondering the necessity of his current position. Was it not sufficient to regard her with disdain from across the expanse of his desk? “I surmise that you are a gentleman of... fervent aspirations. ‘Zaun’ is merely one proof. That you may be one who would not hesitate to employ whatever means necessary to achieve his ends. And to seek permission would be, perhaps, incongruous with such a disposition. Am I correct in this assessment?”

A cock of his head. “Am I thus?”

“Incongruous,” one shoulder nudged up. “With such a disposition,”

He appeared to linger upon her inquiry, his singular eye seeming to bore into her very being, as though he were at that very moment arriving at some momentous decision. What intricate machinations were at work within his mind? What unspoken questions did he harbour that she found herself unable to discern through mere gaze? What further revelations might yet be forthcoming?

Selene's thoughts turned to the ashtray and its curious adornment of pink pigment.

“And I must say," she continued. “That were I to be blessed with a daughter of my own, I should desire nothing less than to bestow upon her the entirety of the world,” she observed him with keen interest as he, in turn, observed her, her mind awhirl with speculation as to whether her words had inadvertently struck upon some particular chord of significance within him. “To grant her the liberty to pursue her heart's truest inclinations—science, art, or otherwise—to traverse life unencumbered by..." a sardonic laugh escaped her, unbidden, as the faces of Leonard and her father materialised in her mind. “Men, and whatever other doors the world deems fit to be opened solely by their hands," her eyes draped down and up his figure as if in slight accusation and jest.

She rose from her seat, positioning herself just shy of his direct line of sight. Yet, she stood close enough to issue a silent challenge to that studious look in his uncovered eye. From this vantage, she could truly discern the pale azure of his gaze, exerting considerable effort to avoid casting her eyes upon the other side of his face.

“And I scarcely think," her voice had diminished to a near whisper, seemingly against her own volition. “That strict adherence to social proprieties is how you hope to win this revolution," Especially against my father.

“Am I to understand that you shall refrain from… chastising me for my apparent lack of social graces?"

A delicate smile played upon the corners of Selene's lips. “We shall see," she replied, attaching a touch of coyness.

He appeared to contemplate her words, his singular eye darting betwixt her left and right, as though perusing some invisible text she held aloft. In truth, Selene's knowledge of this enigmatic figure was limited to the scant reports in the broadsheets and the vitriolic mutterings of her father. The damned snake, corrupt hands, dirty rat, eye of Zaun, he would oft proclaim in fits of indignation.

It was rumoured that Silco held considerable sway over the Eastern district of Piltover, effectively bisecting the state—a feat most impressive, Selene mused, for he appeared to reign supreme in comparison to the seven councillors governing the Western realm. She had, on numerous occasions, lingered within earshot during her father's assemblies, acutely aware of the thick unease that permeated the council chambers, particularly her father's, regarding this man's iron grip on that portion of the nation.

It made her wonder just how much she could prod until an outburst—employment under Silco himself being a fine needle against the pane of glass, testing resilience, and peering near to the precise moment it might finally yield to the pressure and shatter.

The man’s slightest shift caught her attention and she looked up. He had extended his hand towards her in a gesture of formal introduction.

“I believe we must make our acquaintance if we are to engage in business together,” he pronounced.

Blinking in momentary surprise, Selene raised her own hand to meet his, allowing him to execute a brief handshake. “Selene Shrike,”

“Silco Vonharker,” he acknowledged her with a curt nod before relinquishing her hand and taking a step backwards. As he made his way towards the chamber doors, he spoke once more. “I shall see to the arrangement of your accommodations. Would it be agreeable to you to convene later this evening? I will hear your ideas in full and tomorrow meet with the board of barons,”

Selene felt her breath catch in her throat, the opportunity having been granted with such unexpected ease that she found herself nearly pierced with tears. While it had not been without its share of persuasion, it had proven far less arduous than many of her past endeavours. She offered Silco a gracious nod and moved towards the door, pausing at the threshold to address him once more. “Sir,"

He returned the gesture with equal brevity. “Madam," he replied.

With that, Miss Selene took her leave, finding herself once more in the presence of the same woman who had proffered her a cup of tea upon her initial arrival.

Selene endeavoured, with all the fortitude she could muster, to reconcile herself to the altered state of her circumstances. No longer would she find herself ensconced in the luxurious trappings of her former life—exquisite raiment, sumptuous furnishings, and ever-present retinue of servants anticipating her every whim. Though she was well aware that such a life of self-reliance was, indeed, the lot of the majority, it remained foreign to her genteel upbringing.

The privileged existence hitherto afforded to her had (she ruefully acknowledged) shielded her from the exertions common to those of lesser means. Effort. This realisation elicited within her a twinge of remorse, fearing this might be construed as a mark of inadequacy or incompetence—qualities against which she had ever striven to guard herself, in all aspects of her life.

Thus, with a resolute heart, she welcomed the moderate appointments of her new abode: one bed in a room of five. While she could not, in all honesty, describe her lodgings as wholly neglectful—for they did, after all, boast four walls, a ceiling, and modest sheets—neither could she deny that they paled in comparison to the spacious apartments to which she had resided in for three and twenty years.

The woman who had ministered to her needs with an offered cup of tea—Sevika by name, Silco's right-hand, as Selene had come to learn—became an object of intense fascination to the young lady. This curious individual eschewed the traditional attire of her sex, adorning herself instead in a manner more befitting a man of service: trousers, flat boots, and form unencumbered by the constraints of a corset. Even more striking was the maroon fabric draped across her bosom, lending her an air of masculine practicality.

She would avert her eyes from Selene's inquisitive gaze that lingered overlong upon the unconventional appearance—her shorn hair pulled severely away from her face, the perpetual furrow of her brow, and most notably, the pair of remarkably captivating pale eyes. And, to Selene’s dismay, no friendship budded between as Sevika walked her to the opposite wing of the estate.

Vonharker Manor, in all its grandeur, could scarcely be described as quaint. To Selene's discerning eye, the estate appeared to be neatly bisected: the western wing devoted to the accommodation of staff and the provision of entertainment chambers, while the eastern wing was reserved for matters of business, the nature of which remained a mystery to her. Beyond the stately edifice stretched a verdant expanse of cultivated land, its monotony interrupted by dots  of crimson, amber, and golden hues—fruits and vegetation, though too distant for her to ascertain their precise nature.

In her room, she had set about the task of drying those garments which had fallen victim to the storm. She attired herself in whatever dry vestments were at her disposal, making do with the limited space afforded her.

It became apparent that she was to share quarters with four other individuals, their berths in various states of disarray, yet still bearing a lived-in comfort that she found oddly reassuring.

As the evening drew nigh, and the last vestiges of daylight faded from the windowpane, she sought solace upon her own bed. With quill in hand she found herself in the most peculiar of predicaments.

She diligently inscribed within the pages of a work of fiction (the only paper she had thought to bring) the salient points she intended to raise during the impending assembly. As she scribbled betwixt lines of flowery prose and passionate declarations, she mused that should her notes be discovered, future readers might believe she had penned the most nonsensical romance novel in all of Piltover—one in which the dashing hero inexplicably expounded upon the merits of educational reform and the intricacies of educational curriculums.

The clanging of a bell from the yard withdrew Selene's attention, and she found herself peering through the window to observe the day's conclusion. A procession of weary souls, shoulders bent with the weight of honest toil, made their way towards the manor house as lamps within were kindled against the encroaching darkness.

She remained diligently hunched over her tome and writing implement, quill scratching across the page with a fervour born of urgency and inspiration. But her solitude was interrupted by a sharp rapping upon the chamber door. Upon glancing back, she beheld Sevika's figure standing beneath the door frame, posture rigid and unyielding.

Understanding, Selene, with graceful haste, gathered her book and followed Sevika's retreating form into the warmly lit corridor beyond.

“I am Selene, if you please," the young lady offered her hand towards the stoic woman, though her gesture of civility remained unreciprocated. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,”

The taciturn Sevika deigned only to offer a curt nod of acknowledgement, resolute in her silence. Selene, ever the model of decorum, returned the nod with gracious understanding.

The elder of the pair, Sevika, led the way eastward through the grand corridors of Vonharker Manor. The silence that might have reigned between them was mercifully dispelled by the distant strains of lively conversation and melodious tunes, their origin a mystery to the newly arrived lady. She found herself quite intrigued by these sounds of gaiety, so at odds with the sombre demeanour of her guide.

Upon reaching their destination, Sevika, with a practised efficiency that spoke of long years in service, drew open a heavy chamber door. The oak yielded without creak. And a gesture as economical as it was unambiguous, she bade the other girl enter.

Selene crossed the threshold, skirts rustling softly with each step.

She found herself quite overcome by the grandeur of the chamber that lay before her. It was, without doubt, a study of the most magnificent order, a sanctuary of learning and refinement that would not have been out of place in the finest homes of West Piltover. Indeed, she mused, it rather put her father's modest library to shame

One entire wall of this chamber was adorned from floor to ceiling with a tapestry of leather-bound books, a sight that nearly caused her to almost swoon. The shelves, crafted from the seeming finest mahogany and polished to a lustrous sheen, did not even bend beneath the weight of countless volumes, the gilt-edged spines glinting in the warm light like so many jewels. Selene could not help but marvel at the breadth contained within these hallowed walls, fingers fairly itching to caress their spines.

At the very heart of the oasis was a grand piano, ebony surface gleaming like a dark mirror. Undoubtedly Ionian of the highest calibre, seemed to Selene as a sleeping giant, waiting only for the touch of a skilled hand to awaken its voice. She likened it to the one her father had gifted her—how much more marvellous this one felt.

Adjacent to the literary wall, a sumptuous sofa in deep burgundy leather invited repose and contemplation; then at the far end of the chamber, commanding a view of the entire room, stood a desk, standing as if in authority over the room.

The entire study was suffused with a warm, soft radiance that seemed to emanate from every surface. Lamps, flames dancing behind etched glass shades, played upon the polished wood and leather, and cast a golden glow that softened every edge and lent an air of elegance to the scene.

“Good evening, Ms. Shrike,” came the sonorous tones of Silco, his figure materialising from a doorway previously unnoticed by Selene. “What have you to present?”

The young lady inclined her head in acknowledgment, drawing nearer as she unfurled the pages of her rather unorthodox notebook. “Good evening, Sir. I have... one moment, if you please. I have devised some proposals for the implementation of educational programmes in Z—”

“What, may I inquire, is that peculiar thing?” he interjected, his piercing furrow fixed upon the tome in Selene's shuffling hands.

The lady paused, her lips parting in momentary bewilderment as she followed his line of sight. “M… oh, my notations?”

Silco's brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Whispers of Passion?” he read aloud, his voice tinged with incredulity.

A most unbecoming flush suffused Selene's face, her hand instinctively moving to conceal the offending title. “That is—no, I assure you, this was the only... that is to say, the only parchment at my disposal. However, I can attest that my notes are indeed contained within,” she lifted the pages. “See, I—mm, no,” she withdrew it as quickly, offering a sheepish smile instead as she smoothed the pages, having at last located the appropriate section pertaining to her strategies. “If we might proceed—I have formulated some comprehensive strategies for the implementation of educational programmes in Zaun,”

Silco rapped his knuckles upon the polished surface of the mahogany table, gesturing her forward with a slight inclination of his head as he lowered himself into his seat and arranged before him a mountain of parchment. “What else?”

Selene approached and gracefully took her place in the chair. Her gaze fell upon him as he commenced his scribblings with practised speed. After a moment's hesitation, she ventured to speak, her voice soft yet resolute. “If I may, regarding the matter of resource allocation, I find myself curious. Was the apparent dearth of funds directed towards educational pursuits a consequence of limited means, or perhaps a reflection of a certain... indifference towards the subject?"

Though her inquiry had been born of genuine interest and good intentions, Selene could not help but notice a shadow pass over Silco's face, his expression souring ever so slightly.

He fixed her with a look of mild displeasure, eyes drooping in an unmistakable display of vexation. “I assure you, Ms. Shrike, it is neither,” he declared, resuming his writing with renewed vigour. “We possess ample resources, and I hold education in the highest regard,” he continued, casting her a fleeting glance that spoke volumes. “I have simply found myself overwhelmed by the myriad responsibilities that demand my attention. You must understand, there are countless matters regarding—”

“Indeed,” Selene interjected, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “And I have the matter of curriculum development to attend to,” her smile only broadened at Silco's look of barely concealed exasperation, brought about by her rather bold interruption.

He was not, by any measure, a disagreeable companion. She had long been accustomed to Leonard's incessant ramblings about his daily affairs, grievances concerning colleagues, or his fleeting ponderings to which he expected Selene to be attentive, whilst never once deigning to inquire about her own day—it was this as a daily occurrence which made an impression on Selene as though she existed only when he looked at her, talk to her, and that little else outside of him mattered. Now, as she found herself seated beside this man, she came to the profound realisation of how deeply she cherished silence. Save for the gentle rustle of parchment and the occasional soft exhalation, they occupied the space without encroaching upon one another's solitude.

There existed a curious liberty in his company, she felt, that caused a peculiar tightening in her chest, akin to a slight discomfort. He did not second-guess her assertions, nor did he question her intellectual faculties. When she ventured to offer an opinion, he neither dismissed it nor addressed her in a patronising manner, but rather considered each word with the gravity one might afford a fellow gentleman. His inquiries, when they arose, pertained solely to matters of logical inconsistency or strategic criticism, rather than directing any aspersions towards her person. Indeed, never once did he indicate that such a thought had even crossed his mind.

The effect of this unexpected treatment was such that Selene found herself, from time to time, casting furtive glances in his direction. Her mind, much like a boisterous child, raced with fervent activity, pondering what manner of upbringing could have possibly moulded him into such an individual. Perhaps, a mother who had instilled in him such graces? A sister? Lover?

“It is discourteous to subject one’s companion to the common incivility of an unrelenting gaze,” Silco muttered, finger sliding against the side of a page before he flicked his eyes up to Selene’s.

The lady’s eyes narrowed at her own gaze echoed back, then glanced away towards the timepiece, jaw tightening perceptibly. “And what of the common civility of serving dinner to one's guest? The hour approaches five and twenty past eleven,” she remarked, her tone betraying a hint of exasperation.

He, in no shortage of that air of indifference, turned a page of his document, casting a brief glance in her direction. “Was the supper at seven o'clock too provincial for your western sensibilities?” he inquired half-heartedly.

Selene blinked in evident confusion. She had arrived at the manor around the late hour of five. When, she pondered, had dinner been announced?

Silco, seeming to sense the perplexity in her silence, looked up from his papers and rested them upon the table, gaze meeting hers. “The bell rings routinely at fifty minutes past six—did you not take notice of it?” his brow furrowed slightly.

Realisation clapped  upon Selene at last, and her eyebrows rose in a telling manner. “Ah, I see. That was the significance,” she murmured, lightly laughing to herself at the recollection.

But the man’s countenance melted from incredulity to apparent annoyance. “And you had not thought to inform anyone of your oversight? Opting to starve?” he inquired, beckoning to a servant who had been standing dutifully by the doors.

“Was I to comprehend, in immediate effect, the intricacies of your manor's routine?” Selene responded, waving her hand dismissively. “A mere bell ringing scarcely conveys the message ‘dinner is served', I should think,” she added, her voice betraying a mixture of defensiveness and mild embarrassment at her faux pas.

Disregarding her protestations, he turned his attention to the approaching servant. “Pray, bring Ms. Shrike a plate and whatever was prepared for dinner,” he instructed, dismissing the lad with a wave of his hand. He then addressed Selene once more, “If be it left-overs, you shall not complain as this was your oversight. But I trust you partook of luncheon, I presume?”

Selene shrugged, reclining in her chair with nonchalance. “A luncheon of storm rain, indeed. I was most diligently occupied with the conquest of the road on my journey hither,” she replied, the hint of mirth overtaken by a yawn.

The gentleman shook his head, brows rising in evident disbelief as he busied himself with the arrangement of his documents. “Am I to understand that you have not taken sustenance since breakfast? And travelled for hours thereafter? Were you intending to be accompanied by Death himself on your journey?”

A most unladylike snort escaped the woman, hastily stifled by the swift application of her hand to her mouth. “If such were to be my fate, alas," she shrugged with feigned indifference. “And no, I do not believe I... no, I last ate on the evening prior. I commenced my journey before dawn's first light. Scarcely any time before my flight and—” she paused, breath catching on a memory. “M’yeah,”

Upon casting her gaze towards Silco, Selene found herself subject to the most impassive countenance she had ever beheld, if indeed such were possible. She could sense a contemplation so intense behind his eye as it bore into her without respite, as though he were attempting to fathom the depths of her imprudence, and she wondered if this was what his documents felt beneath his hands when he was at work. She imagined herself bursting into flames, his gaze match and strike enough to accomplish such a feat.

Finally, he shook his head with a sigh and arranged his papers into orderly stacks. “Bear in mind, for future occasions, the tolling of the bells—I find myself rather partial to my employees remaining on the land of the living. I trust you are not afflicted with an inability to partake in meal-times?”

“How exceedingly considerate,” Selene remarked wryly, eyes following his face as gathered his work and rose to his feet. “Are you not staying?”

He passed her a mildly curious look, though half drenched in impassivity. “Are you also afflicted with an inability to feed yourself?”

Selene’s lips parted then closed, a half-smile threatening to grace her lips. Was that a joke?

With measured steps, he made his way towards the side door. “You may, if you wish, remain here to have your supper. I will take my work to my personal study. Tomorrow, I shall see what I can do regarding your propositions,”

Acquiescing with a graceful nod, Selene commenced the arrangement of her own papers to accommodate the forthcoming meal. “I am most grateful,”

He paused, one last time, his figure half-enshrouded in the penumbra of the adjoining chamber. He refrained from turning, his gaze averted, yet his head shifted such that Selene caught a fleeting glimpse of his profile—how shark-like it seemed, too, gliding betwixt shadow and illumination. With the slightest inclination of his head, he appeared to acknowledge her expression of gratitude. “Do not stain the carpeting,” a nod, then, “Madam,”

She nodded back. “Sir,”

Thereupon, he crossed the threshold into the adjacent chamber and sealed the door behind him, leaving Selene to her solitude.

[familyabolisher]

now that it's been a fair few months since the release, how do you feel about nona the ninth as compared with the first two entries in the series?

you know what! i like it a lot, and i think a good number of the criticisms leveraged against it were unfair. certainly it’s less cohesive than gideon and harrow were – compared to its predecessors, it leaves us with a maddening number of unanswered questions that can’t be tackled through inference or else left ambiguous in ways that could be compelling (what happened in the interim between the two books? how did pyrrha come to be with camilla + palamedes, and how did harrow’s body get there? what happened to gideon’s body? what’s up with the barrage of new concepts that the book introduced and left hanging: the messenger(s), the tower, the devils, the cradle creature?), such that it felt quite a bit less tightly formed and plotted than the other two. i think gideon and harrow had a good balance of internally asked-and-answered questions and questions that were posed with intent to be answered at a later date, whereas nona was heavily skewed towards the latter such that it felt a little off-kilter. i do think some of that disorientation comes from the fact that tamsyn muir is a very precise writer; i don’t know that i’d be picking up on the comparative thinness of nona if it weren’t for how gideon and harrow were both so fluently composed in the first place. but the point is, it’s definitely there; i don’t at all think that a pared-down nona incorporated into alecto would have been ‘better’ (contrary to some people’s opinion, i don’t think any parts of nona are superfluous), but nor do i think it wholly holds up on its own.

it also has a handful of other weaknesses – i have a fairly high tolerance for tmuir’s humour, which when it lands manages to land really well but when it doesn’t it doesn’t, and i think nona often erred on the side of doesn’t, and it felt a little too heavyhanded at points; which has been a consistent problem throughout, tbf, but, idk. tmuir can be a very subtle writer when she wants to be, but, again, when she isn’t, she … isn’t. and that began to grate a little, after a while?

however, at a certain point i’m willing to throw over the instinct to be nitpicky about Form or Structure or whatever and say that the actual content of the text – the discourse it managed to develop, the direction it dragged the body of the series in, the sorts of themes and ideas it articulated – was really, really strong, such that i’ve been chewing on it for months now. i think the fact that i still think about the scene with john’s ‘creation’ of alecto almost every day is a testament to the sheer weight that got thrown behind that passage – at the end of the day, whatever structural weaknesses the book may have is secondary to the fact that it made me feel the need to go eat sandpaper. a book that makes you need to go eat sandpaper is a good book!

also, god, some of tamsyn muir’s writing! there are times when she leans into a voice that a less skilled writer would deploy to create something excessively florid and, frankly, pretentious, but she’s laid the kind of groundwork throughout where there’s substance and meaning and precision to the prose voice that makes it equal parts chilling & joyous to read. some of many passages i’ve been rotating in my mind:

“Green thing,” said the Captain. “Green-and-breathing thing, big ghost, the drinker, transformed, what will you eat now? Where will your body go? What did he do to you, to make you this way? You eat yourself. I gorge on unliving marrow.” It was true; the Captain looked as though she were withering before Nona’s eyes. She cried out in haste: “Don’t ... stop that! I can’t stop it, but you can stop it. Stop hurting her ... She doesn’t know what you’re doing.” “You cry mercy?” said the Captain. “Yes—mercy—yes,” said Nona. “I have crossed the face of the universe,” said the Captain. “I poison it to match my grief.”

“They concoct their own vengeance,” said the Captain. “Their justice is not my justice. Their water is not my water. I came to help. I am made a mockery. The danger is upon you, and you do not even know ... they are coming out of their tower, salt thing. There is a hole at the bottom of their tower. I will pull their teeth. I will make it blank for you.”

He said, From my blood and bone and vomit I conjured up a beautiful labyrinth to house you in. I was terrified you’d find some way to escape before I was done. I made you look like a Christmas-tree fairy ... I made you look like a Renaissance angel ... I made you Adam and Eve … Galatea. Barbie. Frankenstein’s monster with long yellow hair. He said, As the world went up I remade us both. I hid me in you ... I hid you in me. And when we were together ... once the shaman had claimed the sun ... I became God.

He coughed fretfully—batted another metal-fisted hand at Paul, who had instinctively surged forward—and he said, “Look at you, you cock-o’-the-walk, you filigree piglet, you scum. A whited sepulchre ... Ninth blood on your foreign sword...”

He said, I just wanted to be in the lab. It felt like I could sit by those two bodies, those two kids, and make time go away. I could sit next to them for six minutes, I could sit next to them for six hours. Just listening. They were my moreporks and possums. I was hearing their bodies in all that silence, all the bacteria that weren’t growing ... what wasn’t building up in the gut, what wasn’t pooling at the joints. They were my silent night. I should have been doing paperwork and closing reports, but I hadn’t opened the computer in days. I couldn’t stop thinking about their palms, their hands. I touched their hands so often. I’d touched their hands before, but not like this. Even when I wasn’t touching them I could feel their skin on my skin, that temperature that wouldn’t change. I kept thinking I was touching them when I wasn’t. M— said I should probably get tossed in a rubber room, but she wasn’t scared I was nuts. She was scared I wasn’t. He said, You know, I can’t even remember how it came together now. There was no catalyst, no revelation. I was too far gone for revelations. It was like I’d been dozy and now I was waking up. So, my two kids, the guinea pigs, they were U— and T— on their certificates, you know, their old names. I thought about using those but it didn’t seem appropriate. They weren’t around to say yes or no. I was starting to really care about that. What they would’ve thought, what they would’ve wanted. My two kids with their frozen brains and their perfect internal temperatures. There wasn’t a place on the poor bastards I hadn’t breached with a thermometer, and now I was knocking before I came into their room.

literally just the phrase ‘the shimmering white figure of the dead Kiriona Gaia’

The rock loomed so big above, so awful in the electric light. There were so many people standing above her, her body, the baby’s body. The baby with the big black eyes. The scrap of meat with the purple mouth.

John loved her. She was John’s cavalier. She loved John. For she so loved the world that she had given them John. For the world so loved John that she had been given. For John had so loved her that he had made her she. For John had loved the world.

i’m not one for close reading but there are so many lines and passages in nona that i just want to go through with a fine-tooth comb, word by word, because everything is so deliberate and so infuriatingly good, lmao. i actually struggle to care all that much about the points where tamsyn muir is bad because when she’s good she is running circles around just about anyone else in genre fiction at the minute, and frankly when you’re doing the kind of things that she’s doing i think you get to use homestuck fanfiction and 2010s internet humour as your building-blocks as often as you like. 

i’ll also say that i think the john chapters are the strongest pieces of writing that taz muir has put forth in the entire series, including the whole of harrow, which is already like genuinely one of the best-written books at least in contemporary genre lit (and probably in a far wider-reaching net than that) that i’ve encountered in recent memory. john 1:20 is permanently lodged in my brain; i am never escaping john 1:20 disease. i reread it when i’m bored sometimes just to make myself insane.

anyway, i’m really looking forward to revisiting nona in the wake of alecto and treating the two as one unit, because i suspect that a lot of nona’s weaker points will disappear or else become more coherent when considered as part of that broader whole. if we remember that nona was originally act one of alecto – well, it makes total sense for there to be a lot of questions posed in act one, with the assumption that they will then be developed and answered in acts two, three, four, and five. + something like paul, who imo felt very random and unresolved, makes far more sense as a near-the-end-of-act-one incident; it’s introducing a sudden change, doing something we as audience have never seen before, and setting up the other four-fifths of the narrative to carry its implications. my point is, nona to me makes a lot more structural sense as an opening to a more expansive text; which is exactly what it is. pro-nona the ninth account, its weaknesses stem from the fact that it’s a breakaway from alecto and i’m just not pedantic enough to mind all that much about internal coherency if that coherency can then be achieved in the last book – which i suspect it can! where nona’s good, it’s really fucking good.

[blaiddfailcam]

Fuck it, below are my favorite gifs I've made of Bloodborne (so far) in no particular order.

I didn't post all of these in sets, at least not yet, mainly because I needed to balance the arrangements as far as color and even camera motion. Too many sweeping shots in a set is kind of obnoxious, as much as I love making them.

Bloodborne is pretty tricky for making gifs, requiring a good deal of patience and ingenuity just to get the hunter out of the shot. But once I figured out a few methods, things took an interesting turn!

[CW for blood—obviously—gore, and body horror]

Yahar'gul Chapel

I know I wanted a shot of the Amygdala statue in Yahar'gul, but it felt too easy to record it head-on, and besides, why not just post a screenshot then? Then I saw a flickering candelabra, and the celestial larva statue, and it seemed like a dramatic angle. I liked the shift from gold to blue—from knowledge into mystery.

Hunter's Nightmare

I did get to use this one in a set, and although the spray of bullets at bottom are a little irksome, I thought the way the camera swept past that urn in the illusion of a crane shot was cool. Really, my hunter is just crouching behind a fence.

Cathedral Ward

FromSoft is supremely gifted at arranging their mapspaces so that large setpieces like the Astral Clocktower are naturally framed by environmental pockets. Somewhat instinctively, I knew I had to capture this descending shot in time with that large huntsman emerging from the alley mist. The fact that it looks as if the viewer is peeking from behind the coffin was an accident, but sells the feeling of dread.

Lady Maria of the Astral Clocktower

This one worked out almost too perfectly. I thought I'd just get a basic shot of her approaching, but then she did that and I gasped, lol. Her set was surprisingly quick to put together.

Old Yharnam

I was still figuring out some camera tricks by the time I hit Old Yharnam, and this was my first attempt at moving the hunter with the monocular activated while tilting the camera independantly. I had to crop out the hunter, so it's woefully grainy, but I think it sells the effect well enough.

Ebrietas, Daughter of the Cosmos

This was promptly after I threw a pebble at her.

Quite thrilling.

Iosefka's Clinic

The very first gif I made of Bloodborne! I wanted to capture that "oh fuck" moment of the scourge beast feeding on those dead mobs, and the only method I knew would work (not having the monocular yet) was to sit by a wall. As it happens, Bloodborne doesn't apply translucency to foreground objects, so I was surprised to be able to get this peek from behind a shelf of medical equipment, simple though it is. That would never work in Elden Ring!

Vicar Amelia

I may reattempt her set in the future, as I learned a few tricks for "shooting" after defeating her, and I should've upped the brightness. Still, this angle of her seemingly pulling the hunter out of Laurence's beastly skull before squashing them was pretty dramatic—and a total accident.

Moon Presence

Moon Presence may not be a very difficult fight, but let me tell ya, trying to capture it had me gnashing my teeth. It moves so sporadically, it's hard to find a good backdrop, and it never seems to want to do much more than flop around. Worse still is that to get all of its cooler moves, you need to dish some hefty damage to break its limbs, but without killing it prematurely. In the end, I was pretty happy with even this straightforward tilt shot with the moon appearing to descend behind the crawling chaos.

○ ○ ○

I still have plenty of footage to sift through and memorialize as gifs, but I think I need a little break to, you know, enjoy the game, lol. There's plenty I still want to capture, and I figure there's a bit of a vacuum for Bloodborne gifs, owing to the lack of a PC release and all. Not that it can't be finegled, but it doesn't mean it's impossible on console, either.

...Hopefully this doesn't come off as pretentious. I just have a lot of fun making these for some reason, ameteurish as they may be.

[ooglywooglies]

husband trying to explain to me how lucid dreaming works and accidentally mentioned that scientists dont really know "why we dream" and i had to go on a tirade about how there is no "why" we dream, only that we do. there is no biological function we have that exists for any purpose, it simply exists and has side effects which may or may not prolong our lives

i know that immediately sounds pretentious but i think its if not a helpful framework to approach topics like these from then at least an interesting one. like i like to talk about evolution a lot and ive found this framing is one of the best ways to explain how it actually works to people, like my favorite example is probably the spider tailed viper, it has a caudal lure that when moved in a specific way looks JUST like a spider crawling around (which it uses to trick birds into coming into striking range) and when people see it they ask "how does the snake KNOW what a spider looks like in order to copy it" and i love this question so much because it doesnt! evolution is the mutation of genes over many many generations, it has no goals or intentions, its completely fucking random. eventually an animal may have such a significant mutation, a really good example is an individual suddenly presenting a gene which makes it a different color than the rest, because this is something that can happen very quickly. and that mutation may create advantageous opportunities for that animal to live at least long enough to reproduce and potentially pass on the same mutation to its offspring, like if it is more or less camouflaged by its sudden color mutation that will affect its ability to survive (albino animals tend not to live to pass on their genes because they are easily spotted by predators or prey, and i might be wrong but i think albinism is recessive anyway)

so with the snake what happened was it may have had a normal snake tail, and one day a baby snake was born that had a gene that made some of the scales on its tail stick out or be a bit longer than the rest. maybe this created opportunities for it, but it probably didnt, it probably didnt affect its life much in any way. but it was able to reproduce and pass off its weird tail scale gene to its babies, and at some point a baby was born with even WEIRDER tail scales, completely randomly. this cycle continues until either the tail becomes advantageous or disadvantageous, one day a baby snake is born with a tail that birds seem to be attracted to, it catches a lot of birds, giving it a more reliable and easy food source than the other snakes, it finds a niche. the snake thrives, reproduces and passes on its gene, over time the mutations that affect the snakes tail prove more and more advantageous for catching birds in this new niche so the tail becomes more refined with trial and error (the snakes with less appealing tails are more likely to die than the ones with more appealing tails) and eventually you have a snake with a tail that is SO successful because it is SO appealing to birds it just looks exactly like a spider. the snake had to do no learning to accomplish this, it was simply benefited by random chance over generations.

so back to the dreams thing, we dont dream for any particular reason. because no biological function exists for any particular reason. even the fact that you eat and sleep is not out of any pure desire its born of instincts formed by your genes formed by your ancestors genes formed from nothing for no purpose. you happen to survive, you have a desire to survive but that desire isnt tangible. anyway, its kind of silly to suggest that "scientists dont know why we dream" because yes we dont do anything for any reason BUT its just a more honest question to ask "what are the benefits of dreaming" because it doesnt frame scientists as fools who know nothing about dreaming. theres plenty that scientists and by extension us, the rest of the population know about dreams, including benefits of it. dreaming can help us process emotions and memories experienced during the day, this may or may not help us to prolong our lives thats something we dont really know. are there other side effects to dreaming? are there negative effects? i dont know, im not really someone who has studied dreams a lot so im not the right person to ask.

i just think those questions are a lot more interesting.

also this is generally unrelated to the "why" question but i like to point out that dreaming is a pretty common symptom of sleep in a LOT of animals, and a sleep-like state is so common that you could even argue that plants experience something similar. at least in function, where you know organisms spend their active period of the day collecting energy and having experiences and stuff and then in their inactive/rest period is basically when they do all of their growing/nutrient using. since dreaming is a symptom of sleep its probably a function that involves the growth/compartmentalizing of emotions/thoughts/memories. i think ive read that your brain creates more neuron pathways whenever you sleep and its probably likely that dreaming could be something that helps stimulate that process. idk, like i said im not a dream scientist and i dont have google open either im fully just making shit up rn.

[quidfree]

I'm converting everyone in my life to tsh fans and without fail everyone always tells me that how funny it is that richard tells on himself so badly by writing francis by far the most like an actual person, in contrast especially to how. not like a person camilla is written.

I guess I was just wondering what you find most endearing about the richard-francis dynamic/what aspect you like to write the most, because for me it's got to be the way richard's own narration betrays how close they are just in the details he manages to capture

spreading the good word…

but like yeah you & i share the same instinct when it comes to those two anon you’re so real. bc it really drives me crazy like… richard’s Whole Thing is that he is soo fucked up and he wants to desperately to be part of something Beautiful and Real and Not what he has come from, and so he lies to us and to himself and edits his memories and his interactions and puts a group of pretentious rich kids on a pedestal bc they have the aesthetic of something he wants. and there is some truth to it and to him and to the relationships they build, but as the story progresses it becomes harder and harder for him to hold on to the grand visions he had of them and his life with them bc in fact all of them are just kind of bad people in pretty banal ways. and so by the end he is disillusioned and alone and washes back up to californiaaa baby and all of his once friends are fallen idols and he never really knew them at all.

EXCEPT that’s not true! both bc there were some moments of Realness, but mostly because throughout the whole act two, the one person who is With us-as-richard as everything falls apart is francis! he’s there! he is annoying and everpresent and inspiring richard to have nightmare visions of them as old men still bitching at each other, but he’s There as an actual person! henry’s an absentee god and charles is a study in cruel self-destruction and camilla is a mystery of absence, but francis is an actual right there flesh and blood person! they have serious conversations abt the people they’re in love with! they drive each other up a wall! richard takes francis to get diagnosed w panic disorders! he absolutely Knows francis, and for all that he is constantly complaining abt him, they’re also just. friends. that doesn’t mean theyre Nice About It, but it’s like.. richard you did make an actual friend. somehow in the midst of this whole mess you two stumbled into friendship. it’s just crazy to me bc they’re both so judgmental and shallow in some ways but they know each other at their very worst and that doesn’t stop them being friends. and that’s not enough to keep them #besties after the end of the year (fair enough with two dead friends and three murder/suicides within the space of a year), but YEARS later when francis tries to kill himself he sends richard a goodbye letter! and richard drops everything to rush to him in a panic and when they see each other in the hospital they’re so happy abt it! bc they somehow fucked up and managed to care abt each other despite knowing what assholes they are!

it’s just too good / awful. also the whole ending is so perfect in that regard. squad reunion around the bestie’s suicide bed before his sham homophobia marriage! richard Immediately proposes to camilla bc he’s crazy!! she somehow does not tell him straight up that he’s insane bc they have almost no interaction throughout the whole book and also timing! richard literally tells her they should get married bc they both love(d) henry! etc

anyways i went off topic bc the above isn’t even a proper answer to your question. what i find most endearing is like, francis putting blankets over richard while he sleeps and richard remembering sooooo many of francis’ quips verbatim years later. and what i like writing the most is like… hm. yeah maybe richard self-reporting, and Also i really enjoy writing francis’ feelings from richard pov. maybe a hot take but i do not think theyre at all In Love in the book, so getting to decide what that would look like is really fun. but maybe that’s for another ask…

[greenerteacups]

following the last ask, i have a series of draco questions?

- what are your favourite draco tropes?

- what dramione fics have the best written draco OR best draco characterization?

- what’s your pictured plot line for draco post war : career wise, character development wise, and romance wise?

What a treat of a question. Always love an excuse to talk about Draco.

Favorites: mean, clever, and competent. Morally, I like him a touch darker than charcoal, a shade lighter than oil. He's supposed to be pretentious and snobby, and a little too quick to resolve problems with force, mainly because he's lazy at heart and doesn't want to put in the work to do things by the book. (Later in life, I see this informing his instincts as a duelist — forget niceties, what's the quickest way to end this fight in my favor?) Impatient as anything; Ice Prince when you don't know him, Unrepentant Brat once you do; the platonic ideal of an Only Child, jealous, fairly possessive, but charming enough that he gets away with it. But those are all double-edged traits: he's loyal, ferociously defensive of what's his, and once he's extended his own sense of This Is Mine to include something, he'll raise hell to keep it.

Best Draco: I think Disappearances has one of my favorite Dracos, because he feels textured and real. There's this one scene where he's talking to Hermione about how purebloods flirt, and it was life-changing. I also recently ate up The Light Is No Mystery, which is a slow burn like trying to cooking an egg with a pocket lighter and a cast-iron. I like the Draco of Bending Light, which is my latest feel-good No Tears Just Vibes cheer-up fic, largely because "fuck it, give him a motorcycle" is the kind of baller authorial move we as readers need more of. (And for the record, in the real world, he would be one of those rich boys who collects really nice Ducatis and smashes them up doing things he really shouldn't.)

Post-War Plans: It depends entirely on how loyal we're being to canon, because if we're shackled to the Epilogue, then it's uninspiring — he becomes a sort of idle philanthropist type, marries Astoria (weird and also why, Daphne is literally in his year, she was right there) and has Scorpius soon enough for him to be in the same year as Rose Weasley. That means he probably didn't go to Azkaban, because if he did, he'd have to be in and out in time to meet, marry, and have babies with Astoria in the same timeframe that Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione do, which ranges between "kind of hasty" and "physically impossible," depending on his prison sentence. And that's all we know.

Here's what I think it gets right: Draco probably marries young, because purebloods/rich people generally do; I very much doubt he marries a named character from Hogwarts, because he'd probably try to get as far away from his reputation as possible; and I think he tries to clean up his act. That means philanthropy, general PR work, and possibly getting a high-profile role in reconstruction. I think he'd marry someone "suitable," and have a kid. And I think he'd be a good father. In fact, I think he'd err on the side of spoiling his kids. (As he was spoiled; I tend to think Lucius was a decent father, if maybe not a great one. I don't think Draco acts like an abused kid, just one with the misfortune of being born into the most incredibly fucked-up murderous dynasty of weirdos in history.)

But if I could choose an ending for him, I'd probably make him an auror, or maybe an Unspeakable/something cool in the Department of Mysteries, like curse breaking. I'd like him to end up with Hermione, somehow, although it'd probably take them a lot of time (think years) to get there.

[dracocheesecake]

Hii how are doingg

What do you think of a trope(?) like Kai and scholar travel alongside? Sure Kai is not that stupid or whatever if we try to make fun of this contrast. Nevertheless I find it hilarious if Kai would say something jokingly (or mock the scholar someone lol) but the scholar, in turn, develops a theme and goes into philosophy so Kai ends up getting an existential crisis💀💀 Since then Kai tries not to bring smthg that would bring scholar into such ramble. Buuut imagine if Kai lets it to tortue someone lskssksksklld like here’s my secret weapon, you won’t be the same person after they start their ‘thing’😈

And yeah the scholar is extremely smart but tiny bunny and weak :>

Oh oh imagine them arguing about past times where scholar tells Kai how things stood because dude u know I studied that sht. And Kai tries to prove him that things were different because btch I LIVED THERE I KNOW BETTER😂

I’m interested of your opinion of that :D

I like it! I think Kai is actually educated (it was very common for generals in ancient China, and he does speak pretty eloquently, if dramatic). Though I think he finds scholars themselves to be pretentious, so he wouldn't hesitate to try to belittle and annoy the bunny scholar as much as possible.

But oh! How the tables turn! The bunny is much more clever (and annoying) than Kai thought! It starts when the bunny brings up one of his past victories.

Kai, preparing to brag: "Oh, that battle. I remember it well. See, we were almost outnumbered-"

Scholar: "Nuh-uh."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'NUH-UH'?! HOW ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED BACK THEN?! I WAS THERE I FOUGHT IN THAT BATTLE HOW DARE YOU-"

Kai would then calm himself, pick the rabbit up by their ears, and then take them to the scene of the battle. He plops them down, pointing out all of the places of the major happenings, sketching out every single detail, practically re-enacting the battle from memory; all the while the bunny follows him around, excitedly taking notes and murmuring to themselves how these details weren't in the texts they studied!-However, even after all of that:

"But you're still wrong, of course; the 34th battalion came from the east, not the north. Your side couldn't have won this battle, not with that number of soldiers flanking you."

General Kai's eyes widen. His jaw nearly drops in disbelief; how could one little rabbit be so stubborn as to argue with a literal immortal about what happened back in his own time?- No, this isn't going to slide.

They argue for ages over it, and then Kai finally snaps. He grinds his teeth. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't step on you and end this argument right now. Permanently. "

The bunny smiles up at him, unperturbed. "Because then I'd know I'm right."

The bull snorts, then shakes his head, holding up his hooves as if the little scholar convinced him.

"Alright, alright, that's it: I'll spare you for one more day- just to prove that you're wrong, so I can rub it into that smug little twitching nose of yours," he says, flicking it for emphasis.

And from there on they're pretty much stuck together.

Ok, but also imagine Kai provokes them on purpose by pretending to be dumber than he actually is or acting like something that is clearly wrong is a fact (Ex: "Taoism is the study of down. That's why it's called 'down-ism'. Of course it is! You claim to be a scholar?!") I can just see a scene- maybe laying out by a campfire, Kai laying there with his cheek propped up on his elbow, watching the bunny scholar trying to write their findings fervently by the flickering firelight- and then Kai glances over their work, smirks, and says something completely incorrect and just totally wrong. The scholar's instinct kicks in, they immediately try to correct him, but Kai's smirk only grows, and he doubles down, telling the bunny that they're just an idiot, and that actshually, Taoism is the study of down; they just clearly didn't study it.

The bunny starts raising their voice, even stepping closer just to wag a finger at Kai; but the bull snorts and nudges them over with his forehead. "No, you're wrong," Kai says, "and nothing you say will ever convince me otherwise." He's grinning, now, those green eyes glowing with satisfaction and amusement; but even then, the bunny knowing that Kai's just trying to get on their nerves doesn't stop them, and they again try to make it into a contest over who can annoy the other more.

Just saying I think this is an adorable idea hshdhdhdhsdhd

[milaknzkva]

a perspective on sonder

Sometimes, I wonder how one can be so close-minded. Selfish, even. Basking in the dying light of a summer evening, letting it wash over my face, I silently watch as one of my friends swats mindlessly at a small fly. It's small, harmless, but they smack it down without a second thought, and I can't help but wonder if that fly had a little family somewhere out there, waiting for it. A thought pops up in my bored mind: is this fly, probably not even able to fully grasp the concept of being alive let alone other living beings, even really conscious? My brows furrow when my companion kills it in one quick motion. It might be pretentious of me, yeah, sure. It's not like I've never done the same, but I do, just for a moment, feel sorry for the little life. Had its crime been invading personal space, or, as so many artificially empathetic ones have said before me, was it being small?

A campfire crackles in the distance with the people who lit it chatting cheerfully, sat around it. Slowly, I descend into the wild grass, stretching into it and feeling every little blade on my skin. What do I gain, pretending I care? Seeing beautiful, tall flowers freshly cut down by machinery, wondering whether they had wanted to keep on living for a reason other than pure instinct. They might not even have that, do they? I deeply mourn the loss of something unfamiliar, a stranger; something people consider a weed. So should I, and yet I don't. Maybe I do it to feel morally superior. Maybe I just want to elevate myself from the rest, pretend like I am in any way better. Neither of those reasons makes me any less selfish than my peers, whom I condescendingly looked down upon; rendering me the very person I tried so desperately not to be.

It is strange to think about the fact the lives not so far from mine can be so, so different. Really, it is pretty obvious, and yet I vividly remember seeing my neighbour in some odd place, breaking my perception of them as just my neighbour, something out of my field of vision, completely, forcing me to realize that they're so much more, have an own life, an own soul. A person that probably sees me as just their neighbour, like I did moments ago. It is apparent and logical, and yet I was, embarrassingly enough, never really aware of it. Sighing, I rise to my feet, grazing carefully on the lawn. The warm, salty breeze flows over from the sea and fills my lungs.. Soft waves crashing on the shore, I look over to my fellow sheep again, tormenting and being tormented by flies again.

And I wonder if humans would ever understand.