#did this at work so mistakes? unequivocally

[mattelektras]

the horns aren't so bad, i guess. maybe a bit of wax could spruce them up.

[chaifootsteps]

Just because I'm tired of seeing it and for anyone who needs a 'tap the sign', here's my best list of what both Stolas and Blitzo apparently both did wrong here. I'm adding some points here that are the fandom's framing more than mine so I'm going to pick those apart below

Blitzo:

stole from Stolas as a child because his father asked him to

called Stolas' interests boring (because he'd been sold to be his playmate)

stole Stolas' book

slept with Stolas to get the book (then never did so freely again)

asked Stolas on a date to Ozzie's to spy on M&M

ignored him while on the date at first

didn't believe Stolas had pure intentions when he invited him in after Ozzie's

didn't tell Stolas that Striker tried to kill him (s1e5)

didn't come rescue Stolas in person in Western Energy

didn't visit him in the hospital

didn't believe Stolas sincerely loved him during his confession

tried to go back to a sexual relationship despite Stolas' discomfort

treats Stolas like a prince who looks down on him and refused to see otherwise

yelled and snapped at him during their talk in full moon

yelled and snapped at him during their talk in apology tour

Stolas:

locked Blitzo in his room at his party and assumed he was here to 'ravish him' (s1e1)

Blitzo tells him to knock it off with the dirty talk (s2e1). Stolas doesn't stop (s1e1).

let Blitzo use the book with no strings attached before calling to change up the terms

changed the terms when Blitzo was in danger and couldn't give informed consent

proposed a deal that was inherently coercive even without Blitzo being in danger since he has to have sex with Stolas to keep his business running (s1e1). This is rape IRL and since Verosika said very clearly that 'we're in Hell' isn't an excuse...

called up Blitzo to be a bodyguard that he didn't actually need in Loo Loo Land. He knows Blitzo needs money so leverages that to get Blitzo to spend time with him

Blitzo tells him to stop flirting with him and he's only here to work as a bodyguard, as agreed, and protests Stolas flirting with him multiple times. Stolas doesn't stop. (s1e2)

Shows no respect or gratitude to Blitzo's colleagues for saving his life. Doesn't even call them by name (s1e2)

Puts a cigarette out on Blitzo's horn (s1e5)

Yanks his face multiple times (s1e5, s1e7) and calls him 'little' or 'itty bitty' on different occasions

Demeans Blitzo by calling him 'sexy little one' in front of a whole crowd and persistently refuses to call Blitzo by his proper name, including spoiling Blitzo's moment by doing so as he ties Striker for winner of the tournament (s1e5). His behavior is bad enough Blitzo is happy to skip out on the full moon ceremony itself due to how thirsty he's being

Outright calls him a little plaything (s1e6)

Asks for sexual favors as a thanks for saving his life (s1e6) - he doesn't specify this but he says 'very much so' to the idea instead of showing any offense that Blitzo thinks Stolas wants him to pay for his life with sex

Tries to ditch the table when called out in Ozzie's, hides his face in a menu (s1e7)

It doesn't occur to him the full moon deal is wrong until Ozzie's and that's seemingly partly as a response to Blitzo not wanting to date him

Seemingly still doesn't understand that they are not in an actual relationship despite what Blitzo said as Ozzie's and him outright saying asking Stolas to the club was a mistake (s1e7)

His song in The Circus frames himself as the victim of Blitzo - what's between them is a 'comfortable lie' and he says 'I'm the fool who believes when you look in my eyes' (s2e1)

Despite knowing unequivocally that Blitzo hates being treated like a sex object, Stolas responds to Blitzo's anxiety about performing by sexualizing him some more (s2e2)

Gets mad at Blitzo to the point of his employees hiding behind him even though it's his fault his daughter ran off (s2e2)

Still doesn't acknowledge any of Blitzo's colleagues by name even though everyone is helping him find Via (s2e2)

Calls Blitzo up to get him out of a situation he should have been able to handle himself, does nothing to communicate where he is and is weirdly blase instead of urgent on the phone (s2e4)

Admits that the deal was wrong but in a general 'transactional relationships bad' sense, no acknowledgement of the gravity of having coerced Blitzo into sex despite recognizing at the start of the episode that he is a monster if Blitzo was only with him as a prisoner of the deal (s2e8)

Makes Blitzo panic by taking back the book forever and doesn't even notice or care that Blitzo is begging him in tears and saying he'll do anything (s2e8)

Immediately shuts down the conversation and walks off instead of giving Blitzo a minute to process (s2e8)

Rewrites reality, has the gall to be shocked Blitzo thinks it's all about sex when he made it that way (s2e8)

Rewrites reality, acts like he had no idea Blitzo didn't think highly of him despite being told so before (s1e8, s2e8)

Uses magic to throw Blitzo out of his house (s2e8)

Makes no attempt to talk things out, just gives Blitzo the cold shoulder instead of asking for space, clearly thinks he is in the right just because Blitzo yelled at him, has done no reflection on anything Blitzo said (s2e9)

Rewrites reality, keeps insisting he's never looked down on Blitzo despite the fact that even the most insensitive person in the world should realize being called a 'plaything' is not a compliment (s2e9) and it takes a truly special sort of ignorance to squeeze his own imp butler like a stress ball and not think he has any superiority over imps (s2e2)

Blames Blitzo for not saving him in person even though Blitzo sent his employees to help and he knew full well Blitzo was taking his daughter to the doctor (s2e4, s2e9)

Focuses solely on Blitzo not telling him Striker tried to kill him and doesn't acknowledge that Blitzo saved his life in Harvest Moon (s1e5, s2e9)

Calls Striker Blitzo's 'friend'? If he really believes this it just seems to be the old classism/racism rearing its head again, if he doesn't then it's obviously just more petty o'clock on his part, especially since IMP has kept having to fight Striker, sometimes on Stolas' behalf

Rewrites reality, appears to think of himself as one of Blitzo's exes since he doesn't think his getting an invite to Verosika's party was weird, all around behaves like a jilted ex. Seemingly if it feels true then it must be true (s2e9)

Goes to the party despite calling it petty and despite the risk of Blitzo finding him at the party, since he somehow knew Blitzo was actually doing the whole apology tour thing across Hell (s2e9)

Calls Blitzo a motherfucker even when he admits in song that the arrangement was just an arrangement to him (s2e9)

Despite Blitzo telling him all the way back in Ozzie's and again in Full Moon, Stolas still can't bring himself to do enough self-reflection on how he acted to realize that calling someone a plaything and ignoring their boundaries and protests constantly is a reason for them to feel treated like an object. The song directly states that there's something he could learn from the arrangement falling apart even though he's had ample time to try and learn it and is punishing Blitzo for behaving in a way he doesn't understand because he's refused to see the problem (s2e9)

Expects an apology just as he did that morning, still thinks he's basically entirely in the right, doesn't accept it because Blitzo isn't meeting his needs well enough (s2e9)

Gets annoyed Blitzo might judge him for being at an anti-Blitzo party even though he himself said it was petty and is still calling it 'something stupid' (s2e9)

Despite knowing a big problem between them is Blitzo not believing he really cares, doesn't take the opportunity once he hears about Blitzo's insecurities to say what he likes about him and instead talks solely about wanting someone to love him (s2e9)

Despite seemingly wanting Blitzo to open up and talk to him, ditches the whole conversation the minute someone shows him the affection he wants (s2e9)

Makes out with that person - arguably he's given up entirely trying to make Blitzo understand he loves him and anyone will do, because otherwise this is just a spiteful thing to do (s2e9)

I didn't even intent to make the Stolas entry so long, there was just a lot of it because when a character keeps rewriting reality to favor themselves it would be accepting the show's framing to just let them do it. And the show's framing is wrong.

Anyway, that's the list. I'd like the 'Blitzo did just as much wrong!' party to look at his entries and note how many of them were just reactions to what Stolas did to him, how many of them are informed by his social class/being forced into bad positions due to poverty, how many of them are entirely understandable for someone in his position and how many of them require some pretty screwed up logic to count as doing something wrong (i.e. the fandom has a bad habit of implying Blitzo was duty bound to deal with Stolas' obsessions and delusions for the entire show because they had a one night stand, one time).

Notice how many of Stolas' entries are just plain abusive behaviors involving demeaning others or rewriting reality to favor himself.

Thanks for the list and your brave service, Anon. I'll definitely be keeping this one handy for tapping purposes, as should everyone.

[gojuo]

Ryan condom forgot that after rhaenyras death we sre supposed to follow aegon if he wants to continue after nyras death so he can put at the end of the series the crown on aegon III, so he eather tries to make people view aegon possitively or have the series end with nyras death and the crown on aegon’s head and people will riot like they did with the mad queen end of got, either way he deserves the hate he is going to get at the end of hotd. But now that i tnik of it the series starts with rhaenyra doing a voice over telling her story so i wonder if he will change the end of the story and all the lore just to have finally a targ kween sit at the iron throne

i've been saying this since forever but making rhaenyra the unequivocal protagonist of the story + writing this show with a protagonist-centered morality framework + shoving 30 years of court drama and political intrigue building up to the actual war in a measly 10 episodes is a huge fucking mistake because

1. the portion of the dance in f&b starts with alicent reading to king jaehaerys as he lays dying, and the dance eventually ends when alicent herself dies. this is thematically important

2. daemon is the unequivocal villain of everyone's story in the dance, including rhaenyra's, and him staying that way is just better and (i'm loath to say it) cooler for his character & arc

3. like asoiaf/got, they should have had multiple protagonists povs spanning different locations for viewers to follow. the teams debate + emotional investment, stakes and satisfaction would have been far more balanced that way

4. rhaenyra dies long before the war ends anyway. like please think ahead when you're writing a show like this dawg

5. aegon just has a better character arc than rhaenyra does (especially if he kills himself). bias aside, it's just factual 🤷‍♀️

6. season 2's issue is the glacial pacing of character arcs (and some are... straight up just stagnant) while the plot moves its merry way along. we went from blood and cheese to harrenhal exile to rook's rest to regency era to now the sowing but the character work isn't there (and continues to not be there since the set ups and pay offs are almost all offscreened or nonsensical) because condal & co have structured the story in a way that skips 30 years worth of character work and arcs and relationships in favor of getting to the action immediately. they're suffering from that decision now in season 2 rightfully so

[samble-moved]

i hate the fandom idea that homura's actions (especially during rebellion) are out of a place of total selfishness, or homura just "not letting go" or because she's evil.

did everyone forget that madoka, while dying, begged homura to keep looping to make sure madoka didn't become a magical girl? homura had already seemingly looped several times before, and madoka all but asked her to keep going to save her from her fate. albeit, madoka was likely not thinking clearly about this, and obviously wasn't asking to be cruel or to "hurt" homura by continuing the cycle, but the idea that "homura only loops because she's selfish and evil and wants madoka to stay human because she's selfish and evil" is literally not true at all in canon. madoka asks homura to make sure she (madoka) doesn't contract, and all but asks her to loop again and again until that happens. obviously this is something homura wants to do (since human madoka = safe from the fate worse than death magical girls get), but the concept that it's only homura's desire, that madoka never asked for this, is false canonically.

and the idea in rebellion that homura is intentionally acting against madoka's wants and "forcing" her to be human and seperate from the LoC ties into this as well. for one, homura 100% genuinely believes that madoka regrets her wish. madoka (while not having all her memories) says she could never do what she did as a goddess — that is, leave all her friends and family behind, erase herself from existence, etc. and after this, homura then 1) believes her, and 2) blames this perceived misery madoka felt as a goddess on herself (iirc, she says something like "if those are your true feelings, then what a terrible mistake i've made").

she blames herself for "letting" madoka contract, thinking madoka was miserable, thinking she once again committed a grave sin by "breaking her promise" to madoka by letting her contract. remember, the reason the looping seemed to continue on for so long in the first place is that madoka begged homura as she was dying to make sure she didn't contract. homura had been ready to die, along madoka's side. and madoka, as any fourteen year old would, wanted to keep it from happening again.

then rebellion kicks in, and homura (in her despairing state) thinks that not only 1) she has betrayed her promise to madoka by letting her contract in the first place, and 2) that madoka is horribly lonely and miserable after the contract/wish was granted. she 100% whole heartedly believes this, and also believes the only way she can fulfill the promise and protect madoka from kyubey is to rip her from goddesshood.

kyubey openly said in rebellion the whole reason homura is in the isolation field is because he's using her to get to madoka. he can't prove the LoC exists, only homura knows who madoka is, so they can eventually control madoka/the LoC by having her save homura. homura is put in a spot where she can't really even let madoka save her, because that gives kyubey access to seeing madoka, which can lead to him controlling her. and even if he doesn't get madoka that time, there's always a chance he could try this isolation field trick with any other magical girl, possibly even another one of madoka's friends, since the LoC wouldn't just willingly ignore a magical girl despairing. and he has all the time in the world to work on getting control of the LoC/madoka (an incomprehensible amount of it), provided entropy doesn't accelerate, and his species is both determined and much more advanced than humans.

homura doesn't do it because she's bored or evil or For Fun or because she's a "yandere" or whatever the hell else some people claim. she unequivocally thinks it's what madoka wants, and that it's the only way she can keep madoka from being controlled and hurt by kyubey, once again echoing back to the promise made in an earlier timeline ("can you go back in time and make sure i don't get tricked by kyubey?").

[strawberrypinky]

fire and ice. [gortash x tav] - part 2 [the waiting game]

Enver was no stranger to playing the long game, so long as he knew he would win with absolute certainty and any risk could be mitigated or forfeited altogether. Elodie Liardon was one such prize, and while he had yet to win her, he knew it was only a matter of time until she would be entirely, unequivocally his.

If only because it had been decreed by powers beyond their comprehension.

A/N: Chapter two here we go baby! Sorry for this taking a while. I was in Paris for the Olympic Games and then unfortunately got really sick when I came back, lol. Anywho. We are absolutely getting deeper into headcanon territory, so let me just say that there are no specifications for Banite marriages (to my knowledge), but there is a lot of material on Bane, his church, clergy and dogma. The wonderful lore compendium made by @y-rhywbeth2 was an absolute godsend for this (alongside the Forgotten Realms Wiki), so shoutout and thank you for the incredible work you've done compiling so much information over all the DnD editions etc.!  Additionally, I found some Bane dogma online which is also referenced at certain points in this. Just giving credit where it's due. Lord knows I couldn't come up with all of this on my own if I tried, lol. I'm just playing around with the canon information and uh... potentially making Enver as psychotically Banite as I can. Thank you to everyone who is supporting this story! Your support, however big or small, means the absolute world to me ❤️ On we go with uhm... general Enver, Bane and Elodie shenanigans, I guess.  Aka this is yet another reminder that Enver is, in fact, a piece of shit in this and no - Elodie nor I can fix him. As always, this story is also available on Archive of Our Own. Word Count: 7.2k CW: Mentions of prostitution.

Shoutout to my personal cheerleaders @legacygirlingreen and @gufu-vire. Ily gals ❤️

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine

Enver had rarely made the mistake of underestimating people, for in his line of work, that was as treacherous as it was deadly.

Each step was one of measured precision and calculated contingency, allowing none, least of all himself, to falter on the path to greatness. He could not, would not, fail to fulfil his destiny. At times, people were displeased with his enthusiasm - alarmed even at the lengths he would willingly tread to reach his goals. To Enver, it was simply another marker of his god-given preeminence. There was morbid satisfaction in being victorious, no matter the price, and he was hardly capable of feeling guilt. His effrontery was congruous with his rancour, and Enver revelled in landing on top. He had worked tirelessly for years upon years, ruthlessly and ambitiously disposed of those who stood in his way and reeducated and availed of those who yet served as a means to his end. His sense for people had aided him more times than he possibly cared to admit, and while Enver firmly believed none measured up to his genius and vision, he wasn't fool enough to disregard the few who did present with the potential to be equal to himself. To him, it was far more preferable to have a formidable ally than it was to have a formidable adversary, even if his Lord often helmed his hand in affairs such as this. Bane had not steered Enver wrong a single time, strengthening him as his own malevolence fuelled his Lord and, in turn, fuelled him.

His alliance with the Bhaalspawn was one such alliance, though he nearly came to appreciate the Child of Murder on his own terms, even without the tentative and strained relationship between his Lord and the Lord of Murder looming above their Chosen's own. Enver would never fall to the folly of believing the sorcerer to be his friend (not that he believed in friendship anyway), for the scion of Bhaal was not born but created for nothing but annihilation, but their Masters once had a near consanguineous relationship, and if Bane saw value in his now sworn foes spawn, Enver would not undermine him. If anything, the Bhaalspawn, for all their uninhibited murderous urges, was a masterful weapon if cards were played right, and if Enver appreciated anything, it was usefulness. He was still, but a servant to his dread Lord, and in his divine quest for ultimate tyranny, winning was everything as natural as oppression. And while Enver would ultimately need to shatter and thwart all those beneath him, he would utilise the aid of those he and his Lord deemed worthy in the meantime.

One such worthy person, it seemed, was a certain half-elven maiden who had not only intrigued him but Bane himself, too. When Elodie had first graced the gentility of Baldur's Gate upon her debut in society, Enver had made the grave mistake of underestimating her as she parleyed with Duke Portyr, ostensibly oblivious to the gazes of volubly obtuse spinsters and the prurient ogling of men and yet she had intrigued him, if only because she was bewitchingly alluring. When Enver danced with her, he expeditiously realised she wasn't quite as clueless as she had perhaps pretended to be. In truth, the young woman was not clueless at all. She had surprised him with a curious amount of inquisitiveness and acuity, and by the end, he had not only decided she would look delightful, embraced by his Lord, but that he wanted more.

By their second meeting in High Hall and the rather convenient reveal of her parentage, she had also intrigued his Lord. While Enver was far above frivolities such as love and desire, he almost felt giddy when Bane spoke to him a mere day after their brief meeting near the ducal offices.

"I am tyranny. I am hate. I am fear. And you, my Chosen, carry out my divine will on earth. For how it is in the Barrens of Doom and Despair, it shall be in your world. You shall rise above and crush my enemies beneath your boots and conquer the weak as is your place. Marry the Liardon girl. Make her submit as a husband should, for you are the head of her, and I am the Tyrant of you. Carry out my unholy will, and you will be partners in this life and the next. She will carry beacons of your tyranny, and in your matrimony, my might shall guide you and your brood."

Enver had always known that if he were to marry, it would be of a person of Bane's choosing. It was the way matrimony has been handled in his Lord's church ever since it first established itself. Marriage was holy, but love held no place in them when all they served as were means to strengthen Bane and his divine will. And while Enver had known a select few of his Brothers and Sisters in faith to marry of their own choosing, he held no such interest himself as love was a frivolity he would not indulge in, lest of all it rendered him weak and assailable - things he had promised himself to never be. And yet he was entirely pleased when Bane had decreed he should marry Elodie Liardon, for the young woman was not only beautiful, but her wit was undeniably useful.

He liked her. Enjoyed her presence, even.

It was far more than he could ask for, really, as his Lord could have chosen any bride for him, and yet he chose the one Enver might have picked himself if he were capable of love. A rare display of generosity, yet he would never dare question it and instead reverently thanked his Lord for allowing a woman such as her to be his.

He spent a few days weighing his options. Enver knew her father was no votary of his (as Elodie had also aptly realised), and it was unlikely he would voluntarily agree to a marriage between himself and the girl, which left him with three options: ruin the girl for any suitor but himself (he quickly disregarded this; her social status was far too valuable), dispose of Duke Liardon (a feasible option, though not very prudent given the state of affairs) or finally, ensure the girl would not want to marry anyone but him. It was a speculative game at best, but it would buy him time to gather more information on the Liardon family and if he could make the girl believe in some sort of illusion of love in the meantime, all the better.

He spent a near tenday vigilantly preparing for the most opportune moment to arise to get her alone. Or at the very least, without her father around. Enver had met Lady Liardon once a long time ago, but he remembered she was far more agreeable than her husband, and if he was adept at anything, it was swooning wealthy women. His inferiors had been tasked with observing the family. One of the Iron Consuls (Enver did not care which) had gathered that Elodie savoured the gardenia bushes of the private grounds of her residence, which obviously meant Enver held a large bouquet of the white eyesores when he knocked on the door of the Liardon estate the day Duke Liardon was conveniently 'held up' in the Ducal Offices.

A butler had shown him inside, the lavishly grand estate remarkably tasteful, if reeking of age-old affluence. High ceilings with elaborate crown mouldings and endless shades of pastel and white - an expansive and open space stretched before him as he strode along the entry hall, adorned with a myriad of elaborate artwork and invaluable objet-d'arts. It was precisely what Enver had expected: A grandiose setting, much unlike the meagre abode he grew up in until his parents pawned him off to a devil, where he spent the better part of his life feeling as if there was a constricting and stifling noose around his neck as he drowned in the echos of chaos.

"The Lady of the House will be with you shortly," the butler announced as he took his leave and Enver was not even afforded a second of correcting him. He wasn't there for Lady Selise Liardon, but he supposed making a good impression on her wasn't a lost cause.

The aforementioned woman did join him rather promptly, strolling into the drawing room with laissez-faire as she regarded Enver with a polite smile. He regarded her intently, noticing her eyes were as calculating as Elodie's own, the colour shimmering in the sunlight. They were the only pretty thing about her, really. The woman was otherwise not a sight to behold, with a narrow chin and wide cheekbones, entirely out of balance, and ghastly pale skin, which Enver presumed was once tan given the sheer amount of wrinkles that already had been etched into her face. He knew she wasn't that old, younger than his parents, but time had not been particularly kind to her. He silently hoped his soon-to-be wife would age far more gracefully, though she seemed to have inherited her father's elven refinement instead.

Still, Enver offered a polite bow as the woman approached him.

"Sir Gortash," Selise Liardon nodded. "I wasn't expecting any visitors today. My husband will be back a bit later than usual, though you are welcome to wait for him if you'd like?"

"Thank you, Lady Liardon. But I am here to call on your daughter," Enver cleared his throat, a sickly, smarmy voice carrying his words.

"Elodie?" the woman gasped, surprise written on her face.

Unless you have another, Enver nearly rolled his eyes. "Yes. I do hope she is available? I understand if she were otherwise occupied."

"No, no," the Liardon matriarch shook her head, a broad smile on her face. "Of course she is available, just - Bertram!"

The butler from before stepped forward.

"Would you please fetch Elodie? She should be in the library."

The man nodded and left without another word, leaving Enver alone with Elodie's mother as he waited for the actual reason behind his visit. He noted with pleasant surprise that the matriarch was positively beaming, eyeing the bouquet of wretched gardenias in his hands and observing him with near childish delight.

"Forgive me for being bold, but I simply must ask," she nearly giggled. "But are you looking to court my daughter?"

Enver wasn't entirely sure if the woman was jesting or simply daft, though he hardly expected a man like Thamior Liardon to marry someone stupid - much less a human. And yet, the longer Enver stood there in his estate, the more he wondered what the man had seen in his wife. Perhaps she had other, more carnal qualities, he surmised, before deigning to answer her intrepid question. Bane offer him strength.

"I am," he confirmed with a confident smirk. "Your daughter was simply captivating the night of the Breaking, and I have been unable to forget the dance we shared."

He was aware he was laying it on disgustingly thick, yet it seemed to have the intended effect; the woman was nearly bouncing with delight.

"I had hoped she would at least dance with one gentleman," the woman swooned. "How wonderful to see my efforts were not in vain."

"Your efforts?" Enver carefully prodded. He was aware that each step around the gentility had to be far more carefully curated than any step around the proles - they often did not take kindly to snooping. Any information he pried from there were often thinly veiled beneath half-truths or mistakenly told over too many glasses of wine.

"Oh," the woman waved him off. "I needed to positively beg for Elodie to even attend the festivities, especially since I had been unable to. She hasn't been very keen to attend these things."

"I would not have been able to tell," Enver tilted his head. "She seemed to enjoy herself when I found her parlaying with Duke Portyr."

"Probably chewing his ear off about our travels," Selise shook her head. "I was happy to indulge her in her youth, but it is time she fulfils her duties here, in Baldur's Gate. Nevertheless, I am quite happy to hear she danced with at least one gentleman. I was starting to doubt my abilities to raise a proper lady when callers had all denied dancing with her."

Callers? Enver was torn between jealousy and eudemonia. It hadn't been surprising to hear she received visits from men — she was disarmingly beautiful. And yet she was also his. His girl. His. Even with the lack of a betrothal, it was a given that Elodie Liardon belonged to him, as if she had no other value and no life outside of his embrace. It had been divinely sworn and decided by powers beyond their comprehension. If that could not be considered ownership, then what could? And while Enver knew he yet had no claim on her heart — he barely knew the girl! — he didn’t relish the idea of anyone else having it either.

"She is a wonderful dancer," Enver offered, hoping to appease the woman and calm his own envy. "And an even better conversationalist."

"She's quite something, isn't she?" the woman's eyes twinkled mischievously, and Enver almost glimpsed his future's betrothed in them. "I am happy to hear it nonetheless. Most of her visitors haven't enjoyed her wits."

Of course they hadn't; Enver wanted to strangle her where she stood. No one but him could ever hope to measure up to her, much less deserve her. It was no surprise to him they were unable to appreciate her mind.

"I find her refreshing," he only cryptically said. It wasn't a lie, but it was a vast understatement.

"You must be the only one. I swear, that girl is going to chase off one suitor at a time. Too bad Ulder sent his son away; otherwise, I might have been planning a wedding by now."

Enver clenched his jaw, though Selise did not seem to take notice. He remembered the young Ravengard heir, Wilfred or William, or whatever his name was. The boy was, if Enver recalled correctly, Elodie's age and as the son of a Duke perhaps an obvious choice, but luckily for Enver, Ulder Ravengard had sent his son away just a year or two before. However, the reasons remained unknown to him. It was a good thing, really. Enver remembered the boy as an even weaker version of his father.

"I was not aware Elodie was spoken for."

"Oh, by the Morninglords' grace - she isn't. I keep wishing for it. I am not getting younger, and after suffering from Wilting, my priorities regarding her have shifted," Selise Liardon sighed almost wistfully, a faraway look in her eyes. "Truthfully, I don't know how many years I have left. The illness took a lot from me, and I hope to spend my remaining years caring for some grandchildren. May Lathander bless her with more than he did me."

Enver's mind was positively reeling. This visit was already working out splendidly for him. He hadn't been aware that Selise Liardon had suffered from wilting disease, though it would certainly explain why she looked rather hideous - the illness was rather horrid. More importantly, however, she was in a hurry to marry off her only child, which he would most assuredly use to his advantage against Thamior Liardon. It wasn't a secret that the man listened to his wife more often than he did not, and if Enver could sway Selise and Elodie into fulfilling his destiny, the two would easily help persuade the patriarch of the rest.

"I'm sure the gods will be most gracious," Enver only smiled knowingly.

The woman of the hour entered the room, exasperation written on her face. Enver mustered Elodie, dressed far more homey than when he had last seen her in the ducal offices - a pale rose dress, simple though he could venture to guess it was still of fine material - and internally sighed with disapproval and indignation. Lathander's colours; and far too rustic of a dress to be worn by a woman such as herself. Enver made a note to himself to ensure Figaro would be tasked with providing her with a new wardrobe upon their marriage. Blacks, emeralds and delicate embellishments would be far more suitable - he would not have his wife dress like a lowly slave.

She did not take note of Enver, another misstep, really - he would fix her priorities - and instead glanced at her mother with a disapproving glint.

"If you have another suitor waiting, send him away. I've no interest in playing your matchmaking games, let alone parlaying with anyone in the barouche."

Her mother only laughed, though Enver almost detected nervousness beneath the mirthful sound as her eyes flitted between Enver and Elodie, a slightly disapproving glance in her eyes.

"Now, now, Elodie. Not in front of guests," she chastised her. "Besides, I have heard you danced with this one."

The girl finally took note of Enver, and it was the first time Enver could read the surprise on her face, and he liked it. "Gortash?"

"It is good to see you, Lady Elodie," Enver announced, taking slow but measured steps before handing over the flowers with an oily smirk on his face. "Forgive me for not calling on you sooner. My businesses kept me more occupied than I had hoped for."

While Enver could glance Selise Liardon swooning at the corner of his eyes, Elodie only stared at him dumbfounded and wide-eyed, flowers held awkwardly. "I hadn't expected you at all," she finally voiced.

"Well, that makes this an even sweet surprise, doesn't it?" Selise interjected, hastening towards her daughter. "And he brought you your favourite flowers."

"Yes," Elodie dragged the word slowly, her eyes suspicious as she held Enver's gaze. The befuddlement slowly ebbed away, the characteristic sifting gaze Enver had come to know of her replacing her wide eyes. She was trying to make sense of him, he bemusedly realised. It was another reminder of her exquisiteness - a rarity among second-class citizens posing as nobility who might have been decently literate but not clever. As far as Enver was concerned, the nobility of Baldur's Gate was a shapeless mass of fortunate yet barbaric creatures that hovered on the periphery of his consciousness - there, but most assuredly beneath him. Yet, if there had ever been an exception to the rule, it was Elodie Liardon.

“Why don’t you take a stroll in the garden with Bertram? I’ll have the chef prepare some tea in the meantime,” Selise offered, and before Elodie could object (her face certainly showed displeasure), Enver took her hand and pulled her away. 

Enver took a single glance at the gardens and immediately hated them.

To any ordinary person, they might have been stunning; embroidered parterre and arabesque gardens that resembled a palatial park far more than they did a garden. The ground fell away on every side from a terrace adorned with ornamental basins, statues, bronze groups, lush flowers, and bushes, creating an almost exotic and fragrant play in front of them. They began to stroll along a broad avenue centred on the grass of a green carpet, flanked by rows of large trees as perfectly manicured lawns draped down to what Enver presumed was a small pond. The olfactory notes of peach, jasmine, citrus, and what Enver presumed to be roses assaulted his senses, and he loathed them. It was so very… titillating. There was an overwhelming sense of renewal and happiness in the air, as if Lathander himself blessed this space. Perhaps he did, Enver grimaced. No matter, his gardens were far more spartan, and he preferred them that way. 

They strolled in silence, the vexing butler no more than five steps behind them, and while Enver had expected unnecessary pomp and circumstance, it was astonishingly foreign to pretend to court a woman with little more intention than fucking her and extorting her family, and he did not appreciate how out of control he felt. Enver knew how to falsely woo a woman, yet only a few minutes into this charade, and he knew he hated it. The irritating sunshine of late spring, the nauseatingly fragrant flowers and the birds yakking nonstop - he simply loathed it, and he feared it had barely even begun. Enver could only pray to Bane that the woman was worth it.

When he glanced to his right, Elodie seemed to revel in the sun, contently absorbing the feeling of the sunny rays on her skin and breathing in the fresh air of spring. She was beautiful in the light, Enver noted. Not something that could be said about every noblewoman, most of which concealed their hideous faces beneath the dim lights of the night and face paint. And still there was a hint of something feral beneath it all, and Enver wondered if it was her nature or her calling.

“Were you really surprised I called on you?” Enver broke the silence as they strolled along.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It seems that was a mistake.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

She averted her gaze from the path in front of them, a respectable distance between them now as she looked at him. “You don’t court women, Gortash,” she eventually answered. “I would be surprised if you ever even desired marriage at all. I’d wager whichever God you worship has asked you to marry.”

Enver quickly deflected, not yet willing to engage in the conversation of worship just yet. "You don't seem to look for marriage either if your mother is to be believed."

He watched as the young woman rolled her eyes, an uncharacteristic display of defiance and indignation amidst her carefully constructed poise. "And become a broodmare to some idiotic Upper City gentleman who probably can't tell his left foot from his right? Thank you, but no."

"I'm not sure all of them are idiotic."

"Perhaps not," Elodie acknowledged. "But I have no desire to marry them just the same."

This was going to be much more complex than he had thought; Enver ground his teeth. He contemplated his options, annoyed she wouldn't simply submit in her evident unwillingness to be tamed. Finally someone he could break, someone who wouldn't submit simply because he demanded it. She was viciously feral beneath the nobility, and Enver was ever aroused by it.

"Sometimes our fates are decided by powers higher than ourselves. It would be foolish to deny the path to fulfilling one’s destiny," he commented.

She laughed - a mocking sound and nothing like the melodic tone he had heard the night of the Breaking. "I tread where I please. I don't care what fate my mother or God or being thinks is my destiny."

"So you don't want to marry at all?"

"I'm not sure," Elodie shrugged. "Perhaps someday."

The first time Enver had asked for Elodie Liardon's hand was mere weeks after their first 'official' date.

Naturally, he disregarded Elodie's irascibility and continued to 'court' her to convince both her and Selise (mostly Selise, if he were honest) of the value of a more official union. To him, it was more of a formality than anything else - utterly humdrum and entirely useless. But he complied, enduring endless promenades in that godforsaken garden, tea in the salon and eventually, ice cream dates in the Upper City. Elodie had begrudgingly partaken, her ire barely concealed beneath a pleasant smile and venomous remarks. She was unwilling to submit to the game she had become a pawn in, and with each passing hour, Enver dreamt of the day she would finally submit - a dream sweeter than the conquest of a thousand kingdoms. In another lifetime, he would have long taken her apart and fucked her senseless, but unfortunately, he had to play the long game in this one.

It was maddening at times, because while she could feign innocence all she liked, the girl was hardly unaware of her effect on men and seemed to take vindictive pleasure in pushing his buttons. She wanted him to break, to back down, just as much as he wanted her to submit. During one of their more official outings in the Upper City, she wore a dress so scandalously tight that Enver had almost entirely gleaned her body shape beneath. And while neither her chest nor her ass was particularly large, the swell of her breasts and the delicate arch of her back were alluring enough for him to nearly break. If he were a lesser, weaker man, he likely would have.

Alas, he was still a man, and until Elodie was his in a more official manner, he'd have to make do with finding release elsewhere, lest he squander his tedious work of appealing to her family. The Lower City was full of lowly whores waiting to serve men like him. Perhaps at one point in his life, he'd have pitied them - fucking for money was hardly a pleasurable affair - but alas, he knew cards could be played well enough to escape an endless cycle of transactional sex, and if the whores of Sharess' Caress were fucked brainless it wasn't his place to 'fix' them. They made their bed and would have to lie in it. The brothel reeked of vice and corruption, and the dregs of the Gate's society gathered there in all their rottenness. Charlatans and purloiners (many of which worked for him) rubbed shoulders with scarcely concealed and sleazy nobles, old roués and men like Enver; flourishing underworld types, notorious for things best not spoken of mingled with other speculators, whores and frauds and pimps.

A drow had tickled Enver's fancy - the woman small and slight, though far more voluptuous than his soon-to-be wife. She was pretty enough, even if she would have been hardly worth a second glance outside the tawdry meat market of a place he had entered. Her body, while graceful and smooth, hardly aroused any desire in him. He imagined another entity entirely beneath him, with skin more white and hair that shimmered silver and a voice as sweet as a lullaby, begging Bane to let Enver fill her up.

The whore, whose name Enver had forgotten as soon as he had paid for her services, almost looked offended when the name 'Elodie' spilt from his lips in place of hers, but a single look silenced her before she could begin to speak. Pathetic, he thought, before he left the chamber, knowing Elodie would have never submitted that easily.

He dreamt of what she would be like as he sat in Thamior Liardon's office, waiting for him to graciously appear after he had declined several meetings with Enver.

He imagined she'd be furious and untamed, unlike the wealthy Lords and Ladies he'd deceived in his earlier days who craved gentle touches and slow thrusts. He'd fuck her like a brute, over and over again, until nothing but "Enver" spilled from her lips as she fell apart. Maybe he'd lock her in his bedroom like a bird in a gilded cage and spend the rest of his days in her cunt. Would that anger Bane? Or would his Lord be pleased he conquered her?

"I must say, I wasn't sure when I could expect you, Gortash."

The deep timbre of Thamior Liardon's voice pulled Enver out of his delirium, and the elven man finally appeared in his office. He looked bored, almost a perfected mask of stoicism, though Enver could detect a hint of pique beneath.

"I would have come sooner," Enver divulged. "Your steward was less than accommodating, though."

"How... vexing," Thamior said, though his tone betrayed him. Enver knew he thought his presence far more vexing than an insolent steward would ever be.

Enver rose from his seat, turning to face Thamior Liardon fully, who refused to move far from the door. "You know what I have come here for."

"Of course," Thamior nodded. "You have only been publicly parading my daughter around and beguiling my wife while you've been at it."

"I have been nothing but proper," Enver chuckled, pleased that his efforts had caused the Duke to be irate. "After all, I want to make your daughter my wife. Not my whore."

Thamior was quiet then, his face stoic as he walked to his desk. He kept his back turned to Enver, gazing outside his office window. He didn't even look back when he spoke again.

"Na Kwast Wahir Athu Kyene Wekht Unarihe," he uttered in his native tongue. Perhaps Enver should have picked up the elven language - it seems the Liardon family clung to it still.

"As far as I am concerned, business is usually conducted in a common language," Enver clicked his tongue.

"Business," Thamior chuckled, turning back to Enver with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Is that what my daughter is to you? A transaction?"

"Of course not," Enver denied. She was more than that to him; above all, she was his divine duty. "But a marriage of this scale needs to be discussed. I can hardly do that in elvish."

"Did Raphael not teach you?" Thamior smirked teasingly. "Why he tends to appreciate languages. I almost expected more."

If Enver were a weaker man, he would have cleaved the elf in half for his mockery. The smirk on the Duke's face certainly suggested he felt as if he had won a match of chess the two men were playing, but Enver only laughed. Perhaps once, he would have felt hurt over his past, but now, he only felt burning hate. What once had been prey had turned into a predator who had little reservations about arranging someone's demise. If Thamior Liardon wasn't paramount to the Gate, Enver would have entertained decapitating him, yet while his moral compass swung madly without direction, Enver was above sowing political chaos so long as he didn't have a precise strategy to take the man's place for himself.

"Raphael taught me plenty. But thank you for your concern," Enver mocked in return. "Scared my wits aren't up to your standards?"

"I know better than to question your intelligence, Gortash," Thamior rolled his eyes. "You are a plethora of things, but you aren't stupid."

"Observant," Enver commented coolly. He knew the man didn't mean it as a compliment. "But I'm not here to discuss my genius. I'm here to discuss your daughter."

The man glared at him for a second, sitting down in his grand chair. "Go on then," he nodded. "Make your case."

"I want to marry her, plain and simple," Enver said sharply. "If you expect me to serenade you with romantic soliloquies, you'll wait forever."

"Such a flirt," Thamior chuckled darkly. "Typically, these meetings serve as a way to prove one's worth, not one's love."

"There are few in this city who match my wealth. I hardly think it's necessary to boast." Enver was slowly losing his patience. In the depths of his wretchedly vile soul, he knew what the answer was going to be, and he didn't appreciate it one bit. All his hard work of enduring dates right down the gutter.

"Oh yes. Money you have so honourably earned through your law-abiding business ventures," Thamior's voice was dripped with venomous sarcasm.

"Spare me the false righteousness, Duke Liardon," Enver spat. "For someone who practically lived in a devil's arse, you have little to show for it now."

"Is that so?" Thamior smirked triumphantly. "Unlike you, I have a seat on the Council of Four."

"An inherited seat," Enver corrected him coolly.

"Be that as it may," Thamior waved him off. "My answer is no. You may have my wife under your spell, but I'm not allowing you to marry my only child."

"And why not?" Enver countered like a petulant child. "Your wife is clearly deteriorating and wants grandchildren. I am the only one Elodie has even entertained for more than one meeting. The only one even asking to marry her.

"I would rather choke on Raphael's cock than let my daughter marry you," the Duke stood from his seat. "I don't care what you've made of yourself after your miraculous escape from the Hells, but you are, and always will be, the filthy son of a cobbler."

Five years on, Enver had lost count of his endless meetings with Thamior Liardon and the sheer amounts of "No's" he had thrown in his face.

It was a tiresome game, but he continued to play it, even if he knew the Duke would never willingly turn the "No" into a "Yes" . Enver was no stranger to playing the long game, so long as he knew he would win with absolute certainty and any risk could be mitigated or forfeited altogether. Elodie Liardon was one such prize, and while he had yet to win her, he knew it was only a matter of time until she would be entirely, unequivocally his. If only because it had been decreed by powers beyond their comprehension.

She belonged to him. Years of enduring dates and dances at grand soirées and festivals had at least ensured that the people of the Gate knew better than to try and lay claim to what he owned - because he did own her. As the years went on, the admirers dwindled in numbers until they ceased altogether, and nobody but him was left to dance with her and parade her around the Gate. Enver was well aware that her father was furious, but there was little he could do because while men enjoyed a challenge, people knew better than to challenge Enver Gortash.

The last man who tried had ended as a sacrifice in the Temple of Bhaal. At least Enver thought he did - his now former Bhaalspawn associate had only left a finger behind.

Enver's grip around his cup tightened visibly before lifting it and finishing it in one go. It wasn't exactly a show of decorum, much less at yet another soiree of Duke Portyr, but with how close he was getting to finally fulfilling his destiny and how intoxicated the patriars around him were, he doubted they even noticed his anger. The men and women of the Gate were scarcely astute without alcohol lingering in their veins, and their ceaseless inebriation rendered them even more foolish than Enver had ever thought possible. Between their haughtiness and perpetual idiocy, it was a miracle if they ever noticed anything beyond their visages and grand estates until their self-immolation came to haunt them with crises so grand a hero would have to come along to fix it all. Soon enough, the monstrous armies of The Absolute would threaten their livelihoods, and his Steel Watch would miraculously save them all. Soon enough, Enver would be the very first Archduke of Baldur's Gate, signifying the beginning of his destined draconian rule. Soon enough, Thamior Liardon would have no choice but to give Enver his blessing, whether by choice or psionic compulsion, and everything Enver had tirelessly worked for would finally be his.

Of course, there was a trifling matter of ridding himself of an invulnerable General and an incestuous half-breed Bhaalspawn, the latter of which was an unforeseen challenge he had not come to expect. It angered him far more than it should have; Orin was like a petulant child, desperately grappling for Bhaal's favour yet understanding little of what was asked of her. And while she was an efficient killer by all accounts, her sheer presence was underwhelming and not nearly as imposing as Bhaal's creation had been. To him, she was nothing more than a mad dog, much unlike her 'brother', who was lethally intelligent beyond his slaughtering legacy. Orin would be an easier kill - Enver should have been thankful. And yet his body was filled with near-manic rage as the rancorous void where his heart should be tightened in his chest. All because the Bhaalspawn had failed.

Just when success seemed certain, Enver was forced to restructure years of plans he had made. Plans which had only worked because of the Bhaalspawn. He was no fool to believe he could have stolen the damned crown from Mephistopheles himself, let alone subdued the brain, if it hadn't been for the Bhaalspawn. Where Bhaal's progeny seemed invincible, Orin was a treacherous and epicene replacement, hardly worthy of being Bhaal's Chosen or Enver's co-conspirator, often falling into a feral sort of rage. It would please Enver to see her suffer - to watch as she died painfully and screaming at his hand, even if such tasks were usually beneath his station. But the thought of yet another taking her place and putting him at a disadvantage for a third time reigned his range in. While he was endlessly furious over the Bhaalspawn's failure, he himself could not afford to fail. Unfortunately, he would need to make an alliance with Orin work. Temporarily, at least —

"You seem unusually pensive tonight," the sweet cadence of Elodie's voice pulled him from his inertia.

Enver turned around, staring into the inquisitive eyes of his destined wife. She had grown much in five years - her silvery hair was longer than it had been at nineteen, and her features had sharpened into an uncanny elegance that made her look more ethereal than Enver had ever anticipated. She had always been beautiful, but maturity suited her well. She looked drained, a little perspiration above her brow. Had she been there all night?

"Good evening, Elodie," he cleared his throat. "I wasn't aware you were attending this... soiree."

She tilted her head in question, a hint of disbelief gracing her features as her brow furrowed and she stepped closer. "Are you alright?" There was no warmth behind the question, but she did seem to be curious. "I'm sure my mother mentioned me attending after you came over for a stroll last tenday. It's unlike you to forget."

"Careful, Elodie," Enver chuckled darkly, "One might start to believe you want me to seek you out." He did, of course. Her submission was the sweetest victory, but Enver would never tell her that.

"Perhaps I do," she shrugged before pushing past him and reaching for a cup of wine herself. "I have no desire to marry you. But I do enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me, Gortash. It resembles my own, except you happen to be insane."

"You think I'm insane?" Enver's voice miraculously betrayed none of his ire.

"Perhaps," she grinned mischievously, her distinctive feral glint sparkling in her eyes before her expression turned sombre again as she regarded him inquisitively. "Still. You seem distracted tonight."

Enver waved her off. It was unsettling how well she had always been able to read him. "Simply some unfortunate... setbacks in one of my promising endeavours."

"Oh?" She took a sip of her wine. "Care to tell me more?"

"What is it to you?" Enver raised his brow in suspicion. He could recount the occasions when she explicitly asked him about his endeavours on one hand. Usually, she would simply argue with him - not that he minded.

She shrugged her shoulders, a teasing lilt to her voice now. "I'm bored and my father won't leave until he's spoken to every noble attending. Entertain me."

Enver's grip on his chalice tightened once more, frustration and ire filling his being as he contemplated her demands. It was not in his nature to entertain people, much less give into the demands of anyone but his Lord. If she were his wife, he would have promptly corrected her demanding attitude - perhaps shoving his cock down her throat would have shut her up sufficiently.

"There is not much to tell," he eventually pressed out. "My partner in this endeavour failed and left me to pick up the pieces with his unreliable successor."

"Ah," Elodie let out. "Failed how?"

"He was murdered by his sister," Enver uttered nonchalantly, reaching for a new cup of wine as he heard Elodie gasp, her eyes bulging out of her skull. With how intelligent and worldly she had been, it was easy enough to forget she was likely kept far from the realities of the ecosystem that was murder in the Gate.

"That is terrible," she muttered.

"Terrible for my personal affairs, yes," Enver grumbled. "I'm sure the world isn't going to miss him." He was quite confident of that fact - nobody in their right mind would miss a Bhaalspawn.

Elodie pouted, a pensive look on her face. "Aren't you missing him?"

"No," Enver said. "He's dead. There's no point in mourning him. He was utterly mad, and I didn't care for him beyond our mutual partnership."

"Perhaps you might still... toast to him?" Elodie offered carefully. Enver was sure she meant well, but it was downright absurd to him.

"Toast? To what?"

"Hm..." she mulled it over for a second before lifting her chalice with a small smile. "O gurth, cuil."

"I don't speak elvish," Enver lamented. Five years of frolicking with a half-elven woman, and the only phrase he had picked up was "Tanar'ri", which Elodie had graciously translated after one of her maids uttered the phrase under her breath.

"From death, life," Elodie mused. "It's a common Lathanderian saying. There is a renewal in death - a certain peace. If he really was insane, he's likely found more peace in death than he ever knew when he was alive."

"Peace?” Enver scoffed. “I should hope not."

“Y-you... don’t want him to find peace?”

“No," Enver shook his head, the same manic rage he had felt bubbling beneath the surface once more. "Not for a single second. I hope the fucker is suffering eternally for failing me. May he never find peace."  

He then raised his chalice in a toast, downing the wine in a single go as if hoping it would drown his fury and mania, not even seeing the sheer disbelief and incredulity on Elodie's face. He panted as he set his chalice down, the alcohol a welcome warmth as it spread throughout his body, and his grip tightened impossibly, his entire body rigid.

“I’m sure you cared very little for him, if only enough to curse him to eternal torment for the crime of dying by his sisters' barbarity," Elodie mumbled silently before placing her hand on his. Enver could feel his hand loosen, the warmth of her own skin almost scalding on his own as he swallowed a deep breath. Had he really been that cold?

"Take care, Enver." Her hand left his again, her warmth disappearing as quickly as it had come, and he felt a strange hollowness fill his chest as he ached for that same kind and comforting warmth to return to him.

Too late did he notice she had called him by his name for the first time, and before he could question her, Elodie's body had disappeared into the sea of people, and Enver was left a little more hollow than he'd been before.

[yae-energy]

…jotaro with an rnb singer! fiancé? also best part by her and daniel caesar would go with this 🤭

“you’re the best part”

synopsis: jotaro finally ready to give love a second chance

cast: bodyguard! jotaro x rnb singer! black fem reader (jolyne is mentioned briefly)

universe: modern au?

wc: 1.1k wrds , 5.8k char

cw: angst to comfort (?) happy ending, established relationship, very cheesy (and shitty) writing , mostly proofread (i tried my best y’all but looking at my own work makes me cringe bad)

a/n: bro im so so so mega sorry if this is so trash/not what you asked for 😭 i am not good at actually writing so pls forgive me. i hope you like it tho <3 , also thank you v much for requesting 🫶🏽 mwah.

"utterly breathtaking."

those were the words that you used to describe the blazing hues of orange, yellow, and red that painted the horizon, as the sun ultimately began its descent. causing the sweltering summer heat to finally come to a halt as a result, and instead be replaced with a gentle breeze that danced through the air. wisps of your curls being disturbed in the process whilst your eyes remained glued to the sunset.

upon looking at you, he can't help but wonder why he didn't see it back then, why he didn't pay closer attention to the way the sun beautifully kissed your skin. or how you glowed underneath the moonlight, or even the gentle tone of voice you used whenever you spoke to him.

he felt stupid- foolish, one could say.

why did he wait so long? why did he wait so long to fully relish in the prickly feeling that arose whenever your hand just so happened to glide against his own? or admire how your lips looked whenever you applied your favorite gloss.

sometimes he just can't help but wonder, why?

then the answer clicks.

he simply wasn't allowed to. falling in love with you wasn't in his job description, he was your bodyguard. his job was to protect you, to shield you from the harsh realities of your successful career, and to barricade you from the rush of paparazzi attempting to make their way to you any chance they could. he was excellent at his job, so much so that even he knew to never cross that boundary with you.

he was far too afraid to, far too afraid to hurt you like he had done others in the past. like he had done to his former wife, his daughter even. he wasn't there as much as he should have been and he knew that, no matter how understanding they were about his career and the long, long, hours that came with it. the feeling haunted him.

and for the many, many, years after the fact, he couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that he harbored deep in his soul. he just couldn't allow that again. he couldn't allow himself to hurt someone else because of his own mistakes. mistakes no one held against him anymore, mistakes jolyne managed to forgive him for long ago.

so why couldn't he do the same for himself? why did he use it as a reminder to keep himself in check? as motivation to keep you as far away from him as possible- not that, that was an easy job in itself. he did work for you after all.

24/7 he was at your beck and call. walking you to all your favorite shops whenever you felt the urge to go, escorting you out of blacked-out vehicles and being your personal buffer between you, and the obnoxiously bright flashes of light being emitted from those large, ugly, cameras.

24/7 he was with you.

and a very large part of himself is livid for waiting so long to appreciate that.

to appreciate how you'd gift him small trinkets to show gratitude for all his hard work. to appreciate how you always made a conscious effort to bring him hearty meals if you noticed he wasn't eating as well as he should've been.

to appreciate how you'd call his name so prettily whenever you needed him for something. and how it sent a kaleidoscope of butterflies to his stomach each and every time.

god, he was foolish, unequivocally so.

and it hurt too much to think about, even for him. you were so kind to him, so sweet and understanding of his past, of all the mistakes he made. you didn't judge him like he judged himself for all those years. and that's when he realized it was time to put that shame and guilt to rest.

to allow himself to feel loved and cared for despite his mistakes- that seemingly everyone forgave him for, but himself.

to allow himself to relish in the way your hands glided against his own.

to allow himself to admire the way you applied your favorite gloss.

to allow himself to be loved by you. and to be loved by you till death did you apart.

utterly breathtaking. those are the words he'd use to describe you.

you were the best part of his morning, evening and night. the best part of his career, and the best part of himself.

which brings him back to the present. all those cherished memories between the two of you acting as his sole motivation for why he was doing this. why he was so nervous as he clutched the comically tiny, black, suede box that held your ring, in his hand.

it was beautiful, just like you.

"a pretty girl needs a pretty ring, dad" were jolyne's wise words that echoed in the back of his mind while ring shopping for you. his heart full of so many emotions that he could barely contain the tears that pricked the corner of his eyes while he stood in the middle of a "tiffany & co."

and even now, as he stood beside you on your shared balcony. watching you as you watched the sunset, slow jazz playing from the vinyl record he got you got Christmas, (doubling as a 2 year anniversary gift.) leaking through the crack in the sliding door.

what was he supposed to say?

not enough words in the dictionary could describe how he felt about you. none of them could describe how utterly beautiful he thought you were. or how you made him feel every time you looked at him, or called out his name for yet another favor he pretended to be annoyed about.

nothing could describe you.

"…wonderful weather we're having…" he began. to which you replied with a short hum, your eyes sparkling like the millions upon millions of stars in the sky.

what was there to say that he hasn't clumsily said already? why did he have to say anything at all? you knew him like the back of your hand. all his good traits- his bad traits, you knew him inside and out and that's what he loved about you.

you knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, what he wanted to say but just couldn't due to lack of words.

you knew him.

so with that in mind, he decided that words were too much. the way his legs wobbled as he got down on one knee, and the way his sweaty palms opened up the comically tiny, black, suede box should say all it needed to.

that he loved you,

unequivocally so.

[merinsedai]

For @dreamlingbingo

(also, for @zigzag-wanderer I intended to post this for your birthday but I ran a leeetle bit late (unless I had a fever dream and your bday is actually in March, in which case, it's a bit early)

Square/Prompt: C2 You've Got to be Kidding me (replacing BDSM)

Title: The Rooftops of London

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: n/a

Additional Tags: Second Chance, Mary Poppins AU, yes you read that correctly, Dream is Mary Poppins, Hob is Bert, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus is Good with Kids, popping in and out of paintings, teaparties on the ceiling, Developing Relationships, potential flying of kites, Will Roderick Burgess be redeemed? Is it possible? Who knows, read on and find out, fat pigeons

Summary: In 2025, Dream awaits Death as the Kindly Ones ravage the Dreaming.

In 1910, two young boys send out an advertisement for their perfect nanny.

or, the tale of Dream attempting to Mary Poppins his way out of his 20th century nightmare

Link, if full work is posted elsewhere: Read on AO3 here:

Chapter 1: The Letter

Chapter Text

The Dreaming is dying and so is he. 

Alone, and dying, and feeling the death of all his creations, Dream of the Endless waits.

He waits for his sister.

He has been waiting a long time, in truth. Preparing, though he had not let himself think that, for this ending. He is so tired: worn thin and scraped bare. He has neither the energy nor the will to keep going. It has been a life of many regrets, many mistakes. A few put right; some left to fester; the most important rectified, perhaps, at last. Though it is far too little and far too late. A reckoning is due. 

He stands on the edge of a precipice- one both metaphorical and literal- whilst the Dreaming shrieks its agony around him. The wind howls, the earth trembles and the lightning lays further devastation upon his lands. Fire and thunder, doom and destruction, and no relief. Not yet. 

He stares into the chaos, alone, and waits. 

There is a shift in the air, and Dream tenses briefly then relaxes. She is here and he does not fear her. It is The End.

“Brother Dream,” the voice is unexpected, the words spoken not in the warm tones of Death but with the calm assurance of Destiny. Dream wheels around to face his eldest sibling, who stands implacable and inscrutable before him, somehow untouched by the  torment of the Dreaming.

“Destiny,” Dream says. “I did not look for your coming.”

“You await Death,” Destiny pronounces, folding both hands over the great book held to his chest. “And she nears. You think you are ready to go with her, but you are not.”

Dream makes a disbelieving sound in his throat. His brother is mistaken in this. Dream is ready to take his sister’s hand, to finally rest .

 “Events are moving apace.” Destiny continues. “You know this; you set the pieces in motion yourself. Though I fear that events have outpaced even your design, and you face your end prematurely. The Dreaming is destabilising and your successor is not ready. He is not yet equal to the task of safeguarding the future of this realm. To allow this to play out as you now intend could invite doom upon us all.” 

This arrests Dream. “Could?” he says sharply. This is unusual. Destiny is not prone to ambiguity when he speaks; he is always unequivocal in his pronouncements. “You are not certain?”

“The future is in flux,”Destiny replies mildly.  “It may be that the child, Daniel Hall will survive the transfer of power, emerging complete as the new Dream of the Endless and all will continue as it should. Or it may destroy him and the consequences of that even I cannot see. The first outcome is the more likely by far but,” he fixes Dream with his all-seeing sightless gaze. “It is not certain, brother. Disaster may prevail.  Therefore I am here to offer you a choice.” He holds up a hand, and around them everything stops. The sudden silence is ringing and Dream draws a reflexive breath. Time is not Destiny’s domain: there is a more powerful force even than he at work here.

“A choice,” he says flatly. Not a question.

“A choice,” Destiny confirms. “A chance, if you wish to take it.”  He opens his great book and withdraws from it a piece of paper- crumpled and torn and singed at the edges, as if it had been balled in anger then rescued from a fiery fate- which he hands wordlessly to Dream.

Nonplussed, Dream takes the sheet and scans the first few lines of writing. It appears to be a handwritten advertisement for- a nanny ? Written in the overly neat hand of a school child trying their hardest to to show off perfect penmanship. 

Wanted: a nanny for a well-behaved and adorable young boy, located in London. 

Must be kind and cheery ( here ‘ have rosy cheeks’ has been added in a much younger and messier hand)  and enjoy playing all sorts of games…-

Dream looks up, utterly bewildered. “I do not understand. What is this?”

Destiny taps his fingers upon the open page of his book. His gaze flicks down, briefly, before returning to Dream. “In 1910,” he intones. “Two young boys were living in London with their widowed father. The father was cold and distant. He loved his sons but grief was setting him on a path to darkness. The sons loved their father but they could not reach him, not on their own. The gulf was too wide and they had no one to help them bridge it. This letter,” he indicates the paper clutched in Dream’s hand still. “Should have been received by someone who could have helped. Who could have changed the course of this small family’s history…

“But the letter was burned. It never found its intended recipient. The position was filled by one heartless, distant nanny after another. None stayed and none cared for their charges as a caregiver should. Resentment reigned in that house.The boys grew stunted, the father more aloof, more prideful. The eldest always striving to meet standards too exacting, the youngest never outgrowing his fear of a father who deemed him beneath his notice. Never nurtured, never cherished, never knowing the magic of existence or the spark of imagination.”

“Such is the fate of many,” Dream says dismissively. “Humans live and die in misery and joy. Why do you tell me this?”

“Read the letter, Dream,” Destiny gives a non-answer in reply.

Dream narrows his eyes but does as bid, scanning the letter quickly. It is a list of qualities and duties requested and required of an Edwardian nanny. Quite banal and clearly written by someone with an idealised and naive view of what being a perfect caregiver entails. It is nothing special, countless children had letters just like this-unwritten, unread, but dreamed up just the same- in his library. Why is Destiny wasting his time with this…?

Dream flips the paper and almost drops it. 

Yours sincerely, 

Randall and Alexander Burgess.

He had thought himself past anger, but seeing those names here at the time of his death, sends heatwaves of rage flaring through him, burning the apathy from his veins.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, hand clenching tightly around the paper, crumpling it even more, though it does not tear. 

“It is as you see. An invitation from Randall and Alexander Burgess, for someone ‘wonderful’ to join their household and care for them. To inspire joy, creativity and love in them.” 

“Randall Burgess has lain dead a century or more,” Dream snarls. “And Alexander, ” he spits that name with all the contempt and hatred within him, “is yet within my grasp, paying penance for his crimes against me-”

“In 1910,” Destiny interrupts before Dream can get up a head of steam. “All that yet lies before them. They are children of 12 and 5 years of age, and their futures are not yet fixed. That letter could be a turning point: for them, for their father and for you. Perhaps for the entire universe.”

Though he does not need to, Dream finds he is taking deep ragged breaths while his mind spins. “How so?” he grits out.

“There is another way. Another path you may seek. If you choose to. Take my hand and try again. Return to 1910 and answer their call.”

Dream stares at his brother in disbelief. “And what? Play nursemaid to the Burgess boys?” he sneers, incredulity overcoming his anger momentarily. “You jest, surely?”

“In all our long history, when have you ever known me to make a joke?” Destiny replies, placid yet implacable. His gaze does not waver under the intensity of Dream’s stare and he snaps the book shut, holding it once again to his chest. 

Dream spins away, stalking back to the very edge of the precipice and glaring out at his decimated realm before swinging back around. He paces the ledge, fingers twitching with a nervous energy he cannot dispel. Destiny watches in silence. 

“And you believe me capable of such a thing? That I can put aside the century of torture and torment for the sake of what? ‘Making merry’ with my captors? For you are sorely mistaken in your estimation of my capacity for forgiveness if so. I will not countenance such a course.”

“Not even for your own salvation?”

“Roderick Burgess-,” Dream is unhearing as he continues his pacing, briefly lost in his own head as his mind conjures up memories of his time as a prisoner beneath Fawney Rig. Memories he had long thought suppressed. “That talentless pretender, that egoist knave… he escaped my justice once and now you wish me to face him again and not seek vengeance ?” he seethes.  “And his son …Alexander Burgess is a coward and a wretch. He murdered my raven, kept me powerless and caged out of fear for his own miserable existence. Not a care for damage he was wreaking upon the world, upon my realm . Ten thousand years of their suffering would not be enough to rid me of my enmity towards them. And you ask me to care for them? I cannot do such a thing. I. Will. Not.”

“Even though Alexander will be but a child? And not yet the man who will commit these crimes against you?” Destiny presses, ever calm.  “Indeed, with your guidance, he may never be. It is within you to turn them all down different paths.”

Dream scoffs at that, shaking his head. “I am not minded to be forgiving, and I am tired,” he says quietly as he comes to a halt before his brother. “You- or is it our father holding the puppet’s strings?- no matter… you may send me back to 1910, but know that this ridiculous plan of yours will not work. I will not look upon these mortals with kindness, I would not consider this… ‘proposition’ of theirs acceptable. Even if I did, even if I convinced myself to try , for the sake of the Dreaming, I cannot change the course of a man already so corrupted, or find it within me to show love for his progeny. All will end in disaster.”

“That may be,” Destiny says, inclining his head slightly. “Perhaps nothing will change. Perhaps you will fail. Perhaps all will play out again just as it did this time and you will return to meet your end here. But before you make your decision, Dream, know this: If you return to 1910, it will be without your memories of the past century. You will know these humans without prejudice and you will remember none of what has since come to pass: your capture, your realm’s decay, the death of your son. You will return to your past with only the certainty that this” he indicates the letter still crumpled in Dream’s fist.  “Is something you must attend to.” 

Dream is silent. He looks down at the letter and smooths it over, rereading the words again: …. interesting outings required daily, in addition to the supply of sweets…. Bedtime stories each night (and no castor oil!).... Do not be cross or cruel… Do not scold or dominate….- such simple but telling wants. He starts when Destiny speaks again, quiet and oddly gentle.

“I would also have you know this: there is not a one amongst us who would truly wish you gone from us, Dream. Myself least of all… Now” his voice firms back up. “There is no more time. She comes.”

And with another lifting of Destiny’s hand, the tumult returns and with it, Death.

In a flutter of wings, she appears beside Destiny, casting her sibling a curious look before looking to Dream with her warm smile and understanding eyes.

“Heya, little brother,” she says quietly. “Whatcha doing up here?”

They stand side by side, both impervious to the fury raging around them, his unknowable brother and his compassionate sister. Truly, Dream longs for her warm embrace and the peace of the sunless lands, but a chance to truly spare the Dreaming-and himself- from the horrors of the past century, and the threat of its complete destruction… his gaze slides between them.

Two siblings. 

Two hands. 

Two choices. 

He is so tired…

“I am making a choice, dear sister” he says, finally, in answer to her question..

And he reaches out, and grasps.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Billboard

* * * *

NPR reports on Trump's 162 lies during last Thursday’s press conference.

The journalists in attendance at Trump's staged press-event last Thursday failed to challenge him when he spouted lie after lie. Some organizations did “fact checks” of the most egregious lies. But only one news organization has published a comprehensive analysis of every lie Trump told during the 90-minute press conference. See NPR, 162 lies and distortions in a news conference. NPR fact-checks former President Trump.

The report by NPR is exhaustive. It required a substantial amount of work and attention to detail. NPR and the reporters who researched the article deserve to be commended for their work. The article begins by noting that Trump told two lies per minute during the press conference!

A team of NPR reporters and editors reviewed the transcript of his news conference and found at least 162 misstatements, exaggerations and outright lies in 64 minutes. That’s more than two a minute. It’s a stunning number for anyone – and even more problematic for a person running to lead the free world. Politicians spin. They fib. They misspeak. They make honest mistakes like the rest of us. And, yes, they even sometimes exaggerate their biographies. The expectation, though, is that they will treat the truth as something important and correct any errors. But what former President Trump did this past Thursday went well beyond the bounds of what most politicians would do.

The byline on the article is Domenico Montanaro, but the text says it was written by a team of reporters and editors. I urge readers to provide feedback to NPR on its editorial decision to invest the time and resources to catalog Trump's lies. We must not allow Trump to exhaust us through the sheer volume of his lies. NPR didn’t let that happen for last Thursday’s staged press event. Kudos to NPR!

An article by Tom Nichols in The Atlantic also deserves attention. See The Truth About Trump’s Press Conference. (This article is accessible to all.) Nichols reviews the headlines in the NYTimes, WaPo, CNN and other media outlets, all of which focused on the impact of the news conference on the horse-race aspect of the election.

Nichols writes,

All of these headlines are technically true, but they miss the point: The Republican nominee, the man who could return to office and regain the sole authority to use American nuclear weapons, is a serial liar and can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Donald Trump is not well. He is not stable. There’s something deeply wrong with him. Any of those would have been important—and accurate—headlines.

Sunday presented another opportunity for major media to redeem themselves and finally—finally—acknowledge that Trump is not well. Will they do so in their Monday editions? We can always hope. Read on!

Trump descends further into conspiracy, delusion, and deceit over the weekend.

Last week, Kamala Harris and Tim Walz visited Michigan in Air Force 2. They disembarked the plane and walked into a hangar that held an overflow crowd that spilled onto the tarmac. Estimates put the crowd size at about 12,000.

On Saturday, MAGA internet trolls began analyzing the “reflections” on the body and engines of Air Force 2 and could not see reflected images of the crowd. The trolls could not see the reflected images because they were examining curved surfaces that reflected light and images from directly beneath the plane—where no one was standing. The trolls should have spent more time in high school science classes than playing multi-player fantasy games online. But I digress.

The trolls immediately concluded that the images of the crowds were generated by AI autofill in Photoshop. That claim was immediately and unequivocally rebutted when video from major media outlets panned the crowd and Air Force 2 in a single shot, proving the crowds were real—not AI-generated images. That should have been the end of the story, right?

Wrong! On Sunday, Trump posted a rant on Truth Social in which he claimed that Harris and Walz were resorting to AI to make it appear that their crowd sizes were larger than Trump's. With apologies, I am going to reprint Trump's rant in full. Read as much as you can, and then meet me on the other side:

Has anyone noticed that Kamala CHEATED at the airport? There was nobody at the plane, and she "A.l'd" it, and showed a massive "crowd" of so-called followers, BUT THEY DIDN'T EXIST! She was turned in by a maintenance worker at the airport when he noticed the fake crowd picture, but there was nobody there, later confirmed by the reflection of the mirror-like finish on the Vice Presidential Plane. She's a CHEATER. She had NOBODY waiting, and the "crowd" looked like 10,000 people! Same thing is happening with her fake "crowds" at her speeches. This is the way the Democrats win Elections, by CHEATING - And they're even worse at the Ballot Box. She should be disqualified because the creation of a fake image is ELECTION INTERFERENCE. Anyone who does that will cheat at ANYTHING!

One of two things is true: Trump believes that the images are faked (despite video by major new organizations) or he does not.

If Trump has fallen into delusion and conspiracy, that fact deserves front page treatment from every news outlet in America.

If Trump knows the images of the crowd are true, then he is setting up a claim that Democrats can only win the 2024 election by cheating, and that fact deserves front page treatment from every news outlet in America.

As I said, we shall see if the Monday editions of major news outlets say (a) Trump is descending into delusion, or (b) Trump is setting up an attack on integrity of presidential election for the second time!

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ch.179 thoughts

[Don't Trust a Ho, Never Trust a Ho]

(Contents: Latla analysis)

Wow, I did NOT see Untrust coming! I (and I bet most other folks) thought her ability was going to be Unpredictable, and I guess in a sense, it was! I don't think anyone ever guessed Untrust!

But it makes sense, doesn't it? As a professional fortune teller, Latla was known for having 100% accuracy, meaning that anything she said, you could unequivocally trust. Of course God would want to take that away, it's almost like she already had an unsanctioned Negator ability, and God wasn't going to let her break the rules like that

For anyone unclear on how Untrust works based on what we've seen so far, let's do a quick review

Latla doesn't need to make a prediction out loud, she simply needs to predict an outcome at all, even if only in her thoughts. She's not negating the prediction, she's negating her own credibility, even for herself

There seem to be two stages to this: mystic predictions and logical conclusions. Using her crystal ball, Latla can predict or divine any outcome or truth, but because she cannot be trusted, whatever she divines has to be wrong. With this, she can look decently far into the future and understand broader concepts like the flow and ultimate victor of a fight; she doesn't need to know anything about the topic, she just needs to look into her crystal ball and understand what she's seeing

All other predictions she makes are simply logical; Rip getting shot and killed, an attack on a clear path, and losing to a seemingly invincible monster, all are predictions that anyone could have seen coming and anyone would take at face value in those moments. Therefore, Latla doesn't need to use her crystal ball, she just needs to use her sense

This is also why Latla can't deflect attacks with odd trajectories or that come from her blindspots; she simply doesn't have the experience to make those predictions in the moment. If she had time to use her crystal ball, sure, she could predict something so difficult to see coming, but otherwise, no, she's not a fighter and doesn't have the capacity to see multiple steps in advance

Let's say a chessmaster got Untrust; if they know how an opponent will (or rather, should) react to a certain move, they would negate the predictable conclusions and leave only the least logical and effective move for the opponent to make. "There's no way they'd make a move so stupid, they're better than that" -> "what a blunder! They've fallen for the obvious trap I laid, I thought only an amateur could make a mistake like that!"

We don't know a ton about Latla's interests, but for argument's sake, let's say that Latla doesn't know how to play chess. If she were to play against anyone, she would have no idea what to expect from an opponent and would likely move her pieces blindly; without a clear understanding of what counters would make the most sense, she would be left without a way to predict and negate her opponent's moves aside from the most blatantly obvious (like having a piece next to an enemy Queen). If she predicted she'd lose before the match, then naturally she'd win, but if she can't make real-time predictions, she might as well be playing blindfolded

But enough about the power itself, let's focus on the real juicy bits: the thematic implications!

First things first: Rip was initially staunchly opposed to Latla using fortunetelling because he didn't believe in it. He didn't trust in Latla's methods at first, but he did trust in Latla herself. Even believing that her trade was hokum, Rip trusted Latla implicitly and went along with any prediction she would make

On the reverse side, though, Rip never relied on Latla. Sure, he made use of her ability in combat, but he only even allowed her to be present because she insisted. Regardless of what he said or did, Rip always made Latla feel like he didn't trust her. He didn't trust her enough to tell her his plans, to let her be present for the worst of it like cutting off his own limbs, and didn't trust her to put her life on the line; he tried to shoulder the burden alone because he didn't trust that she could stand the weight

In much the same way that Rip 100's quest was a futile attempt to repair his own shattered life, Latla 100 was constantly left behind because Rip never entrusted her with anything of value. She was perfectly capable and reliable, even with her 100% inaccurate predictions (ironically making them 100% accurate upon inversion), but Rip couldn't leave things to her

However, it's because of his faith in Latla that Rip was able to accept Fuuko's help in this loop. Rip says that he could tell at a glance that Fuuko was a good person, but I doubt that it's because of anything about her specifically; instead, I think it was because she was standing with Latla, who clearly had already put her faith in Fuuko. Despite everything, despite butting heads, despite ideological differences, despite not wanting anyone other than himself to suffer, Rip absolutely, 100%, believes in Latla, and that means believing in anyone she believes in

That's also why they're able to fight so well together too, "in lockstep" as Rip says. They are perfectly in sync, their hearts beating as one as they finally walk together towards the same goal, which will soon prove my earlier assertion that they will be absolutely pivotal to defeating God in the final battle. I guarantee it

[farawayfiction]

Matches (BWWeek 2023 and Batober 2023)

“Matches around?”

The barkeep squared him up.  “Who’s askin’?”

“A friend.”

“A friend, huh?” Dubiousness dripped, like beer from a leaky tap.

Clark didn’t offer any clarification.

“Why don’t you have a seat down there at the end of the bar.  Who knows?  Maybe you might get lucky.  What’ll ya have?”

Halfway through a beer he wasn’t the least bit interested in drinking, a familiar heartbeat walked into the dive.

“Bejesus.  What the hell are you doing here?  Thought I told you to leave and never come back.”  Matches dropped himself down on the neighboring stool, their shoulders nearly touching. 

Clark didn’t bother casting his glance sidelong.  He already knew what he’d find. 

The cheap suit and sunglasses were ubiquitous, the mustache all too natural looking in appearance.  The tie clashed with absolutely everything, but the knot was tidy.  A Swan Vesta bobbed between his lips, his tongue making a plaything of the match inside his mouth. 

“You neglected the ‘never come back’ part.”

“Oh did I now? My fuckin’ mistake.  Get lost, doll face.”

“What if I want to finish my beer?”

Matches scoffed.  “We both know you didn’t come here for no lousy beer.”

The barkeep opened his mouth to protest.

“Shut up.  Nobody asked you.”

He didn’t bother to look affronted.  Instead, he wiped down the countertop and moved further away.  Even with the extra distance, there was no pretense of privacy.

Matches leaned in and whispered conspiratorially.  “There’s piss poor beer and then there’s that.”

“It’s not the greatest,” Clark conceded.

“But you were willin’ to risk it.  Again.”

“Maybe it’s growing on me.”

“That shit doesn’t grow on anybody.  Trust me.  I’ve had my fair share.”

“Why do you keep coming back here if the drinks are so terrible?”

“Everybody’s got a place.  And this is my kinda place.”  He shifted the match, sliding it to the other side, before announcing, “You on the other hand-“

Clark rotated his glass and watched condensation roll lazily down the exterior.

“Let me guess,” he started, his voice full of derision.  “Problems with the sugar daddy.”

Clark glanced up sharply.  “He’s not my-“

“Yeah, yeah.  Here’s the thing, kid.  I’m not a therapist.  Hell, I’m not even a bartender.  I’m not gunna listen to your woes, blow smoke up your skirt, and tell you everything is gunna work itself out.  Go home.”  He paused for a second before adding, “Or don’t.  It’s no skin off my back.”

Clark finally pushed the glass away and crossed his arms atop the bar.  He couldn’t hide an expression if his life depended upon it and right that moment, he looked miserable.

“Me? I’d stick around if only for the cash.  But we all get our kicks differently.  If you’re not happy, maybe you should dump his rich ass.”

“No.”  The answer was quiet but unequivocal. 

“See.  Ya don’t need me after all.  Problem solved.”

“We haven’t talked in-“

“I don’t wanna know.”

“There’s so much-“

“Not listening.”

“- I want to say.”

“Then why are you still sitting here like a shmuck?”

Clark seemed to sink further down on his stool, dropping his chin to rest on his crossed arms.  “I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.

“Geez Louise,” Matches grumped, shaking his head in disgust.  “Anybody ever tell you you’re a disaster?”

A sad smile crept to his lips.  “All the time.”

[lanaturnergetup]

out, damn spot

percy/audrey, drabble

written for @thethreebroomsticksfic weasleyweek, here's some percy!

ao3 link here <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Percy’s read Shakespeare before. Of course he has. Muggle or otherwise, he likes to enjoy the classics. So he’s well familiar with Macbeth. And King Lear. And Hamlet. (The tragedies are his favourite.) 

But he’s had no reason to think about it in the context of his personal life. 

Until, that is, the first time Audrey sleeps over at his flat. 

It’s new, this thing with them, it’s tentative and new. So new that he feels like tiptoeing everywhere he goes around her, so he doesn’t accidentally disrupt anything. She’s the only thing in his life that’s unequivocally good, and he doesn’t want to give that up. Work is tinged with a layer of guilt. His family life… it’s coloured at the edge with regret, and he doesn’t know how to toe the line with apologising before it gets annoying. Everything in his life is complicated in a way he doesn’t know how to process.

Everything but her. 

So he takes her out to dinner, a tasteful selection of Muggle wine bars and restaurants. They go to the park. They meet up after work. And she sleeps over, after a perfectly respectable period of time.

And because it’d been going too well, the moment she sleeps over… he has a nightmare. Not a nightmare, not exactly, but he dreams of Pius Thicknesse’s face, and Fred’s body, and the hurt look in his father’s eyes. He wakes up with a start, and leans against the pillow, panting and trying to calm his frantic heartbeat down. He thinks about breathing. Breathe in, hold it, let it out. Breathe in, hold it, let it out, but his damned heart won’t stop going fast, fast, fast, and he feels like it might explode out of his chest.

He wakes Audrey up, because of course he does. Who wouldn’t be awoken by a madman in bed next to him. “What are you thinking about?” she asks him.

He’s too tired to do anything but tell the truth. “My family,” he says. “I’ve made some mistakes…” 

“Did you kill anyone?” she asks. 

“No,” Percy says. “But–” 

“Did you get anyone else to kill anyone?” 

“No,” Percy says again. “But I was awful to them. I wasn’t there when it mattered, and when I got there, it was too late.” 

Audrey rolls over onto her back. “So you were a twat. Who isn’t? You don’t have to go all Lady Macbeth about it.” 

“I’m sorry?” Percy says. He’s so taken aback that he momentarily forgets his panic and fatigue and his regret. (Regret, always regret.) 

“Out, damned spot, out,” she quotes. Her face is wrinkled up with sleepiness, and the look on her face takes a moment for Percy to place. Amusement, he realises. She’s amused. 

“I’m not going all Lady Macbeth,” he finally says. What else is there to say? 

Already, the panic and guilt is leaving him, leaving room for… an odd happy little feeling in his chest, one he associates with Audrey and Audrey alone. 

“Good,” Audrey says. “It’s too late in the night for Shakespearan tragedies. Let’s go to sleep, shall we?” 

And, rolling over and wrapping an arm around her, Percy does. 

[messymindofmine]

Now that I've had some time to really process things, I really do understand why Carlos did what he did. I'm also not surprised that he didn't tell TK bc we all know communication is not one of Carlos’s strengths. What does bother me though is the fans that refuse to acknowledge that Carlos has done something wrong by keeping his marriage a secret from TK. What bothers me is that any time a fan expresses the slightest bit of anger at the situation or on TK's behalf, they're bombarded with anon messages telling them they're wrong and bringing up every single mistake that TK has ever made. What bothers me is the fans that act like TK isnt completely allowed to be upset with Carlos for keeping this a secret from him for so long. Those are the things that bothered me. It's possible to be understanding about why Carlos kept all this a secret and still acknowledge that it was wrong.

I actually do understand why the writers chose to go this direction even if I don't like the way it was done. The fact of the matter is that Carlos has never been perfect. His flaws have always been there for everyone to see, it's just that many fans refused to see them. Whenever there was conflict between Carlos and TK in the past, TK has been the one to bear the blame even though there has been fault on both sides. Case in point, their s3 break up. Yeah the way TK reacted to Carlos buying them a house was disproportionate but people seem to completely overlook the fact that Carlos bought a house without even consulting TK on it. TK reacted the way he did bc he has always struggled with feeling like he's worthy of Carlos and he's always had a fear of losing things and so with this going so well, he panicked. This is literally stated in the show yet people were still so quick to jump on the TK hate train and insist that Carlos should make TK work to earn Carlos’s love back. The biggest irony is that I have yet to see anyone saying that Carlos isn't worthy of TK or that he should have to earn TK's love back since 4x01. And you know what? People shouldn't be saying that. What people are saying though is that they are upset that Carlos has always wanted TK to give him everything of himself ("I want all the parts") yet has held back something so big from him. It seems clear to me that some people just don't know how to handle Carlos being unequivocally in the wrong without the option of shifting all the blame onto TK. Hence why anytime a fan dares to vent on their own blog, they have to deal with people sending them messages listing mistakes TK has made as though any of those things are even relevant in this situation or they're just being blasted for being upset about it. Not only that but apparently we're not even allowed to praise how well TK handled it. It's OK to love Carlos and still acknowledge he has flaws guys. Certainly for me, my feelings on Carlos have not changed even though I'm upset about him not telling TK.

The thing that upsets me the most though is I think we all know that if TK had been the one to have a secret marriage, people would have been clamoring for his head. But this time there is no mutual blame and even TK's reaction can't be used against him bc he reacted so amazingly. The fact of the matter is, people in this fandom have been constantly questioning TK's worthiness in a way that nobody ever has with Carlos. And even now, I haven't seen anyone doing that with Carlos and they shouldn't be. That's why I understand why the writers chose this for Carlos bc I honestly can't think of anything else that would force people to confront Carlos’s flaws properly. Especially since even in the moments when Carlos has displayed his flaws, TK is still the one that ends up bearing the blame. Case in point, 3x13 where people were mad at TK for not "opening up to Carlos" bearing in mind that Tim (who is a recovering addict himself and thus if anyone knows a thing or two about this it's him) even explained that TK was actually doing the right thing by not including Carlos in this particular part of his life. And even despite that beautiful scene where TK explains his reasoning to Carlos, people were still trashing him. Carlos has shown a lot of growth over the seasons but true growth can only come once you actually confront the root of your issues. Of course, confronting the cause isn't going to magically make the issues go away. After all, TK knows why he struggles with his issues but he still struggles at times. But at least once you confront your issues, you can learn how to deal with them better. Carlos has never confronted his parents on how their own lack of communication and the pressure they put on him affected him. And the Reyes parents have never acknowledged how they've hurt Carlos. That's why that line from Andrea about having a talk with TK 3x04 rubs me the wrong way bc not only did Andrea not have any idea why TK broke up with Carlos, she never bothers to think about why Carlos was so afraid of letting them down and instead working on that. And then there were the fans writing fics about Andrea lecturing a bedridden TK and TK apologizing to Andrea. The only person TK owed anything at all to was Carlos and yet fans act like Andrea had any right to be lecturing TK on anything. And now this new revelation and the fact that Andrea apparently knew about it, makes the line even worse. We can call it sloppy writing if we want but the complete lack of self-awareness does line up with Andrea's character as well. Lmao can you imagine if Owen had ever even mentioned having a talk with Carlos even at the beginning of their relationship? Even though Owen at the time had very good reasons to be concerned about TK starting a new relationship but we all know people would have been calling for Owen's head if he had. And I'll bet they'd do the same now. As I've said before, the way this fandom deifies Gabriel and Andrea baffles me. Yes they love Carlos but they've also hurt Carlos in ways that Owen has never hurt TK yet this is completely glossed over.

All in all, as I said, I'm not mad about Carlos marrying Iris bc I can see why he would do that. I don't like him having kept it a secret from TK and I do think it's something that needs to be called out but I also get why he wouldn't bring it up bc it does fit his character. What makes me mad is the hypocrisy I've seen where the same people who have literally used TK bringing home a lizard to prove how he's not worthy of Carlos are now saying that fans have no right to be upset at this revelation or be upset on TK's behalf.

I am planning on making a post soon about the way some people in this fandom behave towards TK and how that reeks of ableism be it conscious or subconscious. As someone who is able to relate to TK on a very personal level, some of the stuff I've seen actually pains me

[arr0s]

Straighten up, soldier. Something's made your eyes go cold.

Location: first bit is a farm then the lost lands camp Characters: Arros "last name" Synopsis: Arros is upsetti about everything that happened and is sad and stuff and becomes part of the legion of the dead! yippie!!

“Oh little pup, you’ve gotten your paws all dirty. Go wash up before your mother sees, you know how she gets.” A kiss on the top of her head and a nudge towards the stream; you can still remember the crinkles that bunched up in the corner of his eyes whenever he smiled, and how his hands were so rough from working the farm, but his voice so sweet and warm like honey on fresh bread.

You would often hear your mother scolding him for being so soft on you, but she was just the same. Her voice was more strict but when she took you in her arms there was no mistaking the unequivocal love she had for you

When nightmares came they would kiss your eyes and lay you back to sleep.When the flames and smoke licked at the walls and scorched your home, no one was there to hold you. You cried and cried and cried, alone in your bedroom clutching at your chest and whimpering like a wounded dog. 

And when they found you in the ashes, they didn’t really find you did they? That girl was gone, replaced with something rotten, something sharp. You don’t feel very human anymore.

You died that day, that young girl's tears turned into rage, your smile turned into fangs. Time and time again you are told you are a weapon, you are a force, you do what you’re told. You don’t cry anymore. It makes you tremble, to think back and remember how you thought life was going to be. So you don’t. How does it feel to be dead, little pup?

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

Surrounded by the rush of faces, you stand in a sea of people and somehow you feel more alone than you have in a long time. (cliche right?) Something had changed when you escaped. They weren’t your friends, they never really were, were they? 

But they helped me.

b̶̤̈́ẻ̷͓̠ć̷̗ausȩ̴͎̔̂ ̴̐̎ͅt̷̖̺̽ḧ̸̗́ē̵̪̄ŷ̵̬ ̸͖͛ñ̴͕̹͠e̷̮̖͛̽e̵̝̗̒ded ̵̢̪͐̾y̴̡̫̓o̶͎̯͆ư̶̧͉̾

You were approached by the Shield Maiden - the one that watched over you when you were dying. The one who bore your burden as her own. The one reason you made it out of the tundra alive - the way she spoke to you. The softness of her voice and the worried turn of her brow; it was unfamiliar. If anything she was proof you could walk through hell, with the hounds tearing at your spirit and still hold onto that soft, gentle humanity you weren't used to. It bites at your cold heart. Another reason you feel so… sighted, your misery on display through some scope you can’t conceive of. Or maybe it’s the fucking trauma eating you alive, Gods knows there’ll be plenty of that to sift through.

You weren’t left alone for long, with the Blight subsided only for the time being; you were approached by the Legion, criminals and urchins with no other place to go - left fighting the blight for the rest of their lives. You swallowed. You knew there were no other options for you, there wasn’t a way to completely clean you from the blight, either you join the damned or you die. It was a simple choice - so why did it feel like yet again another choice was being made for you.

Why was it you were never able to control your own fate; just some plaything for the cosmic unknown - being led like a doll to some sort of fantasy they had for you. 

You drank from the goblet, you heard the screams, the roars, the unnatural and sickening calls from the other side, you were certain you had more poison than blood running through your veins. You hurt. Like someone’s taken sanding paper to your bones, bruises riddling every inch of you that has blood enough to call itself alive, because you damn fucking sure don’t feel like you are.

The woman who accompanied you, didn't need you anymore - you likely wouldn't see them again. Not like you cared right? The Witcher, born to be used and forgotten, with a bite to every word and an attitude that keeps everyone away. Fuck them, you don't need anyone. a fighter, a bitch, a sword, that's all you're meant to be.

And for some reason, this is what brings on the tears, a punch of heat behind your eyes, though it doesn’t quite spill over yet. Your fate has been sealed Legionnaire - you no longer serve the king.

So you stay there till your legs finally give out, and you crumple to the floor.And you lay there in silence, and in darkness, thinking everything, so much that it becomes nothing.

White noise in your skull, your bones, your blood. Carrying you so far away from yourself until, finally, you are gone.

Finally, if only for a while, it is all gone.

[theangelwithawand]

Absolutely (Not) the Same Man

Regeneration and Identity

I really l like way Christmas Invasion presents regeneration and how Rose and Ten in-universe seem to understand.

Harriet Jones says that Ten is “absolutely the same man”. Rose does not agree despite being in the scene.

She agrees that 10 is the Doctor, but…not the same. She still loves him and sees the fundamental values being retained but she sees them as different.

She unequivocally says “you’re so different”. She’s beaming when she says it, clearly not missing Nine but rather mystified by Ten. It’s so subtle, (and a lot comes from Billie’s delivery) but even after accepting it, there is something alien about the process lingering.

It’s why I don’t fault her for being upset by the potential regeneration in Journey’s End, it’s the same reason we all are sad to see a Doctor go.

Because the fundamental character traits that we love will be there (you know…hopefully) but everything else will change. Their personalities and the ways they interact with the universe and the way they see themselves all changes. All the quirks and eccentricities that make up the characterization specific to one incarnation of the Doctor as a character, which are what we latch onto change.

We may like who gets tagged, whoever is now ‘it’. But there’s still a friend we’ll miss.

This Doctor wears pinstripes and trainers, instead of leather and combat boots. He willingly wears a paper crown.

He is domestic in a way Nine would never be. He doesn’t tempt Rose from a family dinner, he joins her at one of his own volition, then relishes in it while wearing a paper crown.

I do think this works particularly well here, because it feels like a character arc. It helps Ten feel like an actual extension of Nine. I think this why that it works for them to have the same TARDIS and first companion. It makes the change easier.

Nine was reminded of the beauty of living through Rose and humanity, and reminded ordinary humans that there was no such thing. I love the moment he has with the couple in Father’s Day for this reason.

Ten, in concept and practice, takes this love for humanity and runs with it. (Sometimes way too far depending on the writer. But that’s another meta). He’s more open with his feelings while still being deeply, deeply repressed.

Arguably, I think there’s a moment he tries to learn from his mistakes with Rose. He tries to relay the happy memory of Christmas dinner to Donna before it becomes something else he’s lost. All of her other attempts at connection are shut down.

Later, he’s able to find some respite with Donna in series 4. He’s able to live with his grief and heal for a bit. And he gives Donna a chance to realize that there’s no such thing as an ordinary human.

Then he has to take it all away. All of the edges Donna had softened out, the self-confidence she built up so she didn’t need to scream at the world to feel heard. Gone.

His best friend, just like the love of his life. Gone. And this time it’s like never happened at all.

It’s the last important arc before Time Lord Victorious for a reason.

(it’s honestly more thematically satisfying to go straight to Waters of Mars after series 4)

It’s why he comes to see regeneration as dying.

It’s how we get from “All I did was change” in Born Again, to “It’s like dying.” in the of End of Time

He just watched the identity of his best friend be ripped from her. Plus he feels emotions with more humanity than any incarnation. He feels the fear of identity loss like a human fears mortality.

(This was also before the Doctor had been given more regenerations, and post-war he was burning through them, and was over half through them, so there’s an added layer there)

I never for a second felt he was “throwing a tantrum” in Journey’s End.

I hate when people, including the in universe 11th doctor, say that Ten is vain.

I mean he is. Sometimes it’s done for laughs, but he is arrogant too. Usually it’s well-meaning. He does have more knowledge than anyone and wants to use that to help.

He might be a genius, but he doesn’t understand every intricate detail of human experience. And to be fair, 11 is talking about the metacrisis, but even before Donna’s fate, Ten has begun to project the human fear of death he’s adopted along with all the other emotions onto regeneration.

Journey’s End is the end of a vanity trip. He is stripped down and deeply, deeply scared. And he is allowed to be. And he can react in an intense, emotional way.

There is no hesitation between the knocks and the resignation falling across his face.

There is no doubt what he’s going to sacrifice for Wilf no matter how afraid he is.

Because as intensely as Ten feels fear, it is nothing to how much he loves.

[transienturl]

I have this thing—it hasn't been real to me for years, but it still crosses my mind plenty—where I can sort of make myself feel better about circumstances by imagining an alternate universe version of me who's thinking, like, "you know, I would honestly rather have [the circumstance in question] than what's currently happening, which it could have if only things had gone slightly differently." And if that sounds plausible, then, like, hey, this could reasonably be one of the best possible outcomes, right? Not saying it is, but it isn't impossible.

Hmm, I think that explanation is missing something, which is that like... often it's a thing where you can't know? which way would have been better? And so the concept of justifying it—okay nope that explanation isn't working.

I guess it's a litany against getting too bogged down in, like, regret, you know? In wondering what else could have happened. It's saying, eh, maybe the version of myself with a time machine goes back and tries that path and having experienced both goes you know what, the original path was the way to go. As long as I can imagine that, then I don't really know this path is worse, yeah? So it's not an unequivocal mistake, an unequivocal missed opportunity. It's just a thing that happened, in the end.

(And I guess when I say it hasn't been real for me for years is that, I guess, I don't have to be able to imagine it like that, anymore, to be able to just say, well, it is what it is, and not really get caught in that emotion at all, the one I'm not specifically describing that this is against. But it's still a way to look at things, sometimes a fun one.)

That's basically the whole post; I just think it's interesting to talk about, I wonder if other people think like that, etc. But the context I thought of it in, in this case, if you're curious, is like, sometimes I wish I was a dancer. I could imagine that being something I'd really enjoy. But then also I could imagine hating it for so many reasons. And it would tie into a lot of other stuff interestingly, like, I don't spend any of my time looking into mirrors in this reality, but who would I be if I did, would I want to be pretty, you know. Would I be transfeminine, say. And relatedly, would I be happier if I were, or would I be doing this exercise in the opposite direction, going, man, this whole using-your-body-as-an-art-medium thing made me care about something I'd rather not spend energy caring about, I wonder if I'd be happier being [who I am now but with a job] tbh. And of course the same thing goes with being afab, obviously, I've mentioned this before, I could so easily see girl-me going, ugh, sure I like some things about this but I'm a hipster at heart, I don't want to do things because I'm expected to due to something I never chose, I'd rather be the token whatever who hangs with the girls club than be a part of it, I think. 

And so it goes. We don't know, y'know? Which isn't to say you don't learn anything from thinking about it, it's not like I want to stop. I just had to learn not to be paralyzed by it, to be devastated by it. I've got other stuff to do that about, don't you worry.

[rimeoverreason]

Oversaturated

Dedicated to @d2sejanus--plinth because Coryo is Not OK

Subtlety. Subtlety was the word of the hour. And the day, the week. The month. There were other words too: restraint, respectability, self-control. All things that he had and exemplified. Didn't he?

When he was in public they all shone through him, showed everyone he was the proper person to lead them. The only one who could. But once he turned his back, once he retreated from the light back into shadow, he shed that blinding façade and let it fall like a jacket to the floor and had Sejanus take care of the rest. Unbuttoning, untucking, undressing until he was both physically and mentally bare before him. When the only thing that held his attention was the feel of those hands remapping every polished piece of him.

It was those hands -- and those eyes and that mouth -- that Coriolanus had been devoid of for weeks now. His skin had grown cold in the places where they'd long since seared their mark and the weight of what it all meant, how it all had unequivocally rearranged him, was now coming down upon him all at once.

The muscles in his face twitched and he stared wide-eyed down at the lone teacup on the desk, flanked by his hands on either side. His fingers rapped upon the solid wood and it was hard to ignore the light clicking of the ring upon his finger. It turned his stomach to look at it, to think of what it symbolized. A mistake he was now living uncomfortably with, and increasingly so. Coriolanus barely saw his wife anymore and when he did he was barraged with questions: "Where have you been?", "What were you doing?", "Why were you out so late?" And he'd had enough. Enough to have him retreat when he could to where he could surrender his thoughts to the ether and be swallowed up by those dark brown eyes, shredded to the bone by the teeth behind that deceptively harmless smile.

And it was because of that that he was now without. Both of them drawing back to let the situation cool down, to show to her that there was nothing amiss. It was driving him mad. It was driving ideas to the forefront of his mind he wouldn't otherwise consider. He wanted, desired, needed no other attention on him than Sejanus'. That itself he would call insanity but he was already lost to it, willingly drowned in the abyss of obsession and being obsessed over.

After inhaling sharply and steeling himself, Coriolanus picked up the vial that laid next to the teacup and emptied its liquid contents into the pale porcelain. An impulsive decision? Possibly. Hazardous? Most definitely. Yet he didn't care and in one smirking gesture he swallowed it in a single gulp. Mixed with the black tea the poison was tasteless and he gripped at the edge of his desk to ready himself for what was to come next. However seconds passed and other than a burning in his mouth and esophagus he didn't feel anything. Immediately he started worrying, a cold panic. Had he become tolerant of its effects already? If so he'd just ripped a couple of months off his life for nothing.

Then the pain came. It doubled him over beside his desk and it felt like his intestines were all flipped inside out simultaneously like shirtsleeves. The ringing in his ears started soon after and intensified along with a pulse that pounded incessantly. Through double vision he saw someone approach his office and stop, shocked and appalled at the sight of him, and watched as the folder they were carrying slipped from their hands.

"Help! Damn it, someone get help immediately! Get his doctor over here now!"

Coriolanus licked his lips, the familiar taste of iron coating his tongue as blood filled his mouth. It worked . . . it's working . . . it worked. The last words that so repeated in his head before it hit the floor.