#he believes in the power of diplomacy

[naevose]

ooc . After some chit-chats with @massensterben, I’ll be adding a verse where Marco ultimately transfers from the Military Police to the Survey Corps. Due to his physical and neurological disabilities, he cannot hold an offensive position or one that has a heavy focus on teamwork or group manoeuvres. Instead, he functions as a medic, in a support squad composed of largely independent scouts. Through this transfer, he is present for the raid on Liberio. Needless to say, Marco does not approve of the ambush.

[saphronethaleph]

Soresu Negotiations

“Get help,” Palpatine said. “You’re no match for him. He’s a Sith Lord.”

Obi-Wan turned to look at the Chancellor. “...yes?” he said. “But he’s also something else – something I’m surprised you’ve forgotten.”

“What?” Palpatine asked.

“A politician,” Obi-Wan replied, turning back to Dooku.

Anakin groaned, then sat down.

“Here we go,” he said.

Palpatine blinked, looking from Anakin to Obi-Wan.

“...what do you mean, Anakin?” he asked.

“This happens sometimes,” Anakin replied. “How do you think he got his nickname?”

“Count,” Obi-Wan said, at about the same time. “It’s occurred to me that I never actually found out what the Confederacy wants.”

“Isn’t it a little late for this?” Dooku asked. “We have been at war for several years.”

“True,” Obi-Wan conceded, readily. “The war having started on Geonosis, because of tracing back your clone army which we… appear to have appropriated, mostly because you did it in our name. But that’s how the war started – not your objectives.”

Dooku was silent for a moment.

“I assume some semblance of a point will be emerging,” he said, eventually. “If you could be so kind as to provide it?”

“Wars begin for all sorts of reasons,” Obi-Wan replied. “But how they end… they end because a mutual settlement has been reached. And it’s occurred to me that I don’t know what you’d want out of a victory.”

He spread his hand, the one not holding the – unlit – saber. “It’s not the conquest of the Republic, I can tell that much. If the CIS annexed the Republic, what you’d have would still be the Republic, just under a different name… it’s not the Republic without the corruption that’s been causing it problems, because most of the corruption in the Republic was – was – the big industrial concerns like the Techno Union, Commerce Guild, Trade Federation. But you seem to have taken all of those off our hands, and they provide essentially your entire military so I don’t think anyone else could honestly believe that either.”

“I wouldn’t expect a Jedi to understand,” Dooku replied. “The Confederacy’s member systems have concerns relating to over-centralization.”

Obi-Wan stared at him for a long moment.

“...no they don’t,” he said.

“I hardly think you can have earned your reputation as a negotiator, Kenobi, if you are so willing to be insulting,” Dooku said, archly.

“That’s not what I mean,” Obi-Wan replied. “I mean… yes, now the Republic has an army, though really it’s actually the Jedi’s army and we’re simply letting them borrow it, but four years ago the Galactic Republic was proverbially incapable of doing anything. It took emergency powers for the Chancellor to get the Republic to authorize having any kind of military whatsoever – and the only one available was the one you ordered. That’s not over-centralization.”

He drummed his fingers on his ‘saber. “And I note that I overheard Nute Gunray insisting on the head of Senator Amidala – literally, in those words – as his price for signing a treaty. But I still haven’t heard an actual answer. What does the Galaxy look like if the Confederacy wins?”

Dooku frowned, and after about three seconds Obi-Wan glanced at the Chancellor.

“Didn’t you discuss this at any point, your excellency?” he asked. “Count Dooku doesn’t seem to have thought about this.”

Palpatine blinked.

“...he’s a Sith Lord,” he repeated. “Shouldn’t you be fighting him?”

“It’s called diplomacy, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan replied, before returning his attention to Dooku. “Grandmaster, are you seriously telling me that you never thought about what you would do if you won?”

Anakin checked his comlink, for the time, then the ship trembled slightly.

“Artoo?” he asked. “Can you tell those ships outside to stop shooting at us and give us a wide berth? This could take hours and I don’t want to find out if my name’s literal.”

“Hours?” Palpatine repeated.

“He’s rolling,” Anakin replied, rolling his eyes. “Like I say, I’m used to this.”

He rummaged in a pocket of his robes, taking out a miniature toolkit, and began disassembling his lightsaber. “I’m pretty sure I can retune these crystals to give two stable configurations which it’ll snap between, that should give me a length toggle instead of a single adjustable length…”

“Are you taking your lightsaber apart?” Palpatine hissed. “What if you need to fight?”

“It’s okay, Chancellor, I’ll get about five minutes’ warning if the negotiations are going downhill,” Anakin replied. “That should be time to put it back together again…”

Palpatine looked up to Obi-Wan, who – sure enough – was still going.

“...of course, a separate but related issue is what it’s going to be like afterwards,” Obi-Wan said. “In principle the Republic and the Jedi Order could probably accept the existence of Sith so long as we actually knew who they were and they weren’t trying to destroy us. It’s the fact that the first Sith we met in a thousand years tried to run Anakin over and cut Qui-Gon’s head off as an opening move that’s soured us towards them a bit… but are you really going to be content as someone whose whole job is to die for Sidious?”

Dooku stared at Obi-Wan, baffled, then glanced at Palpatine and Anakin.

“What do you mean?” he asked, forcing his gaze back to Obi-Wan.

“Sidious is your Master, we know that much,” Obi-Wan replied. “Partly because you told me yourself. But has he ever put himself in danger? Or has it all been you dealing with Jedi like myself and my apprentice? Putting yourself out there, in danger, while you do exactly what he says?”

He smiled slightly. “A Jedi would accept that, but you’re a Sith – you’ve said so yourself. Sith are self-interested. What do you think your new master is getting out of the situation? Because if you don’t know, it’s got to be something and it’s probably something he doesn’t want to tell you.”

“My master is quite willing to put himself in danger,” Dooku said, then clamped his lips shut at a frantic mouthed shut up from Palpatine.

“Real or feigned?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do you think he wouldn’t manipulate you? He’s been doing it to everyone else – you’ve said it.”

Dooku’s brow furrowed.

“But we’re getting off topic,” Obi-Wan said, turning to look at Palpatine. “Chancellor, what about this as a starting point? Your emergency powers were granted to resolve the crisis, and I’m sure you want to abandon them as soon as possible… so why not take away the whole reason why the individual systems in the Confederacy had problems with the Republic to begin with? Freely allow the departure of any system which wishes to do so, under the emergency powers legislation; enact a progressive tax, one which hits the Core worlds harder owing to their greater ability to pay, to sustain a carrier based navy able to hunt pirates more effectively than conduct occupations or orbital bombardment, and have the navy established on a sector-federal two-level model?”

Palpatine stared at Obi-Wan for at least ten seconds.

“...he’s a Sith Lord,” he said, yet again.

“Oh, shut up,” Dooku replied. “You’re a Sith Lord and I don’t see you doing anything constructive.”

Obi-Wan glanced at Palpatine.

“...you know,” he began. “I’m quite sure you’d need to note that on your financial disclosure forms, your Excellency.”

He turned sideways, so he could see both Dooku and Palpatine at the same time. “What was the point of this whole abduction, anyway?”

“As it happens, I was supposed to kill you,” Dooku said. “It’s the only way to turn Anakin to the Dark Side, if you’re out of the way.”

“Huh?” Anakin asked. “Is something up? I’ve almost got the crystals realigned.”

“This plan looked a lot better this morning,” Palpatine muttered.

[tofixtheshadows]

You guys really need to stop and consider the ways you're talking about Kabru I am dead fucking serious. Like I know that flattening characters is just what fandom does to a certain extent, but Kabru's actual personality is getting lost to the fandom hivemind insisting that he's aggressive/cruel/sociopathic/hateful, and these are particularly concerning takes to see leveled at the only brown character in the main cast day after day. "My poor sweet golden child Laios needs to be protected from this scary brown man" is not a good look! Like, it's very telling that the bulk of the hate and bad faith readings are reserved for Toshiro and Kabru. Everyone else's flaws get to be discussed and validated and forgiven (or erased), meanwhile people are straight making up things to be mad about with Toshiro and Kabru but patting themselves on the back for being smart.

The worst part is how undeserved it all is. I'm trying to lay off anime-onlys because we're still kind of in the red herring stage of getting to know Kabru, but I would still like to gently suggest that even if you think Kabru is up to something, you don't gave to get in the tags of every fan creator's post and bring up how you hate him or You Can Tell he's totally evil. Sometimes I think Kabru's blue eyes give people license to say things about his appearance that they know would sound completely racist otherwise, but referring to his blue eyes acts as a get-out-of-racism free card. The jokes about the dog with brown contacts are getting old, by the way.

For people who have read the manga, it's disappointing. Kabru is one of the most complex and important characters in the story, and if you base your interpretation of him and all your fandom interactions on shallow first impressions you are completely missing out.

I know part of this is because Dungeon Meshi is a comedy, but the story also wants to be taken seriously. For example, it's admittedly really funny when Chilchuck calls Laios "sick in the head", but that doesn't change the fact that the way Chilchuck casually belittles Laios caused him to hide the fact that he was "hallucinating" from his friends for weeks. Those feelings matter.

Like, this

is funny.

But this?

Is not. This is just a very clear example of a brown boy with PTSD. As someone else with PTSD, just looking at this fucking sucks, man.

The only reason why Kabru thinks about killing Laios is because he is in the middle of a flashback. He's struggling through a panic attack. If he truly wanted to kill Laios because he's violent or because he finds Laios inherently annoying, he wouldn't otherwise talk with Laios normally. Notice how he doesn't act this way at any other point in the story- it's just because he's triggered by monsters. Even when he's thinking about his plans to "deal with" Laios later, he's reluctant to actually kill him and only considers it to prevent another tragedy. Despite his deadly skills, Kabru relies far more on "soft" power- insight, persuasion, diplomacy. He's a rare example of a character who absolutely is, or at least can be, manipulative, but seems to use his abilities for good. He's not a pathological liar, he isn't looking down on everyone behind a smile. He's someone who is extremely emotionally intelligent, and he's willing to put aside all his own basic wants and needs to stop the cycle of dungeons devouring humans.

I'm going to cut a potential thesis on his character short and just give some examples of things that fandom should consider about his personality more:

Racism in fandom isn't just about whitewashing in fan art, or using racial slurs. The insidiousness of bad faith readings, reductions to racist tropes, lack of fan content for characters of color, and dismissal of a character's complexity are far more common. You can believe yourself to be completely neutral or even positive about a character and still churn out low-grade bile about them into fandom's collective unconscious. Fandom reflects real life.

And I have been around fandom long enough to see how these behaviors (mostly from my fellow white fans) affect fans of color, how it makes a fandom feel hostile and unwelcome to them. It's fun to make jokes and memes, I'm absolutely not saying that everything needs to be a deeply nuanced take, but we need to be careful that it doesn't veer into toxicity. Please think about how our contributions to fandom come across, and what sort of vibes they cultivate in this communal space.

[shinraelectricpowercom]

So someone in the notes pointed out that it's a little? weird? for Idril to be a participant in the "asking Turgon not to execute Eöl" thing, and I agree that JRRT's rationale for it was probably just more of his "women as tempering influences and Kind, Merciful People" thing which, blah, boring.

That said! I do think there are some potential reasons for both Idril & Aredhel to be against the execution that actually reflect on or contribute to their characterization beyond "womanly and kind".

Aredhel: it's possible she still loves Eöl in some way and wants him not to die, period; it's possible she hates his guts & wants him punished, but not dead, because she doesn't think killing people is a good solution to problems (anymore); it's possible she wants him dead but doesn't want Maeglin to see his father die; it's possible she wants him dead but doesn't want Turgon to do it, because she wants to do it her damn self, or something else; it's also possible she's thinking about the politics.

Idril: as @foiazoli noted, it's possible she just wants Turgon to not kill someone, whether that's for Turgon's sake or anyone else's. She also is presumably aware of Aredhel's past disagreements with Turgon re: Aredhel leaving Gondolin, where Turgon basically went "I'm the King, you have to listen to me" and Aredhel had to set down an ultimatum to be allowed her own desires, and has decided that she's going to support Aredhel because if Turgon won't listen to his sister, maybe he'll listen to his sister and daughter. And then the politics.

[The Politics hidden under cut bc I love talking about politics & it got. long.]

THE POLITICS: In the relatively precarious situation of Beleriandic International Relations, Turgon executing Eöl is possibly VERY RISKY. Depending on your read of the text, it's possible that the only actual crime Eöl has committed at the point where Turgon says "I'm gonna kill him" and Aredhel says "do not kill him" is "attempted murder". I know Gondolin's entire thing was "planning to stay isolated forever", but to anyone who didn't think that would work out for the actual rest of time (eg, Idril), "the King of the Noldor's second son executed a visiting Sinda for injuring his sister" is potentially disastrous for the Noldor (& especially Fingolfin's followers) in terms of their credibility with other groups if it becomes widely known.

Even in the reading where Eöl did abduct & rape Aredhel, there's questions of process & authority: Eöl, who the Quenta makes very clear is a subject of Thingol, has committed a crime against Aredhel, a Princess of the Noldor; whose law do they follow? They're in Gondolin, where Turgon is King and makes/enforces the laws, but he's legally subordinate to Fingolfin; what do Fingolfin's laws say about this sort of situation? The crime was committed in Nan Elmoth, and Eöl explicitly rejects Turgon's (and Fingolfin's) legal authority over him, so should he be punished by Doriath's laws? Is Thingol in any way culpable for his subject's misbehavior? Should he be consulted about the punishment?

All of these questions are rendered moot in practice by Gondolin's isolationism of course, but that doesn't mean they wouldn't rapidly become VERY VERY RELEVANT if that isolationism ever ended and word of Eöl's summary execution got out, and Thingol was still a major player on the political field; which you would expect him to continue to be, as it's only the intervention of Literal Fate (in the form of Beren-meeting-Luthien) that leads to Thingol's death. So I personally would rather play it safe & cautious wrt Not Pissing Thingol Off if I were a politically-minded Fingolfinian in Beleriand.

I don’t even think it’s textually supported that Aredhel would have been happy with Turgon executing Eöl. If anything, the textual evidence we do have is that “Aredhel and Idril moved [Turgon] to mercy”, which is presumably to say they convinced Turgon not to decide to execute Eöl BEFORE Aredhel died, which means that at that point, even after he tried to kill their son, Aredhel still doesn’t want Eöl dead. (Or at least doesn’t want him executed.)

And then she dies, and Turgon immediately executes Eöl.

[loveemagicpeace]

Saturn lord of karma

Saturn is considered the most powerful planet in astrology and also the planet that is the most difficult to know. For many years, they believed that Saturn was bad, but the negative turned out to be one of the better planets. All other planets lose energy, which is especially true for the planet Mars.

Saturn in Taurus- excessive exaggerations towards materialism. The cause is a strong conscious or unconscious fear of losing property, visits or possessions. People with this position feel that they are not important without money. They may have a fear of poverty. Because by having money, they can enjoy things and have the feeling that they cannot do without material things. They see life as real, serious, uncompromising. They are hardworking and always save money. They are persistent, motivated and want to be successful.

Saturn in Virgo- these people are hard-working, diligent, focused on everyday activities. They work a lot on their health and body. Many times, however, they can be subjected to excessive strain due to their health. These people are perfectionists, precise, thoughtful and very good at what they do. They are very good analysts. Accepting responsibility can be hindered by a lack of faith in one's own abilities, suspicion and fear that they will not satisfy society.

Saturn in Capricorn- here Capricorn is at home and in a comfortable position. He knows how to organize perfectly, he is reliable, solid, responsible. He can be a great leader. An individual with this position wants to be an example to other people, because he wants to be socially and socially important, because he has a desire for power and control. He has very high life goals, he wants to be a successful and respected member of the social community. He has important insights early in his life, but he learns the most from his own experiences.

Saturn in Gemini-the ambitions of these people are related to learning, studying, teaching, acquiring specific knowledge. These people are interested in many things and can also be people who start something but don't finish it because they can't decide what it is that really attracts them. However, the individual may have a tendency to control and overthink each person. It can also be a source of strict upbringing (that he must not say what he thinks). A career can be related to journalism, public speaking, literature.

Saturn in Libra- the area of relationships has the greatest influence on the development of these people. A source of acquaintance, diplomacy, understanding, love and business relationships. But this is the most difficult and the biggest challenge for them. People want to highlight justice, seriousness, affection, kindness, patience. They may feel a great responsibility towards partner relationships. Therefore, they always approach them very seriously. However, they may be hindered by the fear of losing their partner relationship. Many times they have high criteria when it comes to love. The profession of the field is usually related to fashion, science, art, politics.

Saturn in Aquarius- symbolizes solidity, thoughtfulness, progress of ideas, innovativeness. These people can achieve a lot by inventing something. But there are usually people who don't like to follow the rules and do exactly the opposite of what they should. It can cause melancholy, dissatisfaction. Lanka limit freedom of thought. Many times these people want to do things their way. He perceives the world as a place where every person should have the same opportunities for development and social establishment, or professional success. This position is characterized by a scientific-systematic thinking approach, which through experiences achieves a high level of internal crystallization and ingenious mutual logical connection. Such a situation leads to loneliness and problems in partnerships and relationships, because the life principles of these people are very unusual, but at the same time advanced and hard to understand by contemporaries. It also indicates extraordinary creative restlessness, nervousness, unpredictability and a tendency to make radical changes. Due to strict upbringing and limitations in childhood, they later try to make up for it with an exaggerated tendency towards freedom, independence and detachment.

Saturn in 2nd house-This position indicates great insecurity, which is associated with a lack of self-confidence and self-worth. The very slow development of the value and value system is characteristic. There is a probability that the individual's upbringing in his youth was associated with poverty, deprivation, misery or even hunger. So now you are working on getting all the needs. A person can identify himself with money, material goods, or with his wealth, this becomes his only way of asserting himself in the social environment. When a person realizes that money is not everything and begins to change his lifestyle, he sees things differently.

Saturn in 3rd house-The third house tells something about the way of thinking, intellect, basic education, ability to communicate, about gathering information, movement over short distances, means of transport, brothers and sisters and about conditions in the immediate environment. Saturn in the 3rd house creates order, discipline, strictness, responsibility and orientation towards a specific type of self and information. Checks if the information is correct. If a child is exposed to too strict control of information, he may have problems with expression and vocabulary. He can be the target of criticism and constant monitoring of what and how he speaks, thereby exerting psychological pressure on the child. Later in life, the individual has difficulty developing an authentic exchange of information, speaks quietly or reservedly, or is ashamed of what he said. Usually, individuals with this position are very intelligent, have good concentration and great depth of thought. A child with this Saturn position is very diligent and a good student in elementary school. You can be stubborn and value the knowledge that was gained based on experience and practical observations the most. It may happen that one of the brothers or sisters "plays the role of Saturn". This means that, as an older child, he puts himself in the role of a guardian or an authority that must be listened to and obeyed. You are very careful when you drive vehicles, so there is not a high probability of accidents and accidents, unless Saturn is strongly afflicted.

Saturn in 6th house-Daily habits and tasks (for example, hygiene, cleaning, house order, principles of behavior, etc.) are very precisely determined, as the individual demands absolute order and compliance with the established rules. They may be inclined to find themselves in a very demanding job, where there are high standards and requirements that must be met unconditionally. Service is sometimes such a burden with this position of Saturn, that the individual can bear it with difficulty. Work conditions can be made more difficult by a colleague, which has an extremely burdensome effect on the individual, reduces his work morale and tries to devalue the individual's work and efforts. The pressures at the workplace are often so heavy that a person is no longer able to perform their work correctly and with high quality. Prav sesta house points to a close psychosomatic connection between work processes and health, which are also cyclical in their essence. In order to maintain health, it is necessary to be allowed to rest, to eat properly and healthily, to be physically active and to be allowed to sleep. A person's health is most burdened when the individual is burdened day in and day out with the problems and disappointments he experiences in life, and at the same time he sleeps poorly, does not feel well, eats improperly and does not exercise enough.

Saturn in 7th house-The position of Saturn here represents lasting love and marriage relationships, what he expects from personal and business partnerships, how he relates to business clients and other people, and to open opponents and lower courts. This position of Saturn is otherwise demanding, as it shows that relationships are the theme of life that will berequired the most effort, effort, patience, tolerance and perseverance. Balancing the relationship with such a partner is a difficult task, because she strictly insists on her views and principles, which means that it is difficult to expect any changes. Says even to such a choice of a partner who will first test you, isolate you, then reject you and ultimately disappoint you. The question arises how to mitigate or even prevent this. The answer lies within search, contemplation, tolerance, humor and in-depth communication between partners. An individual may choose a partner much older than himself because he is experienced, stable, reliable and financially secure, but he is dissatisfied with him because of inflexibility, old-fashionedness and ageism and other limitations bring a lot of problems into the relationship. You can also be afraid of living alone, but at the same time you are afraid of problems in a partnership.

Saturn in 10th house-The tenth house tells something about career choice, business success and professional reputation, relationship with the public and relationship with parents. The top of the tenth house (MC) indicates concretely expected achievements in life and the realization of the individual's public ambitions. Saturn is extremely well placed in the tenth house, which is why its position is also solid and strong. The individual is fully ready to take responsibility for social achievements, show himself as an honorable person, fulfill his ambitions and become a real authority. Success is the ultimate goal, no matter how difficult the path to it is. Relationship with parents and upbringing are very important in this position, because the more visible of the parents requires discipline, order, rigor and systematicity. It is interesting that the ambitions we feel later in life are proportional to the pressure on the child's identity in the early life period.

Saturn in 11th house-this house tells something about relationships with friends, about group activities, hopes, wishes and expectations in life, about large organizations and events over which the individual has no influence. It is typical for Saturn here that the individual shows his superiority and isolation within the group and behaves like a "lone wolf". He has problems if he wants to establish occasional friendly contacts, because he acts strict, aloof and defensive. People who have been presented to him as "acceptable", i.e. those whom he meets through family, business, religion or interests, rarely receive him warmly, so he feels unaccepted in this social structure. An individual with Saturn in the eleventh house is painfully aware that he is not welcome anywhere, but at the same time he is overwhelmed by a deep feeling of loneliness and detachment.

🎸For personal readings u can sign up here: https://snipfeed.co/bekylibra 🎸

-Rebekah🌙🍍🎸

[anneapocalypse]

I'll be interested to see what further developments happen in the patches with Alexandria, but so far I think Wuk Lamat is handling the situation very delicately, and very smartly.

Alexandria is, undeniably, an invading force in Xak Tural. It's a foreign nation that has moved onto Turali land and claimed that land and its people under its own sovereignty, with the intent to harvest a resource from it at the direct expense of its people. This is, obviously, wrong, and needs an answer.

Wuk Lamat as the Vow of Resolve has, with the help of her allies, already achieved something pretty significant and challenging here: she has defeated the invading government (Sphene and Zoraal Ja) without directly declaring war on Alexandria's people (most of whom probably had little to no say in the invasion). Her diplomacy during her initial introduction to Alexandria has probably gone a long way here; she has not given the people any more reason than absolutely necessary to believe she is a threat to them.

Declaring the very young Gulool Ja Alexandria's new king feels undeniably weird in more ways than one, but I think that politically it's probably the smartest thing Wuk Lamat could have done.

Her goal, as it's always been, is to maintain peace for her people. A good number of her people are now directly entangled with Alexandria. A rebellion against Tuliyollal rule by the Alexandrians is a direct threat to her people, particularly the ones living in Heritage Found. Even with Sphene gone, Alexandria is still possessed of substantial military power and weapons technology that could conceivably be commandeered either by existing military personnel (because even an army of robots requires some level of manpower to maintain) or by a civilian militia were one to arise. Bottom line: even with the head cut off, Alexandria still poses a threat to the safety and sovereignty of Tuliyollal. And even if the Dawnservants could be reasonably certain their own forces could overpower the Alexandrians--which they conceivably could based on sheer numbers--there would still be a bunch of their own people caught in the crossfire.

Furthermore, the defeat of Sphene and the shutting down of Living Memory means that the end of regulators and spare souls is coming. (The new raid series suggests too that the Warrior of Light may have a hand in ending the use of souls.) This is going to be highly disruptive to the Alexandrian way of life, and probably really fucking scary to a people who have become reliant on this technology. There are bound to be objections. While it's unclear to me at this time how many people knew what Sphene was actually doing, it's not inconceivable that more could find out, and that someone might seek to put her plans in motion once again in order to preserve the soul economy.

This is, in short, a pretty precarious situation politically, and a lesser Dawnservant would already be looking at a city teetering on the edge of revolt.

So, how do we convince the Alexandrians we aren't a threat to them in the short term, while we figure out how we're going to handle this in the long term?

Well, a good first step is probably to give them their king. Alexandria is, at least in name, a monarchy. By the rules of that system, Gulool Ja is a rightful heir to the throne. By allowing him to claim that birthright, you make a show of respecting Alexandrian "sovereignty." You also declare him family--he's your nephew, after all. Now you have a familial connection, the stuff of which royal alliances are made. And of course, the new king is just a child. He's going to need advisors, a regent, and a lot of guidance. You can have a hand in that.

Sure, the Alexandrians are going to notice your influence over their ruler and might still have feelings about that. It's not a perfect solution. But by the same token, snatching their one living heir away from them and openly declaring them under your rule now is probably going to go over a lot worse.

Like I think the game kind of downplays this being a calculated choice, especially since Wuk Lamat doesn't come across as a calculating person. But if we were to observe this scenario in any other fantasy setting... that's how you install a puppet king. I don't especially like to use that term in this case, because I think Wuk Lamat genuinely cares about her nephew and isn't simply using him to maintain power. Nonetheless, it is an undeniably political move, and one that benefits Tuliyollal.

It's likely the Alexandrian people are here to stay--thanks to the dimensional compression, they're in the unique situation where the land they live on is both theirs and not theirs, and that is a problem, but forced relocation also isn't a great solution.

Judging by Wuk Lamat's goals, ethos and the example of her father, I think her hope is probably to bring Alexandria under the banner of Tuliyollal without having to shed blood for it, not least the blood of her own people who would be caught in the crossfire. She understands now that sometimes there's no more room for diplomacy and you have to fight your enemies head on, but if there's a chance she can do this peacefully, through diplomacy, then she's going to try, because that's who she is. She also probably understands that most Alexandrians had no choice in this, and a show of good faith might go a long way toward earning their trust as they adapt to the loss of their queen and the changes that will inevitably follow.

It's a bad situation without a doubt, and one that's already been very destructive to the people of Xak Tural. Gulool Ja Ja sought to unite rather than to conquer. I think Wuk Lamat's hope is to do the same, for the practical purpose of limiting further damage as much as possible.

[hrizantemy]

I couldn’t help but cry when Feyre arrived at the Summer Court with Rhysand, and he declared, “She’s High Lady, she can do whatever she wishes.” I mean, yes, Feyre is the High Lady, but she’s the High Lady of the Night Court, and here they are in the Summer Court. The weight of his words, while meant to be empowering, just felt a bit misplaced in that context. And then, Feyre had her moment where she tried to be all girlboss, saying something like, “Take care of your injured.” I wanted to scream, “Shut the hell up!” It felt so out of place, like she was trying too hard to command the room without really understanding the situation.

It was infuriating to think about how Feyre and Rhysand walked into the Summer Court, a court they had literally stolen from, acting as if nothing had happened. The tension was palpable. They’d taken the Book of Breathings right from under Tarquin’s nose, deceiving him in the process, and now they had the audacity to stroll in, expecting him to be okay with it all.

What made it worse was how they completely disregarded anything Tarquin said. He wasn’t just some stranger or enemy; he had once welcomed them as allies, offered them friendship, and they betrayed that trust. And yet, here they were, acting like they were above it all. Rhysand’s casual dismissal of Tarquin’s frustration—like his words didn’t matter, like their betrayal could just be swept under the rug—was a blatant show of arrogance. It was as if they expected him to forget everything, to simply move on, because they were the Night Court and they believed their agenda was more important than anyone else’s.

Even Feyre, with her attempts at diplomacy, came off as condescending. They both acted like they could just walk in, ignore the hurt they caused, and play their power games. It was a slap in the face to everything the Summer Court had stood for. Tarquin had every right to be furious.

[opencommunion]

"The United States takes no issue with Israel’s publicly articulated plans. It has stopped advocating for a ceasefire in Lebanon, instead seeing an opportunity for Hezbollah’s power to be diminished and defeated. It has begun maneuvering to push for an election of a new Lebanese president while Hezbollah’s attention is allegedly weakened and turned elsewhere, with U.S. envoy Amos Hochstein slipping up when speaking to the Lebanese TV station LBC, saying: 'Until we select — once Lebanon selects a president.' When Lebanon’s parliamentary speaker asked a U.N. coordinator how in this scenario Hezbollah MPs would even be protected, considering Israel has launched assassination strikes against Hezbollah political officials inside Beirut, the coordinator simply replied, 'No one can guarantee that this will not happen.'

The United States is spinning up a fantasy vision of Lebanon, at once communicating with the Lebanese prime minister and other officials and engaging in diplomacy with them, while at the same time, the State Department speaks of a future Lebanon where Lebanese people 'can choose their own representatives' — mirroring George W. Bush’s language about Iraq under Saddam Hussein. Lebanese people can choose their own representatives, but there’s no evidence the kinds of representatives the majority of Lebanese want are the ones that would meet the approval of Israel and the United States.

While the U.S. concocts this fantasy, the Israeli state and its military are acting in accordance with the understanding that the Lebanese cannot be trusted with democracy, and thus must be expelled from southern Lebanon entirely. When Hagari spoke from south Lebanon, he said that every house in the village he was in was part of Hezbollah’s infrastructure. Video has already emerged of Israeli troops destroying an entire Lebanese village in one swoop with planted explosives. What the U.S. and Israel may soon come to advocate, once the reality can no longer be ignored, is the kind of Lebanese state that former Israeli Defense Minister Moshe Dayan once foresaw: one where the south is under Israeli control, and in the seat of power in Beirut, an installed leader who will want nothing more than to give Israel everything it wants."

[el121a]

Being Elijah's Wife would include

Your flirtatious and magnetic confidence lingered in the memories of those you met, making you a topic of conversation long after the event had ended.

1 word to describe you would be genuine.

Elijah would never tell you, but even though it was too dangerous for a human to accompany him, he believed you made him look better and enjoyed having you around.

You are Elijah's pride.

Being Marcel's friend, you navigated the supernatural world with grace and charm.

Even when you're mad at Elijah, you can't help but believe in him. "Elijah has re-constructed diplomacy to bitchy insults and it still works, so… Yeah, I think he’s got this."

You may have not been a vampire, but you knew how to take care of one.

You were warm and approachable but commanding, a perfect balance that captivated those around you.

You and Elijah would work out together, finding entertainment in witnessing what a vampire could do.

Being the closest to Kol and Davina, you bridged the gap between the Mikaelsons and their extended family.

Being a mother figure to Kol, and of course Davina now that they're married.

You're just as much of a fashionista as he is, You wore only the finest. Picky is an understatement . No zippers,glitter, or anything that looked cheap to you.

Elijah was possessive of you since you were his greatest treasure.

Having children with Elijah after a thousand years of not being able to reproduce was a blessing and a testament to your unique bond.

You didn't care to insult anyone like your husband did, but your sharp wit was a force to be reckoned with.

Elijah is a sex god in your eyes- or anyone's of reason, and you're not shy about expressing it to his praise kink.

Elijah is busy, but you take on some of his responsibilities willingly, understanding the weight of his duties.

At first, he was afraid to ask for sex, but that notion quickly faded as he realized your desires matched his.

Elijah always buys you flowers on your monthly dates, a tradition that never fails to make you feel cherished.

He married the most gorgeous person in the world — you! And he tells you it's his biggest feat, a sentiment that never fails to bring a smile to your face.

You and Elijah share great laughs, finding joy in the simplicity of each other's company.

You teased him for losing his Viking demeanor to a suit during sex, and he's gotten less snobby trying to prove himself to you. Everyone has noticed, but no one will ever know why.

You both walk around the quarter at night, immersing yourselves in the timeless charm of New Orleans.

He's comfortable being a vampire around you.

You both read and write together, creating a world where words are your shared language.

After your showers, he braids your hair into Viking braids for the night or the rest of the day, a small intimate ritual.

And you braid his, a gesture that signifies the intertwining of your lives.

You guys cook together. Taking your time and talking about your day or upcoming day with him. The most relaxing part of your day as his Wife.

You knew him since you were a teen, so you feel like you know him in and out.

He's mostly submissive, except in bed. He tries to be, but he just can't keep his hands off you.

You didn't drink vervain because you felt that to be an insult to your husband, trusting him completely. You were an amazingly powerful sorcerer though.

Elijah fell inlove with you becasue of your love of Ideas, always having critiques, theories and your philosophical rants encouraging him to talk. How you listened to him like no other.

You created another type of magic for vampires in your studies of the supernatural because the human sacrifices weren't cutting it for you — pun intended.

When you first came back into his life, he was scared to love you because you were all he owned. Nothing Klaus had. By loving you, you taught him how to love himself. Congrats to you.

He has a secret breeding kink, One that you take advantage of. Along with his sir, Mr, and teaching kink. Nothing too wild, He's more of a romantic.

He grew a stubble for you when you told him you thought it made him look more like a DILF, embracing his role of a father.

Elijah doesn't want you on the tip of your toes to kiss him, so he lifts you effortlessly, creating a height equality you both relish.

He's your best friend, and he can say the same about you — a companionship that transcends time and immortality.

[memories-of-ancients]

Petronius Maximus --- The dipshit Roman emperor who caused the sack of Rome because he was an arrogant dipshit.

Petronius Maximus was a wealthy Roman politician born in 397 AD to old Roman money. Like many wealthy Romans he went into politics and throughout the early 5th century climbed the ranks of Roman government until he became one of the most powerful men in the Western Roman Empire. He was crafty and he was ambitious. He was also a dipshit and an asshole.

By the 450's P. Maximus had a clear plan, to create a power vacuum in Rome that he could cunningly fill. He began by turning the emperor at the time, Valentinian III, against his magister militum Flavius Aetius. As magister militum Aetius was commander of the Roman Army, and had proven himself a master tactician and brilliant diplomat. Through military victories and diplomacy Aetius was barely holding a crumbling empire together. Maximus convinced Valentinian III that Aetius was looking to usurp his throne. Thus in 454 Valentinian summoned Aetius to his palace and personally murdered him with his sword. Maximus had organized the death of the most talented Roman official in the empire, which in the grand scheme of things was probably a big mistake. With Aetius dead, Maximus expected he would take Aetius' place as magister militum. However Valentinian refused to appoint him as magister militum. Thus in 455 AD, Maximus had him assassinated, hiring two of Aetius' bodyguards to do the deed as revenge.

Several powerful Romans claimed the Imperial throne but Maximus managed to beat them all to the punch by taking over the Imperial Palace and immediately marrying Valentinian's widow, Licinia Eudoxia. Licinia didn't know Maximus had murdered her husband at the time but had suspicions. He also forced her daughters, Placidia and Eudocia to marry his sons. Through deceit and murder Maximus had managed to weasel his way into the Roman Imperial family and was now creating his own Imperial dynasty. Thus Petronius Maximus had become Emperor Dipshit, ruler of the shiny turd of what was left of the Western Roman Empire.

Problem was, when Emperor Dipshit married off Placidia and Eudocia to his sons, he canceled Eudocia's arranged marriage to Hunneric, who was the son of Geiseric, king of the Vandals. The Vandals were a Germanic tribe that had set up a prosperous kingdom in the former Roman province of North Africa, and were constantly raiding the Italian coast. Valentinian had arranged the marriage of Eudocia as a peace offering to Geiseric. Geiseric had received a letter from Eudoxia informing him that Maximus had killed her husband and was canceling the marriage of Eudocia. Geiseric was enraged at Empror Dipshit for canceling the marriage, and sent a Vandal fleet and army to Rome in response. "No problem" said Emperor Dipshit, "we got the Roman Army".

Except there was no Roman Army. Not really. After the death of Aetius the remains of the standing full time professional army had collapsed almost completely. Even Aetius was very dependent on mercenaries and allies. Nobody wanted to enlist in the Roman Army in the 5th century, with Romans going so far as to cut off their own fingers to avoid conscription. The Roman economy was a mess, the Imperial bureaucracy was riddled with corruption, the life of the average Roman was miserable, and by the 5th century most Roman emperors were snobbish, over-privileged, incompetent out of touch dipshits. The empire was dying and everybody knew it. Few believed it was worth saving, and nobody wanted to die for a dipshit emperor such as Emperor Dipshit. By 455 AD what was left of the Roman Army consisted of militia units called "limitanei" who acted as border patrolmen far away from Rome. For more complex military operations the Romans were fully dependent on mercenaries and allies. Emperor Dipshit attempted to enlist the help of the Visigoths, but they were like, "LMFAO nooo, you made your bed now lie in it!" I speculate they knew Maximus was a dipshit who was probably gonna get them all killed.

Emperor Dipshit knew it was a hopeless situation, so he made an announcement to the Roman people to flee and save themselves, then he too turned tail and fled. He was spotted by a large group of Roman refugees, who formed a mob and beat him to death. Good riddance. Emperor Dipshit's glorious reign lasted 77 days.

As far as sackings go the sack of Rome in 455 AD wasn't too bad. The Vandals were Christians, so the Pope was able to convince them not to do the more horrible things like rape and murder civilians, or burn down the city. So for the most part the Vandals refrained from bloodshed and arson. However they did take as many Romans into slavery as they could fit on their ships, and they also looted the city of almost everything of value. Even the bronze tiles on the roof of the Temple of Jupiter were pried off and carted away. Also Geiseric carted off Eudocia and married her off to his son Huneric.

The Vandal's sack of Rome in 455 is where we get the term "vandalism" today. Also did I mention that Petronius Maximus was a dipshit?

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

ACOTAR Dads & Uncles

Here are some head canons about our favorite ACOTAR males and how they handle little ones, whether that be their own children, or the children of those they know.

Included are Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, Eris, Lucien, Tamlin & Tarquin.

Rhysand

Everyone knows that Rhysand is the ultimate protector of his family, but fatherhood took that instinct and turned it up to an eleven

The day Nyx came into the world, Rhys became a male on a mission.

The house was a maze of enchanted barriers and warding spells. Feyre thought he was going overboard when he covered every sharp edge in thick padding and rearranged all the furniture to create wide, baby-safe paths.

When he started eyeing Cassian and Azriel's wings with a calculating look, mumbling about how "a bit of padding couldn't hurt--just on the tips," Feyre had to draw a hard line.

Anyone who stepped foot near Nyx's nursery was met with Rhys's outstretched hand and a pointed look toward the nearest washbasin.

He's wait until he heard the water run twice before letting them get close. Rhys didn't care if it was Amren or his own mother reincarnated--no one got a pass.

He would hovers nearby, just out of sight, listening for every coo, every tiny sound his son made.

When Nyx got his first sniffle, Rhys had been inconsolable, pacing back and forth with Nyx bundled in his arms.

"I should have been more careful!" He would murmur.

Feyre had to wrap both of them in her arms and assure him that babes catch colds. It's natural.

He only half believed her, but when Nyx finally felt better, he promised himself it wouldn't happen again.

The first time Nyx fell and scraped his knee while crawling, Rhys was at his side, his power flaring in the room as if there had been a coordinated attack.

He picked up Nyx and cradled him, brushing his fingers through his soft hair, whispering soothing words as his own eyes grew wet.

Feyre had told him it was just a scratch, hiding her smile behind her hand as she watched her mate try and fail to keep from crying harder than the babe.

"But it's his first scratch," he had insisted.

Oh the bragging.

Even before Nyx could babble, Rhysand was already speaking of his son like he was a prodigy.

At meetings of the High Lords, it was an unspoken rule that the first thirty minutes of each meeting would be dedicated to hearing all about Nyx's latest accomplishments.

Rhys would lean back in his chair, a proud smile on his face, recounting every new expression and sound his son had made.

If he could, he would even bring Nyx along - wrapped tightly against his chest - he would stride into the meeting, practically glowing.

"It's never to early to learn diplomacy," he would joke. It was particularly hard to take him seriously in meetings where they were discussing battle strategies when Rhys spent most of the time staring down at Nyx or Nyx screeched over someone else.

Around others, Rhysand remained the poised, elegant High Lord of the Night Court. But alone with his son, he became an entirely different male.

His voice rises to a singsong, soft and silly, wiggling his fingers, making the most ridiculous faces and blowing raspberries onto any exposed skin.

"Who's the best little High Lord-in-training?" he relentlessly coos.

Cassian

The first time Cassian holds Nyx, he's terrified.

He cradles the newborn like he's handling glass, his massive hands trembling slightly as he looks to Rhys and Feyre for reassurance.

"Am I doing this right? Is he breathing okay?" he asks in a panic.

Feyre would gently guide his arms until Nyx was nestled comfortably.

Cassian's relief to not have to hold the baby anymore was almost laughable -but there is so much awe in his eyes as he looks down at the tiny bundle, it almost breaks your heart.

It's a side of him that no one has seen before.

For weeks, he's too afraid to hold Nyx for more than a few minutes at a time.

After a while, however, he finds his confidence, and it becomes his personal mission to never hold a baby "appropriately" again.

He'll tuck Nyx under one arm like a football and stride around, much to Rhys's horror. Or, once Nyx gets older, he'll balance him on a broad shoulder, walking in circles around the House of Wind while Nyx squeals in delight.

"What? He likes it!" Cassian protests when Nesta scolds him.

When he finally has his own baby, he doubles down on the unorthodox holding techniques. He becomes known for carrying his own daughter (once she's old enough) upside down.

He also prefers to carry his baby in his shirt, with their small face peaking out over the collar.

Cassian's biggest goal, whether with Nyx or his own children, is to be the funniest fae in their life.

He makes the most ridiculous faces, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, and puffing out his cheeks until babes are shrieking with laughter.

He invents silly games like "flying lessons" where he gently swoops them around the room, or folding his wings in tightly and trying to get little ones to get him to open them.

Whenever he's babysitting Nyx, he's caught by Feyre or Rhys mid-performance, singing made-up songs that sound more like battle chants about changing diapers or finding lost pacifiers.

Both Nyx and Cassian's own babies quickly discover that he's basically a living furnace, and it doesn't take long for them to decide that he is the perfect nap spot.

He'll settle onto the couch or stretch out in front of the hearth, babe sprawled on his chest, their tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

He'll stay like that for hours, a hand resting on their back, refusing to move when his legs cramp.

"It's fine," he'll say, whispering. "I'm not going anywhere."

He loves feeling the gentle rise and fall of their breathing, knowing they feel completely safe.

Cassian has always been fiercely protective, but that instinct only intensifies when he becomes an uncle and later a father.

With Nyx, he’s constantly standing guard, even if it’s just while the little one naps in the living room.

He has a sixth sense for when Nyx is about to cry, swooping in with a toy or a funny face before the tears can start.

When it comes to his own child, he takes things even further. He insists on accompanying them to their first healer’s visit, his arms crossed and wings flaring if the healer so much as makes his baby frown.

“They need to know I’m watching,” he’d mutter to Nesta, who rolls her eyes but secretly finds his intensity endearing.

Cassian might be a tough Illyrian warrior, but he has a major weakness: baby laughter.

The sound of it turns him into a mushy mess, and he will do absolutely anything to hear it.

With Nyx, he’s constantly inventing new ways to coax out those precious giggles, like flapping his wings dramatically or pretending to trip over his own feet in front of the baby.

When he becomes a dad, he finds that he loves making his own child laugh even more.

He’ll crawl around the floor pretending to be a “wild Illyrian beast,” growling playfully as he lets his little one “capture” him.

The louder the laughter, the prouder he feels.

Nesta often finds them in fits of laughter together, Cassian’s face covered in spit-up or drool, but he doesn’t care at all.

He’s always trying to teach the babies to say “Uncle Cass” or “Dad” before anyone else’s name—much to Rhys’s and Nesta’s annoyance.

He’ll hold up their little hands, moving them like they’re giving a fist bump, saying, “Come on, let’s show ‘em who’s coolest!”

He even tries to teach Nyx and his child how to “fly” by holding them in the air, whispering to them about the skies above the Illyrian mountains.

He’s always caught whispering promises into their ears, like, “One day, I’ll teach you to fly for real, little one.”

Azriel

From the moment Nyx is born, Azriel quietly takes on the role as the protector.

While everyone else fusses over the babe, he's lurking nearby.

At first, he's hesitant to hold Nyx, afraid that his scarred hands and shadowy presence might be too much for the delicate skin of the newborn.

Feyre places the baby in his arms one quiet night when it's just the three of them, and Azriel freezes.

Nyx is tiny and warm against his chest, and for a moment Azriel stops breathing.

Nyx looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes, and Azriel's heart softens in a way he never thought possible.

Azriel is the go-to for sleep regression given his own insomnia.

When Nyx wakes up in the middle of the night, it's often Azreil who slips into the nursery, lifting the babe into his arms, rocking him gently and whispering stories in his low, soothing voice.

He tells Nyx tales of faraway lands, hidden valleys, and ancient heroes and his shadows dance across the walls, forming little figures to keep the babe entertained until he goes back to sleep.

When he has his own baby, Azriel falls into the same habit - found sitting by the window, his baby cradled in his arms, gazing out at the night sky as he murmurs about constellations

He likes to think that these quiet nights are their little secret, just him, his baby, and the night.

When Azriel has a babe of his own, he spends hours perfecting new shadow creatures -- tiny wyverns that curl up and "breathe" little plumes of darkness, or shadowy butterflies that flutter around the crib.

Despite his skill with shadows and natural gentleness, Azriel is surprisingly awkward when it comes to certain aspects of fatherhood.

The first time he tries to change a diaper, he stares at it like a puzzle.

He follows Nesta or Feyre's instructions entirely, determined to get it right, but his hands are so careful, so precise, that he's barely halfway done before the babe wriggles out of the diaper.

When he finally manages it, he sighs and smiles down at the babe, "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

As the kids get older, Uncle Azriel takes on the role as the patient teacher.

He takes Nyx and his own children for gentle "flying lessons" which come with a lot less frustration than when Cassian teaches them or guides their small hands to throw punches.

He's incredibly careful, making sure lessons are safe, but also fun, and he can't help the quiet joy he feels when they take to the air for the first time or a little hop when they throw a surprisingly strong punch.

When it comes to bedtime, Azriel is always the one the kids beg for stories from.

His own little ones love curling up in his lap while tells them stories of enchanted forests, magical creatures, and hidden lakes.

They fall asleep him his arms, heads resting on his chest, while Azriel continues on until he's sure they're asleep.

He's the kind of father who watches from the sidelines, keeping a silent eye on their little one for their first steps.

He knows to never tell them to "be careful" to not teach them to fear the world.

He lets them explore and take risks, but the second they fall too hard, he's there, gathering them up into his arms with a quiet, "You're alright, little shadow."

The first time his little one gets a scrap, Azriel's heart nearly stops.

He carefully tends to their bloody knee, his hands steady but face drawn with worry, murmuring reassurances of their bravery.

He carries them home in his arms, wings wrapped protectively around them, as if he could shield them from every dangers in the world.

One of his favorite tricks to get Nyx to laugh is when he touches his nose, Azriel gasps and whispers dramatically, "How did you know my secret weakness?"

Eris

Eris never thought he would be the fatherly type, and when his child is born, he finds himself overwhelmed by a swirl of unfamiliar emotions.

He initially is distance, convinced he's too hardened and sharp-edged for such a delicate little being.

He holds his newborn like they're made of porcelain.

But the moment those tiny fingers curl around his thumb, everything shifts.

He would do anything - burn anything - to keep them safe.

Eris is meticulous when it comes to the comfort of his children.

Their nursery is decorated as perfectly as he can make it, particularly about the soft autumn-hued fabrics draping the crib.

He's the type to pace the halls of the Autumn Manor with the babe bundled in his arms, using his powers of fire to keep them just warm enough, adjusting the temperature until it's perfect.

When he lays them down to sleep, he'll smooth the blankets over them with a gentleness that surprises even him, his precise hands lingering a moment longer to make sure they're truly safe.

Despite his cold demeanor, Eris quickly finds a soft spot for holding his child close.

He's surprisingly good at soothing their cries, rocking back and forth into the early hours of the morning.

He paces pack and and forth in his study, the babe nestled against his chest, his steps slow and even as he murmurs about the ancient trees of the Autumn court.

His child's small breaths against his collarbone are a comfort he never knew he needed, a reminder that not everything in his world has to have a sharp edge.

As his child grows, Eris takes on the role of storyteller, sharing tales of the Autumn Court and its beauty.

He doesn't sugarcoat dangers, but he talks about the world in a way that makes his children's eyes widen with awe rather than fear.

He paints a picture of a world where fire and foliage blend into one, where foxes dart through shadows and ancient magic hums beneath the forest floor.

Eris is determined to pass on a sense of elegance and poise to his child, even if they're only a toddle.

He dresses them in miniature versions of his own tailored coats, rich in autumnal reds and oranges, and delights in showing them off when they toddle through the manor.

He's patient as they stumble through their first steps, guiding tiny hands with pride he doesn't bother to hide.

He teaches them to bow with a flourish that makes him laugh, even if they're far too small to get it right.

"Style is everything, little fox," he'll say with a smile while ruffling their wild hair.

He invents little games, like hide-and-seek among towering stages of books in his study, letting out exaggerated gasps when the "find" him behind a chair.

Sometimes he pretends to be a fox himself, crawling on all fours and playfully nipping at them.

If anyone else saw him like this, he'd immediately retreat into his usual cool demeanor, but with his children's laughter ringing through the halls, he finds himself not caring as much as he used to.

Eris isn't one to gush, but he shows his love through quiet gestures.

He leaves small, enchanted trinkets for his child to find - a tiny firefly made out of flame that hovers around their crib, or a leaf that glows like embers when they touch it.

He'll tuck a blanket tighter around them when they fall asleep in his arms, pressing a barely-there kiss to their forehead before slipping out.

He keeps a close eye on them whenever they play in the gardens, his gaze flicking to them every few minutes, ready to step in if needed.

He doesn't hover - he's far too subtle for that - but his presence is always there.

When courtiers dare make snide remarks about how he has softened as a father or suggest he's too indulgent with his child, he simply smiles, the fire in his eyes saying more than any words could.

"My child will never know the fear that I did," he says quietly to those who push too far.

He would burn entire forests to the ground if it meant keeping his family safe.

Though he never says it, Eris worries constantly about his child's future in the Autumn Court.

He fears one day that they'll see the shadows lurking behind the grandeur, the same shadows that shaped him.

He does everything he can to show them the beauty of the world first.

He takes them on long walks through the autumn woods, carrying them on his shoulders as he points out ancient trees and hidden streams.

He talks of a future where they might one day rule with kindness instead of fear, but it's a dream he keeps close to his chest, only revealing it in those quiet moments when they're alone under the red and gold canopy of leaves.

At the end of each day, Eris is always there to tuck his little ones into bed, not matter how many duties have filled his hours.

He lingers by their bedside, brushing stray hair from their face as he watches their breathing slow.

He’ll conjure a tiny firefly of light that hovers above their bed, casting a gentle glow, and he’ll murmur a quiet blessing in the old language, the words carrying warmth and protection.

He stays until their little fist unclenches from the fabric of his sleeve, and only then does he slip away, leaving the door open just a crack so he can hear their breaths through the night.

Lucien

Lucien never thought he’d be a father, but the day he holds his child for the first time, he feels something crack open inside him—a space he didn’t realize had been waiting to be filled.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he gazes down at the tiny bundle cradled in his arms, a rare hint of vulnerability in his usually confident eyes. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs, and his heart lurches when a tiny hand curls around his finger.

He doesn’t let go for a long time, marveling at how something so small could completely change his world.

Lucien’s favorite way to bond with his child is to take them out into the woods, cradling them close as he wanders through the sun-dappled forest paths.

He points out every little detail, from the way the leaves shift in the breeze to the shape of animal tracks on the ground.

As they get older, he’ll carry them on his shoulders, letting them tug at his long hair as he shows them secret clearings and hidden streams.

He tells them stories about the creatures that live in the woods—both real and mythical—and he likes to believe that with every step, he’s helping them fall in love with the natural world as much as he has.

Lucien has a way with babies that surprises even him.

It starts with his own child, whom he manages to soothe almost effortlessly.

When they cry, he instinctively picks them up, rocking them back and forth while humming old tunes from the Autumn Court that he learned from watching Eris with his own children.

Soon enough, the Inner Circle and his own brother starts jokingly calling him the “baby whisperer,” since he always manages to settle down even the fussiest little ones.

Despite his easygoing nature, Lucien’s protectiveness over his child runs deep.

He’s always hyper-aware of their surroundings, scanning the forest or the streets of the Day Court for anything that might pose a threat.

When they scrape their knee while playing, he’s instantly at their side, murmuring, “You’re as tough as they come, just like your mama and dad.”

Lucien is determined to raise his child to be kind and empathetic, so he leads by example. He teaches them how to care for the smallest creatures they find on their woodland adventures, like a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest or a fox cub separated from its den.

He’ll kneel down beside his child, showing them how to gently guide the animal back to safety. “We take care of the world, and it takes care of us,” he says softly, a lesson he wishes he’d learned sooner in his own life.

Lucien isn’t afraid to be openly affectionate with his child.

He’s always scooping them up into bear hugs, pressing kisses to the top of their head, and ruffling their hair.

He’ll carry them on his back and run through the woods, pretending they’re riding on a wild beast, much to their squealing delight.

When they start to get sleepy, he’ll tuck them into his side, wrapping them in his cloak as they sit together by a campfire, watching the stars flicker through the treetops.

Despite his easygoing demeanor, Lucien sometimes struggles with doubts about whether he’s a good father.

He worries that his own fractured past might somehow cast a shadow over his child’s future.

On sleepless nights, he’ll stand by their crib, watching them breathe and wondering if he’s doing enough to keep them safe from the dangers of the world. “I promise, I’ll give you a better life than I had,” he’ll whisper, smoothing a curl of hair away from their forehead.

When his child wakes up and smiles at him with unfiltered joy, he feels a flicker of reassurance—like maybe, just maybe, he’s doing something right.

Lucien wants his child to see the world as a place of endless wonder.

He’ll sit them down beside him as he watches the sunrise over the mountains of the Day Court, holding them close as the first rays of gold light wash over them.

He’ll point out the way the shadows shift as the sun climbs higher, whispering, “Look, the world’s waking up.”

When his child starts to understand, they’ll reach up to touch his scarred face, tracing the path of light across his eye, and Lucien feels a warmth in his chest that nothing else can match.

Above all, Lucien’s loyalty to his child is unbreakable.

He’s determined that they’ll never feel unwanted or unprotected the way he once did.

He tells them every day, “You’ll always have a place with me, no matter what,” his voice steady with the weight of that promise.

Even when they throw their worst tantrums or make a mess of his papers, he simply ruffles their hair and grins, saying, “You’ve got a spirit like wildfire. And that’s something worth protecting.”

Tamlin

Tamlin is terrified when his child is born.

For all the power he possesses as High Lord, holding something so small and fragile makes his hands shake.

Despite his awkwardness, he’s committed to learning, determined not to let his uncertainty stand in the way of being a good father.

He spends hours reading through ancient scrolls and asking the court’s healers for advice, anything that might help him understand how to care for a newborn.

He practices cradling them gently, murmuring words of comfort even when his voice comes out unsure. It’s a clumsy start, but his heart is in it, and the first time his child smiles at him, something in him starts to melt.

The Spring Court has always been a place of wild, vibrant beauty, and Tamlin takes pride in sharing that with his child.

From the earliest days, he takes them out into the gardens, wrapped snugly in soft blankets.

He shows them the blossoming flowers, the streams that weave through the estate, and the animals that roam the grounds.

As they grow, he lets them toddle through the grass, pointing out each new bloom and teaching them the names of plants, a quiet pride in his voice as he shares the secrets of his lands.

He shows them how to gently touch the petals of a daisy or listen to the hum of bees gathering nectar.

“This is our home,” he whispers, as they look up at him with wide eyes. “And I’ll make sure it’s beautiful for you.”

Tamlin’s protectiveness over his child is fierce and unyielding.

He knows all too well the dangers that lurk beyond the borders of the Spring Court, and he’s determined that those threats will never touch his child.

He layers their nursery with enchantments and wards, barriers that would keep out even the most persistent of threats.

But it’s not just about magic; Tamlin is always nearby, watching over them with his keen senses, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

When they fall and scrape their knee for the first time, his heart stops, and he rushes to their side, his expression a mix of relief and worry.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, over and over again, pressing a kiss to their forehead as if trying to convince himself as much as them.

Tamlin has spent so long shrouded in sadness and anger that he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to laugh.

His child’s joy is infectious, and soon, he finds himself letting his guard down around them in ways he never imagined he could.

He chases them through the garden, letting them clamber onto his back as he pretends to be a wild beast, growling playfully.

Their laughter is a balm to his soul, and he treasures these moments more than he ever thought he would.

The first time he hears them call him “Papa,” he feels a lump in his throat and has to look away to hide the tears that well up in his eyes.

Tamlin has always had a love for music, though it’s a passion that’s grown quiet over the years. But when it comes to bedtime, he finds himself singing again, his deep voice carrying old Spring Court lullabies that his mother once sang to him.

He’ll sit by the window, his child tucked against his chest, singing softly as he watches the moon rise over the forest. The songs are gentle, filled with the magic of the earth and the stories of ancient creatures.

His child’s eyelids grow heavy, lulled by the warmth of his voice, and Tamlin feels a sense of peace settle over him that he hasn’t known in years.

Tamlin’s connection to nature becomes a way to bond with his child.

He teaches them to respect the animals of the Spring Court, showing them how to feed the deer that wander through the gardens or gently pet the soft fur of a fox cub.

He’ll hold their tiny hand as they release a butterfly back into the air, watching with a proud smile as their face lights up with wonder.

He wants his child to understand that their home is more than just a court—it’s a living, breathing place, one that needs to be cherished.

Tamlin carries a lot of guilt from his past, and becoming a father only makes those feelings more complicated.

He’s haunted by the mistakes he’s made, the lives lost under his leadership, and he worries that he’s not good enough for his child.

He often stands by their crib late at night, watching them sleep, his mind swirling with doubts. “You deserve better than me,” he whispers into the darkness, his voice barely a breath.

But when his child wakes and reaches out for him, clutching his finger with a sleepy smile, Tamlin feels a flicker of hope, as if maybe he still has a chance to make things right.

Tamlin isn’t always great with words, but he shows his love through small, thoughtful acts.

He’ll carve little wooden animals and leave them by his child’s bedside, each one carefully shaped to resemble the creatures of the Spring Court.

He’ll braid flowers into their hair or weave a crown of ivy for them to wear during their adventures through the garden.

On warm afternoons, he’ll take them down to the riverbank, showing them how to skip stones across the water, even if their tiny hands only manage to make a few splashes.

Slowly, as the years go by, Tamlin finds that his child’s presence has brought a bit of warmth back into his life.

He begins to smile more often, his laughter echoing through the halls of his estate. He finds himself hopeful for the first time in a long time, dreaming of a future where his child can grow up in a world free of war and bitterness.

He plants new flowers around the estate, hoping that one day his child will run through the fields of wildflowers with a carefree spirit.

Above all, Tamlin’s love for his child is like the Spring Court itself—wild, fierce, and enduring.

He would go to any length to protect them, standing between them and any danger that might come their way.

As much as he’s determined to keep them safe, he’s also learning to let them grow, to let them explore the world at their own pace, even if it means letting them wander a bit further into the woods each day.

He’s far from perfect, but he’s willing to try, and for his child, he’ll keep trying for as long as it takes. Because to Tamlin, his child represents a new beginning, a second chance to build a life worth living—not just for himself, but for the one he loves most.

Tarquin

When Tarquin first holds his newborn child, his heart swells with a joy that he didn’t know he could feel so deeply. He cradles them in his arms, looking down at their tiny face, and he can’t help but smile, a soft, awed expression taking over his usually calm demeanor.

He strokes a finger along their cheek, marveling at how small they are, and whispers, “You’re the most precious treasure the sea has ever given me.”

It becomes a sort of ritual for him, holding them close each night before bed, breathing in the sweet scent of their hair as if to remind himself that this isn’t just a dream.

Tarquin’s child is never far from the water, just like their father.

From the moment they’re old enough to toddle, he takes them down to the beaches of the Summer Court, their small hand held securely in his as they dip their toes into the warm, gentle waves.

He shows them how to find seashells along the shore, turning over rocks to reveal the tiny crabs and starfish hiding beneath.

As they grow older, he’ll teach them to swim in the clear blue waters, catching them in his arms whenever they dive in with a laugh that echoes across the beach.

The sea becomes their shared sanctuary, a place where they can be free and unburdened, where the worries of the court fade away with the tide.

Tarquin uses his magic to bring a bit of ocean wonder into his child’s life. He’ll create miniature whirlpools in their bath, making little water creatures dance in the currents, or conjure glowing fish to swim through the air at bedtime, casting soft blue light across the walls.

Sometimes, he’ll use his powers to shape the water into a gentle wave that rocks them to sleep, the motion like the gentle swaying of a ship.

Tarquin is fiercely protective of his child, but he has a calm, steady way of showing it. He makes sure the waters around their home are free of any danger, setting wards beneath the waves to keep away the creatures that lurk in the deep.

He also wants his child to understand that the sea, like life, is both beautiful and wild. He teaches them how to respect the ocean’s power, how to listen to the rhythm of the tides and understand the signs of a coming storm. “The sea can be our friend,�� he tells them as they walk along the beach at sunset, “but only if we respect it.”

Bedtime is always a special time in Tarquin’s household, filled with stories of the ocean’s mysteries.

He’ll sit with his child on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, and tell them tales of underwater kingdoms, mythical sea creatures, and the great ships that have sailed through Summer Court waters over the centuries.

He paints pictures with his words of merfolk who sing to the moon, of hidden caves filled with pearls, and of daring adventures across the waves. His child listens with wide eyes, always begging for “just one more story,” and Tarquin is happy to oblige, his voice carrying the cadence of the waves as he speaks.

Tarquin is determined that his child will understand the importance of kindness and generosity, just as he strives to embody those qualities as High Lord.

He teaches his children to not view other children as lesser just because of their status. In fact, he encourages servants of the palace to bring their children to play with his own.

He’ll hold his child’s hand as they distribute baskets of fresh fruit to the workers in the fishing villages, explaining, “A good ruler is one who understands the citizen's needs.” He wants his child to see the beauty in giving back, and to grow up knowing that the strength of their court lies in the bonds between its citizens.

One of Tarquin’s favorite ways to unwind with his child is to dance with them under the stars, where the sea breeze whispers through the trees and the moonlight glistens on the waves. He’ll lift them in his arms and sway gently to the sound of the ocean, their laughter mixing with the soft rush of the surf.

As they grow older, he teaches them the traditional dances of the Summer Court, their small feet stepping clumsily alongside his at first, but growing more graceful with each passing season. “You’re a natural,” he’ll tell them with a proud smile, twirling them around until they both collapse onto the warm sand, breathless with laughter.

He brings them to the coral reefs where rainbow fish dart through the crystal-clear water, holding them up so they can look through the enchanted glass of the Summer Court’s underwater grottos.

He teaches them how to sail, guiding their hands on the ropes and showing them how to read the direction of the wind. When they stand on the deck of a ship together, feeling the wind in their hair and the salt on their lips, Tarquin can’t help but feel a surge of pride at the way his child’s face lights up with joy.

He makes a point of telling them every day how much he loves them, whether it’s during a quiet moment on the beach or when he’s tucking them into bed.

He believes in the power of words, and he wants them to know without a doubt that they are cherished. “You are my greatest treasure,” he tells them with a smile, ruffling their hair as they look up at him with adoring eyes.

And when they fall asleep in his arms, a sense of contentment settles over him like the gentle lull of the tide, reminding him that despite all the duties of being a High Lord, being a father is the role that brings him the greatest joy.

[bonefall]

Cat? Gray. Eyes? Blue. Hotel? Trevago.

Design babble stuff below

BLUESTAR

Good god it's been over a year since I last drew her. I can do so much better now

I give her a wolf motif for BB, because in my mind it's about the myth of the lone wolf. Lone wolves aren't normal, they're pack animals. At first, Firestar sees her as this ideal, strong leader who stands independently of everything... but he's wrong!

She's NEVER acted fully alone! She's always been devoted to her family, even as it dwindled. Her ruling style is to protect other Clans, unlike any leader who's come before her. In BB, she even had a mixed-Clan friendgroup called the Forget-Me-Nots.

She helped to depose ShadowClan's tyrant. She sent Firestar to fetch WindClan, even against the wishes of the other two. She even fought Nightstar and Crookedstar when they tried to drive them out again.

She even takes the code SO seriously that she refused to kill Brokentail, extending a mercy that ended up backfiring.

And Firestar learns everything about leadership from her. Grace, diplomacy, fairness... and she was fair to a fault.

Both her and her apprentice would eventually face down Tigerkin, Bluestar during the coup and Firestar even lost a life after defending Hawkfrost for several books.

The only time Bluestar ever became a "lone wolf" was in her cruelty arc, when she was dragging everything she ever stood for down with her.

Her wolf motif shows up in her entire family, to connect them. It's in her nephew Whitestorm, her uncle Goosefeather, her daughter Mistystar, even all the way down into Curlfeather and Frostpaw who are descended from Reedwhisker in BB.

The scar comes from her fighting a badger to rescue Darkstripe and his sister, Cricketclaw, when they wandered off as kittens.

CROWFEATHER

He's a mix of spiky and swirly, as a cross between his dad Deadfoot and his mother Ashfoot.

He's older in BB to change that he was an apprentice on the Great Journey, and also to fix an inconsistency where his dad would be dead when he was conceived.

I think it was a huge missed opportunity that Crowfeather's bond to his mentor, Mudclaw, is barely mentioned in-canon. In BB they were VERY close and Mudclaw was incredibly influential to his personality.

Deadfoot is dead-- Mudclaw was like a father to him.

Crowfeather is torn between the influence of his mother, who was a Forget-Me-Not in her youth, and the hard ideology of his mentor. All the while, the ego boost he got from being selected to go on the Great Journey massively affected him, in a bad way.

He ended up taking Mudclaw's side in the rebellion-- not because he believed that ThunderClan had told a lie (in fact he defends his friend's honor) but because he believed Mudclaw would be a better leader.

But eventually, he found himself surrounded by cats he didn't want anywhere near WindClan. Good intentions or not, Mudclaw was willing to work with cats like Blackclaw and Hawkfrost-- people who want a second TigerClan.

Crowfeather betrayed the rebellion, running to fetch Brambleclaw and ThunderClan reinforcements. In the fight, his nose was scratched in a chevron, the shape of Mudclaw's stripes.

I like the idea that he carries it with him, but always tries to put it off his mind. He mistreats and misuses other people, ignoring the reminder that he is a fallible person that's carved onto his nose.

died of infection. Sad!

All of his kits resemble him in some way. Lionblaze inherited his tail, Hollyleaf has the spikes, Breezepelt has the build, Jayfeather is a miserable git has the ear swirls

He was head of Kitchen Patrol until BB!OotS, but I'm actually planning for him to NOT be deputy in BB. His character growth feels a lot more satisfying in realizing he really doesn't handle power very well, and should stay away from it.

He has old relationships and burned bridges to mend, and staying part of Kitchen Patrol seems like the way he should plan to do that.

I talked about him a lot in Nightcloud's summary and he's going to be coming up in the outline of Nightcloud's Pannage a lot. Much as I love taking potshots at him, he's got a very kind arc laid out.

CINDERPELT

She is the daughter of LIONHEART whY don't you people give her A MANEEEE

let her be THICK

In BB, the Frostfour are actually from two different litters. Cinderpelt and Brackenfur were in the older one.

Frostfur was head of Kitchen Patrol at the time, and very overworked lmao

So Cinder and Bracken both have an "older sibling" energy. Their mom was usually involving them in every little activity to get some help. Brackenfur is over-responsible, and Cinderpelt was always trying to help out other people and prove herself.

Of course, it also lead to her running right into Tigerclaw's trap which was set for Bluestar-- she wanted to be helpful.

The injury didn't heal right and she has chronic pain. She has severe mobility issues in the hip, and usually keeps the leg bound to her body so it doesn't drag or hurt.

She could have still been a warrior if she wanted to, but discovered while healing that she loved working with Yellowfang. I also interpret it this way in canon, to be fair, but TNP decided to remember it completely differently.

After saving Littlecloud's life they became absolute best friends. They worked on a mobility device for Wildfur together.

They style their manes in a similar way, pushing it up into that "spike" on their heads and out of their faces.

ASHFUR

Moonkitti's blonde Ashfur remains iconic, I fear

I draw him like a cheetah so he has the funky cheetah cub hair

I'm a HUGE fan of what the Erins did with the direction of Ashfur's story, with him being an obsessive spurned lover, but that's not really the sort of story I tell in BB!

So I approach his obsession on Squirrelflight as being very... Judge Frollo-esque.

Frollo's ultimate goal isn't to possess Esmerelda. He wants her, but it's a wrench in his plans to commit ethnic cleansing using his religious justifications. Hellfire is about how he finds a way to shift the blame for his own lust onto her, and offers an ultimatum; "She will be mine or she will burn (along with everyone else I plan to slaughter)"

In Frollo's mind, he "forgives" her for what she's "done to him." For what she is. He sees what he's doing as giving her an "escape."

It's not for her benefit. It's for HIS. By giving her this "escape," if she takes it, he gets to think of her as redeeming herself (and thus being worthy of him).

If she does not... then it's no skin off his back. He's Done His Part. Everything was always her fault. He is blameless.

Either way he gets to walk away feeling justified.

All that to say-- that's how I approach BB!Ashfur.

He wants to punish codebreakers. He wants the Clans to suffer for how far they've fallen from where they should be. They've become vulgar, ungrateful, unworthy of StarClan's grace.

He tried to kill The Three because he'd learned of the Fire and Tiger prophecy, and was only trying to protect the Clan. If Squirrelflight had CHOSEN HIM, then none of this would have happened.

He was righting a wrong, you see, and StarClan understood, in his eyes.

When Hollyleaf slaughtered him, violating the Code, it only confirmed he had been right all along.

And again and again and again, he offers Squirrelflight what she needs to redeem herself. He wants her. He wants her to "be better."

When she lets him down... then it's not his fault. She's forced his paw.

SO the blonde hair isn't totally just a fun reference, I also find it fitting because aside from the cheetah motif, he sees himself as angelic.

It's also why I don't portray him as "grubby" like some folks do, BB!Ashfur is much more vain than Canon!Ashfur, caring immensely about his appearance. Thinking about it, he probably won't even let his Bramblefake vessel fall into disrepair, he'd feel more grossed out than usual.

He also gets a very cool boss fight form at the end of BB!TBC which I still need to design lmao.

[joaofelix70]

MISS DIPLOMAT & MR. CHARMING |

dominik szoboszlai x female reader.

author's note: this handsome man's living rent-free in my head. he's a freaking masterpiece. talented, funny, charismatic, attractive. i watched interviews, tiktok videos made by supporters and much more to understand a little bit of his language, personality and what he does towards friends and loved ones. laughed a lot! i made my homework as a writer, hope you enjoy it! (compliments and any kind of retributions are more than welcomed).

summary: your job is involving the commitment of unify the population and create interrelations to another countries, using the eurocup qualifiers and the hungary national team executions. you just didn't expect to fall in love with the no. 10's captain player.

words and characters: 1,811/11,223. it was three days working too hard on this story. i'm begging for your consideration, lol.

────

sports diplomacy: it's the unique power of sport to bring people, nations, and communities closer together via a shared love of physical pursuits. this responsibility is the reason of a transition between strangers to connected individuals, advancing foreign policy goals and augmenting sport for development initiatives. the complex landscape where sport, politics, and diplomacy overlap become clearer, as do the pitfalls of using sport as a tool for overcoming and mediating separation between people, nonstate actors, and states. the power of sport has never been more important. so far, the 21st century has been dominated by disintegration, introspection, and the retreat of the nation-state from the globalization agenda. in such an environment, scholars, students, and practitioners of international relations are beginning to rethink how sport might be used to tackle climate change, gender inequality, and the united nations sustainable development goals, for example. to boost these integrative, positive efforts is to focus on the means as well as the ends, that is, the diplomacy, plural networks, and processes involved in the role sport can play in tackling the monumental traditional and human security challenges of our time. credits: international studies association and oxford university press.

────

MLSZ (hungarian football federation) ──

new training ground at telki.

"i can't believe that being in places like this made up my most theoretically utopian childhood dreams. what a progress in front of me!" you still witness exciting moments where you pinch yourself, trying to believe in the reality that surrounds you: visiting the new training center of the players who are just a few meters away from you, getting ready to represent an entire country.

"your presence is our privilege. a voice of the spread of eurocup to our nation, right here…" the technical director gives you deference, obtaining a measure of humbleness and respect by you.

"the honor belongs to me in its entirety. grateful for having me, sir. while the view is immersive and captivating — my fervent congratulations to everyone involved — could we retreat from the pleasant glass-enclosed room and see everything closer, on the outside? please? i will never get used to this atmosphere." you pour politeness and charisma to the staffs around you, being directed to the proximity of the field and saluting the employees who pass through your path.

meet dominik — your szobo — instigates the nostalgic combination of detailed moments in which your thoughts display as photographic retrospectives. you're incapable to oppose the little enthusiastic laughs, fidgeting the rings between your fingers and avoiding possible suspicious glances from others. however, for you, this wouldn't actually work. the lives of you both are correlated, but different.

the training session is finished. clapping your hands and celebrating the performances, you greet the athletes and recognize some familiar people. nevertheless, reality slows down after those dark woody eyes capture through your soul. his arms tattoos are glorified by the sun's rays, the same illuminated smile is offered to you: that one you got during the very first time you saw him — instantly knowing he made you testimony the accuracy of freedom, catharsis and emotional amorous complement. that he'd be the one to introduce you what you never experienced, what you thought you'd never receive or deserve. what love truly is. when you were novices in your actual professions, not even imagining the future gifts of your unreal purposes.

"there you are!" intimately, dominik points at you, being reciprocated by vibrant nods and your old sort of secret — not that mysterious or serious — handshake. "még mindig emlékszel rá? (still remembering it?). you're a real one!"

"hogy tudnám elfelejteni? alábecsülsz engem. (how could i forget it? you're underestimating me)". your defensive actions demonstrate purposeful falseness. masking any sensitive, verbal or figurative communicative fragment from him is a difficulty that makes you give in over time. honestly, you never complain about this. it's like he wants to understand the factors and layers of you.

"a te kézfogás fickó. ne merészelj lecserélni engem. (your handshake man… don't you dare to replace me)". a shameless wink is send to you, butterflies acquiring space in your stomach.

"és hivatalosan is a szavamat adom rá. (and you officially have my word on it)." your gloss is pigmented against your fingers while you raise it up, displaying an oath, wondering if szoboszlai comprehends that his replacement in your life would be blasphemous.

"diplomata kisasszony, (miss diplomat)…" the hungarian fingerprints are shared and you recognize the sign to hold them, ready to perform your typical fashion icon moment. "gorgeous as always. go ahead! you know what to do!".

amusement surrounds you with the nickname's citation. although, you could feel some curious glances, from the outsiders, about the intimacy between you and him. "i appreciate, our top-class national bless…" you move your body in rotations to exclaim the outfit's characteristics, lifting your feet to show off the specificities of your heels. "how is your hair so well-groomed after sweating, though?" your arms cross and you raise an eyebrow in questioning, trying to hide your fascination.

"thank you, my number-one fan, but don't change the subject. finish our inside joke, c'mon!" dominik grabs his water bottle and spreads the cooling liquid on his forehead, wiping the glowing droplets across his face as he lifted his jersey high enough to exhibits his fortified abs.

your attention is directed to any surrounding scenery, throat being piked. szoboszlai pretends he doesn't notice, preventing to embarrass you.

"alright, alright! you've won, bájos úr… (mr. charming)". your final comment escapes as, practically, a whisper. you can't control the shy laughter, coupled with the considerable redness invading your cheeks.

"that's the secret to make my day!" using his tongue to reproduce a sharp noise, he matches your humorous reactions. "would you like me to show you the infrastructure changes? i'm just gonna take a shower!"

"i've already been granted a tour around here, but in case you insist…" during the dialogue, some athletes cross your space, wishing them good luck for the competition. your concentration on the activity is significant, at the point that dominik's silent admiration goes unnoticed.

"i mean, you know me! i'm gonna insist anyway, so…" he reaches your captivity, bringing you jollification.

"i'll rate you as a personal tour guide. now, go there!" jesting each other, you both exchange exaggerated reverences, like a challenge of who makes the most chaotic one.

────

walking around the area, various subjects are explored, informations entrusted. you ask and are updated about his ethereal younger sister.

portraits of the generations are framed. you magnifies his presence in celebratory pictures, dedicated to find him in the memories and achievements on that wall. pride shines from you and the hungarian finds it lovely.

"you know i'm a sucker for accents… they're much more than mere verbal characteristics, they're stories: life experiences, marks and scars. identities and cultural integrations." the topic is random. through generalized opinions, you're explaining conceptions and dominik is retaining mental observations. he exalts every scrap of your identity, like a faithful worshiper.

"basically, you're admitting being enchanted by my accent. i can see the stars in your eyes. a win is a win!" szoboszlai and his frequent attribute to physical touch, tickling your ears and playing with them. it doesn't bother you, actually: adoring the affection exuded by you and him. you feel like a little girl dealing with your one and only love.

"it's beautiful, how can you blame me? and hey, i know mine's making you grin too." he holds your arm, shivers running down your spine, the two of you being euphoric in the midst of your own enthusiasm.

"putting me against the wall? okay, hum… what were you saying before?" he's changing the subject and you have a natural wit to boo him. lifting his shoulders as a surrender, the hungarian focuses on the specific loose strands of his simple bracelet, which you get used to help him tie it again, willingly.

"trying to avoid the truth? fine! let me take care of you while i talk about my admiration towards globalization and communication. like, with every fiber of me…" you accept the conversation's direction and utter a 'voilà' towards the accessory's new appearance.

"that's why you're the best person i've ever seen doing this job." dominik compliments you, an act full of honesty.

"thanks a lot, mate. but which job? as your bracelet helper or my real one?" you provide tenderness, looking amused.

"i mean… both of them." szoboszlai chuckles, revealing courtesy by your continuous helpfulness.

"literally? because i know you know a lot of people. you're so young and already is the national team's captain." you nudge him in a form of tease. he's a starboy, it's undeniable.

"flattered! literally, thought. you were born for this, believe me." vulnerability collides to you, as his words are deliberated: emotions embracing you and warming your insides.

"dominik szoboszlai, my dear friend, you're gonna make me cry, right here. i'm sorry, i need to do it…"

innocent satisfaction builds strength over you and executes unthought-of approach to the tangibility of your gratitude — his colony enrapturing your sensitive olfaction — in the most out-of-control way. the sounds reach your hearing: a choir of angels singing hallelujah. he reciprocates the contact, laughing at your juvenile excitement. joining him and doing the same thing, harmonizing the triumph. in the separation of the touch, you both remain close to each other and the hungarian doesn't miss the opportunity to feel the softness of your side face, caressing the skin. appreciation and satisfaction invade your structure, delighting on the palm of his hand.

"just a dear friend? why are we pretending all this time?" dominik's reading you. the intimidation at the sight of him overhanging you is paralyzing. you don't usually back down, but in that instant — superior than your most repressed desires — your gasps are escaped.

"who is putting who against the wall now?" insisting and failing on your witty answers, shyness and uncertainty corrodes you.

"please, look at me! i'm not kidding anymore." his voice is questioning, intrigued — contradictorily vulnerable and calm — your rationality being fragmented, fragile.

"you know i'm not the kind of woman you're surrounding by, domi. i'm not an influencer, bikini model. i'm not a public figure. i don't live for the cameras and gossip platforms. i live to work hard. i didn't achieve any of this with some type of perk. my routine and your routine are based on traveling..." who could deny it? szoboszlai's always been all that you see. it's much more than a mere passion. your attraction to him is magnetic, intense, vivid. consequently, terrifying.

"i'm just asking for a chance, (your nickname). i don't lie when i say i've never met someone like you. i may be surrounded by a crowd and you'll still be the one to steal my attention, because nobody compares to you."

your eyelids are closed and the exhalation of his sigh penetrates your lungs with the numbing breath of life you've never experienced before. it's happening: the rare situation where thinking carefully about the pros and cons is unworthy, dumbness. your decision is made and the privilege's resolution unify your lips. the beginning demonstrates slowness and patience — the intensification through the concluded wait of the longed-for reality, transforming light and magical kisses into open mouths discovering each other and witnessing the endearment that both offer — hairs, necks, shoulders and waists captured.

"you're the first to create a meaningful presence in my mind and heart. i want you to be the last one too. i love you, kincs (my treasure). i'm finally brave enough to demonstrate it with no fears." dominik's forearm covers your upper torso. your back against his chest, noses resting on each others. rejoicing at the miraculous, incomparable circumstance.

"i love you, drágám (my precious). you're finally mine and it was so fucking worth waiting." his whisper: the living proof of celestial existence.

"how blessed we are…" intertwined bodies, coalesced essences. solitary melodies turning into the sweetest and most complete symphony.

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 1

Astarion x gn!reader (Upcoming NSFW)

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: After being raised as a commoner, you find yourself as the last in a royal bloodline, forced into a marriage with someone you've never met. He's more than he seems. AKA: An arranged marriage AU with everyone's favorite vampire.

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood, death, and minor injuries. Mentions of sex, but nothing particularly graphic. Very brief, not graphic suicidal ideation.

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This idea possessed me and did not let me go. I don't know where it came from, or how on earth it's already 6k. I'm feral for Astarion, and it just... happened. Anyway. The royalty aspects are not remotely lore-accurate to the Baldur's Gate games, for which I apologize. Sometimes you just have to make shit up.

If reality is meant to be believable, then you must be in a dream. 

No one ever said what kind of dream, though. Not a dream you’d wanted, that’s for sure. Most days, this all feels like some horrible nightmare. But maybe, just maybe - if you close your eyes and stay exactly where you are, thinking about nothing at all - it could be a nice one. 

The palace gardens are beautiful, after all. Even this place can’t ruin that. 

Silver moonlight shines on the earth below, giving everything a ghostly cast. Soft, silky wind brushes against your skin, and the faint aroma of flowers fills the air. Honeysuckle. Roses. Lilies. 

Yes. If you shut your eyes tight and pretended everything else away, it would be a nice dream. But you know better. Beyond the lovely gardens and the ornamented walls, this place is a prison. And never, not in a thousand years, could you have pictured anything like this happening to you. 

Not even in a dream.

You’ve never been one to fantasize about being royalty. Riches and power simply don’t appeal to you that way, especially not when comfortable clothes and the freedom to be yourself are traded in for the sake of discomfort and diplomacy. 

Still, the reality of it is somehow even worse than you’d thought. The clothes pinch at your sides and itch at your neck, and you can’t move in them the way you want to. Everything you’ve worn is stiff and tight and ridiculously heavy, as if all your outfits were made for a doll, not for someone alive. Then again, maybe that was the intention. You certainly feel like a puppet. 

If only none of it was real. 

You still haven’t accepted any of it, not really. It’s as if you’re waiting for someone in the shadows to jump out at you and laugh, telling you it was all pretend. Of course you aren’t royalty, they’d say. Of course you don’t belong here. And you’d go back to your home, where everything is right, where you belong. 

You can still see it all in your mind, so real that it’s practically touchable. The thought of it never fully fades. Just as soon as you’ve closed your eyes, you find yourself reliving that day once more.

The smell of baking bread floods a warm room. The heat of the fire sears the air. Customers bustle in and out, laughing and drinking and picking fights. Home. The way you’ve always known it. The way you’ve always loved it.

Then the room slowly goes silent. Wary. Palace guards lurk in the doorway, their eyes sweeping over the crowd, and your fingers immediately itch for your knife. The crown hasn’t any business in this place - what could they want?

When one of them steps inside, gazing at the crowd like they’re dirt beneath his feet, it takes everything you’ve got in you to stay calm. You can practically hear Cal’s voice in your head, telling you to take some deep breaths.

As the guard stalls in front of you, he stares. His gaze runs over you slowly, like you were less than he’d expected - a disappointment to him without even trying. “You,” he says. “You’re coming with us. Queen’s orders.”

Every pair of eyes in the inn land on you. Your heart starts beating so fast and rough that you’re sure it’ll burst straight through your ribs and fall out of you. The room spins. You’re biting your tongue, resisting the urge to pick a fight, because Cal is shaking his head and tugging at your sleeve. The single voice of reason in this place. Blood slowly fills your mouth with the taste of iron. 

And you go with them. For some godsdamned reason, you go.

As soon as you’ve left, you know it was a mistake. There’s a whole troop here - enough men to tell you that you’re considered a threat, somehow. Enough men to keep your arms folded into you, wondering what in the hells you could have done to warrant this attention. 

Despite everything, you force yourself to maintain some dignity, keeping your shoulders squared until you get to the palace. You suck in deep breaths and try to hide your shaking hands. This place… it won’t get the better of you, if you can help it. But it’ll all depend on why you’re here, and furthermore - what they want.

As you approach the throne room, they stand back to let you in. When you hesitate, the leader shoves you through the open door, and it slams shut behind you with a sound that echoes throughout the room. You’re left in a large, empty place with two shadowy figures that become clearer as you step further in. You recognize only one of them.

The queen is entrancing in the flesh, all dark hair and flashing eyes. She says nothing, but her gaze analyzes you from her throne as the man - who, from the look of things, must be her court sorcerer - approaches you. A needle pricks your finger and leaves a dull throbbing in its place. 

Silence. A nod. 

“It’s true, then,” the queen says. Her voice is like wine, dark and smooth in your ears. “You’re a child of Calthir. Royal blood flows in your veins.”

You’re standing in front of her, squinting in the bright light. Her words seem a million words away. Some other dimension. Some other reality.

“I - I don’t…”

“You poor thing. You didn’t know?” she asks. “Well. Perhaps they were clever to keep it from you. Or perhaps not.” 

“It isn’t possible,” you blurt out. “What you’re saying. I can’t be… that.”

She raises a brow. “But you are.”

This time, your nails draw blood when they curve into your palms. Stinging pain floods your senses. “Then what do you want from me?” you ask, unable to mask the frustration brimming your words. “Calthir fell when I was a child. I don’t even remember it.”

“Where are your parents?” she asks.

You swallow hard. “Dead. Just after I was born.”

For a long moment, she stares down at you, her dark, intelligent eyes gleaming in the light. “Calthir has fallen, yes. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t alive.” Her words are measured, carefully chosen for the most impact. “Every day, more of my soldiers are lost to Calthirian dreamers. They want their kingdom back, their so-called rightful ruler placed on the throne. You. They’ve been searching for you. Do you understand?”

You do. “You’re going to kill me.”

She clicks her tongue. “And make the problem worse?” With a graceful movement, she gets to her feet, towering over you from her throne. “No. Their search is thorough, aided by magic. They’d discover your fate, sooner or later.” She pauses, lifting two fingers to her temples as if sensing an oncoming headache. “You’d become a martyr. Mass kindling for the zealots. I won’t have that.

“Then what?” you ask weakly. “Prison?”

She laughs hollowly. “And what good would that do?”

You can’t think of an answer.

“No,” she sighs. “Prison would be pointless. A waste. I still have use for you.”

Fear floods your gut, thick and dark. When you speak, your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. “Which is?”

She tilts her head. “I’m sure you’ll find it simple enough. You’re going to marry my son.”

In the gardens, the crickets are singing. It’s the first thing you notice when you come back to yourself, ears ringing. You’ve gone through that memory a hundred times, but it seems more real now, sharper, somehow. Your stomach churns with the urge to be sick, but the feeling fades quickly. 

It’s starting to settle in. That this is your life now. You’ll likely never see your home again. Your friends. All of your ambition, gone - thrown away for some petty diplomacy. You’re engaged to a man you’ve never met, and for the rest of your life, he’ll be tied to you.

More than anything else in this place, the prince doesn’t seem real. Even his name feels foreign in your thoughts, a muddy figure you can never put a face on. Strangely enough, the palace doesn’t have any portraits of him - which doesn’t put you any more at ease - and none of the servants will talk to you about him. You’ve been here over a week and still haven’t seen him, not even for a moment. Not even a glimpse.

Maybe you’ll never meet him. That’d be nice.

You doubt you’ll get so lucky.

The rest of the night passes by slowly, oozing along like syrup. You’re more than happy to sit in relative silence and enjoy the peace while it lasts. After all, this kind of freedom will be a rare thing, soon. Your eyes start to grow heavy, but you have no desire to head back inside. Not yet. 

When it’s long past midnight, the sound of a snapping branch behind you startles you to your feet. Your knife is gone, taken by the guards, but you reach for it all the same, cursing when you come up empty . But there’s nothing when you turn - nothing dangerous, at least. Just a squirrel, scurrying up a tree. 

Just as you’re about to return to your seat, a man comes stumbling out of the woods, scaring you half to death. He halts in his tracks as he sees you, eyes widening as he looks at you. He must not have expected anyone to be out this late at night, and you can’t blame him. It is absurdly late. And yet, here you are, and there’s nothing stopping you from taking in every inch of his clearly guilty appearance. 

The first thing you see, because it would be impossible to miss, is the blood. It’s all over him, splattered across his face and tattered clothes, staining his hands. His silky white hair curls around his pointed ears, dirtied with dirt and leaves. His dark eyes that you can’t quite make out the color of lock onto your every move.

He’s handsome. And, from the look of things, he’s probably going to kill you. 

You aren’t quite sure whether or not you want him to, considering everything. You wouldn’t have to go through with the sham of a marriage if you’re dead. Then again… are you really ready to let go?

For a moment, neither of you move. Your heart is thrumming under your ribs, and your feet are frozen where you stand. His fear turns into something else - puzzlement. His head tilts ever so slightly. Then, slowly, he takes a step back. You don’t move, because what could you do? Chase him? You’re not that much of a fool.

He chances another step away, and when you still don’t react, a third. And just like that, the man vanishes into the night, and you’re left alive and unscathed, staring out into the darkness of the woods he’d come from. 

You can’t help but feel a little disappointed he hadn’t killed you, or at least tried. It would have been exciting, at least.

After a few more minutes of nothing but silence, you turn on your heel and head back inside. The next time you see him is three weeks later, and until then, there’s not a moment he’s not in your thoughts.

As the days pass, you soon come to realize that the worst thing about this place is the boredom. It should be a thousand other things - the pinching clothes, the ache of your old life that never stops throbbing in your chest, the soon-to-be husband you haven’t even seen - but it isn’t. It’s the never-ending, constant boredom.

Gods, is it ever boring. You read every decent book in the library. You walk around the gardens at least five times a day, looking for something new. You linger around the courtyards, hoping for a bit of gossip. And every day, it’s all the same, and there’s nothing. And every day, you think of the strange man in the woods and wonder who or what he possibly could have killed. You’d checked the woods the next morning but came up completely empty.

As the wedding approaches, the air around the castle grows thick and tense. Arguments ring out from the halls about this or that - flowers, invitations, food. You’re shoved into at least twenty different potential outfits to see how they look, pinched and prodded. Servants scrub your skin raw despite your protests, even though it’s still a week away. 

The queen is almost as rare a sight as her son is, though you do catch her slipping through the main hall once. She hasn’t spoken to you since that first day. Perhaps isolation runs in the family.

Which is why it’s so surprising when, three nights before the wedding, you hear her voice coming from a passage down the hall. It’s late. You should be sleeping, but your thoughts have kept you awake, and you’re roaming the halls like an aimless ghost. Your feet stall when you hear the echoing of words - something shouted not far from you. 

From the sound of it, she’s in the east wing, an off-limit portion of the castle you’d been told was dangerous and in dire need of repair. You’d only listened at the time because no one else went in there, not even the servants. But now… 

You chance edging in a little closer, keeping your steps quiet and your body in shadow. When you manage to sneak a look, Queen Erelin is standing in the midst of floors so clean that they shine, shouting at one of the closed doors.

“Every time I do anything for you, you fight with me,” she snarls, pacing up and down the hall. “I am doing what is best for you! Making you better! Why can’t you understand that?”

When no answer comes, she stalls in front of the door, lets out a long, heavy sigh, then throws her hands into the air and mutters something final under her breath. She leaves without so much as a glance toward your hiding spot. Your breath comes out in a whoosh of relief, tension flooding out of your shoulders.

When the fear is finally gone, curiosity takes its place. The east wing is silent and open, practically begging you to take a look, and you’re not in a place to resist. When you move closer, you can see warm light flooding out from underneath a door - the one she’d been shouting at. It’s not difficult to guess who must be in there, considering the facts. Would he answer, if you knocked? Would he talk to you? 

A long moment passes in silence as flickers of movement spill their way under the door. Well, if you’re going to spend your life with him, you might as well find out what he’s like in advance. But just as you’re about to take a step forward, something stops you - a sensation you don’t recognize. The feeling trickles down your neck, plants itself deep into your chest as if it’d sunk straight through your skin - icy and dark and making you shudder as you wrap your arms around yourself for warmth.

After one final look toward the hall, you head to bed. The feeling fades. And, for the next few days, every time you look at the east wing, it’s shut tight.

Part of you is glad for it.

Despite your best efforts, the wedding rolls closer and closer, and as a horrible result, you get hardly any time to yourself. You’re escorted around, forced into fittings and rehearsals and who knows what else. The prince still never shows, but the queen is absolutely everywhere. She floats from room to room, dark circles under her eyes as she approves or denies things entry. She glances at you when she notices you, then shakes her head. 

“I’d be the happiest woman in the world if I never had to plan a wedding again,” she says. 

You resist the urge to point out that she was the one who’d wanted this.

On the day of, you’re ripped out of bed at a miserable hour, scrubbed clean, slathered in creams and fragrances, forced into yet another torturous outfit, and shoved out into the halls. People filter around you, carrying flowers and pastries and various trinkets. You stand there feeling like you can’t breathe until an arm loops around yours and starts pulling you through the crowd.

“Come,” the queen says. You don’t argue with her. She’s looking much better than before, well-rested and her cheeks rosy, porcelain skin glowing in the light. Her dress, light-blue, weightlessly flutters around her. “Given these last few weeks,” she starts, her eyes fixed in front of her. “Well. You must be curious about your husband-to-be.”

You are curious, yes. But you keep your lips shut tight. 

She shoots you a piercing look. “I expect you to be polite,” she says. “He is your prince, after all. And one day, your king.”

Only then do you realize she’s leading you straight into the east wing - but not to the door she’d shouted at before. Further down the hall, into a giant room filled with books and servants and a tailor, fussing over some clothes. A man stands in the corner, and when he turns to look at you, you stop dead in your tracks.

It’s him. The one you’d seen that night, covered in blood. His eyes widen when he sees you, and all you can do is stare at him like a fool. You don't know how you hadn’t put that together - the mysterious prince, never showing his face, and the stranger in the woods, covered in blood. But then…

The way you’d seen him then is the complete opposite of everything he is now. The opposite of everything in this place, every spotless, perfect little thing that makes you feel so wrong being here. He’d been dirty, clothes simple and torn, hair mussed and covered in leaves. Here, he’s clean, dressed in extravagant clothes, so pristine and put together that not an inch of him looks out of place. 

Of course you hadn’t considered it. Just like you, he hadn’t seemed like he belonged here. But you were wrong. He fits in the same as everyone else. 

His eyes, as it turns out, are a dark, gleaming red.

“Astarion,” the queen says, letting go of your arm and stepping away. “I trust you remember your manners?”

His gaze doesn’t leave your face, even for a moment. “But of course,” he says, his tone sultry and smooth. He steps closer, taking your hand in his, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to the skin. Your stomach flutters at the action even though you should know better. 

His touch is ice-cold. 

In his eyes, you see exactly what you are: a threat. Maybe he’ll kill you after all. Then again - he can’t. They need you alive. That’s why they’re doing all of this in the first place. 

“Prince Astarion,” you greet. That touch has put some danger into you, a spark that won’t settle in your veins. You can’t help yourself, can’t hold your tongue. “It’s nice to see you again,” you find yourself saying. “I hope you’ve recovered from the incident in the gardens?”

For the barest moment, his eyes narrow. But just as quickly as his distaste is there, it’s gone, tucked under a pasted-on smile. “Why yes, I have,” he says, tilting his head. “Healthy and clean as ever.” He takes another step toward you, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before he leans in close, so near that you can feel his breath on your cheek. 

“Not another word,” he murmurs, his voice dark and low. He smells clean and herbal - you catch notes of bergamot and rosemary, enticing and dizzying. A light hint of something else: wine, perhaps. He’s stepped away before you can fully place it.

“I didn’t realize you’d met,” the queen says, her eyes flickering between you and Astarion. 

“It was rather brief,” he answers. 

She looks like she’s about to ask something else, but a loud crash from the main hall distracts her. “Shit,” she curses, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’d better go see what that was.” Then she turns her gaze to you, nodding for you to join her. “Come along, now. It’ll be starting soon.”

You look back at Astarion. “Well, then. Goodbye, Your Majesty,” you tell him. “I suppose I’ll see you soon.”

The corner of his mouth flicks into a smile. “That you will,” he replies.

Everything else turns into a blur. 

You’re rushed from place to place, forced to recite the stupid vows over and over again until they’re convinced you’ve got them down, preened over and prodded until you’re raw. Your feet start to ache along with your head, and all you can think about is wanting to be home and… well, as much as you hate to admit it, you think about Astarion. He might as well be a plague for how much he’s infected your thoughts. 

You think of him, covered in blood, then spotlessly clean. You think of his voice, low in your ear, and his touch, and the smell of him that still lingers somewhere on your skin. Had he planned this, somehow? A ruse to get into your head? No. You’re being ridiculous. He hadn’t known you were the one who’d seen him - of course he hadn’t planned it.

If only it had been anyone else.

“Quick!” someone says. “It’s starting!”

Your heart drops straight down to your stomach as the drone of an organ hits the air. Nearby hands scrabble around for various items, clawing like animals. A stranger grabs your arm and drags you around like a doll, throwing instructions at you.

And just like that, you find yourself in front of the prince again. 

This time, instead of a dozen people or so, there are hundreds of people in the room. You needn’t have worried about being here with him. Nothing has ever felt less intimate. 

Your vows are rehearsed and devoid of any emotion, even though you really are trying. His are more convincing, perhaps, but they’re coached all the same. Still, when he takes your hand and slides on the ring, your stomach flutters. You slide his ring on with shaking fingers and just like that - you’re married.

“You may kiss,” the priest says, and your soul instantly exits your body. Gods, this can’t be real. None of this. 

But it is. Astarion leans in, his hand settling on your cheek, and kisses you. 

It’s clearly meant to be a quick, chaste kiss, but his lips are soft, and he smells so very nice, and the chill of his touch on your cheek is both soothing and strangely intoxicating. It’s as instinctive as breathing when the kiss deepens, when you find your fingers fisted into his shirt and his hand curls a little tighter around your jaw.

That is to say, the kiss is neither quick nor chaste, and when you pull away, there’s no small amount of cheering from the crowd. You want to melt into the floor.

When you finally muster up the ability to look at him again, Astarion tilts his head and raises his brows - a question you don’t at all want to decipher. You simply shake your head in response.

He loops his arm through yours, takes you down into the crowds, and escorts you through the room, effortlessly witty, devilishly charming. You don’t know how he does it. When people start talking to you, you can hardly get the words out of your mouth. You’re still half in shock, and Astarion’s presence isn’t helping.

The smell of him you couldn’t place earlier reveals itself to be brandy. 

How incredibly pretentious.

After what seems like hours of forced conversation, Astarion leads you over to the tables of food and drink, placing a glass of wine in your hand that you gratefully start to gulp down.

He sips at his wine, pasting on a smile when people wave at him, then turns his gaze to you. “You know, darling,” he murmurs, quirking a brow, “it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort.”

You grip your wine tighter, shooting him a scowl. “I am making an effort,” you hiss. 

He gives you another one of his false smiles. “As passionate as that kiss was, I’m afraid that doesn’t count.”

Shutting your eyes, you take in a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant. Not all of us are good at this like you are. Talking to people.”

“Well, my sweet,” he replies tightly, and for the first time, you can hear frustration lining his words. “I appreciate the compliment, but we still need to convince everyone here that we are madly in love. And that takes more than a kiss.” He takes the glass from your hands - much to your dismay - and places it on a servant’s tray, interlocking his arm with yours again. “So try a bit harder, won’t you?”

Gods, you can’t stand him.

When you go back to speaking, you try your best to be charismatic - but only because you can feel Erelin’s eyes on you, and you don’t dare upset her. Not that your best efforts make you succeed, unfortunately. Astarion has to swoop in several times to save you from the awkward turn of things.

When you finally get another moment to breathe, he guides you to a silent corner, puts an arm around you, and leans in close. “For the love of the gods,” he says. “You’re driving us both into the dirt with your horrid conversational skills.” He inhales deeply and sighs, collecting himself for a moment. “How about this - I will take on the heavier conversations, and you can just… pay compliments.”

“Pay compliments?” you ask incredulously, taking care not to be too loud. “How in the hells am I supposed to do that? I don’t know any of these people!”

“Oh, it’s easy,” he says, waving his free hand dismissively. “Tell the women you like the dress they’re wearing, or their necklace, or… I don’t know - their perfume. They’ll go on about it for ages, and you won’t have to do anything but smile and nod.”

This sounds much too easy to be true. “You’re sure that it’ll work?” 

“Trust me,” he replies. “The more we keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, the better off we’ll be.”

Anger flares in your chest at his words, red-hot. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” you ask.

“That I am,” he says, pulling you closer. “I’m so glad you noticed.”

Anywhere else, you’d have elbowed him in the stomach. Hard. Unfortunately, you’re in front of hundreds of people, and it would lead to a large number of very awkward conversations. So, instead, you paste on a smile and think of home.

You aren’t in a palace. You’re in your tavern, talking to customers. This is easy, and you definitely don’t hate it. At all. 

When the next couple approaches you, Astarion takes the lead, and you smile wordlessly and nod. When a null in the conversation arrives, you tell the woman you like her dress. Which, luckily, you do. It’s masterfully made, gold embroidery along a shimmering turquoise fabric.

Her face lights up. “Isn’t it just gorgeous?” she asks. “I searched for days when I heard about the wedding. Only the best for me, I always say. Anyway, there was this girl who ran a shop I went to - Martha, her name was - and she told me she had just the thing. And I tried it on, and it was perfect, only, well… it didn’t quite fit. But I knew I’d never want anything else now that I’d seen it, and I thought to myself, oh gods, I can’t turn up like this to the wedding! So I told my mum about it, and she said, ‘Don’t you worry! I’ll take care of it!’ And then, when I went to get it, clumsy me, I spilled half a glass of wine on it! I was just thinking it was lost forever when my neighbor came, and…”

And… what her neighbor did, you’ll never know. It’s completely lost to you, because when you look over to Astarion, he looks ridiculously smug. You can practically hear his voice in your head, saying ‘I told you so.’ You resist the urge to elbow him once again and turn your attention back to the girl, who is just now finishing her story.

“...and then, we arrived here, and saw you! And the wedding! My gods, what a sight. You two really do suit each other, you know. But Thom and I really should be going. There’s a lot of people for you to meet, and we wouldn’t want to keep you from tonight, if you know what I mean.”

She winks at you, and your cheeks go as hot as Avernus. 

“Well,” Astarion says quickly, “thank you both for coming!”

“Oh, of course,” she replies. “Enjoy yourselves, you two!” She gives a sly grin and then she’s off, leaving you feeling like you’re about to shatter into a million pieces.

Tonight. How could you forget?

It isn’t that you hadn’t thought about the fact that sex would be expected of you - it’s just that… well, it’d seemed so far away before. Back when you’d been thinking about it, you hadn’t known who it would be with, and it had all seemed like it was going to be a dream. Something that would never actually happen.

But here you are. 

You can’t say Astarion isn’t handsome, because he very much is. You can’t say you aren’t terribly attracted to him, because, infuriatingly, you are - no matter how much you hate the fact. But whether or not you’re comfortable with him touching you that way is a completely different matter, and, honestly? You have absolutely no clue how you’re going to tell him that you’ve never been with anyone. Or how he’ll handle it. 

Gods help you.

“You see?” Astarion tells you, slowly walking you over to the next group. “I told you it would work. Just keep that up, and all of this will soon be over.”

And over it soon is, much quicker than you’d like. You’d stay out chatting all night if you could avoid what comes next, but there aren’t many others to greet, and eventually there’s no one left to talk to. There’s hardly any food remaining either, which makes you want to cry. You’re starving. Your feet hurt. You want to crawl into bed and sleep for an eternity. 

Astarion, as if he can read your mind, finally leads you out of the room and heads straight to the kitchens, releasing your arm when you arrive. “Here we are,” he says. “We wouldn’t want you going to bed hungry, now would we?”

You try not to think about the implications of that statement as you eat. You try not to think about the way he leans against the wall next to you, seemingly not interested in the food. In fact, you try not to think about anything at all. 

It doesn’t work.

The food is a welcome distraction, at least. That’s one good thing about this place. The gardens are nice, the beds are soft, and the food is delicious. You never have to go to sleep without eating, which is a new feeling. You just wish it didn’t all come with a cost.

When you’re finished up, Astarion raises a brow at you and straightens up. ���Well,” he says, “we’d better go find my mother.”

Erelin looks exhausted after the celebrations. She doesn’t bother with any formalities, just nods for you to follow. 

“I’ll show you to your new room,” she sighs. “Don’t forget - tomorrow, the two of you are off for the honeymoon. I’m trusting you both to keep up appearances, yes?” She gives you a pointed look. 

“Right,” you reply.

She sighs again. “This way.”

She leads you back into the east wing, this time to a large room around the corner - one you haven’t seen before. It’s gigantic. You’d thought your bed was huge when you arrived, but this? It practically takes up half the room. Bookshelves line the walls, the windows glisten in the moonlight, and there’s a large vanity in the corner, presumably for you. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Erelin says, leaning against the doorway. “Just remember: you’ve done a great service for this kingdom.”

The door closes, and for the first time today, you and Astarion are completely alone. There are no servants, no guards posted along the walls, no crowds of adoring citizens. Just you, and him. And you have no idea what comes next.

In truth, all you want to do is to jump into the huge, fluffy-looking bed and sleep. But, of course, it isn’t that simple. For one, your clothes are intricately laced. There’s a privacy curtain in the corner, but you can’t remove the lacing by yourself. Then there’s the matter of what’s expected of you. What you’re dreading. And that’ll have to come before sleep, too.

Astarion isn’t exactly paying attention to you, though. He’s mulling around the room, examining the books, looking over the vanity. You’re relieved, but you know it won’t last. And, honestly? If it comes down to it, you’d rather just get it over with.

“Would you mind giving me a hand with this?” you ask.

He finally looks at you, gaze focusing on the lacing you’re helplessly trying to undo. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says. 

By the hells, he’s irritating. Still, he comes over to help you without complaint, deftly pulling apart the lacing until the ribbons finally come free. You’re expecting him to go further - to start undressing you, or touching you, or… anything, but he just steps away. 

“There you are,” he says.

Your throat goes thick. “I… Thank you,” you say softly.

He hums in response. “I’d make for a poor husband if I didn’t help undress you, wouldn’t I?”

The word husband sends electricity through your veins. He really is your husband, isn’t he? It feels incredibly strange. 

When you turn to scowl at him, Astarion is already gone, returned to his place by the books. You suck in a deep breath to compose yourself, then grab the change of clothes they’ve left for you and slip into it, folding up your old outfit as neatly as you can. 

As soon as you take a seat on the bed, your heart starts beating thickly against your ribs. It’s an unsteady pattern, the thump of it. It gets faster when Astarion moves, then goes quiet when he simply grabs his sleep clothes and changes behind the curtain. It drums hard and rough when he emerges, but settles down when he crosses over to his side of the bed and blows out the candle.

The room goes pitch dark.

“You’d better get your rest while you can,” he tells you. “I’m sure they’ll wake us at a horrendous hour tomorrow.”

You stay motionless in the dark for a moment or two before what he’s saying hits you. As if his words have broken a dam inside you, all the tension floods out of your body. You climb into the sheets, weightless in sheer relief, and find the bed incredibly soft. You can hear him tucking himself into the space near you, shifting around to get comfortable, and it’s strangely intimate. Still, with the size of the bed, there’s not much danger of accidentally kicking him in the night.

The room is peaceful and the crickets chirp outside, and it doesn’t take long before your eyelids are closing and the pull of sleep comes. Just as you’re drifting off, you realize one thing: 

You’d forgotten to ask him about the blood.

[aphroditelovesu]

Cyrus and Aella Headcanons

❝commission: headcannons about the twins (Cyrus and Aella). — requested by 💻 anon.

❝ 📜 — lady l: I spent a few days thinking about how to create a different but complementary personality for the twins and this came out, I think it turned out good. They're my babies, my first OC's to be honest, and I need to write more for them. I hope you like it and forgive me if there are any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: none.

❝📜word count: 1,208.

Cyrus and Aella have complementary personalities. Cyrus is calmer and more reflective, while Aella is energetic and adventurous. 

From a young age, Cyrus has always demonstrated a serene and contemplative nature. He is a deep thinker, often lost in his own thoughts. He prefers to analyze situations before acting, evaluating all possible consequences.

His ability to formulate complex strategies is unparalleled. Cyrus loves studying ancient texts on military tactics and philosophy, drawing inspiration from great thinkers like Aristotle, who was also a mentor to his father.

Aella, on the other hand, is a true free spirit. Since she was a child, she was known for her tireless energy and thirst for adventure. Always looking for new experiences, she loves exploring unknown territories and engaging in challenging activities.

Aella has a natural talent for leadership. Her courage and determination inspire those around her, and she quickly gains the loyalty of her followers. On the battlefield, her presence is motivating, and her strategy skills are admirable. If she could (and perhaps can) carry a sword, she will.

Unlike Cyrus, Aella often acts on intuition. She trusts her instincts and is willing to take risks that others would avoid. This approach, while risky, often leads to surprisingly positive results.

Aella has a strong sense of justice and is a fervent defender of the oppressed. She does not hesitate to fight for causes she believes are just, even if it means confronting powerful adversaries and defying the laws that prohibit her from doing what she wants just because she is a woman.

The combination of her personalities creates a perfect balance. While Cyrus plans and calculates every move with precision, Aella is ready to act quickly and face any challenge with courage and vigor. If they decided to rule together, it would be almost impossible to stop them.

In crises, Cyrus can calm and guide Aella, while she can encourage him to step out of his comfort zone and make bolder decisions. They complement each other.

Communication between the twins is almost telepathic. They understand each other with a simple exchange of glances, allowing for fluid and efficient collaboration, whether in strategic discussions or battles.

This complementarity makes them unbeatable, whether in the administration of the empire, in leading armies, or in diplomacy. They support each other, using their strengths to cover each other's weaknesses.

Since they were little, Cyrus and Aella have developed a secret language that they use to communicate without others understanding. This makes them even more united and inseparable.

Language includes a combination of hand gestures, facial expressions, small sounds, and even visual cues. Each gesture or sound has a specific meaning, allowing for quick and effective communication.

In situations where they need to communicate without being overheard by others, such as in strategic meetings or on the battlefield or just to hide secrets from their parents, secret language is essential. It allows them to share critical information with others.

Alexander's passion for exploring and conquering unknown lands is inherited by Aella, who frequently ventures beyond the borders of the empire, always accompanied by Cyrus, who prefers to explore through study and diplomacy.

From an early age, Alexander the Great recognized the extraordinary potential of his twin children, Cyrus and Aella. He made sure that they both received exhaustive training in combat and strategy, aware that their skills would be essential to the continuity and expansion of the empire.

In addition to practical training, Cyrus dedicated himself intensely to theoretical studies. He read the texts of Aristotle, Socrates and other philosophers and historians, seeking to understand the dynamics of power, war and politics. His evenings were often spent in the library, where he studied maps and developed new strategies. Cyrus has developed a close bond with his uncle Hephaestion, mainly because they look so much alike.

Cyrus saw Hephaestion as a trusted figure to whom he could turn for advice and emotional support. Hephaestion, in turn, saw in Cyrus a reflection of himself and was dedicated to guiding him in the best way possible. Hephaestion helped Cyrus hone his diplomatic skills, teaching him to negotiate and mediate conflicts with the same effectiveness he demonstrated on the battlefield.

Aella, from a young age, showed an innate talent for combat, despite not actually fighting because she was not allowed to. Her training included a wide range of fighting techniques, from wielding swords and spears to hand-to-hand combat. She trained daily with the best warriors in the army, improving her strength, agility and precision. Due to her aptitude for fighting, although it was not common at the time, Aella ended up becoming quite close to Cleitus, who was mainly the one who taught her.

Cleitus, known for his skill and bravery on the battlefield, dedicated himself to training Aella in advanced hand-to-hand combat techniques. Under his guidance, Aella perfected her use of swords, spears and unarmed combat. Cleitus also focused on developing Aella's stamina and agility, subjecting her to rigorous exercises that made her not only strong but also quick and flexible. This prepared her to face opponents of different sizes and fighting styles.

Aella has a strong connection with nature and animals. She often spends her time in forests and mountains, while Cyrus prefers gardens and libraries. However, they both share a deep love for the natural world.

(Y/N), Alexandre's wife and mother of the twins ensures that her children receive a complete education, with tutors from different areas of knowledge. Cyrus shows great interest in philosophy and history, while Aella is interested in poetry and music.

Cyrus devotes hours to the study of great philosophers, including Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. He enjoys debates about ethics, politics and the nature of knowledge, often discussing these ideas with his tutors and applying them to his life and strategic decisions.

He analyzes the strategies of historical leaders, learning from their successes and failures. This enriches his own strategic capabilities, helping him develop innovative tactics for military campaigns.

Aella studies the works of great Greek poets, such as Homer and Hesiod, as well as the lyrics of Sappho and Pindar. She writes her own verses, expressing her emotions and experiences through poetry. There is no doubt that she inherited her father's love of reading, especially the Iliad.

Aella learns to play several instruments, such as the lyre and the flute and receives training in singing. Her tutors teach her about music theory, composition, and the Greek musical tradition.

The twins feel an innate curiosity about their mother's heritage and if given the opportunity, they will visit their mother's time to learn about her origins and cultures other than Greek.

Over time, Alexandre begins to trust his children's advice more and more. Cyrus becomes a trusted strategist, while Aella helps inspire and lead the troops, earning the soldiers' respect, just as her mother did years ago.

Despite the fierce love and loyalty that exists between the twins, there is a healthy rivalry between Cyrus and Aella, especially during training and games. This rivalry encourages them to constantly surpass each other.

After Alexander's death, Cyrus and Aella assume central roles in preserving and expanding the empire. Cyrus focuses on strengthening diplomatic alliances, while Aella leads military campaigns, both keeping their father's legacy alive.

[queenofapeacefuldawn]

An Analysis of SPY × Family Chapter 99

Manga spoilers, and a very long post ahead!

I'd like to preface this with saying that all of this is my own analysis, and I'm not very smart at these things, so take this with a grain of salt!

This chapter was extremely heavy: with Henry realising his feelings for Martha, and how it echoed the main theme of this story: how war destroys relationships and how innocent civilians are forced to enlist out of fear for their families' safety.

The chapter starts off, continuing off the cliffhanger of the last chapter— it turns out to be a false alarm, but Martha leaves her feelings for Henry unsaid.

She begins writing letters to Henry, and they keep a regular correspondence to substitute for their tea parties--

The war continues to grow dire, and Martha's squad hasn't been given any combat training, yet, they're forced to go to the front lines, under the pretext of "serving your country" and "keeping your family safe".

Henry is obviously shocked and scared for Martha when he finds out she's on the front lines, but we never get to hear his thoughts with the introduction of this fucking bitch-

🤓☝️ lookin ass--

In this chapter, we get to see Donovan's own ideals, which are shown through his argument in the debate. Interestingly, Donovan is almost the same age as Demetrius is in the present-day. (At least, that's what I'm assuming-- Henry mentions being in charge of the middle schoolers, and Demetrius is a middle-schooler.)

He claims,

I have a couple of thoughts about this. First,

"I know that solving differences with dialogue and weapons is ideal". The phrasing of this is interesting, because it kind of sounds like he doesn't believe in that-- he just knows that solving differences with diplomacy instead of war is 'ideal', but does he really believe in that? I don't think he does-- and, his own definition of 'peace' is definitely... ambiguous. What does he think 'peace' is? Subjugating other countries with his own power?

He already has a strange concept of humanity and other humans' own ideals-- he believes that, at our core natures, human beings are liars. That the only thing we're capable of is war and destruction.

This is also very similar to his own ideals that we see in modern-day. He doesn't care about either of his sons, as he says, they are essentially strangers to him. And, you might have raised them (though with Donovan, "raised" is a stretch), you might be their own father, according to him, he will never truly know his sons. Which is why he doesn't even attempt to understand them. His own ignorance for human nature and for others around him is really what makes him a failure of a father-- we are never truly born "knowing" others. Yet, every day, we make an attempt to learn the people we care about-- and isn't that a little of what love is? Take the Forgers-- they are three strangers to each other, each concealing their own natures from the others. They're all liars, and yet, they're making an effort to heal; they're learning to love and they're learning to learn about the people around them, the people they care about.

This is his flawed ideology. In his world, humans are strangers-- humans are nothing to each other, they're always hiding their true intentions from each other. Humans can't be trusted-- humans don't trust each other, which is why war and destruction and pain is all humanity is capable of.

But it's really not. SxF's message is of how three strangers--- three orphans of a war they were forced to partake in--- come together and form a home. Yes, they are liars, yes, they're hiding their true intentions, but they're making a home for themselves, a home where one can be safe, where a young girl, who's experienced horrors no child should, can feel safe and in her mother's arms.

Which is why I think Donovan's ideology is so flawed--- and how beats of it echo in the modern-day SxF story, especially when Twilight meets him.

Yes, by mere dialogue, reaching a mutual understanding is idealistic, but the most important thing is to not stop seeking to understand each other.

Humans are flawed, humans are selfish, humans are kind--- there's a debate on whether, intrinsically, humans are good or bad. We're all given different cards to play with, but really, it's up to us to decide on our faith in humanity.

It seems like Donovan has a wholly negative view on humans--- we can never know each other's true intentions, and it's with this doubt that humans wage wars--- it's with this doubt that humans lie and kill and cause destruction.

It's because of this doubt that Desmond is planning a war himself.

Martha writes Henry a letter, and she talks about a dream where all the students are holding hands, circling Henry. She can't join them because her hands are filthy--- maybe it's guilt? Maybe she's feeling guilty, maybe she feels like she can't join the others because her hands are stained with blood.

She's scared. She's regretting joining the front lines. Her only solace is the letters from him. The only way he knows she's alive is the letters from her.

I feel like another story would have taken a turn, making Henry regret his own feelings for Martha because the war had torn them apart. Instead, Henry realises his own feelings and his own wants too late-- and it becomes the last letter he gets from her.

It feels like an extra gut punch, as in the beginning Martha was embarrassed to call him "beloved", but now, he's calling her beloved, and he misses her so much. He cares for her so much, and doesn't know how she is.

All he can think is---

His hands are stained with ink. The nib of his pen is almost breaking. Ink is bleeding onto the page. In Martha's dream, her hands are stained with blood due to her desire to protect Henry and her country. In Henry's reality, his hands are stained with ink due to his desire for Martha to come back, be with him again. The Soldier and the Scholar, each trapped in their own Hell.

Henry finds out that Martha's squad has been killed. Their lives were a "sacrifice" for their country. This is blatant propaganda, and, he feels they're sullying her memory by mythologizing her; by using her life, using her death as a way to snare more students into a violent and hopeless and painful battle.

He speaks out. He's punished.

He's been brutalised so much, that he needs to wear a monocle.

We learn more about Donovan's and Henry's own ideals. Donovan gives up on people who've disappointed him-- people who he deems as fools. Henry doesn't believe in that. He believes that everybody deserves to not be given up on--- every body deserves a person in their own corner.

Towards the end of the chapter, Henry's forced into a marriage by his father, believing it's "for the best", because the soldier he was waiting for never came back to him.

We cut to "Somewhere near the East-West border", to a home with a fireplace. Martha is just opening her eyes, and is severely injured.

This definitely isn't a safehouse or military barracks or a military hospital.

A home with a family, or at least a person, with a fireplace and a chopping block for firewood.

This place is also near the sea,

which makes me think it's somewhere near the south. (If I'm remembering the map correctly).

Edit: The map is faithful to irl Germany, which means the sea is to the north, not the south. Sorry for the discrepancy before!

I'm thinking someone rescued Martha while she was injured, and brought her to their place to rest and recuperate--- which is why she's presumed dead, and why Henry wasn't ever given closure.

The next chapter is no doubt going to be explosive--- the 100th chapter. I feel like this arc will segue into something bigger, something more heart-wrenching and painful (I don't know how that's possible, but I trust Endo-sensei.)

---

Thank you for making this far and reading this whole thing! I hope you enjoyed, and I hope I wasn't annoying with my hatred for Donovan lol.

Also, on a more light-hearted note, I explained the plot of SxF to my dad, and he's intrigued and wants to read the manga. I'm planning on showing him the first ep of the anime, to see if he likes it. I feel like he will.