#he saw his cousin die from being definned

[fluffylandshark]

My bullion cubes are made of a lead-antimony alloy encased in a soft brass or copper-plated soft steel jacket and are administered at high speed.

*pelting you wih bullion cubes*

The bullion cubes will only make me stronger.

[thefloatingwriter]

beetee and coriolanus parallels consuming my every waking thought so coming on here to make it everyone else’s problem too because consider: they both grew up in poverty, their family’s struggling to make ends meet enough to pay for food. they both had something that distinguished themselves from their peers, coriolanus’ charm and beetee’s genius, that became something of a currency to them, something that they had that others didn’t when they were surrounded by people rich in everything else. they both had people they needed to protect, their families. they both rose above others to win something, the games, at the risk of losing themselves, even subconsciously, in order to save their families. they both met the “love of their life”, their songbird, through the games, while in a position of power above them as their mentors. they both risked the threat of death hanging above them in order to win the games, beetee in a bloody fight with another exhausted tribute just to be forgotten mere minutes later by the capitol and coriolanus slowly of starvation on the streets of the city he loved so much.

but the differences between them are what make them so similar and yet so vastly different as well. beetee and coriolanus both lost their innocence along the way to their victory in the games for beetee and the presidency for coriolanus, but beetee was forced into prostitution and to give up his brains for the very country he already killed for the entertainment of at the hands of a man who once watched his own cousin leave for the shadier districts of the capitol in the dead of night only to come back with food and a haunted look in her eyes. beetee was forced to come back every year to train kids to either become killers like him or die like the previous children that came last year and the year before that and the year before that, all to appease their president, a man who watched as some of his fellow mentors of the tenth slowly lost their light as the years go by, as more children die just like the ones they mentored all those years ago, as coriolanus snow himself climbs the political ladder, leaving a pile of bodies behind him. beetee and coriolanus both fell in love with their victors, wiress and lucy gray respectively, but coriolanus never saw lucy gray as a human being. she was district, below him, and besides, she was his, his tribute, his victor, his lucy gray. as soon as she realized who exactly snow was, a controlling, manipulative man who had already killed three people, one that he wouldn’t even admit to, she ran for her life, whereas wiress and beetee have never once strayed from the defining principle of any relationship: trust. wiress trusted beetee to help her win the hunger games, and he did. beetee trusted wiress to understand the meanings behind his sponsor gifts, the reasoning behind them or the lack of them, and she did. wiress trusted beetee with the rebellion even when he was indecisive on it, and he eventually helped the rebels when she couldn’t be there to do it herself. most importantly, beetee acknowledges that wiress is not his; she’s her own person with her own beliefs and opinions and characteristics that are vastly different from his own, but while that’s one of the most important aspects of beetee and wiress’ relationship, it’s something that coriolanus could never accept about his and lucy gray’s.

[starlightshadowsworld]

This is the reality for many Palestinian children in the Israeli prison system.

[Video transcript:

While we're on the topic of Palestinian prisoners, or as I like to refer to them, hostages. We need to talk about the case of Ahmed Manasra.

Who is serving a 9 and a half year sentence in Israeli prison. And has been in prison since the age of 13.

On October 12th 2015, Ahmed and his cousin Hassan were walking the streets of East Jerusalem when they were attacked by an Israeli mob.

This mob accused them of stabbing 2 of them and immediately shot and killed Hassan. And brutally beat up Ahmed, and running him over with a car.

Fracturing part of his skull.

There is a viral video of this mob yelling at Ahmed, taunting him, telling him to die as he is lying on the ground bleeding, pleading for help.

The Israeli occupational forces then brutally interrogated him without an attorney or parent present.

There is a video out there of his interrogation where these Israeli soilders are screaming at this child.

At the time it was illegal for children to be in prison, so the courts waited until his 14th birthday. He has been in and out of solitary confinement for years.

Which directly goes against international law.

(Excerpt from the United Nations reads: The Mandela Rules, updated in 2015, are a revised minimum standard of UN rules that defines solitary confinement as 'the condiment of prisoners for 22 hours or more a day without any meaningful human contact.'

Solitary confinement may only be imposed in exceptional circumstances, and "prolonged" solitary confinement of more than 15 consecutive days is regarded as a form of torture.)

He has been diagnosed with schizophrenia and severe depression with suicidal thoughts, due to the solitary confinement and the human rights abuses that the Israeli occupation have done to him.

Even though, the Israeli courts found out that he was not involved with the stabbings, he is still serving a 9 and a half year sentence for "attempted murder."

(Excerpt from AP news reads: The teenagers are typically held in 1 by 1.5-meter (3 by 5 foot) cell flooded with endless light, the group said.

Their only human contact is with interrogators. They return to their families deeply scarred, said Ayed Abu Eqtaish, the groups accountability program director.)

I saw a report saying that teenagers are usually held in cells that are 3 and a half by 5 feet.

Ahmed is locked in his cell for 23 hours a day. He is being kept in the Ramla prison. He is continually been denied family visits, medical care and a push for his early release.

He has been tortured endlessly since the age of 13 by the Israeli occupation forces.

There has been an international push for his release (image reads: GENEVA '14th July 2022- UN human rights experts today urged the Government of Israel to immediately release Ahmed Manasra, 20 year old Palestinian detailed in Israeli prisons since he was 13 years old. While suffering serious mental health conditions.)

Yet at the age of 21, Ahmed still remains in Israeli prison.

This push largely follows the fact that he is not being treated for his medical conditions, that the Israeli occupation forces caused him.

Israel took away Ahmed's childhood at age 13, we need to push for his immediate release.

Ahmed not only deserves to be at home with his family, but deserves justice for what happened to him.

End Transcript]

And who knows how many Ahmed's are unjustly abd illegally locked up and tortured in these prisons.

Because the majority of Palestinians in there, are children or were arrested as children.

With no reason to be there, admitted by Israel themselves.

[tawakkull]

SPIRITUALITY IN ISLAM: PART 48: FUTUWWA (YOUTH AND CHIVALRY)

Futuwwa, defined as youth and chivalry, is really a composite of such virtues as generosity, munificence, modesty, chastity, trustworthiness, loyalty, mercifulness, knowledge, humility, and piety.

It is a station on the path to God as well as a dimension of sainthood, and also signifies that one has made altruism and helping others one’s second nature. It is an important, indispensable dimension of good conduct and a significant aspect of humanity.

Derived from fata’ (young man), futuwwa has become a symbol of rebelling against all evil and striving for sincere servanthood to God:

They were young men who had believed in their Lord, and We increased them in guidance. And We strengthened their hearts, when they rose up and declared: Our Lord is the Lord of the heavens and Earth; we will not call upon any god beside Him, or then we had spoken an outrage. (18:14)

Expresses this eloquently. They said:

We have heard a youth talk of them (the idols); he is called Abraham (21:60)

expresses the position and influence of one who has achieved perfect futuwwa in his or her community, one who has sought to guide humanity to truth. By contrast, the young men mentioned in the verses:

With him there came into the prison two young men (12:36)

and:

(Joseph) told his young (servants) to put their merchandise (with which they had bartered) into their saddlebags (12:62) were ordinary young men without chivalry.

As many people have written on or talked about futuwwa since the Age of Happiness, the concept has been defined in many ways: not despising the poor or being deceived by the rich and riches; being fair to everybody without expecting fairness from anyone; living one’s life as a pitiless enemy of one’s carnal self; being ever considerate of others and living for them; smashing all idols or all that is idolized, and rebelling against falsehood so as to be wholly devoted to God Almighty; bearing whatever evil is done to oneself but thundering where the rights of God are violated; feeling remorse for the rest of one’s life for committing even a small sin, but overlooking others’ sins regardless of how large they are; seeing oneself as a poor, lowly servant while considering others as saintly; not resenting others while maintaining relations with those who resent you; being kind to those who hurt you; and serving God and the people more than anyone else, but preferring others to oneself when it is time to receive one’s wages.

Some have summed up futuwwa in the four virtues mentioned by Haydar Karrar ‘Ali, the fourth Caliph and cousin of the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings. They are: forgiving when one is able to punish, preserving mildness and acting mildly and gently when one is furious, wishing one’s enemies well and doing good to them, and being considerate of others’ wellbeing and happiness first, even when one is needy.

‘Ali was one of the greatest representatives of futuwwa. When he was stabbed by Ibn Muljam while leading the morning prayer in the mosque, his children, who saw that their father would die, asked him what he wanted them to do with Ibn Mul-jam. He did not order his execution in retaliation. [ Ibn al-Athir, Usd al-Ghaba, 4:118. ] During a battle, ‘Ali threw his enemy to the ground and then released him. His reason: When 'Ali was about to kill this man, the latter spat in 'Ali’s face, which angered him. Fearing that his motive for killing the man was now confused and sullied, 'Ali released him. [ Shamsaddin Sivasi, Manaqib Jiharyar Guzin, 258. ] He felt sincere grief when Zubayr ibn 'Awwam, a leading Companion and his staunch enemy, was killed. [ Al-Haythami, Majma’ al-Zawa'id, 9:150. ] Since he always considered others first even when he was in need, he usually wore summer clothes in winter and trembled with cold. [ Ibid., 9:122. ] It was said about him that there cannot be a young, chivalrous man like 'Ali, and there cannot be a sword like Dhu al-Fiqar ('Ali’s sword). [ 'Ali al-Qari, Al-Asrar al-Marfu'a fi akhbar al-Mawdu'a (Beirut, 1986), 367. ] 'Ali lived with the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings, and was raised by him. He lived a perfectly honest, pure life without any taint, and embodied God’s answer to the Prophet Moses, upon him be peace, about futuwwa: It means that you are able to return your self to me as pure or untainted as you took it from Me.

The signs of a fata’ (young, chivalrous one) are that the individual’s, created with the potential to accept Divine Unity and Islam, is totally convinced of Divine Unity; that it urges him or her to live according to the requirements of this conviction; that, without being captivated by carnal or bodily desires, he or she lives a pure, spiritual life; and that he or she always seeks to please God in his or her deeds, thoughts, and feelings. One who cannot be saved from the temptations of the carnal self, Satan, appetites, love of the world, or attachment to the worldly life cannot climb upward to the peak of futuwwa.

Futuwwa is a treasure obtainable by climbing high beyond all the “highest mountains of the world”;

What business have those who fall tired even on a smooth road with such a treasure?

[wisdomrays]

FUTUWWA (Youth and Chivalry)

Futuwwa, defined as youth and chivalry, is really a composite of such virtues as generosity, munificence, modesty, chastity, trustworthiness, loyalty, mercifulness, knowledge, humility, and piety. It is a station on the path to God as well as a dimension of sainthood, and also signifies that one has made altruism and helping others one's second nature. It is an important, indispensable dimension of good conduct and a significant aspect of humanity.

Derived from fata' (young man), futuwwa has become a symbol of rebelling against all evil and striving for sincere servanthood to God:

They were young men who had believed in their Lord, and We increased them in guidance. And We strengthened their hearts, when they rose up and declared: Our Lord is the Lord of the heavens and Earth; we will not call upon any god beside Him, or then we had spoken an outrage. (18:14)

Expresses this eloquently. They said: We have heard a youth talk of them (the idols); he is called Abraham (21:60) expresses the position and influence of one who has achieved perfect futuwwa in his or her community, one who has sought to guide humanity to truth. By contrast, the young men mentioned in the verses: With him there came into the prison two young men (12:36) and: (Joseph) told his young (servants) to put their merchandise (with which they had bartered) into their saddlebags (12:62) were ordinary young men without chivalry.

As many people have written on or talked about futuwwa since the Age of Happiness, the concept has been defined in many ways: not despising the poor or being deceived by the rich and riches; being fair to everybody without expecting fairness from anyone; living one's life as a pitiless enemy of one's carnal self; being ever considerate of others and living for them; smashing all idols or all that is idolized, and rebelling against falsehood so as to be wholly devoted to God Almighty; bearing whatever evil is done to oneself but thundering where the rights of God are violated; feeling remorse for the rest of one's life for committing even a small sin, but overlooking others' sins regardless of how large they are; seeing oneself as a poor, lowly servant while considering others as saintly; not resenting others while maintaining relations with those who resent you; being kind to those who hurt you; and serving God and the people more than anyone else, but preferring others to oneself when it is time to receive one's wages.

Some have summed up futuwwa in the four virtues mentioned by Haydar Karrar 'Ali, the fourth Caliph and cousin of the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings. They are: forgiving when one is able to punish, preserving mildness and acting mildly and gently when one is furious, wishing one's enemies well and doing good to them, and being considerate of others' wellbeing and happiness first, even when one is needy.

'Ali was one of the greatest representatives of futuwwa. When he was stabbed by Ibn Muljam while leading the morning prayer in the mosque, his children, who saw that their father would die, asked him what he wanted them to do with Ibn Mul-jam. He did not order his execution in retaliation. During a battle, 'Ali threw his enemy to the ground and then released him. His reason: When 'Ali was about to kill this man, the latter spat in 'Ali's face, which angered him. Fearing that his motive for killing the man was now confused and sullied, 'Ali released him. He felt sincere grief when Zubayr ibn 'Awwam, a leading Companion and his staunch enemy, was killed. Since he always considered others first even when he was in need, he usually wore summer clothes in winter and trembled with cold. It was said about him that there cannot be a young, chivalrous man like 'Ali, and there cannot be a sword like Dhu al-Fiqar ('Ali's sword). Ali lived with the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings, and was raised by him. He lived a perfectly honest, pure life without any taint, and embodied God's answer to the Prophet Moses, upon him be peace, about futuwwa: It means that you are able to return your self to me as pure or untainted as you took it from Me.

The signs of a fata' (young, chivalrous one) are that the individual's, created with the potential to accept Divine Unity and Islam, is totally convinced of Divine Unity; that it urges him or her to live according to the requirements of this conviction; that, without being captivated by carnal or bodily desires, he or she lives a pure, spiritual life; and that he or she always seeks to please God in his or her deeds, thoughts, and feelings. One who cannot be saved from the temptations of the carnal self, Satan, appetites, love of the world, or attachment to the worldly life cannot climb upward to the peak of futuwwa.

Futuwwa is a treasure obtainable by climbing high beyond all the "highest mountains of the world";

What business have those who fall tired even on a smooth road with such a treasure?

[leesielex]

A mother of two who expects a sheltered 11 year old who wants to see the good in others to think like a grown adult?

I know this is in response to my Sansa post. So let me gladly explain. I’m not talking about an 11 year old who wants to see the good in people. I have two children. One who is mature for her age and one who is immature. My youngest is now 11. And both my kids would have never done what Sansa had. They are much more like Arya than Sansa to be sure because they would never lie over something so horrible. You seem to be putting your own head canon into this that Sansa wants to see the good in people and that’s it. Period. And she gets burned for that alone. That’s just part of the story. She also sees the worst in her own sister, whom she has bullied for not being a traditional lady. She also saw with her own eyes who Joffrey and Cersei were, and still lies to take their side over her own sister. No my oldest would protect my youngest at all costs, and would never lie to protect someone else, not even a boy she thought she loved. My youngest wouldn’t lie in such a situation either. Even after Cersei kills lady, she never takes responsibility for her part, doesn’t blame Cersei since she still trusts her and goes to her resulting in Ned’s arrest and eventually executed, instead she falsely blames Arya for Lady’s death. Not herself for lying, not Joffrey for instigating it all, and not Cersei for demanding Lady’s head though the wolf was innocent. She never cares for the innocent boy murdered for Joffrey’s actions. But even then, while I can not condone Sansa’s actions, nor will I gloss over them, her parents are largely to blame for letting her fill her head with fantasies and not raising her better, other than to be a good wife and have sons, and letting her keep this animosity for Arya. They kept her naive and sheltered, but how long are they to blame?

You seem to think Sansa stays the naive 11 year old. But in the WOW released Alayne chapter she is the same age Dany was when she married drogo and hatched dragons, the same chapters people judge Dany harshly for every thought and action claiming she is a master and evil, despite GRRM denying this and very much showing she is one of the heroes in the books. How is it right to judge Dany so harshly but Sansa gets a free pass at the same age after she has experience after experience proving to her not to trust these people? And those same people defending Sansa also blame and judge a 9-11 year old Arya just as badly as they do Dany. No, I don’t blame or judge Sansa in the first few chapters of the first book when she is naive and seeing the good in people from her sheltered upbringing, I rightly define her character based on chapter after chapter over years of several books that she still is more interested in marrying well than her own family’s lives and wellbeing.

Despite knowing nothing of Harry Hardyng besides he is good looking and the heir if Sweetrobin dies, she still thinks that she hopes Robin Arryn had enough of the POISON that is slowly killing him so he won’t make a scene when she dances with Harry to gain his affection to hopefully seal the marriage pact. She says this even after Robin says he knows Harry wants him to die so he can take his title as Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of Vale. He is correct, and even after she has taken care of her cousin and sees he is being slowly poisoned, she cares only for her own marriage to a handsome man and his title. After all she saw and suffered in King’s Landing, she has learned nothing. If she has learned anything it seems it will be to be more like Cersei and Littlefinger. I enjoy Sansa POV chapters very much, and I do not dislike her character, I do dislike many peoples inability to see her for the grey character she is and the possible darker turn she will take. I dislike her, and those who Stan her’s, inability to take any responsibility for her own actions.

Which is why I love Jon and Dany as characters, as in the books they are constantly measuring their actions and thoughts and trying to be better no matter how many times they fail. They take accountability when they screw up and take steps to rectify it. They actually grow and learn and are building. They are just as grey as every character, but they want to do better, where Sansa does and thinks very little about helping anyone but herself. Her thoughts are most entirely self-centered, even wishing her best friend Jeyne would stop crying because it was annoying after Jeyne had just witnessed northmen dying, including Jeyne’s father we learn, and during this time Sansa is not mostly concerned of her father, her sister, the northmen, she is concerned for her marriage to Joffrey. She doesn’t gain the self-realization she brought this on as well by trusting Cersei (though I agree Ned is mostly to blame, and Catelyn is not blameless, both more so than 11 year old Sansa) but she seems to never gain the insight to see how her selfish and naive actions affected anyone and she certainly doesn’t fix this defect within herself as we see her making the same mistake in WOW Alayne chapter.

Me being a mother of two only shows me to judge her parents for raising her so poorly and never teaching her properly how the outside world is and that family sticks together, though it seems to me Ned tried, that is literally the saying of the pack survives, but Sansa is so self centered she only wants her family if they act how she wants them to. She doesn’t want the sister she has because she doesn’t accept her for who she is. Catelyn’s doing I would say. but as a mother I also know not to shirk and dismiss a child’s responsibility for their own actions or they will never learn, and that is why Sansa is still the same 11 year old girl years later still caring more about marrying Harry than her own cousin. She has never had that moment of someone talking to her to see the error of her ways, and she has never realized her own mistakes or accountability. And that is why I don’t Stan Sansa. I can appreciate her character as it is without dismissing the wrong she does and raising her onto a pedestal.

[scoobydoo-ghoulschool]

Harringrove Week Day 6

June 29th: Free Space (Favorite Book - Heir Apparent) Fic + Mood Board

Heir Presumptive (Rated Teen and Up) (Multi-Chapter WIP)

In the virtual reality game Kings & Intrigue, there are way too many ways to get killed--and Steve and Billy seem to be finding them all. Which is a shame, because unless they can get the magic ring, climb the glass mountain, answer the dryad's stupid riddles, impress the gold spinning sorceress, charm the castle of ghosts, fend off the giant and defeat the man-eating dragon, they'll never win. And they have to, because losing means they'll die--for real this time.

It was Steve’s 17th birthday, and he was arguing with a bus. How pathetic was that?

Even before the bus had started in on him, his mood wasn’t exactly the best it’s ever been. Birthdays did that to him. This year he didn’t even have a good excuse: He’d actually received a birthday gift from his father on time, which might have been a sign he was making an effort to be a more considerate and involved dad. Of course, if he was really considerate and involved, he wouldn’t have had his secretary call to ask what kind of gift certificate Steve wanted for his birthday.

Whatever. Birthday’s = don’t-mess-with-me moods. It was just a fact of life at this point.

So there he was, on his way to cash in his gift certificate, riding on a bus powered by artificial intelligence—emphasis on the artificial .

He saw the picketers just as the bus paged him: “Passenger Stephen Harrington, you asked to disembark at the Munson Gaming Center, but there is a civil disturbance at your stop. Do you wish to continue to another destination, or would you prefer to be returned to the location at which you boarded?” The voice was kind and polite and only slightly metallic.

Steve, however, was not feeling polite. He sighed. Loudly. “Are they on strike?” He asked into the speaker embedded in the armrest.

There was a brief pause while the bus’s computer brain accessed Central Information. “Munson employees are not on strike,” the bus reassured him, at just about the same time that he could make out the picketers’ signs. “The demonstration is by members of CPOC.”

He sighed even louder. Citizens to Protect Our Children were a nuisance at best, and ironically a danger to society at worst. At 17 Steve was technically still a kid, and was willing to accept protection from stray meteors, ecoterrorists, and maybe even his seven-year-old cousin, Todd. He definitely didn’t feel in need of protection from CPOC, which strongly believed that only G-rated movies should be made and that libraries should stock only nice, uplifting books that promoted solid family values—nice being defined as nothing supernatural, nothing violent, nothing scary. That about killed his entire reading list. He thought maybe there were a couple alphabet books they approved of. Still, as far as he knew, this was the first time they’d ever come after Munson Gaming.

He had excellent timing like that.

As the bus passed by the patch of sidewalk the picketers had claimed, he could read their signs: MAGIC = SATANISM and VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE and INAPPROPRIATE FOR OUR CHILDREN.

“Why can’t you drop me off?” he asked. “Legally, they aren’t allowed to obstruct anyone from going in.” he’d learned that in Participation in Government class.

“Indianapolis Transit Authority is prohibited from letting a minor disembark into a situation that might be hazardous,” the bus told him. It even sounded a little stern when it replied.

A little bit of artificial intelligence can be an annoying thing. “I’m barely a minor. And what are they going to do: smack me on the head with a pamphlet?” He asked.

The bus didn’t answer and kept on moving. He was not going to win an argument, he could tell.

“Well, then,” he said, “let me off at the next stop.”

“Not if you intend to return to the Munson Gaming Center stop,” the bus responded.

He checked their progress on the real-time electronic route map displayed on the back of the seat in front of him and told the bus, “Of course not. I’ll just go to the art museum instead.”

“That is on this vehicle’s route and is only one block away,” the bus told him. “Estimated time of arrival, thirty seconds.”

So much for artificial intelligence. A human bus driver could have guessed that he hadn’t developed a sudden craving for culture. Then again, a human bus driver probably wouldn’t have cared that a 17 year old wanted to go play video games, any more than the other passengers did.

The bus stopped in front of the museum. “Have a nice day, Stephen Harrington,” the bus told him.

He smiled and gave a Queen Victoria wave, and muttered under his breath, “Your mom was a toaster oven.”

~~~

As he approached the gaming center, he could see the picketers were quiet and orderly; so using his human intelligence, he deduced they weren’t dangerous. Once he got in front of the building, he sprinted for the doorway. It was beneath a large red-and-gold sign flanked by rearing dragons: MUNSON GAMING CENTER.

At least one of the picketers realized his intent and started quoting some Bible verse at him, complete with yeas and thous and wicked ones.

Steve started walking faster, and the picketer started quoting faster, which would have been fine except he was also moving to cut Steve off. He reached the door and a Munson employee opened it for him, which was better service than they’d ever provided before. She was probably set there to make sure the picketers didn’t physically interfere with the customers.

Once the door was shut behind him, it blocked out road noise and protester noise alike.

The lobby of a Munson Gaming Center looked pretty much like the lobby of a movie theater. Lots of slick posters advertising the latest games, a concession stand, booths where you could feed in tokens and play some of the older virtual reality arcade-type games. For a Saturday on a nice April afternoon, the place looked dead, though the popcorn machine was going, wafting the enticing smell of fresh popcorn all the way down to the doors where he’d come in.

But he was self-disciplined and resisted. He went up to the reception desk in the waiting area. The total immersion gaming rooms were beyond, where they hooked people up to the computer—as an individual or with a group—to experience a role-playing fantasy game.

Robin Buckley stood behind the counter, and Steve approached without her noticing. She was tapping away at her computer keys with the speed, concentration, and fervor of someone who had to be playing Tetris instead of working.

She must have made a game-ending mistake because she scowled and looked up. 

“What are you doing here? I don’t get off for another two hours,” she asked in surprise as soon as she registered who he was.

Steve put the gift certificate down on the counter in front of Robin, and she looked at it quizzically for a moment.

“Present from my Dad,” he explained, watching the gown they had Robin wear that was medieval style but that shimmered and slowly shifted color, going from pink to lavender to deep purple to blue. He knew that if he watched long enough, it would cycle through the rainbow. 

“Wow, he really went all out huh?” Robin said looking down at the flimsy gift certificate with an astounding amount of sarcasm. Steve took it back with a frown.

“At least he remembered this time,” he said quickly, stuffing the certificate back in his pocket. Robin pursed her lips, but didn’t add anything. He appreciated her few moments of self restraint.

“Well, this’ll get you half an hour of total immersion game time. You thinking Dragons Doom, or Haunted Manor?”

“Got anything newer?”

“Since last Tuesday? No- but, you know you still haven’t tried any of the multiplayer games,” she said, swiping through something on her computer screen.

“I don’t have multiple players Robin, unless you’re planning on ditching early,” Steve said, and Robin rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t suggest it unless it was an option doofus. There’s a guy in the waiting room who’s looking for a partner to play Kings and Intrigue, I can show you the trailer for it if you’re interested?”

Generally Steve didn’t like playing with strangers, but it seemed even more pathetic to be playing alone on his Birthday. He shrugged.

“I guess. Sure- why not?”

Robin reached over, and turned on the screen at the counter, and the games trailer began to play.

The voice-over described Kings & Intrigue as a game of strategy and shifting alliances. “The king is dying,” the voice said. “Are you next in line for the throne, or next in line to die?” There was a flurry of quick scenes: a castle on a hill, an army assembling, a dragon, someone being pursued through the woods, a woman tossing powder into the air, and a shower of gold emerging from the powder. 

“Who can you trust?” the voice asked. The screen went dark with an ominous thud like a dungeon door slamming. A child’s voice whispered, “Bad choice,” and cackling laughter echoed while the name Kings & Intrigue flashed on the screen, then slowly faded.

“Seems cool enough,” Steve shrugged, and Robin nodded, before moving back to her computer terminal.

“You know the whole spiel, but because the computer directly stimulates your brain, you will feel as though you’re actually experiencing the adventure blah blah blah.” Robin rolled her hand, as she spoke, and Steve smiled and shook his head. “Half an hour of game time will take you through the two weeks of your chosen computer adventure. You will smell the smells, taste the tastes, feel the texture of the clothes you’re wearing and the things you touch. You will experience cold if your computer persona is in a situation where he or she would feel cold, just as you will feel hunger and you might feel pain. If your persona is killed off, you will not, of course, feel that pain. You are guaranteed at least thirty minutes of playtime. If you get killed before your thirty minutes have been used up, you will be given another life and the adventure will automatically restart. Once you have started a life, you will be able to continue until you successfully finish or until you are killed, even if your thirty minutes runs out part way through. Any questions?”

“No,” Steve said with a raised eyebrow, and Robin sighed.

“Not my fault, I have to tell everyone that.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said as she sighed and moved around the counter to lead him to Kings & Intrigue gaming room.

“Alright, follow me.”

Steve had spent as much time as any rich kid with few friends could at Munson Gaming. Which meant, like a lot of time. But he'd never had the chance to play any multiplayer games before. As Robin led him into the furthest room down the long winding corridor, the room setup didn't appear much different than a single players. Two white, sleek looking easy chairs, with a funky looking helmet thing held atop. He knew from experience the helmet would come down, and then Steve would enter the game.

The one thing of course, that Steve had not been expecting, was Billy Hargrove.

“No, no thanks, I’m good actually,” he said as soon as he and Robin stepped into the room. Billy was already up and out of the waiting chairs, his momentary shock already replaced by a frown.

"You have got to be kidding me," the other boy said, his pretty face already twisted in frustration. It was April, but the guy was dressed in just a tight t-shirt and ripped jeans. It made Steve's scowl deepen.

"You guys know each other?" Robin asked, a little flustered.

"Vaguely," Steve said, crossing his arms, and Billy scoffed.

"What, being team mates mean anything these days?"

"Yeah, if my teammates don't deck me for-" Steve began to snap, before Robin interceded eyes wide.

"Hey, okay uh- listen, I can't go back into the system to get you into other games at this point. You both already paid for a half hour in this game. So it's this or nothing, is that gonna be alright?" Robin stopped them, moving just slightly in between them. Steve took a step back, letting out a slow breath.

"As long as we don't have to work together," Billy said after a moment, and Steve glared.

"There is a competitive mode. Steve, you okay with that?" Robin asked, worrying her bottom lip as she turned back to him. He looked over at Billy, who annoyingly chose to just smirk at him.

"That's fine with me," he said lowly, and Robin sighed. She motioned for them both to sit down.

"Okay, so, in competitive mode, you're not just working against the clock, you're working against each other. If either of you beats the game before the time is up, it's over for both of you. Got it?"

"Got it," they said together, and Steve couldn't help but cringe, just a little.

Sitting down he was back to back with Billy and he took a steadying breath, before leaning into position. Robin gave him a worrying glance before moving over to begin adjusting the VR helmet. It began to lower slowly, and Steve watched as Robin disappeared from his vision.

The last thing he heard before it all went dark was her voice saying-“Oh, and Happy birthday Steve.”

Had trouble choosing a prompt for this day so I went with something a little different. It's a fic I've wanted to do for awhile and thought it would be nice to introduce for Harringrove week.

[elonaackerman]

In a few hour's the spoiler leaks are going to be released for the final chapter of Attack on titan manga and the official translation on April 9th so before all that happens what are you're thoughts and predictions between the character's and the end of the storyline?

https://ww7.readsnk.com/chapter/shingeki-no-kyojin-spoilers-raw-chapter-139/.

Hello Kian ! I see several of your questions about the ending and I must say I was lost myself with everything happening. However, I think I elaborated a good theory now !

Theory number 1: Eren is alive

This is the theory I acknowledge the most. Many people say that Eren not dying would be too strange after he already survived so much times to his expected deaths, but I don’t think so. Isayama loves to take some clichés and to twist them:

Here is a brief list:

- The MC not dying in the first episodes

- The power of will and friendship (which is shown to be useless in the Trost arc)

- The guy protecting the girl (Mikasa is Eren’s bodyguard, not the contrary)

- The main trio sticking together until the end

- The MC being « special »/being the « chosen one » (Eren is an usurpator)

Something very used in films/books is to use the absence of body as a way to cancel the absolute truth of a death. By showing us a body, Isayama can fool us by transgressing this common rule of « body=dead ».

Also Eren’s death in chapter 138 was just serving Mikasa’s development arc climax. It didn’t solve any matter of their world.

You know I feel like Eren was very relaxed when he saw Mikasa approaching to kill him. He probably already knew what she was going to do and even closed his eyes when she did it (you can see it since on the last panel, Eren has his eyes closed). I feel like if Eren acted this way, it’s because he transferred his consciousness to his body (all this time his head was controlling the titan so he may have regenerated a head on his body). It would explain why this concept was introduced to us with Reiner in season 3 and then never used again.

Plus, Grisha said everything would go along to Eren’s plan, but if Eren didn’t succeed, the Rumbling is stopped and hell awaits eldians: they will be killed after what happened, considered too dangerous, more than they already were. And even if the titan power is removed, there will still be a large part of hate and of revenge in the Rumbling survivors’ hearts. I don’t believe the « Code Geass theory » which says that Eren did the rumbling so the world could see Eldians defending it, and stand united with Mahrs against him (in the role of the bad guy), especially since some Eldians sided with Eren and that he exposed them in Revelio or even in Paradise with his devoted Yeagerists. It’s not realistic at all and it doesn’t fit nor Eren’s character, nor SNK spirit.

Eren had defined goals: « exterminate them all », and that’s what he did, he doesn’t seem to want to stop the rumbling on this panel:

Isayama said he didn’t like characters who weren’t true to their goals, that let the story change their plans and motivations too easily. He wouldn’t give to his MC the traits of a writing he despise.

Another reason why I believe the guy is alive is because his POV was hidden all this time. What’s the point of not giving to us Eren’s perspective while his final battle, when it would have been more powerful, if you did not have a big secret/plot twist generator to hide ? I think Eren and Ymir, who smiles like a creep in 138, manipulated everyone: the way Armin came with all the titan shifters in 137 with the help of Ymir was already really suspicious. Kruger, for example, had no reason to stand against Eren.

Chapter 137 was Armin, 138 was Mikasa so we will surely get Eren perspective for 139. And it will be weird if we have it while the guy is dead. Of course we’ll see what happened in chapter 130 between Eren and Historia (I can’t wait for their POVs) and Historia’s baby. The final panel makes me even more sure that Eren is still alive otherwise who on earth would say « You are free » to a new born child ? Eren x Freedom is canon.

• The Attack Titan

We know the path is a place out of time. It’s in this place that titans are sculpted by Ymir, and that’s why I think it makes sense for Eren to be the first owner of that titan: the attack titan is the only one who ascends in the past instead of descending in the future. If physically it seems to be passed down following the classical timeline, all of it is actually playing in the paths. The Attack Titan was only possessed by rebels, directly influenced by Eren’s mindset. It disappeared at a time, and it was also a part of Ymir’s titan: it’s her rebellious part designed to « attack » the world 2000 years later. I think Isayama might add depth again to the title of the story in 139.

• Major deaths

I can’t help but think: why did Eren let Mikasa cut his head and even indicated his location with titan marks ? I think that it’s possible he wants his last friends to fly away from the battle, thinking they have won when they didn’t, so that he can restart the Rumbling without killing them. The survivors would be Levi, Mikasa, Armin and probably Annie. I think Reiner will die to let Gaby eat him, so that Falco and Gaby, representing the future, can be saved.

It makes sense for Reiner to sacrifice himself for his little cousin: he lived for the ones he loved even if he didn’t wish to live himself, and since Gaby represents the new generation, hope, and that she was the potential inheritor of the Armored Titan, I am convinced she is the one who will eat him.

After that the most probable thing is that Levi and Mikasa, who grew incredibly closer, will live together, same for Annie and Armin. Eren will achieve the Rumbling then go back to Historia and we will have that Akatsuki no Requiem ending.

However, a darker possibility is that everyone except Falco and Gaby might die. I am in denial 😄✌🏻

But, I ask myself how Eren will make titans disappear. I think he might have plotted something with Ymir, after all isn’t she free from King Fritz now ? Or maybe Falco will eradicate the worm (bird vs worm is kinda obvious). However I do not think the people transformed into titans will turn back to normal, it’s not Isayama’s style to « bring back » dead characters, it would make Jean’s and Connie’s deaths less tragic. I think that only shifters will loose their ability and the 13 years thing.

Theory 2: if Eren is dead

• Ymir’s manipulation

I don’t wanna believe it but what if all of this was Ymir’s plan ? If he IS dead, it’s Ymir who is the mastermind and manipulated him so that the parasite would die and that she could get out off the paths. « I took the world’s freedom to gain mine » what if it’s YMIR TALKING in 133 ? She could even had sent the dream to Mikasa in 138 so that she would know WHERE Eren was and kill him, all of this after Ymir took revenge on the world. Remember, the titan who protected Zeke came from earth, and Ymir entered in contact with « the source of all organic life », which means she could be the one behind the birds we keep seeing, including the one on Mikasa dream. She could be smiling because her plan WORKED.

Also remember in the paths where Eren was talking to the Alliance ? He was in his kid Eren form, like Ymir, we didn’t see his eyes, showing his slavery and a strange alike-look. Ymir was standing right next to him, in the exact same position, mirroring him as if he was a sort of reflection/puppet of hers. Everybody thought the contrary until now, that Ymir followed Eren. While she was here, Eren was saying that the only way to end all of this was to take his life: what if Ymir made him say that ?

It makes even more sense when Ymir helped Armin with summoning shifters and that they also had their mouths don’t moving.

• Eldian Society ?

The only way to resolve  everything if Eren is dead is to create an Eldian empire domination with the rest of the world being weak and wiped out. Everybody would live on Paradise and would be teached about the cycle of hate and the heroes who stopped the Rumbling as new Helos, giving us an explanation of that picture in the opening (it could also be Eren’s society as well meant to not repeat the same mistakes as well)

I hope you liked it ! Let’s not suffer too much during the waiting and organize cottagecore RM and EH weddings with the beach Aruannie one instead of crying 💁🏻‍♀️

[barkkletshunt]

Those Worth Fighting For Part eight

I feel like I’m really pushing out these parts right now lol It’s been so long since I’ve had a few days off to work on this. I hope you like it! 

Part one             Part two

Part three           Part four

Part five             Part six

Part seven         Bonus scene 1

Part eight (You’re here)

Taglist: 

@ladybug-182 @fruit-snacc-ace @miraculous-simmer7 @lavenderjunes @use-flamethrower @fan-written @all-mights-asscheeks @birdie-posts

Marinette looked over her pajamas, wondering why she thought having a pajama date as one of their first dates was a good idea. It was her idea and she wasn’t going to go back on it, but oh God why didn’t she own any cute pajamas? 

“Marinette, I thought you wanted to have a laid back date? Why are you stressing out about your outfit?” Tikki knew Marinette better than anyone else, but even she had a hard time understanding her current holders mind sometimes. “Why not wear your comfiest pajamas?”

The blue haired girl looked over to the pajamas she had worn the night before, the comfiest pajamas she owned, and sized up the hot chocolate stains and the tear on the left leg from when she got it caught on the balcony bar. She meant to fix it, but with school and her other projects as MDC the PJ’s were put on the backburner. “Yeah, no, that’s not happening. I’m still trying to impress him.”

“Then what about the set your Grandfather bought you for christmas?” Tikki asked, floating above Marinette’s shoulder to look at the silk pin striped PJ’s. “Those are impressive!”

“But they’re too impressive. It won’t look natural and it will come across as I’m trying too hard.” The woman began biting at her lip, looking over the other pairs of pajamas she owned. “What if I wore the pair Chat Noir bought me? They are comfortable, kinda cute, and they come with slippers to match.”

“The Ladybug ones?” Tikki thought it over for a moment. “They are nice without being too nice, and comfortable without being overworn. I think they’re a good bet!”

Marinette changed into the pajamas her former hero partner had given her, and tucked her feet into the boot slippers that matched. Although they were too big for her as a teen they now fit her perfectly now that her body looked more like her body as a heroine. She was taller now, and from constant training with her mother and Kagami her muscles had grown strong and resilient. She still couldn’t leap from building to building as a civilian, but she could certainly hold her own when it came to freerunning and parkour. 

“I wonder what he’s going to wear,” she said absentmindedly to her kwami as she changed, stripping off her school clothes and hopping into the pajama pants successfully without falling over. “Something flashy, I’m sure.”

“Maybe he has normal pajamas and is worried you’ll think he isn’t as fancy?

“Ha, I wish. He’s fancy through and through.” Marinette laughed, pulling the shirt over her head. “Maybe I can convince him to dress like a normal person like the rest of us mere mortals. He’d look really good in a turtleneck.”

She looked herself over in the mirror and sighed. She looked too much like Ladybug for her own comfort. While they were the perfect level of baggy, and the colour was slightly off from her actual suit, having red pants with black polka dots made her take a second look at herself. 

The shirt was white, with a pun on it, with red sleeves that matched the pants, and even the booties matched the ladybug pattern to tie everything together. She either looked like someone who absolutely loved Ladybug, or Ladybug herself trying to throw off someone's scent by pretending to be a die hard fan. Either way, she needed to change.

Knock, knock, knock.

Or she would change if Felix wasn’t so damned punctual.

Marinette grabbed her coat and the baked goods she got from her parents earlier and headed towards the door. On the other side was Felix, looking as handsome as ever. She could see baggy track pants underneath his black trench coat, but none of that mattered the second he leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on the top of her head.

“I brought you coffee.” His voice was soft, as if worried saying anything would stop the butterflies that began to flutter in her stomach. “Are you alright with pizza tonight? I was running errands all day and I didn’t have a chance to pick anything up to cook.”

Marinette wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight, feeling him stiffen for just a moment before returning the affectionate gesture. It wasn’t the first time she had hugged him since reuniting with the blond, but it was the first hug she had given him that she allowed herself to savour. 

She could feel his back muscles through his thin coat, and wondered briefly what he did to make them so defined. In his suits it was hard to tell how muscular he was, but from the hold he had on her she figured he was a lot stronger than he looked.

It was just a simple hug, but he held her like he was afraid to let her go. Maybe it was just her mind going haywire from how good the man before her smelt, like fresh soap and coffee. It was warm and clean and she loved it. 

The hug was over too soon and both parties let go with mild embarrassment at how much they enjoyed it. They looked at the walls and the floors, anything not to meet each other's gaze until they finally did. Neither could help the laughter that bubbled from their lips at seeing how the other felt the same way. It was easy and light being with him, and she wondered if that was how the starting of love was supposed to be. 

“So, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, are you ready to go back to my temporary Parisian home with my cousin and his fiancee and look over the seating placements?” Felix asked, trying to regain his air of formality but failing as his smile kept returning. He offered his arm to her, finally giving up on hiding his giddiness at their first official date. “And start preparing the invitations to what I assume is half of France itself?”

“Why, Felix!” She giggled, taking his arm and walking down the hallway of her apartment building with him. “I thought you’d never ask!”

Felix was a gentleman. This was an irrefutable fact. He took the bag of baked goods from her to carry it himself, he opened the car door for her and waited until she was in and buckled before closing the door and getting in on his side. He made sure to get out of the car first to hold her door open for her again, and did the same at the front door of the house. It didn’t even seem like he was trying to impress her, it was just his natural habits. 

“Fel! Mari! Good timing!” Adrien’s voice called to them the second they were in the house, before Felix had a chance to take her coat and hang it up. “We’re in the living room.”

The two looked at each other, their confusion etched upon their faces. 

“Well, better get this over with.” Felix sighed, slowly unbuttoning his coat and taking it off. Revealing the black t-shirt underneath with the design of a suit printed on the chest. She wanted to laugh. Of course, how did she not think of it? This way he could still wear a suit to bed! “Oh, it gets better. I have a matching pair of slippers to yours.” 

As Felix reached into the closet to put his coat away, he pulled out a pair of familiar looking slippers. She hadn’t seen them before, but she had seen up close where the design came from. The slippers Felix put on resembled Chat Noir’s boots. Without planning it out ahead of time the two of them matched. No wonder they liked each other so much.

When they made their way to the living room, with a slight detour to the kitchen to set down the pizza and the baked goods, they saw Kagami and Adrien sitting on one of the sofa’s dressed like they came right out of a 90’s parent teacher conference. Kagami wore a blouse Marinette was sure she had never seen on her friend before, and Adrien wore a dress shirt with a sweater vest over it. They both had glasses on, and she knew for a fact neither of them needed glasses. 

Adrien looked at Marinette and seemed to freeze for a moment before returning to his disappointed face. 

“What’s going on?” She began to ask, but the two crossed their arms and nodded towards the couch across from them. 

Marinette and Felix sat down, looking confused as ever. 

“Marinette, darling, we need to talk.” Kagami started, her monotone voice not matching her words. “We were informed today about something that shocked us to our core.”

“We’re not mad that you didn’t tell us,” Adrien continued, nodding along. Marinette noticed the model was wearing a fake mustache. “Just disappointed.”

“And what, prey tell, was I supposed to tell you?” She wanted to laugh. She knew their game, she knew exactly what they were playing at. It didn’t make it any less hilarious to her. 

“And Felix, I expected better from you than withholding secrets from me.” Adrien fake cried onto Kagami’s shoulder, who only patted his back in an attempt to soothe him.

“It’s okay dear, as her father I will handle this.” Kagami whispered.

“I thought I was the father, that’s why I’m wearing the mustache.” Adrien lifted his head.

“You’re the emotional mother who doesn’t know how to handle her daughter's secret life, and I’m the father who will be stern but also loves his wife despite the facial hair because you have a beautiful spirit.” Kagami stated. 

“You’d be a great dad.”

“I already am.” Kagami adjusted herself. “Marinette, how could you not tell us you were dating Felix?”

Felix stared at his cousin and his fiancee. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Had Adrien always been this goofy? Had Kagami?

“Mom, Dad, I’m sorry, it’s still new. This is our first date.” Marinette leaned forward and grabbed Kagami’s hand. Felix groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. If he wasn’t already smitten with the blue haired woman, he was sure he’d fall for her again right then and there. His cousin and his soon to be wife, correction, his family loved Marinette so much that they had these silly little jokes and the woman had no problem playing along. She was every bit of the family already and if they were that protective of her then he knew he was falling for the right girl. 

“First date so far, but thankfully you two have given us enough excuses to spend time together that we’re bound to have more dates in the future.” Felix nudged Marinette lightly with his elbow. “Maybe we’ll even, gasp, become a serious relationship and rival your fame.”

“You will if Alya has anything to say about it.” Kagami mumbled. 

“What?” Marinette squinted at her friend, but Kagami shook her head and refused to answer. 

“Well, do I need to grab my sword and threaten you not to hurt my daughter?” Kagami asked Felix, all joking leaving her. 

“No worries, Ma’am, er, sir? I will treat Marinette with the utmost respect.” Felix gave a salute to the Japanese woman. “Now can we go and finish our mission of preparing the invitations to your wedding? While we may be dressed for night time, we aren’t planning on working all night.”

“Speaking of how you’re dressed,” Adrien’s voice wavered for a second. “Marinette, where did you get those pajamas?”

She looked down at herself. How was she supposed to say that the former black cat of Paris gave them to her alter ego self for Christmas? She wasn’t. “A friend got them for me, I’m not sure where he bought them from. Why? Are you jealous?”

Adrien laughed, but it almost sounded forced. “You got me. I wanted them, but oh well.”

Kagami looked at her fiance who just waved her off.

“Well, those pajamas look good on you, M’lady.” Adrien stood up and offered his hand to Kagami who took it and followed his lead. “We’re going to go spar for a bit. Let me know if you two want to join us!”

M’Lady? When had Adrien ever called her that? 

“Well Miss. Bug, shall we be off?” Felix’s voice snapped her out of her train of thought, and then immediately threw her down another hole of questioning. Did he just call her Miss. Bug? The same way that Alley Cat did? Was it just her pajamas making the two blonds act this way, or was there more to the story? God, she was beginning to sound like Alya. 

“Pizza first, invitations second, and third movie time! Sounds good?”

“Anything sounds good if you say it.”

Marinette’s cheeks burned. With all thoughts of Chat Noir and Alley Cat forgotten, the two of them left to the kitchen.

[fandom-puff]

Malfoy!Reader dating Fred Weasley

Requested by: anon

AN: I put the reader as a slytherin bc... malfoys... and at age eleven she wanted to be in the same house as her brother, her dad etc. Also, reader is draco’s twin so their relationship didn’t start when she was too young. Also, this is a bit of an AU, so Fred doesn’t die lol

Gif creds to owner

Warnings: swearing, Lucius and Draco being quite prejudiced, references to sex but no actual getting jiggy with it

You had always thought Fred snd george were funny, and had been rather sad when they left school in your fifth year

Of course, you didn’t let on to Draco, as he would certainly tell mother (he was rather a mummy’s boy, but you couldn’t point that out to him, as he would just tell you that you’re a daddy’s girl)

You spent your summer daydreaming, sitting in the gardens in the manor or gazing out of your window

Your mother was beginning to talk about arranging a marriage for you (she had been in one, as had Aunt Bella, as well as most traditional pure bloods), but you brushed off every suitor she suggested, with increasingly ridiculous excuses

“Oh, honestly, YN, if you carry on like this, mother and father will have to marry you off to blood traitors like the Weasleys,” Draco teased, and you tensed up slightly

“Oh shut it, Draco, at least theyre one of the only pure blooded families that don’t fuck their cousins and force their daughters into arranged marriages,” you huffed, storming off to your bedroom

Several days later, your mother came to your room and asked if you were coming to diagon Alley with her and Draco

You agreed, and while Draco and narcissa were fussing over robes in madam malkin’s shop, you slipped away to check out the brand new Weasley shop

It was wonderful, and you quickly got distracted by all the colours and sounds and displays

That was until a second year bolted past you and caused you to stumble up some steps, but a strong hand grabbed your arm, stopping your fall

“Oi! Watch it- nearly broke this lovely girl’s neck!” He shouted, before leaning down to you. “You alright? Oh. Well if it isn’t Miss Malfoy,” he grinned, without malice.

“Yeah... Draco’s getting his robes fitted and I couldn’t be arsed listening to his whining. I... I really love the shop,” you said bashfully. “Be careful though, Filch will be banning postal orders to the school,” you grinned, and you settled into easy conversation as Fred took you on a tour of the shop

Ron, Harry, hermione and George watched with dropped jaws

Eventually, you had to leave, to stop your mother and brother from getting suspicious

On the train to hogwarts, you sat with Draco and Blaise and Pansy (And you had to stop yourself from gagging at pansy’s simpering)

Draco made a comment on the weasleys finally having a bit of gold yet still wearing their ‘tat’

“Enough, Draco. Money doesn’t define people’s worth” you snapped

“Ugh, don’t tell me you fancy one of them, YN,”

“Ha! Which one, they breed like rabbits!” Palsy chimed in.

“I’ve had enough of this,” you said, and went to go and sit elsewhere

The argument was forgotten w little while later, and a few weeks into term, a small barn owl landed in front of you, dropping a letter, addressed to ‘the loveliest Malfoy’

You hurried off to read the letter, which was an invite from Fred to the three broomsticks on the next hogsmeade weekend and the rest, as they say was history.

Your relationship with Fred remained a secret for several months up until the Christmas holidays, when you returned from Fred’s with a rather impressive love bite just beneath your ear that you hadn’t noticed before you left

Your mother knew something was off instantly- you looked a little more... serene than usual, your hair (which you had left the house in a neat braid) was loose and slightly tousled

Her suspicions were confirmed when at dinner, you tucked your hair behind your ear, and Draco’s fork clattered to the floor.

“Bloody hell, YN!” He said, smirking. “Thought you said you went shopping with Astoria and Pansy!”

You frowned, but then quickly realised, trying to sweep your blonde hair back over the hickey, but your father had stood up from the head of the table and marched over to you, grabbing your chin and tilting your head to the side.

“Who did this, YN?” He asked, seething at the idea of someone taking advantage of his little girl. “Tell me, YN,”

You gulped and looked away, your father sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We will discuss it after dinner in my study,”

Draco smirked deviously, eating quicker so he could get in on the action

“Alone,” Lucius said pointedly.

After dinner, your mother healed the bruise with magic and walked you to Lucius’s study.

The three of you say together in silence for a moment, before your father spoke.

“Was it Zabini?” You shook your head

“Crabbe? Goyle? I swear, I will tear them limb from-“

Narcissa placed a hand on his knee soothingly, turning to you. “Who was it, darling?”

“Fred Weasley,” you whispered, hanging your head. “I-I’m sorry, father. We’ve been seeing eachother for months, writing and... well, I went to see him today. I’m sorry I lied about going shopping, but I knew you’d never let me leave the house if you knew...”

Lucius sighed slightly and narcissa frowned between her husband and her daughter, nodding slowly.

“Right,” Lucius said. “YN. Come. I need to have a word with Arthur Weasley,”

You looked at your mother desperately. “Don’t worry darling,” she murmured, eyes twinkling, and you nodded, following your father to the apparition point

***

“Bloody hell... is that... is that malfoy?”

Ron and Harry ran to the sitting room, where Arthur was reading.

“Dad... you’ll never guess... Lucius malfoy’s coming up the path!”

Arthur sighed and sent the boys upstairs, opening the door

“Lucius,” he greeted, tone a little tense.

Your father’s lips curled into a slight smirk as he gestured to you.

“My daughter revealed something rather surprising to me today, Arthur,” he said and you worried your lip. “She told me that she had been seeing one of your sons behind my back,”

Arthur stared at you, eyes narrowing slightly. You looked very nervous.

“I... didn’t know Ron was seeing anybody,” he said hesitantly

Lucius was about to speak again, but your cut him off. “No... not Ron, Mr Weasley, sir. Er... I’ve been seeing Fred,”

“I think you’d best come in, both of you. Molly!”

Ten minutes later you were settled at the scrubbed kitchen table, sipping tea in an uncomfortable silence as Lucius and Arthur stared at eachother challengingly.

You looked over at Mrs weasley apologetically and she smiled kindly, reaching over to squeeze your hand to reassure you

“Honestly, two grown men trying to stare eachother down like fourth years!” She huffed, flinging a handful of floo powder into the fire, leaning down to speak into it. “Fred Weasley, you had better come through this fireplace in the next ten seconds!” She called

Pretty soon Fred was stumbling through, grinning

His eyes softened when he saw you and widened when he saw your father

“Er... have a... nice Christmas, Mr Malfoy?” He asked awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as you mentally facepalmed.

Lucius stood up and drew his wand

You gasped, grabbing his arm. “Dad no!” You cried, looking at him pleadingly as he marched over to Fred, backing him into the wall with his wand at his throat. Arthur’s wand was also drawn while Molly shook her head

“If you ever hurt my daughter,” your father said in a low, silky voice. “If you break her heart, cause her harm or force her to do anything, I will kill you, Weasley. If I hear that you have used, abused or manipulated my little girl, I will personally see to it that you are never seen or heard from again. Do you understand?”

Fred nodded, eyes wide

Lucius quickly moved away, putting his wand back into its holder. “Well,” he said. “Now that that nasty business is taken care of,” he offered his hand to Arthur, who (after a hard glare from Mrs weasley) shook it.

Molly then turned to Fred herself and said “if I hear that you hurt YN in any way, it won’t just be Mr Malfoy you’ll have to deal with, Fred Weasley,” she said menacingly, wagging her finger at him.

Fred nodded.

As your parents went outside to discuss a sort of truce, you went to Fred, wrapping your arms around his middle, nuzzling into his chest.

From outside, your parents saw your loving embrace, your gentle kiss, the way Fred cupped your cheek and pushed your hair out of your face so he could kiss your forehead gently, molly sighed happily. “He’ll look after her,” she murmured

Both fathers spoke at once

“He’d better.”

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[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐎𝐧𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

Rowan glanced at his pocket watch and attempted to swallow his irritation.

How was it only nine-o-clock still? He had already suffered through enough social niceties to last a lifetime.

Now, he listened with but half a mind to his cousin drone on about the night's guests. His head was filled with all the tasks he needed to see to, including searching for a new governess for his sons. His boys kept chasing away every woman he employed and he was hesitant to hire a tutor, because he believed they needed a woman's influence too, now that his own wife was too ill. The physician had done all he could but there was not much hope she would wake, loathe as he was to admit it. Perhaps he should have accepted his mother-in-law's offer and send the boys to their her after all?

"--and Arobynn's here too—"

That caught his attention. "He is?"

"Mhmm. Look, over there, no, no, to the left—besides the pretty redhead, yes, just so."

A man stood by the entrance with a red-haired woman on his arm, tall and muscular, with a fine-boned face. His auburn hair were pulled back into a bun, offsetting his pale skin and the fine cut of his suit was a stark reminder of his prominent position in society, despite the whole stigma around tradesmen.

"I knew he was fond of flaunting convention but escorting his mistress to a ball?"

"You haven't heard?" James approached them with a drink in his hand. "She is not his mistress but an adoptive daughter of sorts and his apparent heir."

Fenrys choked on his drink.

"He named a girl heir to his trade empire—and not even his own blood—stupid!"

"Spoken like a man," said the gentleman and shook his head. "He raised her himself, is introducing her to all his associates and she doesn't look dumb either."

James nodded towards the redhead he had seen earlier, dressed in the finest black silk with a neckline low enough, it bordered on scandalous. Her copperish-red hair were pinned into an elegant coiffure with pretty, gold hair combs and a simple, pearl necklace completed the striking picture she made. Her sharp, defined features were barely beautiful until she laughed—a musical sound in itself—and he wondered whether he had seen anyone prettier.

"If hers was the last face I ever saw, I'd die a happy man." Fenrys sighed and walked off.

James rolled his eyes. "He's about to seek an introduction to her, isn't he?"

Rowan's lips twitched up.

He had always liked James. The man was completely without artifice and his enthusiasm for everything was so infectious, no one could remain angry with him. He had spent a few summers with the Galathynius children, until their youngest daughter was abducted and the visits stopped.

"I say you must frown a little less, sir, unless you wish to give offense."

Rowan looked up, startled at being addressed by the object of his thoughts. She looks even lovelier up close, thought he.

"I detest these events."

"So do half the people in this room and yet, appearances must be maintained."

"Deceit is not in my nature."

The lady frowned. "It is not deceitful to pretend you are interested in an event in order to spare your host's feelings."

"Your motive may be charitable but it is no excuse for dishonesty."

The lady looked amused but did not pursue the topic further. "I hope you will forgive me for speaking without a proper introduction, sir. I am not a fan of convention."

Rowan smiled.

An unmarried woman, not even of age, and already a heiress to a trade empire—by all accounts, she did not seem like one.

"I will, if you allow me to remedy the situation now." He bowed with exaggerated formality. "I am Mr. Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, in Doranelle."

Her cheek dimpled. "Miss Celaena Sardothein—my father—"

"Mr. Hamel, yes, I know." He almost cringed at how rude he sounded. "He and I, we are—"

"—business associates, yes, I know," she teased with an impish grin, replying in a poor imitation of his own deep voice.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement, filled with laughter and mirth—turquoise orbs, ringed with brilliant gold.

All of his resolve flew out of the window. "Miss Sardothein, will you allow me the pleasure of leading you into the first set? The dancing is about to commence."

"The pleasure will be all mine."

In hopes of starting a conversation, he said, "You are a fine dancer."

"I would have believed you to be a liar if we hadn't already established that deceit of any sort is your abhorrence."

He smiled. "And if I were being insincere?"

"I would take it as a compliment to myself, for it will mean that you are acting on my advice from earlier about lying for the sake of appearances."

They fell silent again.

"We must talk some, you know," said Rowan. "For someone who claims to be concerned with appearances, do you not think it would look odd for us to spend a half hour together but in silence."

She startled at the sudden statement. "Introduce a topic then and I will do my poor best to maintain the conversation."

Rowan complied and was pleasantly surprised to find her lively and good-humored and well-informed on most subject from current fashion disasters to books to political bills and movements. Her arguements were passionate and far from taking offense at his dry humor, she matched it with witty quips of her own; and to top it alll off, she was as skilled a dancer as a conversationalist.

Rowan was almost annoyed when the song came to an end. He could not recall the last time he had been half as well entertained.

"You will be the death of me, you foolish, foolish chit!" screeched the old matron.

Fenrys had allowed himself to be dragged into a bookstore, which happened to be one of his least favourite places, by his cousin, James—the second son to his uncle, Lord Rhoe, the Earl of Narrowcreek—and was now eager for any sort of amusement. He turned towards the high-pitched shriek with interest.

A young lady stood near the shelves, tall and proud, even in the face of her mother's ill-bred manners.

Her blonde hair fell down in waves, half pinned by dragonfly-shaped hair combs. The fabric of her dress was fine enough for her to belong to the first circles and yet, he could not recall seeing her—or her mother—anywhere.

"Ungrateful child! Wait until I tell your father what you did; he will be most displeased."

She bit her lip to contain her mirth, though her cheeks flushed with embarassment. Her eyes flitted to the door and back, as if she was looking for some escape.

"Poor girl," the bookshop owner murmured.

The following words had the unfortunate attention of drawing the mother's attention towards the owner.

Lord Fenrys almost laughed at the alarmed look on the owner's face when she began lamenting to him instead and then looked over at the lady who was staring at the door with a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether or not to attempt an escape.

She must have decided in it's favour because she gathered her skirts and made a mad dash towards the door.

Fenrys realised he was standing in her way and hastened to move but it was too late—

"Darn!" cried she.

The commotion drew her mother's attention and upon spotting her wayward daughter lying on the floor with a grimace, she rushed over with a whole new litany of complaints.

Fenrys could have sworn the lady cursed under her breath.

"Stubborn, stubborn child! I told you not to run off without me but oh, how you love vexing me," shouted her mother in her high-pitched voice. "And what are you doing, bothering this fine gentleman over here? You had better not to talk to anyone if you are determined to refuse them all. You broke that poor man's heart—"

Fenrys quirked an eyebrow in interest, looking thoroughly entertained.

Her cheeks flushed further.

He frowned.

Up close, her face looked awfully familiar. He searched his brain for an answer.

A memory flashed in front of his mind. A highly unconventional black dress, a tinkling laugh and a ballroom.

Realisation dawned.

"Miss Sardothein! Fancy seeing you here," said he. "I almost didn't recognise you because of the hair."

"The hair? Oh, yes, I am very fond of dyes, but you have caught me in my natural state."

"I find you lovelier than ever. If you will forgive me for prying, I could not help but observe you haven't bought a thing yet, even though I know you to be a great reader! Is the reading material not to your taste, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena answered wryly, "As a matter of fact, the books here suit my tastes very well—It is only that I am not allowed to buy books for a month—as punishment."

"No books! And what awful crime did you commit to merit that?"

"I rejected a marriage offer."

"A capital offense!"

Celaena smiled, "Indeed."

"I hope you are appropriately ashamed of yourself!"

"Horrified at my own audacity, really."

The lady looked up at him and grinned; Fenrys' own face turned pale and his mouth fell open in surprise. Ashryver eyes! She had ashryver eyes—like James, Aedion, and their mothers Helen and Evalin and—gods. The little poem his cousins had made up in childhood came to the forefront of his mind.

"The fairest eyes, from legends old,

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold."

But how...?

He looked at the woman again: her eyes bright and mirthful and thick eyelashes resting on her cheek, the face tugged at his memory; and she smiled so impishly, he had seen that smile before—

"Aelin," he blurted out.

He was startled when her smile dropped and recognition flickered in her eyes.

Fenrys shot an alarmed look towards the shelf behind which James had disappeared. Aelin was here! But how could this be? His heart thumped loudly inside his chest.

"Aelin?" She inclined her head in question.

He smiled uncertainly.

Was she really his little cousin? Aelin had been five year old when he last saw her.

But if he was wrong about this, could this come to bite him in the ass? She was certainly as old as his cousin would have been, had she been alive and she had the same unruly blonde curls and those ashryver eyes, teeming with life.

It couldn't be...

Arobynn's adoptive daughter.

"Yes, Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her."

"If she is your favourite, then I am inclined to take that as a compliment." Celaena—Aelin?—smiled again, though her eyebrows remained drawn still. "The name does sound familiar. Perhaps I would have heard of her in the newspaper? The society column is a great source of amusement to my father. He reads it aloud to us from time to time."

Father? He wondered if she was talking of Arobynn or Mrs. Rhunn's husband.

Fenrys smiled sadly. "That is not possible for you see, my cousin died when she was five."

At least I thought she died.

"I am sorry for your loss." Then, with an arch look on her face, she asked, "If she was like me as you say, she must have been delightful."

He chuckled. "An absolute troublemaker."

"Definitely like me then," said she, sparing a look towards her mother. "I should leave now, before my mother lists you off as yet another suitor!"

And before he could think to stop her, she curtsied and scurried off.

Fenrys stared at the door, somewhat dumbfounded. Aelin is alive. He marvelled at the thought and then wondered how on earth he would inform her family—James would be ecstatic and his father would have to be informed, and Edward would have to be called to London, gods. Edward!

Aelin had been missed by all but no one grieved her as the poor man had.

Edward would be ecstatic; everyone would.

Fenrys ran towards his cousin out of breath, who was still examining titles in one corner.

"Fenrys, god, slow down, man! Whatever happened? You look like you saw a ghost."

He blinked.

Then, without any attempt at tact or discretion, he blurted out: "Aelin is alive."

"Aelin, Aelin, stop that—no, look at your frock, mother will be so angry, no, Aelin! You will hurt yourself like that."

The man watched, concealed behind the ridge as a little girl skipped from one mud puddle to another, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she moved. Her elder brother followed at a more sedate place, calling out admonishments and threats, not that they had an effect on her.

Aelin grinned over her shoulder and ran, leading her brother on a merry chase.

The man was still debating how to go about abducting the girl when fortune smiled upon him; she twisted her leg and fell down, prompting the boy to run towards her.

"It hurts," she whimpered, refusing to stand.

The man smiled maliciously and waited as the boy looked around. "Very well," he said finally. "If you promise not to go anywhere, I will fetch papa. Do not move, Aelin."

The boy rushed towards the manor house, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach and burst into his father's private study. In his panicked state of mind, it took a few attempts for Rhoe to make sense of his garbled words.

A foreboding feeling rose in his stomach.

She will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. Aelin, troublemaker that she was, had had a lot worse than a twisted ankle.

But his alarm grew the nearer they came to where she was supposed to be and his heart pounded inside his chest. All colour drained from his face when they didn't find Aelin where she was supposed to be.

"Are you certain this is where you left her?"

Edward nodded.

Rhoe suddenly felt dizzy, his knees buckled and bile rose up in his throat.

He reined himself in and with admirable composure, organised search parties to search around the estate and the neighbourhood.

The search carried on until late that night, when an express rider from the nearby magistrate arrived with a letter: a nearby warehouse had burned down earlier that day and two bodies were found: a man in his forties, who could not be identified and a seven year old girl who had on a silver anklet bearing the word fireheart and requested Mr. Galathynius' presence tomorrow at the warehouse to confirm the girl's identity.

Rhoe folded the letter, excused himself from company and sent his sons to their beds.

Then he entered his study: the study no one was allowed to enter without permission—except his Aelin—slumped into the armchair by the fireplace and wept.

note: ...and it's here. I have so many drafts of this chapter lying around, I'm surprised I actually finally posted it lmao.

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[tawakkull]

SPIRITUALITY IN ISLAM: PART 73: FUTUWWA (YOUTH AND CHIVALRY)

Futuwwa, defined as youth and chivalry, is really a composite of such virtues as generosity, munificence, modesty, chastity, trustworthiness, loyalty, mercifulness, knowledge, humility, and piety.

It is a station on the path to God as well as a dimension of sainthood, and also signifies that one has made altruism and helping others one’s second nature. It is an important, indispensable dimension of good conduct and a significant aspect of humanity.

Derived from fata’ (young man), futuwwa has become a symbol of rebelling against all evil and striving for sincere servanthood to God:

They were young men who had believed in their Lord, and We increased them in guidance. And We strengthened their hearts, when they rose up and declared: Our Lord is the Lord of the heavens and Earth; we will not call upon any god beside Him, or then we had spoken an outrage. (18:14)

Expresses this eloquently. They said:

We have heard a youth talk of them (the idols); he is called Abraham (21:60)

expresses the position and influence of one who has achieved perfect futuwwa in his or her community, one who has sought to guide humanity to truth. By contrast, the young men mentioned in the verses:

With him there came into the prison two young men (12:36)

and:

(Joseph) told his young (servants) to put their merchandise (with which they had bartered) into their saddlebags (12:62) were ordinary young men without chivalry.

As many people have written on or talked about futuwwa since the Age of Happiness, the concept has been defined in many ways: not despising the poor or being deceived by the rich and riches; being fair to everybody without expecting fairness from anyone; living one’s life as a pitiless enemy of one’s carnal self; being ever considerate of others and living for them; smashing all idols or all that is idolized, and rebelling against falsehood so as to be wholly devoted to God Almighty; bearing whatever evil is done to oneself but thundering where the rights of God are violated; feeling remorse for the rest of one’s life for committing even a small sin, but overlooking others’ sins regardless of how large they are; seeing oneself as a poor, lowly servant while considering others as saintly; not resenting others while maintaining relations with those who resent you; being kind to those who hurt you; and serving God and the people more than anyone else, but preferring others to oneself when it is time to receive one’s wages.

Some have summed up futuwwa in the four virtues mentioned by Haydar Karrar ‘Ali, the fourth Caliph and cousin of the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings. They are: forgiving when one is able to punish, preserving mildness and acting mildly and gently when one is furious, wishing one’s enemies well and doing good to them, and being considerate of others’ wellbeing and happiness first, even when one is needy.

‘Ali was one of the greatest representatives of futuwwa. When he was stabbed by Ibn Muljam while leading the morning prayer in the mosque, his children, who saw that their father would die, asked him what he wanted them to do with Ibn Mul-jam. He did not order his execution in retaliation. [ Ibn al-Athir, Usd al-Ghaba, 4:118. ] During a battle, ‘Ali threw his enemy to the ground and then released him. His reason: When 'Ali was about to kill this man, the latter spat in 'Ali’s face, which angered him. Fearing that his motive for killing the man was now confused and sullied, 'Ali released him. [ Shamsaddin Sivasi, Manaqib Jiharyar Guzin, 258. ] He felt sincere grief when Zubayr ibn 'Awwam, a leading Companion and his staunch enemy, was killed. [ Al-Haythami, Majma’ al-Zawa'id, 9:150. ] Since he always considered others first even when he was in need, he usually wore summer clothes in winter and trembled with cold. [ Ibid., 9:122. ] It was said about him that there cannot be a young, chivalrous man like 'Ali, and there cannot be a sword like Dhu al-Fiqar ('Ali’s sword). [ 'Ali al-Qari, Al-Asrar al-Marfu'a fi akhbar al-Mawdu'a (Beirut, 1986), 367. ] 'Ali lived with the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings, and was raised by him. He lived a perfectly honest, pure life without any taint, and embodied God’s answer to the Prophet Moses, upon him be peace, about futuwwa: It means that you are able to return your self to me as pure or untainted as you took it from Me.

The signs of a fata’ (young, chivalrous one) are that the individual’s, created with the potential to accept Divine Unity and Islam, is totally convinced of Divine Unity; that it urges him or her to live according to the requirements of this conviction; that, without being captivated by carnal or bodily desires, he or she lives a pure, spiritual life; and that he or she always seeks to please God in his or her deeds, thoughts, and feelings. One who cannot be saved from the temptations of the carnal self, Satan, appetites, love of the world, or attachment to the worldly life cannot climb upward to the peak of futuwwa.

Futuwwa is a treasure obtainable by climbing high beyond all the “highest mountains of the world”;

What business have those who fall tired even on a smooth road with such a treasure?

[nevermindirah]

I’ve seen Black Widow

thoughts below the cut

I loved it. I cried.

It’s pretty standard white feminism, nothing groundbreaking, but as a small story about a human being struggling with her identity and her place in the world, chef’s kiss.

There were enough callbacks that it didn’t feel like they’d taken Natasha out of her context, but it wasn’t an Endgame-style victory lap and rightly so. There were more callbacks to things that had previously happened in this one movie than there were to all 6 of the previous movies she’s appeared in. The fucking fireflies. They got to me. And the whistling? OUCH MY HEART

I didn’t realize until the moment Yelena handed it to her that that’s the vest Natasha wears in Infinity War. That’s when I started crying.

The set pieces were inventive as hell. I was genuinely surprised by: the avalanche, the Red Room being in lower Earth orbit, Natasha and Malina switching places with the masks from Winter Soldier, and especially, fuck, little Antonia who Natasha thought she’d murdered turning out to be the Task Master.

I loved that there wasn’t some big reveal like Malina was her birth mother or some shit. I loved that it’s left open how much or even whether Natasha keeps in touch with this one of her two families — while she and Yelena might be able to have an honest relationship after “It was real for me too,” Malina and Alexei showed realistic (which is to say, meaningful but fucking small) character growth. Those two are never going to be parents to Natasha, not how she deserved, not how every child deserves. I loved how honest this movie was about that.

The opening credits sequence was fucking traumatic, though, and here’s where we start the criticism of white nonsense. Yes, girls are probably the world’s greatest underappreciated resource. Especially girls of color. Who we see in this movie all over the place as nameless soldiers under the most extreme mind control yet seen in the MCU. Widows of color suffer and die repeatedly in this movie. It absolutely tracks that the Red Room would expand its post-Soviet operations and steal baby girls from all over the world, but they could’ve picked more of the white extras to be the ones to die painfully.

I know they did this so they wouldn’t be criticized for having an all-white cast. But they still had an all-white lead cast. I was charmed half-naked (of course my mask was still on, I saw this movie in a theater!) by the very pretty man who kept setting Natasha up with gear, but I can’t remember his name, and his only defining characteristics are pretty, charming, and frequently asleep. The moment at the end where she called him a friend would’ve been a fuckton better if she’d called him by name several times by that point so we could remember it, and if she’d, I don’t know, mentioned something that shows she pays attention when he talks, that shows she cares about him as a person even just a little bit beyond how he’s useful to her.

And you know what would’ve been a better way to get the Task Master off the field at the end? The Black teenager (fuck she looked so young) who went to her could have said, “Hi, my name is ___, I’m your sister and I’m going to get you out of here. What’s your name?” Instead her much shorter one line was entirely focused on helping the white girl. A different Black Black Widow was the one who said to Yelena something like of course we came back for you. We see Yelena holding her hand, but if we could only have one and not both, the screen time would’ve been better spent on learning this young woman’s name. A piece of her humanity that isn’t just using her newfound agency to choose to save the white lead.

They could’ve taken this opportunity to give us at least one Black Widow who was both Russian-born and visibly Asian. You know, since Russia is an enormously multi-ethnic country and even before modern immigration you don’t have to leave Russia to find people of color. We could’ve gotten a few sentences about the scientist who invented the deprogramming gas. We know she was in Malina’s age cohort so she was more likely to have been born in the USSR, and we know she had to have been exceptionally smart and brave even for a Black Widow to invent this formula and ensure it would free some of her sisters. Handled badly, this of course could’ve gotten into Asian math-nerd stereotype territory. Handled well, this minor character would’ve had a name — I think Yelena called her Oksana as she watched her die? — and a layered backstory. Malina could’ve even shared a memory of her, one thing that she and Oksana shared when they were baby Nat and Yelena’s ages.

Or they could’ve recast Scarlett Johanssson with an actress of any Asian ethnicity that could plausibly have been found in the USSR in the 80s, but, you know.

It is extremely not lost on me that both ScarJo and Rachel Weisz are Jewish and I wondered if they might do something in the direction of making Jewish Natasha canon. I’m relieved they didn’t go there in the end, and I’ll happily keep my Jewish Nat headcanons here where I can play with them and keep them safe from corporate bullshit.

To wrap this up, that post-credits scene made me so happy. I am so here for Yelena trying out every “the 90s are back” fashion trend she missed out on the first time around all in one outfit. What’s her name from Falcon & Winter Soldier turning up as Yelena’s boss or whatever and assigning her to kill Clint was exactly the right amount of crossover. We’ve only just met this character, I love her, and I’m fucking delighted that instead of spending yet more screentime on any of the white dudes who’ve already had plenty of it in the 23 previous MCU movies, we got to spend these last moments of the movie with Yelena.

Natasha Romanoff will return in my Sam Wilson and Nile Freeman are Cousins WIP (where she will be having a heart-to-heart with Andy)

Yelena Belova will return in Hawkeye (if Marvel knows what’s good for it)

[monstersandmaw]

Male orc (Vilugh) x male reader (sfw) - Part Two

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This should have gone up on here yesterday, and has been available on my $5 Patreon tier for a week as the fourth ‘early release’ story on Patreon in July (every Wednesday).

You may recall the first chapter that I posted as an unedited WIP (Tumblr link) a while ago and had lots of encouraging comments about and some interest in seeing more from Vilugh and the prince. So, here it is! Sorry it's a bit late - things have just been nuts here lately. I wanted this to be the final chapter, but... plot happened. So... there'll be more in the future!

Content: continuing on from last time where our scholarly prince with the unfathomably dickish king for a father was told he was going to spend six months with the orcs, we see Vilugh again, meet his sister, and finally, get to the encampment. (tw: brief mention of past death of reader’s older brother, and constantly being compared to him by the aforementioned dickish king...)

Wordcount: exactly 4000. *nice*

Part One

To say that I was furious with my father for only deigning to inform me of my new situation for the next six months would have been an understatement. I knew I wasn’t the ruler-son that he’d envisaged taking over from him, but I had thought that my rather impressive record for strategy and tactics spoke for itself, not to mention that I was responsible for almost single-handedly planning and instigating massive economic reforms that not only refilled the monarchy’s gradually-dwindling coffers but promoted trade and gave our floundering, stagnating economy a huge boot up the backside. And yet, still, I was not enough. I was not my brother.

Fuming, I strode along the corridors from the great hall up to my chambers and nearly flattened a poor serving girl as she left one of the rooms along the way. “I’m sorry,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Highness,” she chirped, dipping into a curtsy and scurrying away before I could explain myself.

My reputation had gone from ‘scholar prince’ to ‘Royal Monk’ by the time I was twenty five, but I was also known for being moody and sullen, with a perpetual scowl on my lean - I thought gaunt - face. No wonder I’d frightened her. As I stared in the speckled mirror in my bedroom, I saw a face and body that would hardly impress the orcs to whom I was about to be packed off like a spare bit of cargo for six months. Why? What what did my father have to gain from sending me to a group of people who, until my teenage years, had been our enemies? They weren’t exactly our best friends now either.

The orcs right across the continent had begun to think about trade with us since Khraxh and her warband had first agreed to peace talks, and while the mountain orcs were still ferociously opposed to any kind of truce or trade talks with the soft, plains- and forest-dwelling humans, Khraxh had clearly seen the advantages that at least a ‘polite understanding’ would have with us. We had the monopoly on iron ore with our goblin-run mines to the east, and due to our superior charcoal burning techniques, we were able to forge steel like almost no one else, save perhaps the goblins themselves.

Goblins, like humans, had a long and turbulent history with orcs. Historically, encounters between the two peoples mostly ended in absolute annihilation of entire goblin communities by the larger and stronger orcs - hence their very slight preference for dealing with humans. It really was only a slight preference, however. Goblins were wary and untrusting of most folks, but it was understandable. They were a skittish, intolerant folk, quick to be offended and even quicker to give it.

Staring into that age-freckled mirror, I saw my lacklustre, pale skin, with no distinguishing features, save perhaps for my mother’s dark eyes and a slightly hooked nose. Where Dannan had been the golden boy of our family - qujite literally with his curly blond hair - I was the proverbial and, of late, the literal, dark horse. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression…

Needless to say, I got little sleep that night, which added to the dark shadows beneath those dark eyes. I turned it over and over as I lay amid the fine silk sheets. In the end, I came to the rather unsettling conclusion that my father hoped I wouldn’t survive my time with the orcs so that he could install someone like my cousin Balgrun on the throne after his demise. Not that anyone imagined that a king as tenacious and bitter as my father would ever give up his hold on life; he was simply too stubborn to die, I was sure of it. True, I was useful, but I was not a leader. I honestly crumbled to a trembling, stammering, sweating mess if I had to address the public myself, and I considered more than three people to be an abhorrent crowd. He’d raised me to be the shadow to my brother’s light, and I fulfilled that role too well to be trained to shine in public now.

Gritting my teeth the next morning, I stood on the sweeping steps of the royal castle, awaiting the arrival of the orcs.

The squeal of a war boar from the far side of the castle’s curtain wall announced their presence before the trumpets and shouts did. I drew a deep breath and kept my skinny hands folded behind my back. No need to let them see me shaking. The king emerged from the doors behind me and fixed me with his usual, emotionless glower. “Don’t embarrass me, son,” he muttered under his breath. “They do us great honour by taking you to the heart of their lands for so long a time.”

I raised my eyebrow. My mother had been able to do that, according to Rigmore. The castle steward and she had apparently been good friends, and when I had learned to do it, he had laughed and said I was the picture of my mother. Naturally, I did it around my father whenever I could just to rile him up. “Tell me, father,” I said with carefully controlled coolness in my voice. “What exactly do you hope to achieve out of my royal stay with — what was it you called them yesterday? — oh yes… ‘those beasts’.”

His lip curled and his eye twitched. “You will do well not to repeat that, boy,” he snarled.

I laughed and shook my head. “Out of the two of us, I seem to be the only one who values my hide, father. Fear not though, I have no intention of pissing off my captors.”

“Captors? Guardians, more like. The honour of hosting the son of the most powerful king on this continent will not be lost on them,” he said fervently, grey eyes drifting to the portcullis and main entrance to the bailey behind me.

“Surely you had some mission in mind for me then?”

“Win them over with that naive charm of yours,” he said dismissively, still not looking at me. “You could have charmed your way into the beds of half the nobility of this kingdom, despite your… physique… Fuck them if you have to,” he said in a hiss in my ear, “But I want them in an advantageous trade deal by the end of next spring. Butter them up, win their trust, and we’ll have the brutes in our pockets.”

“And if I don’t manage that?” I asked.

His eyes flashed. “Then you really aren’t of any use to me at all, are you?”

It wasn’t a wholly unexpected answer. The man was always the king before he was my father, but still, I barked out a loud and undignified laugh just as the orcs entered amid a clatter of cloven trotters and squealing war beasts, feeling empty and hollow. “Goddess be merciful,” I cursed. “You just want me out of the way while you wine and dine Balgrun in my absence. Oh yes,” I chuckled back at him over my shoulder, practically skipping down the stairs and strangely looking forward to my six month ‘holiday’ from the backstabbing and conniving of the castle. “I asked around; I know you’re asking my dear little cousin to stay. Perhaps you can show him the ropes in six months, and perhaps the orcs will decide I’m more useful as a toothpick than a diplomat, and you’ll have a reason to go to war with them again, wipe them off the plains, and then nothing will stand in your way between the coast and the mountains.”

And with that, I left him sputtering on the steps, his face a rather nasty puce colour. I’d figured out his alternative plan, and if he thought for a moment I was going to let him have it, he was a dotard.

“Greetings,” I said, addressing Vilugh in the common Trade Tongue. “Regrettably I have not had the chance to learn your language yet, otherwise I would have greeted you in your own tongue.”

The orc swung down from his boar and dropped the reins to the flagstone floor, ground-tying the beast the same way I might have ground-tied my mare. Starling was, to my relief, already saddled and ready for me, standing with her bridle in the hands of a groom and stamping her hoof in anticipation of an outing.

Vilugh was every bit as colossal and imposing as I remembered him from the last time I’d seen him, if not more so. I knew he had to be ten years or so older than me, and if he was thirty five, he was still in his absolute prime. His green-skinned chest was largely bare, save for the leather strap that reached diagonally from one hip to the opposite shoulder, holding up the leather hunting skirt that hugged his hips and hid very little from the imagination. He didn’t have the defined abs of the veiner fighters I’d seen who liked to show off their lean, oiled bodies for the attention of the crowd, but his middle was packed with solid fat and muscle that spoke of the strength of two or three oxen. His thighs could have crushed one of our warhorses to a bloody slurry if he’d fancied trying, and his hands were as big as the buckler shields favoured by fancy duellers in the city. Small for a shield, but very big for a hand.

His eyes were still that unnerving black that I recalled from my youth, and they were every bit as perceptive as I remembered too. He raked his gaze up my slim form, no doubt also cataloguing my physical features and sartorial preferences. That day I had chosen simple buckskin leggings, suitable for long distance riding, and a loose, linen shirt. My hair was tied back in a practical style at the nape of my neck, and across the front of my saddle, I had instructed my servant to tie a leather hunter’s jerkin for when evening drew in and it inevitably got much colder. In my saddlebags I had had simple, comfortable clothing packed, with none of the fripperies and fineries with which a prince might be expected to travel. Orcs were a pragmatic and practical people, and having a whiny prince demanding to stop for wine and grapes halfway there would win me no favours with them.

“We can teach you to speak orcish if you want,” Vilugh said in a voice like a rock slide.

I couldn't help but grin at the chance to learn something else, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that. I can’t promise to be any good, but I’ll try.”

To my surprise, Vilugh laughed. “From what I hear, you’re a quick learner, prince. You’ll catch on quick enough I reckon.”

Relief washed through me. The warrior was polite and had a sense of humour. As much as my father’s court frustrated me, I knew where to tread there, and how far I could push and poke before I risked too much. With the orcs, I had no idea yet what might provoke them or amuse them. I also had no idea how they felt about this arrangement, or how my presence among them would be received.

“If you’d like to rest or feed your mounts, and seek the same for yourself, then please make yourselves comfortable, otherwise I’m ready to leave whenever you are.” I left it up to him to decide, and after a quick look at my father, still standing on the castle steps like a lone lion on a rock while hyenas prowled below, Vilugh shot me a look of a different calibre.

“These boar can ride all day without stopping for food or water; three days without rest,” he said in a measured voice, walking at my side and casting my entire body into shadow with his immense height and breadth.

He was testing me, and I didn’t fall for it. “And yet the ride from your mother’s bastion is four days from here,” I replied with the same even tone.

Vilugh’s eyes glittered with amusement. “The piss you people drink for ale should be enough for now.”

It was easy enough for me to take a chance on his sense of humour with my father’s bowmen lining the walls and the honour guard ranged up the stairs nearby. “For you or for the boars?” I quipped, turning away and inviting him to follow me.

Again, the massive - and honestly quite intimidating - orc let out a long, loud belly-laugh of amusement. “Hay will do for the boars just now, though they prefer meat when they can get it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I muttered.

The boars were seen to, and I led Vilugh and the two other orcs who had accompanied him up to meet my father. Neither Vilugh nor his fellow warriors bowed or bent the knee to my father I was pleased to note, and it got my father’s hackles up like a like a bristling tomcat. I almost could have kissed the enormous warrior just for putting my father on the back foot already, but honestly, what did he expect? Did he think the orcs would prostrate themselves before him? They’d hardly done that last time, so I couldn’t imagine he’d be so conceited as to think they’d do it this time.

“Your majesty,” Vilugh said.

“Welcome,” my father said, his tone more tightly-clipped than the box hedge in the castle’s knot garden. “Will you be staying for some refreshments before you return to your people with my son?”

“Just long enough to give the boars a breather,” Vilugh said with easy diplomacy.

The other warriors he’d brought with him were the older, one-armed orc I’d skittered away from as a child, and a female I didn’t recognise but who had the most incredible, blue eyes I’d ever seen. Vilugh must have caught me admiring her in the great hall because he leaned in close and growled without real sting, “Stare too long at my sister and she’ll most likely cut out your eyes, princeling.”

“I was just admiring hers,” I yipped quickly, regretting the rather boyish note to my usually hoarse tenor. “Blue eyes are not so common in these parts, that’s all. I meant no offence by it.”

Seated beside him at the table, she leaned close to her brother and barked something in orcish at him. He looked briefly back at me, and then responded in the same. They conversed for a moment and I sat there with my spine dead-straight and my jaw clenched. When Vilugh turned back to me, he grinned. “Rhana says that if the pretty human princeling wants to stare at her, he can, but he’ll have to answer to her wife when we get back.”

“Far be it from me to come between an orc and her wife,” I chuckled anxiously.

When Vilugh translated, they both laughed and Rhana reached behind her brother and cuffed me on the shoulder hard enough that I was almost sent reeling off my seat and onto the floor, which got another laugh out of them and drew a glare of daggers from my unnerved father. Good. Let him be baffled that I was already getting along with these warriors like soldiers in the barracks. He’d clearly not expected me to have any idea how to behave around them, but while I didn’t spend my spare time in our own guards’ barracks, I observed the way everyone in the castle interacted with each other. It was what I’d been trained to do, after all: notice things and remember them.

All in all, the orcs didn't linger long, and we were on our way within an hour.

The pace of the first few hours of the ride alternated between a brisk walk and trotting, though my mare jogged excitedly for the first hour of that until I finally convinced her that we were in it for the long haul. The grooms kept her fit and well-schooled since I couldn’t step away from the castle regularly enough to do it myself, but by the end of the day, even my indomitable Starling was beginning to flag. I patted her neck and murmured that we’d probably break camp soon, and, sure enough, we did.

Once a small fire was lit, with the dry twigs of plains brush-scrub, and carefully warded in a low pit to stop it spreading across the arid plain, I drew out my rations from my saddlebag and Vilugh shot me a look of mild surprise.

“What?” I asked, nervous that I’d committed some inadvertent transgression by digging in before they’d started eating.

After a moment, the orc heaved himself down onto the ground beside me, long, black plait thwacking against his back at the motion. Then he said almost conspiratorially, “You’re not what I was expecting.”

Unwrapping the bread and hard cheese from their waxed linen wrappings, I frowned. “Just what were you expecting, might I ask?”

He shrugged a massive shoulder and drew out a similarly wrapped parcel - much larger - with dried meat and a hard looking biscuit that I thought would probably crack my own teeth before it broke. “Honestly… going off the last time I saw you, and from what your father said of you in talks with my mother… I thought you’d be a fragile little bird. You’re not.” He looked at me, dark eyes glittering in the fire like polished onyx and added, “You are skinny as a bird, but you’re not weak.”

“How would you know?” I scoffed. “I could be too weak to draw my sword. It could just be strapped to my waist for show…” In fact, it was now unbuckled and lying behind me with my saddle and bags, while Starling was hobbled nearby and looking rather disdainfully at the slim grazing afforded by the scrubland where we’d paused. Finest high-summer hay, it was not.

“You move like a dancer,” he said, and I immediately choked on a breadcrumb.

He had to slap me on the back and offered me a skin of water. I washed the offending clog down and gawped at him. “What would you know about human dancers?” I asked without thinking.

“I’ve travelled to the cities on the coast,” he said. “They dance in the marketplaces on festival days.”

“Oh,” I said. And then my cheeks flushed. “I’m not… You know… those dancers are… uh… paid to do more than dance… shall we say.”

It took Vilugh a moment to catch on, but he seemed embarrassed at his mistake. “I meant no insult by it,” he said. “They’re very beautiful.”

“That they are,” I admitted. My father had tried to entice three of them into bed with me after one evening spent in the company of one of his duchesses, but when I’d shown more interest in her library than her twittering prostitutes, he’d given up. Apparently the finest courtesans in the land weren’t going to make me proper man in his eyes, so it wasn’t worth trying.

Vilugh must have seen my memories swirling across my face, because he didn’t bring it up again, and we ate in a rather awkward silence after that. The orcs drew lots for the watch, and Vilugh drew the first and insisted that as their guest, I should not be expected to deprive myself of sleep. Plus, apparently, the next day’s riding would be harder and he didn’t want me falling out of my saddle when I dozed off. Also orcs’ eyes were more like cats’ eyes in the dark, I discovered, when I looked up and saw Rhana’s glinting at me from across the fire and nearly had a heart attack. She laughed and wished me pleasant dreams.

Taking their well-meaning jibes in my stride, I nodded and bedded down in my humble bedroll. It was the type that hunters used, made of breathable buckskin and lined with fleece to keep off the chill of the plains, and although I’d only spent one or two nights in it in my life, I slept better that night than I had in years, not waking until Vilugh's surprisingly gentle touch at my shoulder stirred me not long after dawn.

Over the course of the next few days, Starling developed a comical rivalry with Rhana’s boar, the two taking every opportunity to bite or scuffle with each other, though it never seemed to get truly vicious enough for either of us to worry about, so we let it play out to our amusement. Perhaps because of that and perhaps because I just simply liked them for their gruff honesty, by the time the wooden palisade walls of the orcish war-band’s permanent stronghold drew into view on a wind-blown hilltop, I felt relatively comfortable with the three orcs who had been sent to fetch me.

The older one with one arm was called Rhakak, and was apparently Vilugh’s cousin. He was taciturn and unflinching, watchful and grim, but not aggressive towards me. I still gave him a wide berth though.

But if I’d thought Rhakak was intimidating, it was nothing to Vilugh's mother.

I remembered her from her visit to the castle, but nothing could quite have prepared me for the sheer presence the matriarch had amongst her own people. She was standing waiting for us as we rode up to the walls of the stronghold, and even though Vilugh had told me that Khraxh wouldn’t hold me to the same etiquette as she would a visiting orc, I still nearly shat my pants in fear when I got off Starling’s back and found her surveying me with a distinctly unimpressed look on her weathered, beautiful face.

She really was beautiful. Her body was honed and muscular, but her movements were sleek and efficient, and in much the way a war galley cuts through the water and bristles with power, so she moved with the dormant power of a life-long warrior. Her long, thick hair had turned grey in the intervening decade since I’d seen her, and she’d lost half a tusk too, but the way the gathered orcs arranged themselves around her reminded me of a wolf and her pack. She commanded absolute obedience in them, and unyielding loyalty. In that moment, I did feel afraid, and suddenly very much not up to the seemingly impossible task I had been set.

With a rather endearing patience, Vilugh had taught me the phrase to speak in orcish upon meeting her, and once I could finally get my tongue around the complex vocal gymnastics of the orcish language, he said I would not be flayed alive for completely embarrassing my tutor.

Thus, upon our first meeting, I nearly sprained my jaw, but I gained perhaps a modicum of respect from the veteran war chief. As the three orcs sent to the castle to fetch me had now bowed, neither did I, but I did incline my head as I spoke. There was no need to act like a prideful brat after all.

If my father was expecting me to make enemies of these people and inadvertently lure them into killing me and sparking a war, then I was bloody well going to do the opposite. I wasn’t a warrior, but I had my mind, and I was damned if I was going to fuck things up and go down in history as the skinny little prince who kicked off the orc-human conflict all over again.

Humble but not meek, studious but not annoyingly curious, polite but not obsequious, opinionated but not obnoxious… I began to feel my way through the stronghold’s hierarchy, and miraculously survived my first week there without insulting anyone.

One week down, twenty three more to go…

___

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+*+*+*+*+*+*

Lorcan collapsed onto his back down on the cool grass, panting heavily and tossing a tattooed arm over his eyes.

He fucking hated cardio. 

Hill sprints were the worst, but he had figured they would wake him up the best. As he caught his breath, he stared up at the pale blue sky, dotted with fluffy clouds, dyed orange from the sunrise. 

There was nothing like the sunrises of his hometown and that quickly, Lorcan was cursing his aunt. She couldn’t have just let him be, let him resent his father for not being there, for never having time for him or his sisters. 

Aneha and Sadirah hadn’t wanted him to go to Perranth, but Lorcan figured… he owed his father that much. To see someone of his blood on the throne, he supposed. 

Elide was a complication. Since moving in, he had hardly seen her. 

More often than not, he ate some sort of dinner with Rowan, the old friends catching up on the years they’d missed. Lorcan thought, out of everyone, Rowan’s reaction to his pursual was the one he’d dreaded the most. 

He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he had been terrified. Their friendship and previous relationship had both been built on complete honesty. Rowan hadn’t been mad, per se, more hurt. Angered, but not angry, on Elide’s behalf. 

Their relationship intrigued Lorcan. They acted not unlike him and his sisters. 

His thoughts circled back to Elide, like always. Lorcan mentally berated himself, unable to wipe the look of hurt that flashed over her face when she saw him again. Fuck, why couldn’t he just mind his own business? She could handle herself. 

Lorcan sat up, groaning in pain at the stiffness of his tired muscles. There’s a reason you don’t sit down after working out, dumbass, he thought to himself. He braced his hands behind him, pushing his body up. 

A blurred form moved towards him, crashing into him. In his unbalanced state, Lorcan fell back and let out a soft grunt. He looked up, finding a very heavy dog standing on his chest. Before he could do anything, he heard someone cackling. 

He couldn’t move, so he moved his head to the side, seeing Elide standing on the gravel path. She was laughing so hard, she had to bend over, her hands clutching her stomach. Lorcan rolled his eyes, turning his gaze back to the very fluffy animal. “Hey, bud,” he said, letting the dog sniff him. 

Elide called for her pet, “Bear, c’mere!” 

Bear snapped her head up, quickly bounding away and digging her back feet into Lorcan’s gut as a jumping off point. He swore low and slowly got to his feet. “Morning, Elide.” 

“Fuck off and go fuck yourself,” she said in a fraudulently sweet voice, her round lips flashing him a honeyed grin.

He laughed, unable to control how he perked up when she gave him her attention, “Eat shit and die.” Lorcan didn’t miss the way she ogled his half-bare body. Her face went a bit slack as she tracked her gaze over his chest. 

He could’ve sworn her cheeks pinked when they dipped lower. “Like the view, do you, sweetheart?” The moment the words left his mouth, her blush disappeared and she flipped him off before putting her earbuds back in and continuing on with her jog. 

Lorcan cursed himself, watching her ass in her spandex shorts. He liked seeing her blush, would’ve liked to learn how else he could make her cheeks turn red without him pissing her off. 

He had to remind himself Elide was a complication. Nothing more, nothing less.

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Sweetheart. 

Oh, how Elide loathed Lorcan Salvaterre with her entire being. Him being built like that only served to make her hate it that much more. People with chests as defined as his and his gods-damned Adonis belt… Anneith above. She forgot the point she was trying to make.

His tattoos fit him well. They were harsh, stark black against his skin, depicting what she assumed was a legend of his people, but she couldn’t tell. 

She left Bear with the groundskeeper for the day and walked to the entertainment room. Aelin, Rowan, and Lysandra were sitting in the plush movie chairs. Ress, ever dutifully, stood beside the door, his arms crossed over his chest. 

Elide threw herself down on the couch, scowling at the PowerPoint Lysandra and Aelin had put together of her options. “Let’s get this over with.” Aelin, from the chair closest to the couch, reached over and squeezed Elide’s knee reassuringly. 

Elide softened, lacing her fingers through Aelin’s as Lysandra clicked the remote. “Alright, there are many options, Elide. First up, Duke Perrington of Adarlan.” 

Looking at the slide, her instincts screamed no. Elide read the side profile next to his picture, which was less than promising. “Hmm, rich man… he’s only forty-two? He looks like he’s at least seventy years old.” 

“I think that’s the drug problem,” Rowan commented, glaring at the screen. “Not him.” 

Lysandra nodded and ticked something off on her list, clicking on the next slide, “Nox Owens? No title, but wealthy family, high education, early twenties…” 

Elide tilted her head to the side, surveying the picture. He was handsome, fresh faced. Startlingly slate-grey eyes, his hair inky and falling artfully over his brow. There was a certain edge of mischief in his eyes that Elide appreciated. “And he’s from Perranth?” 

“Mm-hmm. Has a business degree from Havilliard College for Boys,” Lysandra said, twirling her pen skillfully between her fingers. “What do you think?” 

Elide hummed, drumming her fingers over the couch cushion. “Shortlist him. Do we have any non-Erilean options? A marriage would strengthen political ties.” Rowan shot her a look, displeased by her surgical, logical approach to it. Elide didn’t care. If she was being forced into a no-doubt loveless marriage, she might as well gain allies because of it. 

“We do,” Aelin said, sighing softly as she took the remote from Lysandra and clicked through some of the options. Elide made her stop on one and turned, gawking at Aelin. 

“Hollin Havilliard? The sixteen-year old?” 

The queen shrugged, “They don't have a minimum marriageable age in Adarlan.” 

“Well, we have one here,” Elide hissed, snatching the remote from her cousin. “I don’t need a new reason for the lords to hate me and marrying a child won’t exactly help me.” She shook her head, holding back a few very choice words back. 

She clicked through the next few slides, shaking her head no at the Southern Empire’s eldest, Arghun and his younger brother, Kashin. “I have no interest in fighting for another crown.” 

They debated and argued for the rest of the slideshow, all feeling frayed when they arrived at the very last slide. 

Lysandra looked exhausted, slumping her shoulders, “And the last man is… Fenrys Marama, Lord of Doranelle.” 

Rowan, who had just taken a sip of water, choked, coughing violently. The women looked at him curiously, their brows raised. Elide asked, “Are you alright?” 

He nodded, his face bright red, “Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice was strained and he drank deeply from his glass. “Please, continue.” 

Elide looked at him weirdly, but turned her attention back to Fenrys. “He’s so pretty,” she said, looking at the picture of him smiling. His teeth were straight and pearly white, one deep dimple on his right cheek. He wore his coily, dense hair in long, halfway thick locks. Gold wire cuffs adorned them sporadically, the light jewellery making an arresting contrast against his deep, umber complexion.

He had a short-bridged, wide nose that centred nicely on his face, the glint of a simple septum ring shining. 

“What do we know about him?” she asked someone, the question directed at no one in particular. 

“He isn’t set to inherit anything because he’s the second born twin to his brother, Connall. He’s twenty-two, just passed the LSAT with a 174 and has applied to a couple Terrasenian law schools,” Lysandra said. “Has a bit of a playboy reputation, but hasn’t been in any tabloids or articles for the past couple months.” 

Someone made a strangled sound behind them. Elide turned, her face showing concern for Ress. “Ress, are you alright?” 

Her bodyguard dropped his gaze, looking down at the carpeted floor, “Yeah, um, I just- excuse me for a minute.” He didn’t wait another second before fleeing from the room, the door slamming shut behind him. 

They all looked at each other in bewilderment, utterly confused by Ress’ strange behaviour.  

Aelin was the first to shrug, “He must not be feeling well.” Rowan nodded and stood up. “And where are you going?” 

“I have to call someone,” he said smoothly, kissing her cheek and messing up Elide’s hair. “Bye, Lyss.” 

Lysandra waved, spared by his juvelinity, “Good-bye, Rowan.” The silver-haired man closed the door quietly and his footsteps receded down the hall. “So, Fenrys?” 

Elide looked at Aelin, nodding once, “Fenrys.” 

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Rowan checked his watch again, anxiously looking at the time over and over. He felt like he could feel the light tick against his skin and it put him on edge. 

Being on time had never exactly been Lorcan’s strong suit. 

Two minutes later, Lorcan strolled into the bar, nodding serenely in recognition as their eyes met. He moved carefully through the packed bar, more mindful of his movements due to his larger stature. 

There was already a glass of whiskey waiting for him as he slid onto the stool across the small table. “Hey, Ro,” he said, taking a slow sip of the amber liquor. “How’s, uh, Elide?” 

Rowan shot Lorcan a look, warning him not to push it. “How do you think, Lorcan? She graduated university less than a month ago and now she’s getting married to someone she doesn’t fucking know.” He didn’t need to tell Lorcan it was his fault. 

Lorcan flinched and averted his gaze, remorse shining in his dark eyes. “I… yeah.” He toyed with the elastic on his wrist, pulling it back and letting it snap against his skin over and over. Eventually, he shoved his hair into a messy bun at his nape, his fingers drumming restlessly over the table. “Did she find someone?” 

Rowan leaned back on his seat, cocking his head to the side, “What’s it to you?” 

Lorcan shrugging, “Nothing, I don’t care either way.” Rowan snorted, shaking his head as he sipped on his drink. “What? Who is it? Don’t tell me it’s someone like Perrington or any Adarlanian guy.” 

“Thought you didn’t care,” Rowan said, his interest piqued by Lorcan’s… consideration. That he cared enough to know who an eligible husband would be. It made some sense, he would’ve planned this out with Maeve and Vernon. 

Rowan pushed away the thought that Lorcan wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t think about that now. 

“I don’t care, but if the first time we met, I… I dunno, saved her, I guess, from some gross little lordling. It’d be hypocritical of me to force a marriage between her and some junkie like Perrington,” Lorcan said, staring down at his whiskey like the crystal glass held all the answers of the universe. 

“Why did you dance with her, Lor,” Rowan asked quietly, his voice tired. 

Lorcan muttered something, his shoulders curling down, “She looked like she needed help. I know I’m a prick, but not that kind.” He knocked back the rest of his drink, grabbing Rowan’s empty glass as he got up to walk over to the bar. Lorcan stepped away, pausing when a thought crossed his mind. “So did they choose?” 

“Yeah,” Rowan said, meeting Lorcan’s nervous gaze. “They did.” 

“Hellas, Ro, fucking tell me already.” 

“It’s Fen.”

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: .....hehe 🤭 

more: Fenrys' last name "marama" means light in a variety of polynesian languages ! ummm basically i think moonbeam is a stupid name and so did my lovely friend ezra @tinywolfofeyllwe​ so he came up with this name ! all creds go to him and im very thankful he lets me use it haha 

also ! both lorcan's sisters' names (aneha and sadirah) are tweaked from stars/constellations i thought were pretty ! this will be more apparent later, but i write lorcan as indigenous in all my fics (specifically lakota) so just keep that in mind for the future ! 

@mythicaitt​​​ @tinywolfofeyllwe​​​ @schmlip-scribble​​​ @the-regal-warrior​​​ @empire-of-wildfire​​​ @ladyverena​​​ @ttakeitbacknoww​​​ @shyvioletcat​​​ @alifletcher2012​​​ @tswaney17​​​ @ourbooksuniverse​​​  @flora-and-fae​​​ @thesirenwashere​​​ @queenofxhearts​​​ @maastrash​​​ @mynewdreamwasyou​​​ @cursebreaker29​​​ @empress-ofbloodshed​​​ @b00kworm​​​ @hizqueen4life​​​ @silversprings98​​​ @amren-courtofdreams​​​ @minaidss​​​ @superspiritfestival​​​ @sanakapoor​​​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​​​​ @spyofthenightcourt​​​​ @januarystears​​​​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​​ @magicalunicorngypsy​ @elriel4life​

[magicianapprenticelyra]

Day 11: Defining Moment

What was their coming-of-age moment? A point where everything changed?

@arcana-echoes

Surviving The Massacre of Rồngkarst — Bảo

He’s witnessed many of his friends die around him . . . and that was even before this particular event happened.

In short, after R left Mai and Bảo hanging out to dry, the latter had joined the local militia in order to keep the Province of Rồngkarst safe from invaders. This was one of the darkest parts of Bảo’s life . . .

He doesn’t look back at this period of time fondly.

At the time, Bảo was primarily tasked doing night patrols in and out of the forest along Rồngkarst’s border. Risks of ambush from the enemy were high, but he was one of the luckiest ones: he never encountered one.

Having lost a lot—friends, even his will to live at one point but that’s another story—the only thing keeping him going was Mai’s daughter, his little niece. The little girl always searched for him when he wasn’t on patrol, wanting to spend almost every single minute with him. While it was impossible for that to happen, Bảo often indulged Liên when his sister visited.

This is beside the fact that Mai and her husband, Nhung, were often at each other’s throats, yelling and screaming, having no mind to handle it like the adults they should be in front of their daughter.

Before long, occupying soldiers from Leysương’s capital start to claim that there were traitors in their midst. Everyone finds this ludicrous, but it puts everyone in the village on edge.

One day, it comes to a point when the soldiers started round up all the members of the militia. Bảo gives a heads up for his sister to hide Liên away . . .

There was going to be blood.

The one in charge of this lot of soldiers lined up all the members of the militia, and started to count off. After a certain number, someone would be killed. Blood started to rain onto the ground, and at one point Bảo was sure that he was going to die that day.

Closer and closer, the leader was getting to where Bảo was. In one moment, Bảo felt the blood spray of a person beside him spurt, and then the body crumpled to the ground.

He’d been spared.

After the damage was done, other troops from the soldiers’ encampment came in and surrounded around the murderous comrades.

After the bodies were marked for burial and their families notified, Bảo is washing the blood out of his hair. His hair is jet black, down to his lower back. He will keep scrubbing, scrubbing and scrubbing until he ruins the ends of his hair.

Within an hour, he and several other survivors are there banished. Their hair is cut, a mark of shame.

Bảo is haunted the most by when his niece followed behind this group. The innocent child was pleading, asking why they were leaving. Mai had to pick her up and carry her back to the village.

Once they were out of sight, Bảo sank into the bottom of the cart he had settled in, and cried.

He hasn’t been back since. 

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

"Congratulations, You’re Pregnant!” — Walterine

On the day she found out she was pregnant, her world turned sideways. Her family, her father and cousin Selasi the exceptions, came down on her, hard and mean.

While she wasn’t disowned, for a few months, Walterine was a persona non grata.

She couldn’t eat some things, she needed to move her bedroom to the downstairs, she had to make room for the new baby, etc etc etc etc.

James had stepped up to be the role of the father to her baby. As emotionally wrought as Walt was, she was often caught between wanting to scream at him or to cry into his comforting arms.

Spoiler alert: she did both. There are times to this day that Walt wonders why he stuck around . . . but she is thankful for him being there all the more.

Add Bảo to this mix, and hello! We got one interesting family, ha ha.

If Walt had a chance to do it all again, she’d still keep Neha, and take James and Bảo as her lawfully wedded husbands.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Debut Performance — James

“‘Twas not in my time, 'twas not in your time, but it was in somebody's time that one of our people became the one we know as the Red Deer. We pay homage to our patron for their noble sacrifice to save our people.”

People around the bonfire whoop and cheer. James’s nerves settle a bit, and he continues—

“No one can agree what their name once was, but we can agree to call them An Ceann Ciúin: The Silent One.

“As a child, they were mute. While it was a hindrance in getting their point across to their people, An Ceann Ciúin’s bravery was unmatched in the battlefield.

“During one such battle, one of the bloodthirstiest gods we know joined the fray on our enemy’s side. Everyone was ready to throw down their arms and surrender or make a commitment to take their own lives, for being dead was better than a prisoner of the Alban.”

“BETTER TA BE DEAD THAN TORTURED!“

“OR BE A SLAVE!!!”

The crowd is a mix of laughter from the warrior’s antics, or a smattering of shushing from the other seanchaidhe, Oisín especially.

James waits for the rest of them calm down before he continues.

“An Ceann Ciúin, the mad lad—he gets a few laughs with that; his father shakes his head, but he smiles, nodding—armed with only their shield and swiftness, rammed themself through a slew of enemy warriors. They did not stop until the boss of his shield slammed into the god aiding the enemy. The wind properly knocked out of the deity, our ancestors caught the second wind they needed to rejoin the fight.

Everyone shifts, murmuring among themselves. James takes this as them readying themselves for what was to come.

“As An Ceann Ciúin looked upon the unconscious god, it’s with horror they saw. . . they saw. . .”

James stops, realizing the air around the bonfire had become tense. He wonders why; he wasn’t at the horrifying part of the story yet . . .

It’s then that James finally saw that his mother was standing upon one of the nearby stumps, eyes squinted toward the distant darkness.

“Mum?” James whispers.

Brígh cups her hands behind her ears, listening. James listens too, unsure what to listen for.

Ice freezes his heart, realizing what was going on. The trees were rustling more than usual, and there were marching footsteps in the distance.

He and the rest of the Banbha just about jump out of their skin as his mother grabs for her broadsword, screaming “SCOURGE O—”

A spear flies out of the darkness, impaling itself into her shoulder. The force of it takes her down hard, stunning her into the dirt.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Something’s Wrong With Lyra — Neha

They came back as soon as they heard that Vesuvia had re-opened their borders. It took them six months to get everything in order, and Neha could not be happier once they returned to Vesuvia.

First stop: Baba’s shop to see if Lyra was there.

As it turns out, she wasn’t there. Oddly enough, there was quite the layer of dust on everything . . . 

That was fine: her sister was probably at The Shop! Neha made a beeline there immediately, not taking any time to say hi to their neighbors. She had more important business at hand!

When Neha got there, she was elated to see that The Shop was open. A customer had just left, leaving just enough room for Neha to squeeze in through the door.

“LYRA!!!” Neha calls out, grinning. “There you are! You made it!!!”

Lyra is behind the glass case, standing beside Asra. The latter seems alarmed by the fact Neha was right there, in the shop.

“Oh c’mon, can I get a hug?” Neha steps toward, arms outstretched.

“Neha wait—”

To both their horror, Lyra collapses to the ground, hitting her head on the counter.

“LYRA!?” Neha screams, rushing to kneel beside Lyra. “Ly, Ly, c’mon, this isn’t funny—”

Lyra’s eyes are wide open, but her pupils are constricted. Her eyes look so dull . . . what, what was going on!?

Asra swears under his breath. He reaches out to Lyra, holding her head in his hands, his thumbs over where the third eye chakra would be.

He whispers something, and a whorl of magic surrounds Lyra’s head before it dissipates into her skin.

Slowly, Lyra’s eyes close. She looks like she’s asleep . . .

“Asra, what the fuck!?” Neha whispers loudly, standing up as Asra scoops her up in his arms, turning to make the hike up to the upstairs bedroom. “Asra! Asra, what the fuck is wrong with her!?”

As the cloud-haired magician ascends to the top of the stairs, Walt opens the shop’s door, bewildered as her daughter starts to scream expletives at Asra, demanding answers.

Asra comes back down the stairs, and unbeknownst to Neha—she’s going through a lot, okay—Asra’s shoulders had the weight of the world three times over.

Walt holds Neha in her arms, hugging her daughter tight as the poor girl sobs into her chest.

Thanks for reading! See you all on the next one~.