#he was never ugly! he was never a bad character!! I don’t fuck with that line of thinking!!

[sad-endings-suck]

this man!! this man right here…

got fifty times hotter, when his life fell apart

[gyllenhaalstuff]

^ྀིMissed out -

Donnie Darko

~

Summary: You and your best friend share a joint. Turns out all you needed was some extra courage.

Warnings: Actually kinda cute, weed, asshole ex, subby!Donnie, he really likes your tits, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, piv sex, protected sex.

Word count: 2177

Notes: This isn’t proofread cause it’s almost 5am and I’m tired. This a bit filthy, like always. And all characters aged up to 18+.

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“C’mon I wanna try” Donnie whined. You blew out the smoke away from his face, looking at him with a questioning face. “I thought mixing weed with your meds was bad” you pointed out. Your window was open, but the room was still foggy with smoke. Your parents weren’t home for the rest of the week, so why not have a joint in bed? And why not invite your best friend? You hung out all the time anyway, or at least used to.

“You just want it to yourself i guess” Donnie said, faking a frown to make you give in. You took a drag and looked at him and sighed. “Oh fine, since you’re so annoying” you responded and passed the joint. Donnie accepted it and placed the joint to his lips, inhaling and holding it. 1, 2, 3. Before blowing it out and watching it fade away.

Donnie took another drag and relaxed into the pillows beneath him. He looked over at you, already looking a bit droopy. “How haven’t I done this before” He said and laughed, his eyes squinting into thin lines. You laughed back and took the joint from him. “You’re already off your fucking head” you said and smiled lazily as you smoked. “Well, probably cause there is more smoke than air in here” Donnie joked, looking up at the foggy ceiling. You two finished the joint before stomping it out in your ashtray.

“Can I tell you something?” He asked suddenly, probably because he finally had the courage to. You modded in response. “I feel like you’re always ditching me for other people” he confessed. His eyes were still heavy from his high and his face turned to yours. “Well, now I have more time for you.” you paused before continuing, “I broke things off with Blake.” Your ex took up a lot of your time, a lot of time you could’ve spent with Donnie. “I’m sorry about that”, Donnie responded. He sat up against the bed frame, stretched his neck and looked down on you. “Nah it’s fine. He was an asshole” You said and sat up as well. “Why?” Donnie asked, furrowing his brows as he did. You laughed as you thought back on your ex. “Do you want me to be honest?” You asked raising your brows at your friend. “Why would I want you to lie?” He asked and you shrugged. “The sex was really bad” You said quietly before laughing at yourself and the memories.

Donnie swallowed. “Ohh, yeah.” He said and seemed to get lost in his own thoughts for a second. You looked over and saw Donnie’s gaze drift off. “Oh fuck off, you’re imagining it” you jokingly accused him. “Oh I’m not!” He defended himself, but he still looked flustered to you. You kept quiet, to keep him talking. Curious about how he would try to save the situation. “Okay, maybe I did. But only cause you mentioned it!” He said raising his arms as if he was being held at gunpoint. “Was it a nice view?” You teased him while snickering at him, watching his face turn maroon. “Oh! Who wants to imagine Blake naked?” He said with a disgusted look, eyebrows knit together and his nose scrunched. “And what? The rest of the view was good?” You said still joking and laughing about. But Donnie’s eyes widened slightly, “Uh no-“ he stammered, “I mean you’re not ugly. Or I don’t think you are. Or I mean I don’t know what you look like-“ He got cut off by you. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m not accusing you of anything it’s all a joke” but when Donnie didn’t respond, you understood that it wasn’t all a joke.

You had never thought about it. All your boyfriends had been certified assholes, but Donnie was actually really sweet. You always knew he looked good, but it never went further than that. Those thoughts always got pushed to the side. But they always resurfaced, night after night.

The high surging through Donnie was making him brave. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Not you and Blake of course, just you” he confessed while fidgeting with his nails. You caught yourself smiling but couldn’t make it go away. “I won’t resist anything” you said, feeling like it was the easiest way to say ‘me too’, without actually saying it.

You sat up against the bed frame, looking at Donnie. Then, he leaned in and kissed you. It was shy at first, soft as he entered new territory. You were the one who licked against his bottom lip, trying to deepen the kiss. And he complied. His hand came up to cup your cheek and his tongue entered your mouth. You moaned against him and his other hand clawed against his jeans, trying to remain unaffected by you.

His breathing got heavier and you couldn’t watch him suffer, watch him try to hold back. “You can touch me” you whispered to him. You grabbed one of his hand and placed on one of your tits. He watched his hand holding it, groping it. “Do you wanna take it off?” You asked, inching up the hem of your short. Donnie nodded and swallowed. He had never been this scared or turned on ever in his life.

You took your t-shirt off, leaving you in your bra. You sat up next to Donnie and looked at him as his other hand made its way to your tits too, groping you once again. He looked up at you, “can we take this off too?” he asked nervously. “yeah” you said with a smile, leaned down to kiss him and unclasped you bra. When you sat back up you let the straps fall off your shoulders before removing your bra completely.

Donnie looked up at you, wanting to make sure that you weren’t uncomfortable. But when you smiled down at him all flustered, he felt more confident. “Come closer” he said, still sounding a bit nervous, but more needy than anything. You climbed over his lap and sat on top of him. His callused thumbs went over your nipples, and you inhaled sharply as they did. “You’re so pretty” He said, still looking at your tits, before leaning in and putting his mouth around one of your nipples. You hissed as his teeth grazed it, nipped at it and his hand pinched the other. You hummed at the stimulation and ground down against him. He moaned against your skin and his hand seemed to squeeze your breast harder.

You grabbed Donnie’s hair, tilted his face up and kissed his swollen lips. You laid him down before kissing and biting at his neck, which made him buck his hips against yours. As you reached his collarbones your hands grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off. Your hands grazed his pale skin and you leaned down to kiss down his stomach. Occasionally looking up at him to see him struggle, his mouth agape and eyelids heavy, looking down at you. When your mouth reached his happy trail your hands began to fiddle with his belt. “Yeah?” you asked him, holding eye contact. “Yeah” he confirmed and bucked against you.

You smiled, unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He raised his hips and you pulled his pants and underwear off, throwing them somewhere on the floor. You hummed as you saw his leaking cock against his stomach. You wrapped your hand around it and Donnie’s breath turned shaky. You stroked him, lingering at his tip each time. His thighs tensed as you ran your thumb over his tip, smearing his precum around.

You looked up at him as you laid your tongue flat against his head, licking over his tip. A low moan escaped his lips as your mouth enveloped him. You hollowed your cheeks as you lowered yourself down on him, grabbing onto his thighs to help yourself from gagging. Donnie breathed in whimpers as your tongue massaged his dick. His hand grabbed your hair and pulled you off of him. “Don’t wanna cum like this” he panted. A string of saliva connected your mouth to his tip and his cock couldn’t help but twitch when he noticed.

“You wanna fuck me instead?” you asked, still hovering above his crotch. “Don’t you want anything?” Donnie asked, cocking his head. You sat up and looked confused. “I could go down on you?” Donnie continued. “You want to?” You asked, surprised at his proposal. “Blake didn’t?” He asked back. You avoided the question. “Do what you want” you shrugged. Donnie pat the spot behind him, telling you to lay down. You obeyed and laid your head on one of the pillows. Now you were the nervous one. “Can I?” Donnie asked, hovering his hands above the button of your jeans. You nodded and he quickly undid them and pulled them down with your underwear.

Donnie perched himself on one of his elbows, letting his other hand graze your wet folds. His fingers found your clit and rubbed light circles on it as his mouth went to your thighs. His kisses started making their way up, occasionally stopping to bite down and then kiss it better. When he reached your cunt he removed his fingers and licked a slow, long stripe from your slit to the abandoned bundle of nerves. “He fucking missed out” He mumbled against your clit, making you grind against his face. His arms sneaked around your thighs before he placed his tongue back on your clit. Your hands tugged at his hair as the tip of his tongue flicked at you. Your thighs hugged the sides of his face, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, his tongue went and dipped into your hole. He moaned as he did, which flattered you more than he could imagine. His tongue fucked into you while his nose nudged at your clit. Your head spun as you writhed beneath Donnie. You never knew it could feel this good.

Donnie removed his tongue, placing it back onto your clit and pushed two fingers inside you. You hissed at the intrusion, but then he curled his fingers and began to move them in and out of you. The feeling made you shake like a leaf and you cried out with each flick of his tongue. “Gonna cum” you warned him, not wanting to catch him off guard. He mumbled a “please” against your clit, before sucking harshly on it. Your legs clamped down on him and you grabbed onto your sheets as the pressure threatened to spill over. And when it did, you moaned loudly and ground against Donnie’s mouth.

When he raised his head, his chin was covered in slick. He crawled up to your face and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You don’t know how fucking hard that made me” he whispered between deep breaths. You blushed at his words. “I’ve never came from that before” You responded making him moan and kiss you again.

Donnie rutted against your thigh as you made out. “Please” he whimpered in between two kisses, “wanna be inside you.” You kissed him one last time before reaching over to open the drawer beside your bed. You grabbed a condom and ripped it open. Donnie stood up on his knees, offering you to put it on. You rolled the condom onto him before he pushed you back against the covers.

He lined himself up, looked at you for confirmation and when you nodded he slowly pushed himself into you, holding hard onto your waist as he did. He groaned as he bottomed out. “Can I move?” he asked once he felt you relax, desperate to finally cum. “Go on” you answered and wrapped your legs around him.

He started slowly, not wanting to cum within three seconds. With each thrust he brushed against your g-spot, making you dig your nails into his shoulders. When he got more comfortable, he started moving faster. He placed his arms on either side of you, holding himself up as he fucked you. Your hand grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him in for an open-mouthed kiss. Your tongues collided and feverishly explored each other. As your breaths ran out, Donnie pulled away and laid his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. His thrusts were getting sloppy as he neared his climax. “Touch me” you breathed out and Donnie’s hand sneaked between your bodies, finding your clit with ease.

He sat back on his heels, now fucking up into you, making him slam against your g-spot every time. He twitched inside you as he watched himself fuck you, his cock covered in your wetness. You both were getting close, both encouraged by the other’s moans and whimpers. Donnie didn’t last much longer before he stalled and dug his nails into your hip as he came. You followed soon after, pulsing around him. His fingers slowed down against your sensitive clit.

Donnie laid down on top of you while catching his breath. “You can’t keep dating assholes” he pointed out, “you’re too good for that.” You smiled at his words, kissed his cheek and responded “I won’t.”

[mochinomnoms]

Hiii! For the Hanahaki event can I request Vil (romantic) with prompt #7? A gender neutral reader would be appreciated, thanks!!

Also if youre up for it maybe prompt #12 with Ace (Platonic) with the reader’s object of affection still being Vil? This prompt with Ace is too funny for me to ignore I just HAVE to sneak him in 😭😭

vil schoenheit, platonic!ace trappola x gn!reader [tags] – fluff, humor, semi enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, sickenly sweet [wc} – 3,458 prompt 7: “I've heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve, but wearing petals in your hair is a whole new level of fashion statement.” prompt 12: "No, I haven't been growing marigolds out of my ass. Why would you even ask that?!” note - writing this was surprisingly hard. but i got it and i think it's very cute, i just hope Vil is mostly in character :skull: also i don't know german so idk if the nickname is an accurate translation! comments loved and appreciated! a floral inconvenience

Marigold: often used during festivals like Diwali and Navratri, marigolds symbolize purity, auspiciousness, and the divine.

You were going to murder him. 

“Heyyyyyy Prefect!” Ace gave you a cheeky grin as he held your glass bottle of very expensive salicylic acid serum, balancing it precariously between his fingers. “What about this? Can I take this—whoops!”

“ACE!”

You shrieked as the bottle slipped from his fingers, only to be caught by his other hand, an infuriating grin still on his hand. 

“Hehe, relax! I’m just messing around—oh shit!” The bottle slipped again from his fingers as a now panicked Ace scrambled to capture it. “Oop. Got it. It’s fine.”

“Oh my gooooooooood, Ace, I’m going to fucking kill you, give that back!” You snatched the bottle from his hands, giving him a good kick behind the knees as you walked past him. 

“Owwwww, Prefect, why are you so mean to me?” Ace pouted as you put your serum back on your desk with the rest of the skincare Vil had gifted everyone at the start of the SDC training. Ace continued whining as he packed his bags to go back to Heartslabyul, being left behind by Deuce who went to get snacks from Sam’s with Epel. 

He felt bad that all the food you had was cursed by Vil at the beginning. 

“It’s almost like you want me out of your dorm, kinda rude, you know.”

“You know what’s rude?” You smacked down the pillow Ace threw your way as you huffed, “Your face. Ugly ass, you know you had a room next door, how’d all your stuff end up in my room?”

Ace shrugged as he shoved his wrapped up sweater into the now bulky backpack he’d brought over, throwing himself onto your bed and grunting as he bounced on the squeaky frame. 

“I don’t know, how’d you burn the Queen of Hearts’s statue—”

“That was you—”

“—the world will never know.” 

You rolled you eyes as you laid on your stomach next to him, hugging a spare pillow to your face. Closing your eyes, you sighed as the events of the last few weeks replayed in your head. Between acting as manager for the SDC group, to barely keeping up with classes, to Vil’s overblot, you were utterly exhausted. Speaking of Vil…

“Ah, that’s right, I should check on Vil before he leaves. I wonder if he’s doing okay?”

“With you at his beck and call? Perfectly fine, I guarantee you.” Ace yelped as you smacked his side, giving him a red-faced glare. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ace turned on his side with a teasing smirk. The kind of smirk he gave you whenever he wanted to fluster and embarrass you in front of your friends and teachers. 

“It means whatever you want it to mean. Maybe someone should consider not acting like a little kid with a crush whenever they’re around Vil—owowowowowow—stop hitting me!”

You pounded your fists onto Ace’s sides and back as he tried to roll away from your reach, arms cradling his head in meek protection. He managed to roll off the bed, turning over to look at you briefly to stick his tongue out and politely flip you off. Ace let out a small shriek as you launched off the bed after him, running out of the room into the hall and turning into a goosechase. You could practically hear the yakety sax song playing in your head as the two of you pushed past Jamil and Kalim, the former crying out at you in annoyance. 

“Watch it!”

Ace practically threw himself down the stairs, jumping past four whole steps, using the banister to whip him around into the main hallway where he ran into the living room. Finally catching up to him, Ace positioned the coffee table between you two as he continued egging you on. 

“Ayeeeeeee, embarrassed Prefect? Gonna throw a fit?” Ace let out a low cackle as you both shifted around the table. 

“Gonna throw your ass into the fucking sun, little bitch ass! You got something to say then fucking say it!” 

Ace snorted as he pointed behind you. “You’re one to talk, you wanna talk about the marigolds coming from behind you? It’s like you’re growing a garden out of your ass, wanna talk about that?”

“The fuck? I haven't been growing marigolds out of my ass. The hell you’re talking about,” You turned your head to look behind you, still growling at him now with confusion. “Why would you even ask that—WHAT THE FUCK!?”

You hissed as you jumped backwards into the table, the edges jamming into your skin. Behind you had been a long trail of beautiful, shimmering orange flowers. Upon closer inspection, you were pretty sure they were marigolds. 

“...Ace, this is your fault.” 

“What! Nuh-uh, I’m not the only with flower sickness—”

“The fuck is flower sickness?”

“You know, hanahaki? The love disease? How do you not know what flower sickness is, it’s like basic 8th grade bio—”

“I didn’t go to school here, dumbass!”

Ace’s mouth formed an ‘oh’ shape as he remembered. “Oooooh yeah, I forgot.”

“Forgot what? You little potatoes are acting awfully rowdy so early in the morning.”

You looked up to see Vil standing in the hallway, a bemused Rook behind him inspecting the flowers on the ground. Vil briefly made eye contact with you, both of your sharing a small smile before an irritating, itchy feeling made its way in your throat. 

You felt a hand pack your back as you started roughly coughing up several bunches of marigolds into your hands as Ace grimaced. 

“I forgot that they’re not from here, so they got no clue about hanahaki…or any other illness…huh it’s kinda a miracle they haven’t gotten sick from something else yet.” Ace hummed, as he leaned down to look at your face. 

You made eye contact with your peripheral vision, motioning Ace to lean closer into you and horasely whispered, “Come… closer…”

Confused, Ace obliged, ear up to your lips, giving you the perfect opportunity to sock him straight in the gut. Your dear, beloved friend gagged from the pressure, hands cradling his stomach as he fell to his knees, groaning in pain. 

“Y/N…” Vil sighed in exasperation, walking over to give you a gentle flick in your forehead as he chastised you. 

“It’s unbecoming of a friend of mine to be so belligerent, do you really have to be so crass with all your friends?”

You clicked your tongue, licking the spit from your lips. “I’m not with you, besides Ace deserves it, you know how he is.”

“Mm-hmm, and how long have you been coughing out the flowers, meine Süße?”

A pleasant warmth flooded your cheeks at the nickname. You choose to ignore the tickling sensation of marigolds growing from the tops of your head, which instead formed into sneezing fits. 

“I've heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve, but wearing petals in your hair is a whole new level of fashion statement.” He remarked, leaning down to observe the blooms. “Now, answer my question, meine Süße.”

“Achooo! Ugh,” You sniffled as you replied, “Um, not that long—achoo!—ago, ugh. Just today—”

“Ah! The little trickster started expelling the belles fleurs approximately a month and a half ago!” Rook chirped, a little too happily for your tastes. “Two weeks after we began training for the SDC.” 

Vil let out another sigh as you whipped your head to glare at Rook, hissing out, “What. The. Fuck.”

“Excuse me?! Language Y/N!” Vil barked at you, making you flinch and burst into another coughing fit. Noticing this, he softened his voice, though the blonde still sounded angry.

“That’s nearly two months with the flower sickness, have you been taking potions to help with the symptoms?” 

You shook your head, clearing your throat. “Ahem, no, uh. I didn’t know that there was medicine for this kinda thing, haaaaa I just figured I was being pranked by someone.”

You heard a snort behind you as Ace stood back up, grumbling, “Of course you would, dumbass.” 

“I will actually kill you—”

“You will actually not.” Vil placed a gentle hand on your upper back, guiding you to the front door. “Rook, ensure everyone packs up and cleans their mess by the time we get back, I believe Kalim may still need help packing up.”

“Oui! How kind of you Vil to escort our lovely Trickster to get them a remedy for their affliction!” 

Rolling your eyes, you let Vil guide you out of the dorm, calling out to Ace, “Don’t forget to grab the rest of your stuff, it’s still in my room!” 

“Okayyy!” 

With that, the door shut behind you two as you began a pleasant walk over to what you assumed would be Sam’s shop. A pregnant silence fell over you two as you walked down the pathway leading to main street, having to maneuver past the alchemy building and botanical gardens. You were hyper conscious about his hand that remained on your back, which is when you started another coughing fit. 

“Oh you poor dear, did you really have no clue what was going on all this time?” Vil spoke to you in that soft tone that he’d been reserving for you since you first became friends, a few months ago. You’d gone into the Film Research Club interested in working as a stagehand, plus you had a good working knowledge costume design and general clothes repair, which was sorely needed. 

It’d been an incredibly rocky acquaintanceship at first, as Vil made subtle, snide remarks on your disheveled appearance, while you shot back with loud, brass comments on his ‘Regina George wannabe’ act. Now, he didn’t know who Regina George was back then, but took offense that a ‘dirty, lumpy potato would have the audacity to insult him’. 

He only kept you on in the club because no one ever willingly signed up for backstage work, and you only requested free access to spare cloth and sewing materials to fix your clothes. Vil was also more than happy to point out how scruffy the patches all over your uniforms made you look: 

“You certainly fix the part of the ramshackle Prefect, now don’t you?”

Though, looking back on it now, you’re pretty sure he wasn’t aware that everything of yours was either found in Ramshackle’s attic or bought with the meager allowance Crowley gave you. Shortly before finals, Vil found you crying in an isolated part of backstage because another first-year permanently bleached your only jacket during a botched potions class.

“What’s going on back here, practice your scenes upfront with the rest of us, I don’t care how ugly you look crying—Prefect?”

You jumped, scrambling to get back up from the dusty corner you’d shoved yourself into. You awkwardly wiped the tears from your face, wrapping your arms around yourself as you gave Vil a feeble glare.

“What do you want Vil, I already told the others that their costumes wouldn’t be ready yet, if you want me to get stuff done, you gotta stop annoying me—”

“You’ve been crying.” His simple statement shut you up, as he approached you with a firm look on his face.

“…Yeah, stating the obvious much?” you muttered back, finding the scuff marks on the ground very interesting. Vil let out a sigh, reaching into his jacket to take out an off-white, embroidered handkerchief.

“I’m trying to be sympathetic. Ugh, you’re all red and puffy, let me see.” Vil tipped your chin up with his fingertips, gently patting at the tear streaks on your cheeks. “You look worse than normal…is the red bleach stain on your uniform meant to be a fashion statement?”

Pausing at the stuttering breath you took, sniffling, you answered, “No, some dumba—”

“Language”

“—Some jerk,” you drawled, “from my last class messed up his potion, and it got all over me. Stained my only jacket, right when it starts snowing, too.”

Vil raised a brow at you, leaning back once he was satisfied with your dried cheek.

“Only one? Even Ruggie has a few spare uniform jackets from Leona, did you seriously not think ahead to purchase a spare?”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed at his statement.

“You think Crowley gives me enough money to buy another jacket for his bougie ass—I mean, fancy, school? I barely have enough to feed myself and Grim between the roof caving in and the water pipes breaking. The bathroom flooded again last week.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you felt a migraine coming in, unaware of Vil’s growing horror.

“I was lucky enough to find my uniform in the attic, it waaay too big and makes me look homeless, but at least it keeps me warm…now it just looks even more like shit.”

You finally looked up at the blonde, expecting him to lecture you on your foul language. Instead, you were surprised to see Vil’s horrified expression.

“What do you mean, you barely have enough for food?”

It was then that you discovered that no one outside your group of friends were really aware that you were stuck on campus, victim to Crowley’s whims and needs. You know the others in Heartslabyul were faintly aware of your predicament, being from another world and stuck until Crowley found you a way home. Ace and Deuce did their best to help repair things around the dorm, but could only do so much. Savanaclaw and Octavinelle knew of the disarray of your dorm, but based on comments from Leona and Floyd, weren’t aware of just how much you were struggling just to eat and sleep. 

Ruggie definitely was, seeing as he occasionally slipped you a spare meat bun or snack that he happened to buy extra of when running errands for Leona. Ruggie was a real one, as long as you didn’t point it out. 

Since that day, Vil had sort of taken you under his wing, along with Epel who you hadn’t met yet at the time. You had to give him credit, he wasn’t the villain you’d made him out to be in your head. And Vil admitted, he enjoyed that you were quick on your feet and enjoyed your banter, as long as it was unique to him. 

He spared you his previous uniforms that he’d grown out of his freshman and sophomore year, minus the band and vest, watching as you mended the waist and ends to fix your stature. More often than not, especially after hearing that you’d be stuck by yourself during winter break, Vil was sending you care packages with personal hygiene products from brand deals he never took. He’d send fabrics and sewing supplies with sewing patterns. Vil even started buying you breakfast and lunch once back to school, though you refrained from joining him for dinner in Pomefiore. 

In exchange, you managed to replicate, with his help, some of the scripts for the more famous musicals from your world. You even told him who Regina George was! He still wasn't fond of the comparison, but did find the musical intriguing. Vil was fascinated by the works of art your world produced, and just slightly enamored in the way you described them with glee and fondness. Still, the exchanges still felt a bit uneven.

You’d once made the joke that he was practically a sugar daddy, just without the sugar. He snapped back, “Well, I’m not stopping you, now am I? I’ve never had a sweet tooth, but you’re more than welcome to give me thanks, meine Süße.” 

(You spent that night screaming into your pillow with a red-hot blush while Grim looked on with concern.)

Truly, you two had developed an unlikely friendship, one where you both spoke your minds to the other with no hesitation or fear. Which is why the lack of conversation at the moment was slowly driving you insane. 

You sneaked a peek at Vil, taking a sharp breath as your eyes met his own. It seemed that he was watching you with his very lovely, sharp purple eyes. The thought sent a hot flash through you as you sneezed a flurry of petals and pollen. 

“Ooof, ugh, this is gonna make my allergies go haywire.”

“Sam will have some potions that will help with the symptoms, though you will have to confront the root of the cause.” Vil slid his hand down to rest in your mid-back, rubbing his thumb against you in a soothing motion, though it cause you to shiver and flush. 

“Yeah, okay.” you managed to squeak out, groaning as you felt the tickle of glowing marigolds pop up on your skin and in your hair. “Ummmm, so how do you get rid of, uh, Ace called it hanahaki?”

Vil nodded and opened his mouth to speak before being interrupted by the faint screaming of your name. Both of you looked down the path, where you saw Deuce running over to you two, followed by a confused Epel chasing after him. 

“PREFECT! PREFECTPREFECTPREFECTPREFECT—” 

Yelping as Deuce skidded to a half and grabbed you by your arms, shaking you with intense concern, you managed to reply a stuttered, “W-w-what?” 

Deuce paused his shaking to give you a concerned lecture, “You didn’t tell us you had the flower sickness!? Why didn’t you say something, you’ve been running around for SDC all this time—”

“You too—”

“But I’m not sick!” Deuce dug through the paperbag you’d just notice he was holding and shoved a pale pink potion in your hands. “Here! Take this!”

Before you could even touch the bottle, Vil plucked it from a confused Deuce’s hands, studying it with scrutiny. 

“Hmm…This is an average allergy relief potion for hay fever, did you actually ask Sam for a hanahaki symptom relief potion, or did you just grab the first thing you saw off the shelf?”

Deuce visibly deflated, opening his mouth to sheepishly reply before Epel interrupted him with a harsh, “I told him to ask, but he got all riled up and started yammerin’—I mean, uh, talking about getting the Prefect help immediately.”

Vil sighed, handing Deuce the potion back and shooed the two away with a wave of his hand. 

“Just go back, I’ll handle it, just make sure your messes are all cleaned up before we get back.”

The two replied, “Yes sir!” and continued on their path, waving goodbye to you. Though you could hear Epel mumble to Deuce, “Those are marigolds, right? I think Vil’s favorite flowers are those, you don’t think…”

You slowed down to ponder Epel’s words, remembering what Ace initially called the illness. 

“Vil…Ace called it a love sickness…would these flowers related toooo, I don’t know, a hypothetical crush somehow?” 

Vil briefly opened his mouth, closing it as he hesitated to speak. You think you could make out a soft blush on his cheeks. 

“Yes. Your hypothetical crush must favor marigolds. Can’t say I blame him, I’m fond of them myself…” 

The two of you made eye contact, a knowing look in his eye and tone making your heart skip a beat and you look down in embarrassment. 

“Oh…I see…” You coughed awkwardly, a few petals flying from your mouth. “So you said there was a way to get to the root cause?”

Vil hummed, stopping at the entrance of Sam’s shop to turn to you with an unreadable expression. 

“Yes, as an illness based on love, appropriately the cure is to confess your feelings to the one you’ve found yourself fancying.”

A cold flash went through your body as your stomach dropped. Again. “Oh.” The thought of confessing to Vil made you sick, like you could puke at a drop of a coin at any moment.

“I wish you’d mentioned something sooner, I could’ve helped you…ease into it.” Vil murmured,  his hand moving to cradle your cheek. He squished your cheek with a fond look in his eye. 

“I know it’s a daunting task…I won’t rush you into it.” Vil moved his hand to brush your hair away, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead. “When you’re ready to say something, just let me know.”

Leaning back, VIl covered his mouth to hide his amused smirk. Your face was a blazing red as the marigolds grew a trail down your neck and chest. He motioned for you to follow him into the shop, holding the door open as he held a hand out to you. At the moment, you’re having a hard time imagining why he’d only ever been typecast in villain roles, he looked more like an enchanting love interest catered for you specifically. 

“For now, I’ll be by your side. I will wait for you, meine Süße.”

[maxwell-grant]

The Penguin Episode 4: Cent'anni Breakdown

She goes through all these different levels of all these different personas: excellent daughter, overachiever, and this horrific feral state in Arkham. And it's not until the yellow dress that she finds the one that fits.

Kind of like sharks can't stop moving or they sink. It's that relentless pursuit of justice.

This changes her forever. She never comes back. Something so much bigger than her takes over in order to survive - Cristin Milioti

This was pointed out to me by my friend and, show of hands everyone, who else thinks it's unbelievably fucking sick that it is Sofia who gets to show up at the Falcone dinner table, wearing a thematically appropriate embodiment of her childhood trauma, and do a "None of you are safe" speech?

(Episode 1) (Episode 2) (Episode 3) (Episode 5) (Episode 6) (Episode 7) (Episode 8)

It probably felt odd to spend time with Sofia when we’re in a show called The Penguin. But I think it’s just as important so you can understand Oz psychologically. Even though I don’t view Oz as a hero or a villain, he is a greater villain in the show than anyone else. And for you to feel that way, I think you have to understand his primary antagonist more. And that’s Sofia.” - Lauren LeFranc

I gotta say I'm generally not enthusiastic about Penguin being depicted as overtly disgusting, like drooling and eating raw fish and all that Burton stuff (actually I do think the black bile is cool, but only so far as as that version goes), but for that opening scene, that was a spectacularly well-placed bit of grossness. Like this sheer craven animalistic ugliness of DeVito's Penguin descending for a second to show us how Sofia sees Oz, and even how right she is to do so at the moment because holy shit hahahahahaha

From what we can see of Sofia's pre-Arkham life, she was basically the Meadow Soprano of the family: The smart, overachieving golden child, whose social standing and eligitibility for leadership wouldn't even be up for debate if she was born a man like her loser brother (love AJ, relate uncomfortably to AJ, he's not at all morally comparable to Alberto, but he is very much a loser). Socially conscious and sticking up for victims but only if you don't poke too closely at her victim-generating family business, aware of some things but willfully blind to her own hypocrisy and insistent that daddy is still in average a good man who isn't as bad as people around her may say he is. I'd even say that the Sofia we see here is a more moral person than Meadow, although obviously being the daughter of Carmine Falcone is a much scarier, more isolating and horrific prospect than growing up the daughter of Tony Soprano (the ways in which the two Sopranos kids diverged and majorly prefigured American socio-political developments that kicked off after the show is a topic for another post).

(Also, I don't really want to bring up Sopranos comparisons because the shows are similar, they're really not, but I finished The Sopranos yesterday so they're gonna come up still)

I think Mark Strong does a really good job here filling in for John Turturro's role, even if he's not quite as good in it as Turturro. I think he plays the character differently in a way that works really well for this being a past version of Carmine, filtered through Sofia's vision. He is imposing and quiet and mighty, a lone titan of unquestionable power over the entire world, not even remotely someone to be defied or displeased. Turturro's Falcone was charismatic and affable and oozing with unspeakable yet casual cruelty, and I would have liked that here, but I like the idea that we're seeing a Carmine from before he was invincible, when he still needed Sofia to help him get Congressman Hill on the phone and still worried about the future of the family at Alberto's hands, a Carmine from when the Maronis were still around and he wasn't the sole ruling power in Gotham, who could still possibly lose even without vigilante intervention.

He is larger, more imposing, a stern and stoic father who had little use for pleasantries, and with no mirth to be had at the expense of the little people who think they can do anything against him that matters, even if he is getting there. I think the difference here adds a nice little arc to Carmine: there was a time where he needed to keep up appearences, there was a time where he raised his voice above a whisper to get things done, and there was a time where he wasn't the real mayor of Gotham. There was a time where he was a "proper" Don, when he acted like his comics counterpart, and none of that really became necessary over the following decade, when he grew more and more invincible and isolated and comfortable in this nightmare he made the city into.

They also confirm here that apparently the Iceberg Lounge/44 Below existed way back when Oz was just Sofia's driver, and it was already Carmine's prostitute slaughterhouse even then and Alberto knew about it. Possibly explains why Oz was handed the club in the first place, because the Falcones already called him Sofia's penguin and putting The Penguin in charge of the Iceberg Lounge would fit their idea of a laugh (and given how much Oz hates being called Penguin, he would hardly come up with the name himself)

Lmao, those dog comparisons I keep making really don't stop justifying themselves.

Credit again to Mike Marino and the prosthetics team for this younger Oz make-up, he strikes a very nice middleground between current Oz and the one we see as a kid.

Really like what we see of Sofia and Oz's dynamic here, again reinforcing that for all intents and purposes he was the sidekick in her HBO protagonist life. We see how Sofia likes his company and how she even kinda defends him from the family, but she really cannot bring herself to respect him very much and disdains him from the same very upper-class perspective the rest of the family does, she's just nicer about it. And in turn we see parts of where Oz's resentment to her comes from, and also the extent to which Oz was always lying in wait for an opportunity to get ahead regardless of her, his justified grievances as well as him being a conniving fuck. The really thin line this treads though, is that it establishes that neither of them were lying about how they meant something to each other, even if it doesn't help.

Sofia did have her life ruined partially because of Oz, she did endure horrific things while he got a promotion because he ratted her out to Carmine, and he very much did in part because he wanted to get ahead and saw an opportunity to do so. But also, Oz genuinely had no idea that this is what Carmine would do, and I think in large part this was also about keeping himself safe. It's not even that unbelievable that he was genuinely looking out for her, because holy shit you do not talk to the press about Carmine Falcone, daughter or not, and he tried warning her in the car before she rebuffed him and insulted him pretty deep for good measure. If Sofia talked to the press and would not stop talking (since he didn't know in the car that she rebuffed Gleeson) and shit started happening because of her snooping around, he would have absolutely gotten punished/murdered for it, it is not at all a stretch to assume that Carmine would have done something to Oz as punishment to Sofia.

Oz didn't plan any kind of misfortune, at no point did he mastermind her admission into Arkham (or even help keep her there with the letters, like the rest of the family), he just told Carmine something he shouldn't have, and neither of them expected anything too terrible was gonna come out of it. They both wildly underestimated what a complete scumbag Carmine is, but with Carmine (and the others) gone, there's nobody else to turn those grievances to.

Even if Oz could claim deniability for the Arkham thing, which he kinda can't but Sofia even tried to grant him anyway, he sure as shit can't for everything else he does in the opening minutes.

Oh hey it's Mr Mustache With The Broken Nose.

A thing that came to mind when I was watching the episode was the story of Rosemary Kennedy, JFK's sister whose father arranged for her to be institutionalized and lobotomized at age 23 as a reponse to "difficult" behavior. I'm not recounting it in more detail here because the rest of it is just too horrific, look it up yourself if you're curious. I remembered it because reading about Rosemary Kennedy ruined my fucking day and it still pumps up the breaks in my train of thought every now and then, so it came to mind watching this story about a young woman horrifically institutionalized and butchered for the sake of her wealthy family's image. Later I heard the podcast, and turns out that actually was exactly what Lauren LeFranc based Sofia's story on, which was nice. I'm glad it also fucks Lauren LeFranc up and that we both agree she should have gotten to wreak revenge on the entire family over it, thank you Penguin Show that continues to be made for me, this was nice.

Oh hey, Magpie. Just the name, yeah, but that was another nice surprise. I used to have a bit of a soft spot for Magpie, occasionally I thought there was something to get out of her and Penguin together, so a part of me likes that they put Magpie in The Penguin show even if just in name. Yes, she only exists to be annoying and die, but that's what she already tends to do anyway. And y'know, much as I may like her, she is still a John Byrne character, so she doesn't really deserve much more than that

Jesus Christ this episode gets uncomfortable.

I like that this establishes that Julian Rush kinda did make an effort to help her and kinda felt bad about it, but not nearly enough, and that he is very much a complicit contemptible creep who has it coming as much as any of the people who put Sofia in there.

Cannot state enough how much I appreciate that they didn't put any actual named Batman villains in the Arkham Asylum episode, guarantee a lot of creators would not resist the temptation. I mean okay I guess there is a Ventris already in Batman but, come on, you know who I mean. This did not need any references to like, Jeremiah Arkham or Jonathan Crane or Hugo Strange or any of that, and that's not a diss on any of those guys, it's just that unlike pretty much every other Batman story, this episode does not undercut it's point about the horrific institutional horrors dehumanizing and destroying Sofia by pinning it on a chief boogeyman supervillain that Batman is going to fight later. Dr. Ventris is not responsible for the systemic rot that got her there nor is he the sole orchestrator/perpetrator of the abuse it's inmates suffer, he simply answers to those, and thus perpetuates them, by doing his job in a mental institution.

I am still haunted by the inmate committing suicide with a fork. It is so fucked up that Sofia was tortured and goaded by the doctors into murdering another inmate, and when that failed, they tortured her again and again and again until she snapped. The whole point was to push Sofia beyond the breaking point to justify further incarceration. The doctors just standing there letting her kill Magpie.

I want Dr.Rush to die.

I have more thoughts on Arkham, but I'd call this the most horrific take on Arkham so far, because it is the most honest take on Arkham so far. Even at it's most run-down and monstrous, it is usually never at all into question that Arkham Asylum is necessary, because if it wasn't there, all the crazies would run rampant in Gotham. Over the years, it's monstrousness has always been tied directly and specifically to it's inmates, and whenever people have pointed out the shoddy conditions and inhospitable environment of Arkham as a factor for repeat offenders, it's pretty much always as a fandom joke outside of Batman stories proper, and if there is anything wrong with the way the Asylum works, it is always the fault of particularly evil villains attached. A Lock-Up, a Jeremiah Arkham, a Hugo Strange, etc. Arkham Asylum is in general a Batman concept that's raised a lot of discussions and calls for revision over the years, and a lot of the issues with it tie into larger issues around superhero depictions of the carceral system, that @artbyblastweave went into here.

Here, in large part because this is a realistic world and a Gotham without a rampaging supervillain contingent of repeat offenders who can magically break out constantly, it is never into question that the patients are the victims of this system, and if they are being turned into potential supervillains, it is because of Arkham inflicting this on them. This is an Arkham Asylum that remains a nightmarish, horrific force in this world, but not because it's Castle Dracula where all the crazy villains hang out, not even just because the rest of Gotham is hopelessly rotten and corrupt, but because it's a mental institution and depicted accordingly. It gets to dig into the real life horrors mental institutions inflict on it's patients without having to justify those measures as benign or necessary to keep crazy crimes from happening. Frankly, this take on Arkham Asylum has been long overdue.

In every form of Batman media, just about the worst thing that can happen at any given moment is Arkham Asylum falling and it's inmates escaping into the streets, that's generally what happens when Batman needs to deal with apocalyptic stakes (which is why of course it happens all the fucking time now). Here, that scenario would be regarded with cheer, because the worst thing that can happen in this universe is being sent to Arkham Asylum. It isn't just Batman's unofficial personal prison / punching gallery, if anything it massively raises the stakes on this Batman's next adventures, because now we know this is what's waiting for him if he gets caught and unmasked.

I like that Sofia and Oz are both trying to save/protect those they see as younger versions of themselves, while inflicting on them the kinds of tragedies that ultimately created them

Oz reached out to this poor disabled kid from the streets and is showing him the ropes, while also belittling him as a nobody and distorting his worldview and dragging him into life or death cornered scrapdog situations chipping away at his morals. Sofia saves her little niece who laughs at bad table manners and doesn't quite do what her family says, gently lulling her to sleep so she can kill her mom and her entire family.

Extremely important that Sofia Falcone makes her formal arrival as a villain by showing up dressed in a sexy yet fitting extension of her trauma / cultural reference (The Yellow Wallpaper / the walls in her mother's bedroom), before putting on a mask and enacting Gotham's first Mass Casualty Gas Attack, we love to see it.

I was frankly already calling Sofia one of my favorite Bat-villains even before this episode, I'm just glad everyone seems to be on the same page with me now. I'm seeing a lot of posts on Twitter and Instagram talking about how they're rooting for Sofia instead of Oz, that she deserves to win this war, and good, fucking amazing that they're doing this, again, this show is hitting home runs I could not have foreseen.

It is incredible what a character they've made out of Sofia, and the fact that we now see Oz as her antagonist as much as we see Sofia as his, and the fact that if Penguin wins, he will win this as a villain. He will steal a victory he does not deserve and rub it in your face and he will make the children of the world cry for it as any villain worth his name should be doing, and it frankly wouldn't be much of a fight if Sofia wasn't every bit the complicated, engaging protagonist he is. Lauren LeFranc claimed that she sees Sofia is the closest the show has to a hero even if she is not, and this is the episode that sold everyone on it.

Halfway through the show and it's only gotten better and better, can't wait for what's coming next.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Rebuild & Restore - Chapter 6

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All OC Characters belong to me

Series Masterlist

Saturday Afternoon..

“This is so fucking stupid.” Joe mumbled to himself  as he drove down I-95. After another one of his text messages sent to Kiyana went unanswered. He was down bad. He just didn’t understand. Kiyana and Josh were divorced now, so there was nothing standing in the way of him and Kiyana being together now. The stupid part wasn’t even that he was driving to Pensacola because he could just play it off as wanting to see his parents, it’s that fact that this impromptu trip only took place because Kiyana was active on social media but not responding to his text messages.

6 hours down, 3 hours and 30 minutes to go.. 

“How did Josh take the news?” Samara asked as she and Kiyana walked around the mall looking for stores to go in. Samara narrowed her eyes at Kiyana when she didn't respond back.  “Kiyana Marie…” 

“I didn’t tell him yet.” Kiyana muttered as they walked into a store. She could feel the heat of Samara’s stare as she picked up a dress from the rack and held it up to her body. 

“That’s ugly, put it down.” Kiyana rolled her eyes and put the dress back. “Why the hell not?” Kiyana huffed as she started looking through another rack of dresses.

 “I just don’t wanna spring it on him Sam,” Kiyana huffed out. “We’ve only been divorced for like what? 2 weeks is that not too soon?” It took everything in Samara to not knock her best friend upside her head. 

“Key, y’all were married and he was sleeping with that girl, it’s no such thing as too soon when it comes to y’all.  You don’t owe him anything..”  Kiyana sucked her teeth, but she knew Samara was right, she didn’t owe Josh anything. “Fuck Josh.” 

“You’re right,” Kiyana muttered as her heart started to ache in her chest. She knew she needed to move on.. She had to move on for her own sanity. Josh had proven to her that he wasn’t the man she thought he was, it was time for her to move on. 

“I wasn’t expecting you back for another hour or two.” Josh stated as Kiyana walked into her living room. She eyed him, frowning her face up as he looked a little too comfortable in her living room, sprawled out on her couch. The boys weren’t used to him not being in the house yet, so he had been spending his days off at the house instead of his apartment. 

“I just wanted to pick a couple of things up from the mall.” She said and Josh nodded, his eyes peeking over at her bags, eyes narrowing as one of the names stuck out to him. 

“Damn, you got a date or something?” He jokingly asked, trying to peek into the lingerie store bag.  Now or never 

“Yeah,” She said, “I actually wanted to talk to you about that. I need you to take the boys tonight.” 

“Wait.” Josh chuckled, sitting up and grabbing the remote, turning the t.v off. “What the fuck is you telling me right now?” He asked, feeling his stomach tighten and his heart start to pound faster. A date? Nah, he must’ve heard her wrong. 

“You’re not seriously mad right now are you?” She asked and he scoffed 

“What the fuck - of course i’m mad Kiyana. I’m your husband -” 

“Ex-husband!” She cut him off. “You’re my ex-husband who decided that he no longer wanted to be faithful. ” 

Suddenly, Josh couldn’t breathe. He drowned out whatever else Kiyana was saying and just stared at her pretty face. This can not be happening right now. The thought of Kiyana being with someone else made him sick to his stomach. “I’m gonna go.” He said, not looking at her as he put his shoes on and started walking towards the door. 

“What about the boys? Can you take them tonight?” Josh scoffed and shook his head. 

“Nah, not tonight.” 

“Josh!” She called out, leaping up from the couch and following him out of the house. “You being deadass?” 

“You think imma sit in the fucking house, filled with memories of us while you out on a date? You got me fucked up.” Kiyana threw her hands up and let out a long sigh. 

“So don’t stay here. Go to your place.”   Oh this bitch, Josh thought, knowing better than to call her that out loud. 

“Bye Kiyana.” Her jaw dropped open as she turned his back to her and stomped towards his car. 

“Fuck you Josh!” She yelled at him, not caring about the neighbors, flipping  him off as he got in his car and drove away. 

Joe let out a sigh as he pulled up to his destination. Making sure he had his phone and wallet he exited his car and walked up to the front door, knocking three times. 

“Oh shit, big Uce! Whatchu’ doing here?” Jon said as he dapped up his older cousin. 

Joe smiled. “Just decided to take a drive and clear my head.” Joe lied and Jon furrowed his eyebrows. 

“From Miami?” He asked, moving to the side and letting Joe into his home. 

“Nah, I've been in town for a couple days.” He lied again. “Wanted to see my folks.”  Joe stated as he sat on the couch with Jon. “Decided to come and see what my favorite cousin has been up to.” 

“Now I know ya’ ass is lying.” Jon laughed. “Whatchu’ really doing here Uce?"

“Alright, Alright.” Joe muttered, wiping his hands on his gray sweatpants. “I know Josh is your brother and all but fuck, i’m here to see Kiyana.” Trinity, who just entered the living room, shared a look with her husband. “No. Don’t look at eachother like that. I just want to make sure she’s good. She hasn’t been answering my text or phone calls.” 

“I mean, can you blame her?” Trinity spoke up. “I’m pretty sure she is only still in contact with Josh because of their kids. Look,” Trinity sighed, sitting down next to Joe. “Josh is already making it hard for her, she doesn’t need you popping up and making it worse.” 

“How can I make it worse by checking up on my friend Trinity?”

“Y’all are not friends anymore Joe. The second y’all had sex, y’all stopped being friends.”  Joe opened his mouth to argue, but the sound of the front door opening and slamming caught their attention. 

“A fuckin' date! Divorced for 2 weeks and she has a fucking date!” Josh ranted as he stomped into the living room, stopping short at the sight of Joe sitting on the couch. Josh immediately jumped to conclusions, Kiyana had a date and Joe just so happened to be in Pensacola. “Imma kill you.” Josh muttered before lunging towards Joe. 

Luckily, Jon was quick and grabbed Josh before he could land a punch.  “Of fuck off!” Joe snorted standing up. “It was six months ago and y’all are divorced now. Get over it.” 

“Get over it?! You’re going on a date with my wife and you’re telling me to get over it!”

Oh my god.” Trinity muttered, rolling her eyes. “She’s not going on a date with Joe dummy. And even if she was, she’s a single woman now. You want her to be single the rest of her life? It’s stupid as hell. She’s allowed to move on Josh.” Josh sucked his teeth and pushed Jon off of him. 

“Whatever.” He muttered, throwing a glare at Joe  before stomping his way back out of the house, slamming the door behind him. 

“STOP SLAMMING MY DAMN DOOR!” 

Kiyana stared at herself in her bedroom mirror. “You can do this.” She whispered as she took a deep breath, smoothing down her dress. She was beyond nervous for her date with Eli. This was her first date with another guy in twenty-three years. Her stomach was already in knots. 

 Walking into the living room, she rolled her eyes as Samara catcalled at her. After Josh’s little tantrum earlier, Kiyana called her best friend who was more than happy to spend the evening with her nephews. 

“Good, it looks easy to take off.” Kiyana rolled her eyes again with a chuckle. 

“I’m not having sex with him.” 

“Booo!” Samara threw a couch pillow at Kiyana. “Why the hell not? Just get it over with.” 

“Because it’s our first date Samara.” Kiyana laughed as she walked over to the bar cart to pour herself a shot of Hennessy. “I don’t want him to think I'm easy.” 

Before Samara could respond there was a knock on her front door, causing the both of them to look at each other in confusion. 

“I thought you said eight.” Samara said, looking at the clock on her phone. 

“He’s early,” Kiyana responded, before walking over to the font door and opening it, her heart rate picking up when she saw who was standing on the other side. 

“Joe?” Kiyana whispered, shocked that he was standing in front of her. 

“JOE?!” She heard Samara yell out. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Joe shrugged and placed his hands in the pockets of his gray sweats, “I came to see if you were alright. You haven’t been responding to my texts.” 

“I’ve been busy.” Was all Kiyana said and Joe narrowed his eyes at her. 

“Kiyana -”  He was cut off by the sound of someone’s car tires screeching to a stop in front of her house. 

“You can’t go on the date.” Joe called out as he exited his car and made his way up to the house, standing right next to Joe. Kiyana looked between the two men with wide eyes. 

“Excuse me?” She asked and by now Samara had made her way to the foyer and was watching the mess unfold. 

“Uh, Is everything okay Kiyana?”  Oh what the fuck Kiyana thought as Joe and Josh turned to look at Eli who was walking up to them holding a bouquet of red roses. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Joe and Josh asked at the same time. 

“Elijah, who the fuck are y’all?”  Kiyana turned to glare at Samara when she started laughing. 

“I can’t do this.” Kiyana muttered, as she started to rub her temples.  This could not be happening to her right now. What were the odds of all three of them showing up at the same time tonight?!

LMAO. I would probably just turn around and go back in the house if I was Kiyana 😭

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[bomberqueen17]

liveblogging the aubreyad 1: Master & Commander

ok so. i'm going to liveblog my reread of the Patrick O'Brian Jack Aubrey series of books, in potentially more or less detail, because it's something to do and it's funny. Starting with book 1, Master & Commander, copyright date 1969, which I definitely first read in like 1991 when I was waaaaay too young to understand approximately half the references. There will be spoilers. There may or may not be an accurate representation of the entire contents of the series. We'll see how long I keep this up. I wish I could write it in the entertaining style of my Wee Precious Flower Prince Geralt Witcher 3 playthroughs of yore but those were written under 1) quarantine confinement, 2) incredible amounts of gin, 3) after collaborative sessions, and I just can't make that happen solo.

But I will do my poor, reduced, older and more sedate best. I promise that while these books are not quite as dramatically crack-addled as Witcher 3, they are weirder than you think, which is critical.

OK so. We start off swinging with the meet-ugly. In fair Port Mahon we lay our scene, in the year 1800 (or 1801?? we also start off swinging with never quite having the tiny details quite laid down), we meet our fair hero Jack Aubrey, a six-foot, well-built, yellow-haired lieutenant in the Royal Navy, a cheerful high-spirited cove who immediately pisses off the unpleasant little man sitting next to him at this chamber music concert by singing along to the music. Relatable reaction by the unpleasant little man, to be sure. Aubrey is having a bad time, though— he has not been promoted and he doesn’t have a ship so he has nothing to do but get in trouble, and his spirits are too low to get into a fight with the unpleasant little man, though he briefly considers it. We soon find out that the sole bright spot in Jack's life is that he's fucking his boss’s wife, which seems like a bad idea but who are we to judge. But lo! He gets back to the inn where he’s staying only to find a letter informing him that he has been promoted! He is now the master and commander of his very own ship, which we are informed is a sloop. Also throwing us into the deep end of Listen Baby It’s Just Vibes. The nautical language and technical shit comes fast and thick and if you just sort of roll with it you figure it out. Don’t Worry About It. There Will Be Context Clues.

Now that Jack is professionally fulfilled he is happy, and so the next morning when he happens to see his unpleasant little man from the previous night, he shows his true colors: he immediately bounds across the street and wholeheartedly, unreservedly apologizes for being a dipshit, like the golden retriever he really is at heart. The unpleasant little man is so shocked by this that he loses all his unpleasantness, has a really nice conversation with Jack, and immediately gets distracted by the sighting of a rare bird. Stephen Maturin is now successfully introduced, exactly as he means to go on as well. He is a physician, but his patient died and he's stuck without money to get home, literally sleeping rough because no one will answer his letters and he's out of cash. Jack meanwhile has a ship with no surgeon on it, and a vacancy, and they like one another, so it seems a simple solution. And so Stephen shall go to sea.

I suppose, really, that’s the genius of this series. The characters are round, complicated creatures, with obvious and consistent surface qualities but also equally consistent, apparently-contradictory, deeper qualities. Even minor characters sometimes possess this level of depth. Even the cartoony-awful little shit Harte (sometime captain, then admiral, the boss whose wife Jack has been fucking but in Jack's defense so is everybody else) has depths. Unpleasant depths, but he's got reasons and motivations and you do really believe in him; this pays off in book 8 in particular.

We meet Jack's first command, the Sophie, the loveliest tiniest little ship ever, staffed by a pack of utter weirdos. TOM PULLINGS makes his first appearance (he is my favorite supporting character throughout the series, so he will be capitalized henceforth) along with his delightful henchman (the other senior midshipman) Mowett who is James in his first and last appearances and most of the others but for some reason becomes William for a while in the middle, most notably in book 8, and has thus passed into the movie as William. Those are our master's mates, or senior midshipmen. In O'Brian's typical fashion we don't get really concrete physical descriptions of them in the normal sense, but instead get really evocative but nonspecific ones. TOM PULLINGS is "a big shy master's mate", elsewhere specified to be sort of gangly, long and thin, young, with a country accent and foremast-jack antecedents (i.e. started out as a regular sailor and was promoted, instead of the more normal approach where a family of means sends a son to sea as a midshipman), who absolutely blossoms under Jack Aubrey's leadership-by-enthusiastic-example, and we will see him through most of the rest of the series continuing on this trajectory with great competence and charming humbleness.

James Mowett gets a great introduction. He's had a few lines prior to this, mostly repetitively described as (and shown to be) cheerful and generally enthusiastic about things, running around and getting to be the one to fetch Stephen from the shore, and later we find out that he is a prolific writer of somewhat-terrible poetry, which we'll get plenty of excerpts of over the course of the series. But his first real description is:

“James Mowett was a tubular young man, getting on for twenty; he was dressed in old sailcoth trousers and a striped Guernsey shirt, a knitted garment that gave him very much the look of a caterpillar."

There are also the youngsters. Meet my beloved son William Babbington, a miniature midshipman of between eleven and thirteen who has every venereal disease and gets drunk a lot. He also cries and swears a whole lot, mostly while sober. I love him immoderately and we will see him in several more of the books. He never gets much taller or less obsessed with womanizing. Adolescence was hard in the Georgian era. (Yes, this is the Georgian era; the Victorian era does not begin for another thirty years.)

“'I suppose you grow used to living here,' [Stephen] observed, rising cautiously to his feet. 'At first it must seem a little confined.' 'Oh, sir,' said Mowett, 'think not meanly of this humble seat, Whence spring the guardians 'of the British fleet! Revere the sacred spot, however low, Which formed to martial acts an Hawke! An Howe !' 'Pay no attention to him, sir,' cried Babbington, anxiously. 'He means no disrespect, I do assure you, sir. It is only his disgusting way.”

Throughout this series, O'Brian so so so vividly shows and describes the many phases of awkwardness that young men go through especially in military settings. It's incredibly vivid; the breaking voices, the smells, the idiotic capers, the weeping, the complete lack of foresight, the incredible cruelty and also loyalty and bravery, the sheer adolescent enthusiasm coupled with shocking laziness.

We also get some insight into contemporary social mores through the introduction of Marshall, the sailing master (a warrant officer)-- 1) he's gay and 2) Jack Aubrey is extremely his type. Different people's different attitudes toward this unspool throughout various points of the book, but the critical point is that Jack Aubrey himself has absolutely zero gaydar and while he has heard the rumor about Marshall's tendencies, he doesn't care about that stuff, studiously avoids enforcing any of the regulations against it, and he absolutely never at any point relates this to himself, and never ever realizes why the man is so driven to excel at his job. Not even when an injury to his head and face gives Jack a horrible haircut and worse appearance, and Marshall is horrified and dispirited about it; Jack never twigs just what's amiss.

To be fair to Jack, many many many of the men aboard also respond to him in a similar, though crucially different, way. This is a common thing in this kind of cooped-up little setting; you have a guy who's in charge and gives you positive feedback and like, immediately you'll die for that guy, which is kind of how the military works because you may in fact have to literally die for that guy and it's easier if you're intrinsically motivated in some way. And Jack is very, very good at this in most cases, at taking the measure of the people under his command and getting them to respond to him.

(We can return to Mowett for an explicit example: “'You may light up the sloop, Mr Mowett, and show her our force: I don't want her to do anything foolish, such as firing a gun - perhaps hurting some of our people. Let me know when you have laid her aboard.' With this [Jack] retired, calling for a light and something hot to drink; and from his cabin he heard Mowett's voice, cracked and squeaking with the excitement of this prodigious command (he would happily have died for Jack), as under his orders the Sophie bore up and spread her wings.”)

Anyway so back to the plot summary: a very good side plot throughout is that the ship's first lieutenant, James Dillon, is an Irishman, and he and Stephen Maturin were both involved in the Irish rebellion in 1798. When they meet, James recognizes Stephen, and cautiously sounds him out about having met before, and Stephen very coolly replies we've never met but you must be thinking of my cousin who looks just like me but uglier, *so* ugly, he has the face of an informer, and everyone hates an informer and james is like Ah. You Are Absolutely Correct Sir We Have Never Met. This subplot develops into a delicious meditation on divided loyalties and the agony of staying true to oneself while doing what one must do. Highly recommended, A++. Begins to give us some insight into the various depths of Stephen, who doesn't understand tides or wind and hasn't the sense to come in out of the rain but has a deep and complicated history and identity and above all an incredible capacity for ruthlessness, absolutely none of which Jack understands.

Stephen and James in dialogue when they're finally in privacy enough to discuss it (Stephen is the first speaker, James the second):

“I speak only for myself, mind - it is my own truth alone - but man as part of a movement or a crowd is indifferent to me. He is inhuman. And I have nothing to do with nations, or nationalism. The only feelings I have -for what they are - are for men as individuals; my loyalties, such as they may be, are to private persons alone.'' "Patriotism will not do?'' "My dear creature, I have done with all debate. But you know as well as I, patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, or my country is always right, which is imbecile." ''Yet you stopped Captain Aubrey playing Croppies Lie Down the other day.” "Oh, I am not consistent, of course; particularly in little things. Who is? He did not know the meaning of the tune, you know. He has never been in Ireland at all, and he was in the West Indies at the time of the rising. [...] But as for that song, I acted as I did partly because it is disagreeable to me to listen to it and partly because there were several Irish sailors within hearing, and not one of them an Orangeman; and it would be a pity to have them hate him when nothing in the manner of insult was within his mind's reach.”

uhhhhhhh but meanwhile: Jack Aubrey and the Sophies wreak havoc in the Mediterranean and make a lot of money and enemies, to the point that the local merchants band together to commission a fairly serious ship expressly to fuck them up. They meet this ship unsuspectingly, manage just in time to disguise themselves, and Stephen hails the ship and asks them in bad Spanish if they know anything about treating the plague, could they send a doctor over, could they spare any medicine. This scares them off and they go away. But now the Sophies know what this ship looks like and what armament it has. So the next time they meet it, they fight it, and so the tiny 14-gun Sophie with 82 men and boys aboard manages to capture the 32-gun Cacafuego with 319 men aboard, and it's very gallant and dashing and probably should not have worked, but it does.

And a little later, the Sophie accidentally meets a pair of very powerful French ships and gets taken in return despite doing some really heroic evasive manoevers.

The French are super nice to them, and we meet a French ship captain named Christy-Palliere who becomes a recurring character, who has English cousins and speaks great English and is both charming and nice, saying things like gather ye rose pods while ye may and being generally gallant. Until some even more powerful English ships heave into view, and the tables turn, but even then Christy-Palliere remains gallant and well-behaved.

We end the book with the court-martial. Any officer who loses his ship for any reason has to go before a court of sea captains to ascertain whether he did everything in his power to avoid losing his ship. So all the officers of the Sophie, including the midshipmen, including the surgeon, have to testify about this. (I feel like the other warrant officers should also have had to testify? but they weren't there and i'm not sure why. TOM PULLINGS is also not mentioned in the scene which he absolutely should be present for, so it's possible that they were just omitted for time.)

“They had each received an official notification the day before, and for some reason each had brought it with him, folded or rolled. After a while Babbington and Ricketts took to changing all the words they could into obscenities, secretly in a corner, while Mowett wrote and scratched out on the back of his, counting syllables on his fingers and silently mouthing. Lucock stared straight ahead of him into vacancy.”

Spoiler: the jury decides that there's not really anything more a 14-gun sloop could have done against two French ships of the line, so they exonerate Captain Aubrey for the loss of his sloop, and thus ends the book.

[katyspersonal]

Hi there, I hope you don’t mind the random question but in your mind which fanbase would you say is worse, Elden Ring or Bloodborne in terms of annoying fans. I used to think Bloodborne fans could be bad but holy shit ER fans are something else when it comes to lore discussions. As someone who is pretty active in lore talk with both games do you find one side to be more exhausting to deal with than the other? Obviously feel free not to answer this if you think it might start drama

Honestly? I can't hate Bloodborne fandom enough.

Bloodborne was my first Fromsoft game and one keeping me hostage in terms of fixation for over three years, like I said! And yes, it has incredibly bad, toxic people in it - Maria fans who kept slandering Gehrman despite all the info against their takes, honestly believed there is anything problematic with Gehrmaria, had mental breakdown if anyone dared to see Maria as bi or straight despite her not having canon sexuality, believed that the whole story is either about man bad woman good OR was incredibly misogynist, no between. Close minded, toxic people who would deliberately bait anger and pain with placing their hate in the tags and then play victims when those hurt fans snapped back. Oh, I hate them, and revealing that Gehrman's "creepiness" and "misogyny" was completely and fully translation mistake, as well as pointing out how comes why nothing is wrong with how Doll is dressed with facts, is forever my most valid contribution to the fandom. More so than my ugly childlike fanart or convoluted theories could ever be. But, not THIS is why Bloodborne fandom is worse in my opinion.

Elden Ring fandom introduced not one but SEVERAL annoying and exhausting topics to deal with! I "affectionately" titled especially rabid Malenia and Miquella fans 'Twin Cultists' because this is exactly what their behavior is and have always been! Funny enough, a person who got mad at me for this one was someone who got alienated on Discord server for Miquella fans because owners started to insist that only their headcanons are valid AND admitted to me on feeling unsafe for not shipping Finlenia. I am dead serious! Malenia fans are strikingly similar to Maria pseudofeminist fans in toxicity, Miquella fans are like if you removed all likeable traits of Leda and replaced them with even MORE of undying vitriol for anyone who dares to interpret him as anything but perfect pure radiant sunshine. Mohg triggered a pretty awful discourse between those who insisted he was rapist molester whatever and if you interpret it differently you are insensitive and media-illiterate victimblamer and people who defended him "becoming the very thing they sworn to destroy" as well as also exhibiting cult-like thought control in their circles (they know who they are -_-).

But the DLC has changed things a bit, right? Some Twin Cultists are still spilling vitriol, except now they also claim that writers are bad, not only fans that disagree with them! Still, blessed, deserved vindication finally arrived! But what about others, whose situation never changed? Vitriol towards Godrick is ABSURD. You know how common fandoms L is that they judge and hate female character for something, but when male character did the exact same thing it is humored or justified? Godrick is this, minus the gender difference, yet everyone who points out his actual characteristics and the hypocrisy of his haters gets ridiculed. You thought that his fans would flock together to support each others? No, turns out that pocket are loosers who think people who don't headcanon him as trans are childish and ridiculous and loathe cishet Elden Ring fans in general. Fia and D are caught in the weird discourse loop where one is always simplified and idealized and another is demonized to Hell and beyond, when they both are strongly caught in religious brainwashing of sorts but also are sympathetic in their own right. Ranni's fans and haters both do not know the term of Machiavellian (aka "Ends justify the means" philosophy). She is the worst most evil character in the setting over what crimes she committed in order to protect the world from the problem of potentially anyone being able to grab the laws of nature itself and shape them according to their bigotries and preferences, OR she is a perfect innocent fighter against oppression and people who dislike her Just Hate Women TM. And of course we cannot forget the one above them all! The radiant, omnipresent, eternal!...

Marika truly brings out the worst of discussions! She has been before SOTE, but you YEARN for pre-SOTE times if you hate OR love her! Not because things changed, but because now discussion can't be avoided. She is THE Elden Ring character who is only ever demonized and idealized. Before SOTE, she was only ever just a tyrant who loves genocide OR simply a puppet of Greater Will (or rather Two Fingers claiming to speak for it as it turned out) who never meant to do that shit and finally heroically rebelled. After SOTE... hahaha, oh boy... we started to deal with the issue of excusing genocide. Her fans will claim into essays and more essays why Hornsent are all fundamentally dangerous race and Marika is merely trying to rid the world of filth that ruins it by sending Messmer. However, demonization didn't quite go away either, and her haters are so angry at writers humanizing her a bit more that they say WRITERS are pro-fascist!

So, why? I've described such horrid discourse, when Bloodborne fandom sounds like it simply has a few bad apples in comparison! What can be worse than Elden Ring fandom, after a description like this? Yeah, you see... Elden Ring fandom is thorn by awful arguments and discourse, it is hostile and dangerous for your mental health if you are invested into fandom beyond just "consuming content" and advertising your art for sale. Yet, it lives. It lives in the same sense as a land torn by earthquakes lives. It lives in the same sense a volcano that won't stop smoking lives. It lives in the same sense sea lives during the storm. But it LIVES.

Bloodborne fandom is a fucking Caelid.

If you question whether I'd be scared of "drama", I assume you are new here and don't know my epic lore. I am not afraid of anything because society made itself clear on what I am for it. In the most condenced way possible, one OF those toxic Maria fans didn't like me thinking for myself too much so they went out of their way to slander me for various -ists and -phobias. Their ableist friend that doesn't take racism seriously joined in. I was a victim of stalking, harassment, slander, witch-hunting and cult-like shunning for over a year, and so was every kind fool who treated me like a human - friend or mutual. I can NOT speak of Bloodborne fandom experience from personal standpoint because obviously it is not an objective experience (though someone who also got unfairly slandered by Maria fans too contacted me, so I question whether it IS a trend..?). Still, it isn't about me or my friends, we are an oddity. Bloodborne fandom for me was just a bunch of gullible, weak sheep who are okay with witch-hunt because letting just a few people get harassed is not worth souring their fandom experience. And I do not wish to turn back or even try to mend anything. I caught my stalker and exposed their crimes, I made everyone who believed they were innocent feel stupid and ashamed, it was all I wanted. I don't wish to "befriend" the fandom afterwards.

YEAH YEAH "THINGS ONCE BROKEN" WHATEVER

But I was still posting and drawing and playing and talking and writing, right? I was still present. So, I was at least observing what was going on. And what truly soured Bloodborne fandom was actually happening afterwards, what was not involving me or any friend or enemy I knew. The worst thing happened, worse for fandom than any amount of discourse. I call it "centralization", for lack of better term.

Bloodborne is a niche fandom, yet it had a sudden zoomers burst. And that led to dynamics of "fandom leaders", and stupid fucking Discord community that are akin to elite club in which if you are not invited you might as well not exist. It ALL became about stupid "web of mutuals" nonsense. It ALL became about some cool kids deciding what will be the ship or the take of the week/month, and soon you'd see NOTHING but this thing posted. Always through the exact same lense, too. Only to then be forgotten, because it was just a trend. Rom x Caryll comes to mind as a FAD of similar vibe. Micolaurence too.

I just hate this. The fandom stopped LIVING. I saw genuinely absurd things happen! Like someone drawing Mariadeline, one of the most popular ships in the fandom, yet they get completely ignored because they've failed to grab a beer at the bar with "leaders" of this ship who "hold" the distribution of that approval and love. Even worse; over a year ago, a very talented, fun, energetic and creative fan of Mensis Trio and Byrgenwerth squad showed up! They were SPAMMING art and writing, and all of that was good! So good that..... all of that barely got over 20 notes, maybe 30. Why? Because, again, you can't just post about blorbos and expect to be liked and approached. You have to get on the "good side" of "holders" of love for characters like Micolash, Laurence and Rom, or else they'll just side-eye you! But imagine this with literally everything else. I have been watching it happen all the time, to people that were not even targets for cult-like shunning by Alfred, Eugene or Anna for associating with me. You keep to yourself, you are shy, you are not on Discord with them, your headcanons are a bit different? Too bad, you may rot, because it is not about you! People look up to a few popular artists with shallow takes and so much creative liberties they might as well make OCs to know whether this or that person should be liked and reblogged, instead of JUST liking and reblogging them!

THIS is why Bloodborne fandom is Caelid. Not for toxicity, but because it is rotten. It used to be far less "organized" when I joined in. There were no trends to define fandomry for next few weeks decided on a party where ignored creators were not invited to. There was not hegemony of certain ships, designs and headcanons. There was no "web of mutuals" and pressure to either assert yourself by the good side or vanish. Everyone were doing their things and coexisting, nobody could determine who flourishes and who rots, diversity of headcanons and interpretations were celebrated. Oh, what's a matter? You really dislike that popular artist who infantilizes Marika and stripes her out of any agency over her actions? Well, so do like 500000 other people! Every popular take is ALSO popular to hate on in Elden Ring fandom! But if you dislike a popular take in Bloodborne then sucks to be you, because diversity of interpretations, opinions, preferences and takes just doesn't exist in it. Not anymore. Unless you "asserted" your novel idea to the "court" on some stupid Discord server and was "approved", of course.

Look. Elden Ring discourse annoys me to no end. I always get my headcanons and interpretations "corrected" in the worst condescending fashion. My friend posted a very well made lore post and got harped on because his take contradicted someone's idol's headcanons (with that idol approving of that harping) and I am still mad. I don't want to post my GEQ takes to be reminded that "aktualy" she is Melina. I dislike seeing claims of Miquella's nonexistent character assassination or Radahn hated just because some sexist Redditors were using him as a mascot. Nonetheless, deep down, I am THANKFUL. Because even really annoying debates end up being entertaining. Because people here TALK about things, REVISIT things, ARGUE about things, CARE about things, HAVE OPINIONS on things. They will annoy you in the comments or reblogs, but they SPEAK to you. No take is so popular that it defines all art and fanfics because every popular take is also popular to hate on. Things are disorganized. No fandom leaders, no elite club ignored blog wasn't invited to, no "web of mutuals" that should get sucked into a vacuum cleaner and never be seen again. Elden Ring fandom is a battlefield, but also free market minus the money.

To be honest, Bloodborne fandom was done for me when based people started to vanish. Fishbowlcarnage deactivated everywhere, Cuddlefish mysteriously disappeared and I worry whether they are even alive to this day, user Molluscock got bullied away... It felt like a bad omen, it happened before my drama, and I've never seen users like this before. Except I have been, but they all are now ignored because of this stupid high school dynamic taking over. Had Elden Ring hyperfixation not happened, I'd probably just end up blocking many Bloodborne accounts and never care for trying to make connections again, just post art and vanish to draw the next one. I did end up blocking some Bloodborne mutuals, after all. After it hit me, what was bothering me so much. Appreciate Elden Ring fandom and it's earthquakes, because shaking earth can't be bigger evil than stagnation. Bloodborne fandom no longer breathes, they are champions of not feeding the sparkles that were meant to become fire hoping they die down, and I hate every looser that benefits from that "system". In Elden Ring, ALL things flourish, whether graceful or malign.

[faetima]

i absolutely love your hanahaki fics 😭

if you dont mind, can i request a hanahaki fic with xiao? he's my fav character and haven't seen any hanahaki fics with him in it 🥹🥹

thank you soooo much 🫶🫶🫶

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰. .

. .you don’t care about him, do you?

// tws ; little blood :3 ; gn reader ; modern & hanahaki au

a/n: i’m sorry this took so long </3 i hope you like it though!! i apologize for the lack of posts lately 💗

you didn’t care about last summer.

you didn’t care.

you had to keep reminding yourself that you. did. not. care.

after all, how would xiao getting together with someone affect you? you didn’t even like him! you just found him cute! he was probably a jerk anyways! why should you care?

but, if you didn’t care, why were you lying on the floor, coughing out bitter lavenders?

fuck. you would be lying if you said you didn’t like him. it was time to just face the truth already.

you loved him so, so much.

so much to the point your lungs were filled with lavender flowers.

they were dainty and soft.

they were ugly, they were so fucking stupid.

you wheezed out another batch of the stupid purple flowers, coughing. clumped pieces of lavender flopped onto your newly polished floor (you had just cleaned it yesterday!), leaving a trail of blood and mucus in their wake. they laid there lifelessly, resembling what you would be like in a year.

or month.

or week.

who knew how long the disease would take in taking over your lungs, filling them to the brim with lavender?

at this point, the only thing you knew was that your demise would come soon.

you gagged, the scent of lavender overwhelming you. you used to love lavenders, but of course this goddamn disease had to ruin everything for you, even your favorite fucking flowers.

as if ruining your life wasn’t enough.

you dry-heaved, flowers stuck in your throat. sobbing, you collapsed, breaths shallow and rapid.

why couldn’t this just end? why did you have to like xiao of all people?

you couldn’t find another if you wanted to. you had tried, yet nothing worked. your heart would always belong to him.

just being in his presence made you short-circuit. just looking at his silky, teal hair, at his amber eyes, at his porcelain skin, which could only be as delicate as which it were described as. just smelling the soft, sweet scent of almonds which came from him whenever you were close enough for it to waft your way.

god, you were pathetic. 

even if you were brave enough to go up to him, you would and could never be with him.

he already had a girlfriend. 

—

you hated her, and you didn’t even know why.

lumine was sweet to everyone. she had everything. she was kind, outgoing, hardworking, attractive, everything you wanted to be.

so why would you hate her for no reason?

maybe it was your jealousy talking, maybe it was because you were envious.

how could you not be? she was happy and healthy, she had already found the love of her life.

the love of your life.

fuck, you hated her.

—

maybe if the timing had been right, you could’ve been with xiao.

maybe you could’ve woken up to his voice every morning, could’ve been the one to run your fingers through his hair, been the one to kiss him, been the one to laugh at him getting flustered.

too bad you weren’t.

—

you didn’t want to close the door behind you.

you laid there on the cold, hard wooden tiles of your house’s floor, taking shallow and shaky inhales.

a pile of lavenders, clumped together by mucus and blood, laid besides you.

you coughed another batch, the flowers leaving a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

you collapsed, heaving out more flowers.

you could barely breathe, lungs overflowing with lavender flowers.

maybe you should’ve cared about last summer?

[ineffablelara]

Series Loki, Avengers Loki and the "real Loki"

Okay so, I've been wanting to write about this for a while now, I always see people talking about how much they love series Loki because that's where he's most comfortable with himself— and I agree, I love him too and I think it's great that he learned to accept more some aspects of himself and got more comfortable with showing vulnerability to others as well as allowing himself to make meaningful connections with the people around him

BUT

Saying that Avengers Loki is not the real Loki just tells me you don't really understand Loki as a character at all

I'm part of the few people who don't entirely buy into the headcanon that Loki was brutally tortured by Thanos in the 1 year gap between Thor and Avengers, I think he did went to very bad places but it doesn't make sense to me that Thanos would break physically and mentally the man he was sending to lead an army on a different planet to get him an infinity stone, I believe he had to fight for his life after his fall and Thanos probably submitted him to a very rigorous training like he did with his daughters (yes, one could argue that that was tortue but let's be fr, it's on a whole different level)

Anyway, my point is: Loki didn't attack Earth against his will, he was angry and hurt, feeling betrayed by his family and dealing with an identity crisis, he was livid, he went through hell after his fall and now he had a chance to cause some trouble for Thor and Odin and he was going to take it

I don't believe Loki really cared about Thanos' philosophy and the whole "freedom is a lie" thing, he was parroting what Thanos told him to cause some dramatic effect but I don't believe, not even for a second that he gave two fucks about it, again, he wanted to make trouble and to cause damage, he wanted to hurt Thor and Odin bc he felt hurt, he didn't care that innocent people were going to die, he didn't even think about them, he just wanted to channel his anger and to piss off his family, and ykw?

That's the real Loki

Because Loki is not some perfect little angel who was forced to do bad things against his will in order to survive, Loki is a vengeful God, a being of chaos, a master of magic and sometimes... an asshole

Sorry, he's not the little baby we all like to pretend he is sometimes, yes there's lots of pain and shame and sadness inside his heart but that doesn't erase the fact that there's some ugly parts in his personality, that's what makes him so complex in my opinion, he's not necessarily evil but he's also not necessarily an innocent baby either, he said it himself:

Believe it or not, that applies to him too!

Avengers' Loki shows us the "ugly" parts of himself—parts many would prefer to ignore. But sorry to break it to you: that was the real Loki too.

Some might argue that the whole "God of Mischief" persona was merely a facade to hide his vulnerable, weak self, but I disagree. I believe Loki did use his title to build walls around himself and keep others at a distance to some extent. However, things aren’t just black and white—Loki is the God of Mischief, whether people like it or not and that means he thrives in chaos sometimes

I mean, he even tells Mobius, "Sometimes our emotions get the better of us," when talking about the New York attack. I know some people don't like that scene because it contradicts their headcanon of Loki being tortured and forced to go to Earth, but personally, I love it. I never liked the idea of Loki having so little agency in Avengers. And yes, I know the Mind Stone was influencing him, but that’s the key—it was influencing, not controlling

I think what I’m trying to say is this: some people don’t truly understand who Loki is. They’ve created a version of him in their minds and reject anything that contradicts it. Refusing to acknowledge the darkness within him only proves that you don’t fully appreciate him. You can love series Loki and say that it's the more mentally healthy version of the character, but please don’t claim that Avengers Loki is his worst version—or that it’s not the real him.

Maybe I'm being annoying but it just hurts every time I see posts trashing him and saying that he's the worst Loki ever, to me that's one of the most fascinating depictions of him precisely because we see how malicious, cunning and calculating he can be, he has so much range and I genuinely feel sorry for all the people who can't appreciate that

[sydneys-adamu]

the bear

the bear episode

the bear episode 2

the bear episode 2 of season 2

the bear episode 2 of season two is so chalk full of important references and motifs and symbolization for sydcarmy’s relationship as well as their individual character arcs from sydney’s conversation with her dad to carmy meeting claire again (and giving her the wrong number) and this wall that’s built up between them this way. LOL u thought that was it no you also have the chef whites conversation, the introduction to the I’m sorry sign and sydney volunteering new information about sheridan to carm AND him attempting to ask about her dad before she cuts him off. it’s funny right that carmy asks about her dad and her dad asks about carmy and neither person gets a clear answer from syd? it seems so deliberate that these two don’t meet this season anyways-

and then this isn’t episode two but shut up you have the tearing down the wall motif and how unsettled sydney is about the fact that carmen does that without her and what “tearing down walls” usually symbolizes is immense bc she wanted to be there ! she wanted to be there with him ! and he did it without her bc he wanted it to be done when she got there ! he thought she would be happy with a finished product instead so he did the ugly process it takes to get there. he wants it to be perfect for her so much so that he leaves her out of a say in that. he thinks she wants things she actually doesn’t. she cares about this restaurant in every way it is, ugly, broken down, health hazard and all.

aaaaand what else does carmen consider a work in progress damn near a lost cause? himself! so does he think that she doesn’t deserve to have to stick around and watch while he figures himself out while he “fixes” himself up? does he not think she can handle it? does he want to be perfect for her even though that’s not what she wants?

but no “this is what you wanted and it’s what I’m giving you” because it’s gone over his head at this point that there’s love in the process. there is an understanding in the process, there is a merging of souls in this process of building a literal restaurant from the ground up. carmen focuses so much on making everything perfect for sydney that he forgets that’s never something she asked for. not perfect just *better*

and under that table, less than an hour before opening he finally fucking understands how to slow time down. if the food’s bad they’ll work on it. if no one comes then no one comes. it’s okay. it’s okay if it’s not perfect because we’re doing this together and that’s what matters. what matters is this moment where I get to tell you I’ll be here for you. where I get to tell you I care about you every way you are, full stop.

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Artist: Donna Floyd

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. There has been an emergency and you have been called into the line of fire. How will the Fam react?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, creepy perv man, gunshots, violence, killing

Word Count: 1.4k

Masterlist

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part 8: Pizza Joe's

Once again, days passed without seeing Jason. Embarrassment flared inside me at the thought of our last interaction. I wasn’t one that enjoyed crying in front of people. And I hadn’t just cried, I had wailed, and choked, with spit and most likely snot leaking from my face. It wasn’t a cute poetic actress single tear sniffle. It was ugly and loud. Whatever. It’s not like I want a relationship. I’ve worked hard to obtain my peace. I don’t want a man to come in and disrupt the life I’ve worked hard to build. 

I grabbed gauze packets and shoved them into my chart, trying to distract my thoughts. I had completely run through them when Duke came in with several lacerations and broken ribs from the Black Mask. I shivered when Duke told me the details. The mob boss was sadistic and cruel, Duke had barely gotten away. I couldn’t meet Duke’s eyes after that. I’ve healed the Black Mask countless times. Guilt gnawed at my bones. Duke was injured because I kept that monster alive. And how many others? That line of delightful thinking always leads me straight into a downward spiral. Quickly, I grabbed more 16 gages and refilled those as well. 

This past week has been relentlessly busy. It felt like it was a full moon every night with the amount of insanity that happened. Even for Gotham. It felt like every one of Gotham’s plentiful villains had some sort of scheme, disastrous plan, or some way to ‘conquer the world.’ It made both my jobs a living hell. 

I was a walking zombie. I would sleep at my workstation and be woken up by the Batmobile screeching in with more injuries that needed to be healed. Bruce was almost always back and forth anywhere from 4-10 times a night. It sometimes felt like he was more reckless with me around. Throwing himself into danger more than he did in the beginning. Or maybe I was just overthinking it. 

A chime on my phone interrupted my thoughts. 

[Bruce has seven gunshot wounds. He isn’t stable enough to travel. We are on 717 Street behind Pizza Joe's. Be careful the shoot-out is still happening.]

The bright screen burned my tired eyes. The second the words sank in I grabbed the emergency kit and my keys and ran. I never treated them outside of the Batcave. They had always come to me. It must be bad. 

I drove like a maniac and got there in record time. 8 minutes. 8 minutes of Bruce bleeding out. 8 minutes of more shooting and how many more injuries. A fucking lot can happen in just 8 minutes. Panic rose in my chest, but I swallowed it down. Countless gunshots popped around me, lucky enough for me, none were aiming for my car. 

I got out quickly, grabbed my gear, and ran toward the back of the shittiest pizza in Gotham. The blue on Dick’s suit stood out like a beacon as he motioned me over. My black scrubs and dark zip-up hoody instantly got soaked through with rain. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about the rain or gunshots that rang out around me like popcorn kernels on the stove. I cared about the physical state of Bruce Wayne. 

It was bad. With the rain puddle around him, it was hard to determine the amount of blood loss. I got to work instantly. I threw my bag to Dick and put my hands on Bruce. 

“I need you to stuff his wounds with gauze. I’m going to replenish his blood and then I need you to take the gauze out one by one, so when I heal him they aren’t inside him. Understand?” I asked as I let my powers take over. 

“I understand,” Dick said and got to work just as quickly as I did. That was before more shots rang out. Hitting the brick wall just above my head. 

“Fuck!” Dick yelled, grabbing his batoons. “They are closer now!”

I felt my body start to shake as I forced it to heal Bruce faster, “Who the fuck is ‘they?’’

“Black Mask’s men. They are shooting to kill,” Dick said, standing up and blocking me and Bruce from the new onset of bullets.

“Get down or I’ll have to heal you both!” I hissed at him. 

“I need to get them away from you guys,” and without a second word, Dick ran toward the bullets. 

“Dick! Don’t–” I knew he couldn’t hear my begging screams. My best bet was to heal Bruce as fast as possible, we both help Dick, and escape via my shitty car. 

I was close too. Bruce’s blood was replenished, and five out of his seven gunshot wounds were closed Albiet the work was sloppy, but he would live. 

That was before I felt the unmistakable coolness against the back of my head. My blood ran cold, and I pushed harder to heal Bruce faster. 

“Stop whatever it is you’re doing or I’m going to blow your brains out,” a man said. His voice was oddly distorted. 

I didn’t listen. I kept healing Bruce. Any minute now. Please. Please. He pressed the gun parallel to my cheek and fired. It burned hot against my face. I tasted metal and gunpowder. My ear was ringing louder than church bells. Hesitantly, I raised my hands. 

“That’s it. Be a good bitch and stand up,” He said, digging the barrel harder into the back of my skull. Fear spiked inside me. I knew he would recognize me, but what choice did I have? 

Slowly, I stood. 

“Turn around,” the brute ordered. 

Slowly, I turned. 

A low, mocking laugh escaped from his skull mask. “My, my. Little Miss Y/f/n? Everyone was wondering where you had run off to! Turns out your the Bats personal whore!” I saw his eyes trail me up and down. Disgusting oily unease filled inside me. “You have a woman’s body now.”

Anger surged, making my blood feel like it was boiling. I slowly unzipped my hoody. The fool's eyes were transfixed on the sight. So much so that he didn’t realize that I was grabbing my medical scissors from my back pocket. 

In one fluid motion, I grabbed the scissors, and the next I had them stabbed into Black Mask’s throat. Before he could react I withdrew the scissors, resulting in blood being sprayed across my body and face. 

The Black Mask didn’t seem to care about his spurting neck. He reached out and gripped my throat, hard. He ruthlessly squeezed until it felt like my lungs would pop and my eyes would pop out of their sockets. Weakly, I tried to kick and scratch him. He merely laughed in my face, spraying more blood all over me. 

From his pocket, he grabbed a knife. “You know how long I’ve wanted to play with you? Your father would never let me. But Daddy isn’t here, is he?” With a practiced grace, he sliced my forearm open. Earning a weak hissing breath of pain. 

He trailed the knife over my chest, slowly adding more and more pressure. 

I tried screaming for Dick, but he was too far away fighting with everything he had. Bruce was still unconscious. 

I reached for this throat, trying to scratch him. I dug my index finger into his stab wound making him cry out in pain and anger and release the pressure he held against my neck. Air was a sweet joy in my lungs. 

Pain flashed across my head as the Black Mask whipped me with the back of his gun. He pushed the gun into my mouth, and for the second time that night, I tasted gunpowder. 

A loud shot rang out. Two shots. Three. Four. Five. 

And the pressure was off me. The Black Mask fell backward. Taking his gun with him. Panicked I looked around for the source. 

There, standing above Bruce, was the Red Hood. The rain was tinking against the metal. His chest heaved harshly up and down. And in his hands, he held two smoking guns. His expression was carved in a permanent scowl, but everything about him radiated vengeance. 

The Black Mask groaned in pain. Without taking his eyes off me Jason shot until both magazines ran out. 

I was frozen in place. Jason walked over Bruce’s unconscious body toward me. 

“Why the fuck are you here?” He growled, taking me into his arms.

Taglist: @soundsfunbutno@killxz@morpheus-girl@redhood414@bungunz@conicoroahre@greenyofthegreens@taytaylala12 @theroyalmanatee @nym-0-s @sarahskywalker-amadala @bonesbonesetc @dreaming-of-the-reality @gone-batty-fics @thescarletcryptid @bakugosgf2005 @irregular-child @vythika96 @greenyofthegreens @mythicalmo @eccentricarabella-blog @princessbl0ss0m @ghostindeath @whirlwind2005 @the-lights-are-loud @00hellohello00 @tfygcdy @theblindhag @murkyponds @midnightecko @crookedmakerfury @cosmicqueenieb @deans-spinster-witch

If I missed anyone please let me know <3

Author's note: sorry for the late update guys, I wasn't feeling very confident in myself or my writing. I will try to update more frequently! thank you all for your support it means so much.

Hashbrown Cam!

[adickaboutspoons]

Oh boy. Okay. Here we go

A totes calm and measured response to this post over here by @themetabridge. Forgiveness for the whole new post. I had too much to say to fit into what Tumblr apparently thinks is an appropriate length for a re-blog.

First? I mean. Text just means the words and actions as they are said and shown in a given piece of media being analyzed. Which is what I’m here to do with my meta – textual analysis. That’s why I insist on textual support for any argument interpreting the media in question. Naked assertions do nothing to explain how you arrived at your conclusion. Vibes aren’t good enough. Show me what IN THE TEXT made you think what you think, and I will do you the courtesy of the same. Otherwise, I don’t see how we could possibly have much to say to one another.

The fundamental breakdown we are having is that you have failed to provide a textual basis for why you think Ed is a bad person. While I respect your assertion that a person’s essential goodness is predicated on the actions that they perform, I cannot respect the corollary supposition that there are actions that are either “good” or “bad” in a vacuum, as this completely ignores circumstance and motivation. WHY someone does something is AT LEAST as important as WHAT they did.

For example - Stede killed Ned Lowe in cold blood. Does it matter that he did it because Ned “shit-talked [his] friend and damaged [his] ship,” and “fucked Calypso’s birthday”? Does it matter that Ed, the person whom Ned’s shit-talk actually impacted, told Stede not to do it? Twice? Does it matter that Ned was a subdued enemy combatant, and as such could have just as easily been gagged like Hornberry and the overtly racist Wellington, who survived imprisonment and went on to watch Ed and Stede sign the Act of Grace? Do we compare Ned to the French Captain who got flayed for his racist rhetoric, though Ned’s comment was, strictly speaking, about Ed’s class rather than his race? How far are we going to go to disentangle class and race when one absolutely informs the other?

How about a more straight-forward example; Stede set an unnamed man on fire and quipped about it like some asshole 80's action hero. Does it matter that he threatened Stede’s life? How about if, when he did so, he was twenty feet away, armed only with the bottle he had just broken over his head, and there were half-a dozen pirates between him and Stede who all thought Stede was hot shit, and so Stede was in no immediate danger? What if Stede has a long history of people making attempts on his life, and being unsure that he even deserves to live, and this is meant to show that, now that he has something to live for, he’s done with the part of his life where he lets anyone try to take that away from him?

This is what I mean when I say that the show is careful to never outright condemn the use of violence. The narrative tells us clearly that, within the context of the show, some things are more important than an unnamed or one-off character’s life – preservation of one’s own life or the lives of one’s loved ones, dignity in the face of racially-based persecution, resistance to colonial oppressors. The reasons for and direction of violence matters. Context matters.

And speaking of context, you misunderstand me when you suppose that only what literally appears before our eyes counts can be “read into the text”. I refuse to give extra-textual sources of information (such as the historical reality of sergeant recruiters and being pressed into service or the historical Golden Age of Piracy) any weight unless they can be validated by in-text support, because the show itself cares fuck-all about historical accuracy. But extrapolations about the in-show universe based on in-text support are fine.

So, considering that the very first thing we hear in the show is Frenchie’s little ditty about the violent reality of a pirate’s life, and considering Jack’s comment at brekkie about how pirating is an "ugly profession”, and considering what we see of the raids in 1x5 and 2x2, we can reasonably conclude that pirate culture is steeped in toxic masculinity where the expectation of performing violence is de rigueur. Because Ed has carved out a successful reputation as Blackbeard, and because we see the ease with which he can go from being casually conversant with Stede to “giving it some oomph” to scare the location of the treasure out of the French captain in 1x5 with the THREAT of violence, we can reasonably conclude that he can successfully perform the required violent displays of piratical society (or at least, given that we know by his bathtub confession that he has not personally killed anyone since his father, he can adopt a convincing enough posturing that no one would doubt he COULD). From his interactions with Jack and familiarity with “yardies” and “whippies”, and his ruminations about “the old days” of “drinking all day and biting the heads off turtles or making some poor bloke eat his own toes for a laugh”, and Fang’s assertion that Ed made him kill his dog, we can reasonably assume that Ed has a history with casual violence for the sake of fun and cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

However.

I think “the old days” is an important qualifier there. Season 1 Izzy may be frustrated that Ed is not performing Blackbeard sufficiently well to suit him (on that point we can agree), but even by his own deathbed confession “for YEARS I egged [him] on, even though I knew [Ed] had outgrown [the Blackbeard persona]” (emphasis mine, and pin in that for a moment). In 2x1, Fang is crying into his cake saying “I’ve never seen Blackbeard like this” - indicating that the conditions of the Kraken era are NOT the norm. The slivers of Ed we see in 1x3 before the Spanish raid are marked by him speaking calmly and rationally to Izzy (in stark contradiction to Izzy’s insistence that he’s half-mad) never even raising his voice much less using threats or any actual violence to get Izzy to do what he wants. In fact, it is Izzy who suggests a course of action involving very normative piratical violence (“Do we open fire? Or would you rather we just attack them, kill them, throw them out to the sharks, sir?”), which Ed counters with a genteel proposition - inviting (not even ordering!) Stede aboard for a face-to-face meeting. Izzy being comfortable enough to push back against orders (“Oh, Edward, can’t I just send the boys?”) even suggests that he feels no threat from Ed at all. Every indication is that by the time we meet Ed, well before he ever meets Stede, he’s already well past done with violence for violence sake.

When Ed does meet with Stede, before he’d fallen in love (Even though the are the U-Hauliest, I would argue “fascination” with a possible side of “infatuation”, but certainly not yet love), one of the early conversations they have is about the depiction of Blackbeard in Stede’s book of pirates. Ed expresses revulsion and anger that the persona that he’s worked so hard to cultivate has been twisted into a hyper-violent parody - a “Vampire Viking Clown” that’s barely even human, with a head of smoke and overladen with weapons and hardly bears any resemblance to the real man. We’re meant to understand that this is not a valid or accurate representation of who he is. Violence is a normative part of pirate life, but he has “one knife, and one gun JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE” (emphasis mine, again) - he doesn’t shirk from using the tools of violence when it’s necessary, but he is NOT excessively or wantonly violent. 

And we SEE the evidence of this because of how Stede reacts to the way Ed acts around Jack. Jack keeps Ed drunk all day, decoupling his inhibitions from his decision-making processes and, in spite of Ed explicitly saying that he’s mellowed out, Jack eggs him into the kind of hyper-violent Jackassery that is excessive even for pirate society if the nervous reactions of Stede’s crew are any indication. Of course, this is all part of Jack’s plan - to manipulate both Ed and Stede and force them apart - and the reason that it works is because the way Ed acts around Jack is NOT the way he chooses to act under his own volition, hence Stede’s frustration and disappointment.

While I agree that piratical violence is not political praxis, I would argue that, considering that every raid we have witnessed Ed participate in has been against a representative of colonial power and, more often than not, specifically the enforcing arm thereof, it’s not unfair to conclude that Ed’s reasoning goes that if piratical violence is to be done, better against someone who deserves it than not - i.e. those who perpetuate the violence of colonialism. Regarding instances of violence outside the context of raids, here’s where we take that pin out of Izzy. Izzy and Ed are locked in a cycle of abuse over the first season, wherein Izzy decides that Ed is not Blackbearding hard enough, and, because he feels entitled to controlling Ed’s actions, bullies and harasses him into capitulating  - typically in the form of performing violence. Afterwards, Izzy performs some form of deference - apologizing and/or acting as though he’s going to leave, which Ed “talks him down from” and mercifully allows him to stay. It’s why, when Ed sees Izzy packing up a dinghy (lol. With what? It’s not like he’s on his own ship or would have brought his things with him, or sacked plunder from the Revenge. Clearly he was just stalling until Ed noticed him and swooped in to do his part of the cycle) he tells Stede he “should deal with this,” as though it’s tedious, but normal occurrence. I think an important part of this cycle as the season progresses, though, is how Izzy keeps upping the stakes.

So by the time we get to the end of the season, when the last iteration of the cycle starts up again (when Ed is once more insufficiently Blackbearding by being emotionally vulnerable and open with the crew following his return to the Revenge and his stint in the pillow fort (note that Izzy is apparently FINE with Ed not being Peak Pirate, just as long as he hides it away from everyone), and Izzy once more bullies and threatens Ed) this time it is especially cruel - Izzy is a thumb in the wound, attacking Ed at his most vulnerable and saying it would be better if Ed was DEAD than “pining for his boyfriend.” This iteration now also brings with it a history of escalation (first in Izzy bringing Fang and Ivan in to force Ed's hand about killing Stede, lest he look "weakened by the love of a pet" before his crew, and therefore in danger of mutiny, and then by bringing in the British Navy to force Ed to take Izzy back - or rather, to force Izzy back into Ed's life because the terms of the agreement see Ed remanded into Izzy's custody as though he is property to be distributed at the will of the Brits) - an established pattern of the lengths to which Izzy will go to get what he wants, and so a very real threat implicit in Izzy’s warning that “Ed had better watch his step” as Izzy serves only Blackbeard. So Ed gives him what he wants. He Blackbeards it up just like Izzy insisted, and lets Izzy know in no uncertain terms that the insubordination is done. It’s not a "frat boy prank" when he cuts off Izzy’s toe and feeds it to him, or even something from which he's deriving pleasure as he might have in the old days; it’s a calculated, proportional response, done under duress and against his own inclinations, but exactly the tool required to get the message across clearly.

As to the question of why it matters if Ed is bad, first and foremost, because saying that he is bad requires you to explicitly read contrary to the text. If you’re not going to engage with the text on its own terms, I don’t see how you can do any analysis of what story it’s trying to tell. I already discussed the ways in which the narrative is specifically about how Ed is NOT bad, even when he himself thinks he is. I have also discussed how, while “violence is never the answer” may be broadly understood to be the correct way of comporting oneself in real life, the show never condemns violence across the board. The show condemns cruelty, both on an interpersonal and societal level, but positions the use of violence as an acceptable and reasonable response thereunto. It treats circumstance and motivation with nuance and weight. Living within this context, Ed’s use of violence by the time we meet him is well within the normative acceptable application thereof. Judging him by standards outside the context of the story within which he exists makes as much sense as judging the Stede from the show for being a slave owner because that’s historical fact - that’s just not applicable to who he is in THIS story.

But more importantly, it matters because Ed is a POC character. Describing him as “cruel and perverse” for utilizing violence, particularly when the violence he uses is NOT excessive or impulsive, perpetuates negative race-based stereotypes about hyper-violent men of color. Characterizing him as “bad” for his use of violence when other (white) characters, such as Stede, use violence in similar ways, or are cruel or petty, but can still be considered, on balance, “good” means that Ed is being held to a different, higher standard than those white characters, and perpetuates the frankly racist criteria of expecting POC exceptionalism for POCs to be considered for the base-line assumptions of acceptability that are afforded to their white counterparts. Saying that Stede’s love is what changed Ed’s behavior from cruelty to wholesale abandoning piratical principles is not only antithetical to what actually happens in the show, but suggests a read that POC Ed needs a good white man to show him how to behave, a real white knight to tame his savage heart. That’s some real White Man’s Burden shit there, bro. I highly recommend you put it down.

[onesidedradiostatic]

Prev. https://www.tumblr.com/onesidedradiostatic/768663529880436736/re

Oh I see what you’re saying now! There’s been no “positive integer” of ace Mammon in the show! And you’re right!

I personally don’t hold out any hope that the show will ever cover or explicitly bring it up, outside occasional secondary/metatext, like the pride piece or social media. (I feel similarly about Alastor.) Can’t feel let down by the absence of something you hoped for if you never let yourself hope for anything! <— I tell myself, curled up on the floor. The old and factually incorrect “can’t miss what you never had” fallacy. /sarcasm

I’ve got aroace goggles but they’re not rose-tinted…. Likewise,

“(also having the "good" characters tell the ace character he's unfuckable and that he should keep fucking himself kindaaaaa doesn't sit right with me, I really don't want to read bad faith into mammon being made ace rep but it gets kinda hard like this)”

I feel this too, and nihilistically I feel like it’s just another one of those commonplace things that Hellaverse-style writing tends to use for comedic effect that inadvertently (or via unexamined bias, ie “this came so quickly and naturally to you that you didn’t pause to think about how this could come across to other people in your target audience or if there was a more effective way to do this before giving the go-ahead and locking it in? Ok.” Disclaimer: this is common in lots of media! I don’t intend to say it’s something unique to the H.verse writing. It can happen to anyone, like catching a cold, but it’s the hope that the writing and editing process will catch these instances and make them better, but stuff can slip through, it happens. No offence intended) implies something Less Than Ideal like a harmful stereotype or perpetuating casual bias and then assigning them Morality etc. We don’t need an aspec rendition of the Hays Code/Disney/dudebro film “queer-coded villain who you can tell is bad because they’re queer and that’s bad because it’s not good like the good guy!”

The “You like/don’t like sex/romance? What’s wrong with you? I’m the normal one!” can be toxic/dehumanising in both directions when one side thinks it’s superior to the other. But the common M.O is

- the old “If sex/romance = value/virtue/humanity, Then less/no sex/romance = less/no value/virtue/humanity”

- (Bonus points when it equates sex/romance with the capacity to love and be loved!)

- which when used as an insult is basically just a rehashed cousin of those nice-guy “fuck you you’re ugly anyway” and manosphere “I don’t want to fuck you therefore you have no/negative value”

- weirdly but not that surprisingly, it shares a few vibes with ablism, probably because certain people see aspec as something “missing or defective”. Which has historically been thrown at all lgbtqia+ so it’s sad that it persists from within the queer umbrella

- But, loosely speaking of theoretical connections to ablism… I’m not claiming that fidget toys are exclusively for one type of neurodivergence/or ASD. But there is enough fodder for a potential bad-faith reading “show implies aspec symptom of neurodivergence/ASD, says they’re unfuckable and less valued than neurotypical amatonormatives! correlation does not equal causation!” type thing. I’m too sleepy to go there.

- Saying “you’re unfuckable” to someone who doesn’t want to Do The Fucks isn’t an insult in of itself, (it’s like saying “You’ll never get a girlfriend!” to a gay dude, they’d be like “that’s exactly what I want!”) but the connotation that fuckable= worth as a person, therefore they have no worth, is. Like, you could just say “you’re a worthless piece of shit” and not bring sex into it at all, but it’s Hellaverse and sex is everywhere, including the language. It’s the lingua franca… the lingua fucka?

I could assume a goodish faith usage of insulting an ace character as unfuckable/‘the only person who’ll fuck you is you die mad’* in the “I know this bothers you, so I’m using it to bother you” way. Like how in the pilot Angel used -isms to bother Vaggie. :/

*’the only person who’ll fuck you is you’ is also a bonus trope of ‘aspec people are autosexual/autoromantic or self obsessed’ 😂

But yeah otherwise it sits weird.

There’s so much one could write and explore just on the general topic of “Aspec and Othering in the Hellaverse”, it’s actually fascinating. Whether it’s a good fascinating or bad fascinating is irrelevant though. Gender and Sexuality in horror and horror-inspired media is always a blast to look into. (You can’t tell me Alastor isn’t a little horror inspired. How his aspec-ialty can play a part in his portrayed uncanny-valley not-humanness to other sinners, being part device, performance and contradictory animal, etc etc. There’s heaps to go on if anyone felt inclined. Goodnight tumblr)

(prev)

this is a lot so I don't think I can cover everything here but yeah

I personally don’t hold out any hope that the show will ever cover or explicitly bring it up, outside occasional secondary/metatext, like the pride piece or social media.

alastor was at the very least allowed a verbal confirmation in hazbin itself so I don't think it's impossible for mammon (or octavia) to have allusions to their asexuality in their show, really I accept even subtext. for mammon it's still not even subtext yet, just word of god. but again, I won't fully judge him as bad rep here because obviously the show isn't over yet so reference to his asexuality could still come up in the future, I just had some hope it would happen sooner than later y'know and also ASMODEUS got to show up in full pan wear but we don't get any reference to mammon being asexual?

but yeah sorry this one is kinda nitpicking at this point, moving on, all you said after that yeah exactly what I meant about bee saying no one wants to fuck mammon as an insult, I know it's probably not intentionally shaming an ace character for it but it still can have bad implications even with good intention as just a lighthearted canon-typical joke

and this actually

- But, loosely speaking of theoretical connections to ablism… I’m not claiming that fidget toys are exclusively for one type of neurodivergence/or ASD. But there is enough fodder for a potential bad-faith reading “show implies aspec symptom of neurodivergence/ASD, says they’re unfuckable and less valued than neurotypical amatonormatives! correlation does not equal causation!” type thing. I’m too sleepy to go there.

I'm a bit worried about the infantilisation too, I've already seen people compare mammon talking about sex as an asexual to being like a child talking about sex

and mammon's constant use of toys in the trial doesn't really help with it, I worry that the logic behind mammon as ace rep comes down to "he's too childish and immature to understand sex and just pretends to understand it when he talks about it like a child" and that's on top of the whole "I can't see him caring about anyone legitimately therefore he's ace" logic which I have ALSO seen people say in response to him being ace

I don't want to assume that these were the actual intentions behind making him ace, of course these qualities can co-exist on top of being ace but the problem starts when you start correlating them and I think it's already bad that these are takeaways some parts of the fandom have

maybe I'm judging too early, maybe I just need to wait for mammon to be referenced as ace in the show itself and see how it's treated. but just. idk. there's just a lot of factors at play that makes me skeptical of him as ace rep, I was already skeptical when he was revealed as ace rep in the helluva pride art but this episode's showing of him has made me even moreso. genuinely, I do think having a canon sex-favourable ace is good! great in fact! but I can't praise it just for that when there's no indication of him being ace that you can see from watching the episode, if there is ever an episode that indicates him being asexual while being sex-favourable then I will praise it

anyways sorry for having topics surrounding ace mammon be so negative, I feel like it could overshadow the fact that I still really enjoyed the episode!!

[pansy-picnics]

I really want to say this somewhere but honestly, my favorite part of Varigo is that it can really go both ways.

Like they have that soft fluffy thing going for them with that first love energy and it’s absolutely adorable in whatever it’s done with. And very believable.

But then they can also have this side where these two hate each other, but they want to MAKE OUT SO BAD IT HURTS TO WATCH. Like major enemies to lovers vibes and it’s very believable.

Maybe it’s just because Hugo technically never existed but any dynamic that any fanfic or art gives them just MAKES SENCE TO ME.

they are enemies AND lovers……... it is the funniest thing to me tbh i cannot see them being super lovey-dovey all the time after they get together, like its not that they AREN’T sickeningly in love, it’s just that they can flip between that and calling each other ugly whores within 5 seconds and they’re completely unfazed. as funny as it is i personally think it’s because at their core they are both kids who were forced to grow up too fast, and they bring out each others inner child in a way…. cuz like, their rivalry/hatred for each other has never been, in any way, Reasonable or Mature

hugo was suspicious when they met, sure, but i don’t think thats really why varian disliked him- i think that’s just the reason he used to justify it in his head. Really he just thought hugo was cool as fuck and he was really mad about being outshined on HIS coming of age quest. like. HE’S the main character bro. Who does this blonde bitch think he is. Goddamn. /j

and….Hugo was the same way lol. like despite his awful circumstances and all the angst going on in his head he only initially antagonized varian because he was a 19 year old boy and wanted to look cool and act like he knew everything. THEIR WHOLE RIVALRY WAS SO CHILDISH! AND THATS WHATS SO SPECIAL ABOUT IT I FEEL CUZ….NEITHER OF THEM HAVE EVER REALLY HAD THAT BEFORE.

ITS EXACTLY WHAT YOU SAID!! it’s that they’re each others first love…but they are also simultaneously each other’s first best friend and also each other’s first Enemy. Neither of them have REALLY done any of that before like ever. varian had friends but he’s never had friends HIS AGE, yk? its completely new for both of them, each for separate reasons, and because of that they are both acting like stupid fucking 12 year olds about it.

even after they get together i think the core of their dynamic is that….they were kind of each other’s (incredibly belated) childhood best friend. and they will always be best friends first and foremost Yk? they bring out each others inner child. it’s why even when they’ve been married for 40 years they tease each other like theyre two middle schoolers fighting on the school bus over pokemon cards. its why they always know exactly how to make the other laugh or cheer them up after a long day. they know EXACTLY how to push each others buttons but they also know when is too far, which is why they can just say the most vile things to each other without even hesitating because they KNOW they don’t gaf. They share one braincell together but they’re also both genius mad scientists so they COULD take over the world together if they wanted to but they’re too busy playing jenga with glass beakers in their pajamas at 2 pm. Idk. They need to be shot.

[the7thcrow]

Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 10

series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.

series masterlist | previous chapter

Part Ten: a relic from the past, confession, and dark magic.

series rating: 16+

series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.

series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)

summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.

chapter details beneath the cut ->

wc: 15.3k

extra chapter warnings: panic attack, a non-consensual kiss, non-consensual drug use (but magical? idk?).

chapter summary:

“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.

Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.

“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”

a/n: guess who’s back :3 sorry this took me a million years to write, hopefully i can be a bit more consistent in the next coming months. hope you enjoy, and don’t be shy to let me know what you think! love y’all, thanks to everyone who has not abandoned this story after this massive hiatus LMAO <3

Seonghwa has never believed anger to suit him.

While Woo wears his anger like a loaded cannon, and San - like most other things - buries it until it inevitably rises to the surface, Seonghwa has tried to avoid fury when he can.

After all, anger is often the replacement of a different emotion. It comes easier than understanding, quicker than resolution. It’s the nasty, winding short-cut off the high road, and Seonghwa has learned that the high road is almost always the safer path in the long term.

Anger is ugly. It’s nonsensical and he doesn’t like how it looks on him. It’s why he prefers the cold shoulder to blind rage, sorting out his feelings on his own rather than lashing out on others. It’s the kind thing to do. The empathetic thing to do.

It’s never been overly difficult for him to settle this rage until now.

It festers in his mind every morning, as well as in the night before he falls asleep. Everytime he accidentally catches your eye over breakfast, letting his gaze drift away in hopes that you will think that his eyes were trailing by rather than staring.

He is so unbelievably angry with you, and he hates it.

From the moment the truth was revealed in the forest, it’s as if someone wrapped a hand around his lungs and began to squeeze, then never let go. A hot, burning fire in his chest that’s smoke rises up his throat, choking him with rage. It stings his eyes, fogs his senses. It feels unbeatable, indestructible. Blinding.

He knows that anger is just an emotion. A bad one, one that he’s had to expel from others countless times before. From San, after The Desert Lotus. It’s just another entity, another plague on the body. Settle down, feel it, think better of it, then let it be gone.

And yet now that feels an impossible task. Seonghwa doesn’t know the last time he was so angry. Perhaps it was the night in the kitchen with his mother, learning of the heights of human greed, the one he relives every time he uses his gift to expel the anger from someone else.

He supposes this memory may replace that one.

When he found out the truth about you it was like the last few weeks came crashing down around him. The closeness, the trust and understanding, the mutual respect and admiration.

All lies. All of it. And he feels like such a fucking idiot.

There was no trust, and by the gods, there was certainly no respect. He was a mere pawn in your game, a part of the plan, and all he can do is beat himself up about being too naive to not see it earlier. Woo has always harped on him for being too nice to people, or as the elemental would put it, “not behaving like an actual person, but more like a rock on a walkway that people like to kick around”. Seonghwa thought that Woo was just being grouchy, the pessimist he always is. But hell, maybe he was right.

After all, Seonghwa should have seen it coming. There was so much he could have done. If he had questioned why a beautiful stranger would have so much immediate interest in him in the first place, or why you constantly asked him questions while dismissing any deeper ones about yourself. If he wasn’t so passive about the parasitic emotions practically radiating off of you. If he looked past the ideal he so desperately wanted and dared to dig up the reality of what was underneath.

He’s not an idiot. The reality is that for you, it was never about him. It was about getting to Kuroku. For him it was about the journey, but for you it was always in the name of the destination.

And well, he certainly did his part in getting you there. He shared his gift with you as a token of trust, he took your pain away and made it his own, he vouched for you against Woo’s constant doubt.

All for a girl who’s name he didn’t even know.

The thought makes more anger - ugly, volatile, and oh-so-unflattering - surge within his chest, and he throws a rock into the lake before him. It doesn’t skip as he intended, and instead sinks with a loud plunk.

Seonghwa frowns. He grabs another rock to throw.

After being met with an even louder plunk, he groans, before creeping further up onto the shoreline to grab a flatter rock. His toes dip in the water, which feels colder than yesterday now that he’s no longer fueled by sheer terror and adrenaline.

The coolness brings him back to Maralya, when he and Yunho would sit on the fishing dock. Feet in the water, even though Seonghwa was older, Yunho was the one who had taught him to skip rocks. His half-brother always had a knack for things like that, or well, for everything it seemed. From medical skills, to scaling buildings, to setting a fishing line; Yunho could master whatever he picked up. He must have inherited it from his father, a man Seonghwa doesn’t really remember, as he died when they were young.

Seonghwa doesn’t remember his own father either, as he disappeared on an escapade to The Mainland directly after he was born. His mother told him that his ship was lost at sea, but Seonghwa is pretty sure he just left and never came back.

It doesn’t really matter, he’s never had much of a desire to know the man. After all, the only thing Seonghwa inherited from him was his foolishness. And maybe his nose.

Seonghwa sighs. Picking up another rock, this one flat and polished, he recalls the steps in his mind. Yunho's voice runs through his head as he goes through the form, before bringing his hand back and letting it fly.

Plunk.

He stares at the ripples surrounding the sinking stone for a moment, before sitting down. He must have forgotten a step. It was a long time ago.

He lays back so that his head presses into the sand, the little grains cold and damp against his scalp. It’s familiar. It’s a little like the shore at home, although the sand isn’t as white, and the water’s colder, nor as blue. There’s no sound of hustle and bustle from back in the village, or his mother yelling at him to take a dip in the ocean before coming back inside because he’s covered in sand and he can’t track that into the house.

So maybe it’s not so similar, but he will pretend.

Seonghwa sighs, grabbing a handful of sand, letting it fall between his fingers. It’s times like these, ones where he’s dejected, broken-down, and lonely, that he wants nothing more than to go home. Only then does he remember that there’s no home for him to return to.

He sighs, his anger drifting to sadness, and yet he doesn’t mind. He believes that at the very least, it suits him better.

Footsteps approach from far off behind him, and he knows that it’s you. Woo walks faster, heavier footed, and he likely wouldn’t have heard San until he was closer. Besides, you’ve been walking with a slight limp since the fall, and he can hear it in the thump of every second step.

A part of him wants to ask what happened, what hurts. If you’re okay.

The angry part of him won’t let the other speak.

He hears your steps stutter, coming to a sudden halt from what he assumes is about a dozen feet off. Silence follows, and he wonders what you’re thinking. If you’re nervous to approach him, taking the time to contemplate your words before you say them.

Eventually, you do come closer. “San and Woo want to head towards Bebbanburg,” you call out from behind him. “I said that I’d come get you.”

“Thanks,” Seonghwa says flatly, making no motion to move. He will, of course, but not until you head back to camp. He’d like to avoid the awkwardness of walking in a strained silence, pretending not to notice as you try to meet his eye.

Although when he doesn’t hear you leave, it seems as if he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Sighing, he pushes himself up into a seated position. Glancing back at you, he has to place a hand over his forehead to block out the rising sun blinding his vision.

You stand with your arms wrapped around yourself, watching him with a dampened expression. Your tunic billows in the wind, torn around the waist and covered in dirt and dust. Chewing on your bottom lip as your fingers tap along your arm, you appear on edge. As if you wish to say something.

Seonghwa hates the way he wishes to know what it is. He hates how he wants to smooth your hair that is violently blown by the wind and wipe away the smudge of mud that has hardened against your cheek.

He hates how even now, after everything, he yearns for you.

Perhaps this is how it always would have ended, anyway. Having grown more attached then he ever should, not ready to lose what he knew was never his.

“Seonghwa,” you say finally, although it’s a little strained. Rigid. “About yesterday, by the fire.”

Ah yes, that. You and San hadn’t noticed him at the time, but when neither he or Woo came back to the fire, the two of you went out looking for them. It only took a moment, finding them sitting against the caves outer wall. Quiet and avoidant. Woo had fallen asleep, but Seonghwa had met your gaze. He held it for only a moment, watching your own eyes widen as you realized he’d seen the whole thing. He looked away when your lips parted to speak.

“With San. I hadn’t expected it to happen,” you say, calling loudly over the wind, and yet somehow your voice still seems quiet. Trapped and tight. “I… I don’t regret it. But after everything, it feels unfair to you-”

“I don’t care about you and San,” Seonghwa butts in. Not aggressively, or overly angry, merely factual. After all, that’s not what he’s angry about. He doesn’t care about you and San. That’s your business.

He wants San to be happy. Whatever it takes, the swordsman deserves a bit of peace.

Besides, now that he will not, perhaps San will wipe the mud from your cheek.

“Oh,” you say, followed by a pause. “You just seem upset.”

“I’m not angry about that,” Seonghwa replies, lips pursing together. He swallows hard. “Just about everything you did before it.”

Your expression falls. Mouth dropping open into a small part, your eyes fill with a sudden sense of shame and hurt. Your hands grip your elbows, hugging yourself tighter, even if only slightly.

Your expression settles like stone in his gut, and he knows that what he said has made you hurt. He has made you feel that same pain that tightens in his chest and floods up his throat.

Seonghwa wishes he hadn’t said that.

No matter his anger, no matter the pain, Seonghwa has never wished to pass an entity on to another.

“I’ll meet you back at the cave in a moment,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say anything else that he’ll regret. He doesn’t want to force his gaze from yours while at the same time feeling a pull towards you like a beacon, begging him to take it away. Take it all away. All the horrible entities that radiate from you like a plague, a blackened sickness.

Turning back towards the lake, he waits. When he hears the sound of your footsteps - fading away, not growing louder - he lets out a sigh of relief.

He doesn’t like what this has made him into. The anger that has filled him, strangles him, stops him from drifting towards you like a moth to a flame. Sure to be burned, but the glow will be glorious.

No, anger doesn’t suit him. And yet he wears it, draping over him, akin to a stranger’s jacket.

If there is any luck to be found following your fall from the cliff, it’s in that at least you’ve found yourselves closer to Bebbanburg.

The journey to the small kingdom only took a few hours, the fact that you had nothing to carry but the clothes on your back having sped up the trek. It was spent in silence.

You know there’s certain to be some of the black-clad men poking around in such a populous city, so upon reaching the kingdom, the first order of business was to purchase you a cloak, as Mingi’s own had remained within a satchel on the horse’s back.

It weighs down on your shoulders, knowing that it’s gone, the final piece of him you had left. You’ve tried to view it as for the better, as the cloak of a Libaiyan Royal Guard could have attracted the attention of the wrong pair of eyes.

Even so, it hurts.

The cloak you wear now isn’t nearly as nice, a tattered brown fabric that’s itchy in the spots where it touches your bare skin, but it only cost a few bronze pieces. Considering that all the group of you have to your name is the pouch of coins attached to San’s waste, you have to know where to ration your spendings.

This is only on the necessities. San is trying to locate a cheap blacksmith to fashion him a new sword. Meanwhile, Woo and Seonghwa are searching if there’s anywhere for your group to stay that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Bebbanburg is an expensive kingdom, and so long as you find a place with a roof and walls that doesn’t blow through all of your savings, you’ll consider yourselves lucky.

With all the men on their own errands and a new cloak purchased, you’ve had about an hour to kill before now, as you currently make your way to meet them back at the city center. You’ve spent it wandering, peering into shop windows but never making your way inside. You don’t have the money to spend, nor do you want the undivided attention of a shop-keeper when you’re trying to lay low.

You’ve passed a few of your wanted posters strown up about the town, plastered to bulletin boards, poles, and shop windows alike. On top of being newly adorned with a far more accurate portrait of yourself, they’ve also added the detail of your recent scars. Printed along the bottom is the following: “Last spotted travelling with three young men. Potentially dangerous. Approach with caution.”

As an incentive due to what you assume is the elevated danger risk, they’ve increased the reward for your capture or demise to 300,000 gold pieces.

Apparently, someone at the tavern ratted the group of you out. Likely Yeosang and his band of not-so-merry men, or perhaps the poor shop-keeper desperate for a bribe.

Either way, someone is on your tail. Considering the new addition to the posters, that someone is in this city.

You haven’t seen them yet, but you know that it’s the black-clad men. They have to be lurking around here somewhere, they’re just being quiet about it.

You swallow hard, pulling the hood of your cloak further down.

Fortunately, the street’s are bustling with people. Bebbanburg, while not quite as big as the four major kingdoms, is still a hub for tourism. With money to spend, the streets are clean, the buildings well-kept. Despite being a narrow path in the merchant’s district in town, the air smells fresh.

It doesn’t feel quite right, in your opinion. Between the few towns you’ve visited these past few weeks, there was a certain scent to the air that felt more…natural. A strange concoction of smells as different taverns and homes didn’t agree on a pre-set menu for the night, dirt and pebbles aligning the trails as hunters dragged home their latest catch, or the muddy hoof-prints left by horses that stick to the bottoms of your shoes.

Bebbanburg feels too polished. The sort of polished that takes an effort, that works extra hard to rid itself of anything it deems unclean.

Trying not to obsess too much over the fact, you do your best to retrace your steps in order to return to the city center, taking a turn down another street. A slight limp to your step, ankle still not having fully recovered from your fall off the cliff, you count the shop doors that you pass along the alley’s stone wall. You kept count on your way here in order to know which alley to take back.

Counting down the doors, you pass by a butcher’s shop, cafe, and Zarian boutique for rare gems, all of which you’d passed along the way here. Gaze fluttering passively over the alley next to the boutique, you nearly miss the pair of eyes that lock on your own. Cat-like gaze fixated on yours, the bottom half of the figure's face is covered by a black cloth, their head shrouded in a dark cloak.

You pause. Hesitant, you retrace your last few steps, peering back down the alley.

The figure’s cloak follows behind them as they disappear behind a winding turn.

Swallowing down the bile that arises in your throat as an unsettled chill creeps down your spine, you keep moving along your original route. It was just a stranger. You’re paranoid, on edge, searching to find shadows and enemies in places in which they are not there.

Nevermind how something about the stranger's gaze felt oddly…familiar. Although you cannot place from where.

You continue along your original path, turning down the alley that will take you back to the city center. Glancing over your shoulder, you see nobody behind you, just the bustle of people continuing their way down the mainstreet. You mentally scold yourself. You’re being ridiculous, and casting lingering glances as you loiter in one place for too long is only going to attract attention.

When you turn forward, you catch a glimpse of movement, as something disappears behind a wall up ahead of you. “Shit,” you think to yourself, rushing forward as you place your back against the stone wall, peeking an eye out to see if you can spot them.

All you can manage is the tail end of the dark cloak disappearing down another alleyway. You wait a moment, as if contemplating how daring - or foolish - you’re willing to be, before heading after them.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper to yourself, hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at your waist as you follow after the mysterious figure. However, even if unwise, you’d rather know your enemy and have them right in front of you compared to being stalked like prey. You’ll get slain in a fair fight any day before getting your throat slit from behind.

It’s a morbid thought, something San would likely say during combat practice, and you wonder if you’ve been spending too much time with these men.

Following the stranger, you keep quiet on your feet. Pulling the sword out from its sheath, you tread carefully, slowing your pace as you near the corner that the cloak had disappeared behind. Holding the sword firm in your grasp, you take a deep and shaky breath, before jumping to face your attacker.

Only to find there is nobody there, just another barren alleyway. Another alleyway that leads to nothing but a dead end, a stone wall looming tall before you.

You frown, confused at how this is possible. Your gaze darts around the narrow alleyway, searching for a cloaked figure, but it remains entirely empty.

Letting out a troubled sigh, you resheath your sword and turn back around.

Only to be met face first with the masked stranger.

Your breath dies in your throat, and you instinctively pull an arm back, aiming to strike them. However, as you swing forward, they narrowly dodge your strike, managing to grab your wrist instead. They twist it, not so hard as to dislodge anything, but enough that it disarms you. Then, using their free hand to push you backwards, they press you up against the stone wall. Elbow against your chest and hand gripping your upper arm, their spare hand grips tightly around your other wrist, rending you immobile.

Your chest heaves, not from tiredness but scheer panic. They’ve got you. Your gaze flickers up, to scan the face of your assailant. The person that will turn you in to the black-clad men, or is perhaps one themself.

The strangers' dark eyes meet yours from beneath their thick cloak, black orbs dancing as they move to scan over your face. Cat-like in their shape, with thick eye-lashes and brows.

Then the stranger laughs.

It’s not a menacing laugh, nor one you would expect from someone who is about to kill you. Instead it’s joyous, almost disbelieving.

“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.

Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.

“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”

The stranger’s eyebrows furrow together into a look of confusion, before lighting up in realization. “Oh!” They say, before doing the last thing you would have ever expected of removing their hands from you entirely. “Of course!”

The stranger pulls off the hood of their cloak, revealing a head of long, thick red hair. They follow the removal of their hood by doing the same with their mask, and with it, you are hit with a wave of not only relief, but scheer and unadulterated joy.

“Yeji!” You nearly shout, pulling your back from the wall and wrapping your arms around your old laundress.

She chuckles, and then you are both laughing. In happiness, in relief, in sheer and utter disbelief. You pull away, placing both of your hands along her jaw to cup her face. You scan every detail, to ensure that she is real and actually standing before you, not some sort of trick or illusion.

But is her, just as you had seen her last at the castle. Maybe not exactly the same, wearing far different clothes than the modest beige dress she had adorned as your laundress, hair worn loosely, and eyes holding more of an edge than they ever had before.

Still, it is Yeji.

Yeji with the shimmering grin and freckle on her nose. Yeji who you know, and knows you in return. Yeji from your castle. Your home.

Yeji, a relic from the past that has not been destroyed.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, following me around like that,” you laugh, taking one of your hands and giving her a slap on the shoulder, playful and not hard enough to actually hurt.

“Sorry,” she grins. “I didn’t want to attract any attention on the street. Figured it would be safer to lure you somewhere quiet, and you know, I also wanted to make sure it was actually you first.”

She then scoffs, returning the slap onto your own shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to pull out a sword on me! Where did you even get one of those?”

You consider answering, but a heavy cloud of unanswered questions hangs over the two of you, its presence loud and rattling like thunder. The jovial nature to your reunion cannot last long, not when there’s so much at stake, not when your world has crumbled to ash since you last spoke.

“What are you doing in Bebbanburg?” You ask, before realizing there’s a far more pressing question at hand. “How did you get out of the castle?”

Yeji smiles, placing her hand over one of your own along her cheek. “After what happened with the king in the ball-room, it was chaos,” she explains. “The Dark Army were rounding up and capturing all those who worked in the castle and may have been close to you.”

Your heart seizes at the statement, and your voice is quiet as you speak again. “Did they hurt them?”

“I don’t know,” Yeji replies, tone equally as somber. “A group of us laundresses escaped together using the underground tunnel system. I didn’t see what happened to those they had rounded up, but…”

She swallows hard, eyes pitiful as they meet your own. “But with how The Dark Army were talking, and the screams that followed behind us…I don’t think it would have ended well for them, Princess.”

Your throat swells at her admission, and it becomes more difficult to breathe as your eyes fill with the remnants of tears. Your mind is flooded with the unwelcome image of all of your old servants - your friends, as they had far surpassed their job description - tortured to try and probe them for information regarding you.

You wipe at your eyes with your hands, stuffing down the rising guilt and pain, placing a lid on these horrible thoughts. You will mourn later, when you have the time to properly grieve and honour all that they have lost because of you. For now, you must keep moving, deal with what is right in front of you.

“You keep calling them The Dark Army,” you begin, changing the subject. “Is that a made up title, or something they’ve defined themselves as? Do we know who they are?”

Yeji shakes her head. “Nobody knows who they are, it’s just what we’ve been calling them because of their armour. Not to mention the fact that they are about the sourest men I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve spoken to them?” You ask, scolding yourself for the fear that seizes in your chest at the thought of it. Of them being anywhere near her, or anyone you care about, for that matter.

She nods. “They’re poking around the city. Trying to keep a low profile, because Bebbanburg doesn’t like any semblance of war or conflict contaminating their streets, but they’re here. We try to keep to ourselves by not causing any trouble or disturbances and they mostly leave us alone.”

Your head buzzes at the confirmation that they are here, within the walls and perhaps a mere alley-way over, which is far, far too close.

“You keep saying we,” you note. “There’s more of you?”

Yeji nods, a soft smile grazing her lips. “Lot’s of us. We’ve set up a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. Bebbanburg doesn’t want us here, because of course they don’t, but at least it’s safe. Not much crime or Anti-Libaiyan extremists in the city, so even if it’s not much, it’s all that we can really ask for.”

If she had told you this a couple weeks ago, you’d have been startled to know that there were Anti-Libaiyan extremists at all. However, having been given insight into the monstrosities your father was capable of, this no longer comes as a surprise, but rather expected.

“Can you take me to them?” You ask, and Yeji nods.

“Of course,” she says, grabbing your hand as she begins to walk back up the alley-way. “Although, I’d recommend keeping a low-profile, seeing that you're alive might cause a little too much excitement. Draw attention.”

You nod in agreement, following behind her through the winding alley-ways. It’s not until you’re almost back on the main city street that you remember why exactly you were trekking through the alleyways in the first place.

“Wait,” you say, stopping. Yeji turns to face you, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s some people I need you to meet first.”

“Where have you been?” Woo asks as you approach. The three men have gathered around the fountain within the center of the city square, water spouting from the tall and golden statue into a small pond embedded with various coloured jewels along its rim. The falling water casts a veil of mist around them, as well as the various other groups gathered beside it. Many of them are tourists from different kingdoms, which you can recognize by the various types of clothing they wear, such as the vibrant coloured patchwork of the group next to you that is distinctly Zarian. It seems a prime spot to talk, the definition of hiding in plain sight.

“You were supposed to meet us here a half-hour ago,” Woo says with a scowl, before he notices Yeji beside you. His gaze flickers up and down, as if assessing her potential danger. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself, before motioning to her. “You guys, this is Yeji.”

She gives them a smile to which none of the men return, and for a moment you stand in silence.

“We’ve heard that one before,” Woo says.

Your face warms with embarrassment, and you clear your throat before beginning to explain. “This is the real Yeji, the girl whose name I used. She was one of my laundresses back at the castle, as well as a close friend.”

Another moment of silence follows, as none of the men appear to know what to say, or how to approach the appearance of a stranger.

Eventually, Seonghwa speaks, tone polite. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, to which Yeji returns the sentiment. Although he isn’t looking at you to see it, you cast Seonghwa a grateful smile all the same.

“This is Seonghwa, San, and Woo,” you say, pointing to each of them in turn. “They have been helping me get to Kuroku.”

“Thank you for aiding Her Highness,” Yeji says, placing a hand on her chest while delivering a curtsy. A sign of respect. Although…exceedingly formal respect.

San’s lips pull together into a stifled smile, and Woo raises an eyebrow.

“You, um, don’t have to do that,” you say, placing a hand on Yeji’s shoulder and gently tugging her upwards. “It’s not really like that.”

“Oh,” she says, straightening herself as her eyebrows raise in surprise. There’s a silence that follows, as well as a sense of discomfort that hangs in the air, as Yeji chews nervously on her lower lip.

And for all the love that you have for her, you know exactly what she’s thinking, as it’s been drilled into her since the moment she began to work at the castle: The demands of Libaiyan proprietary.

She ponders that if the relationship with this group of men escorting you is not formal, then what is it, and how far have you stretched the rules of etiquette that bind you?

You wouldn’t even know how to answer that question even if she asked.

Instead of dwelling on the subject and the lingering discomfort, you turn to Woo and Seonghwa. “Did the two of you find a place for us to stay the night?”

Woo scoffs in annoyance while Seonghwa shakes his head, defeated.

“Not anywhere reasonable,” Seonghwa says. “There’s a few places we can go if nightfall comes, but we honestly might be better off sleeping in the woods. It should be a clear night, and at least it won’t cost us an arm and a leg.”

You frown, not fond of the idea of spending yet another night on the ground, especially without a tarp or blanket to shield you from the elements.

Fortunately, Yeji pipes up from beside you. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, we’ve formed a refuge on the outskirts of the city. I believe we have an extra tent to spare.”

Now this finally causes the men’s expression to shift, the discomfort and wariness on each of their faces replaced with a glimpse of relief.

“Alright,” San says, gaze shifting over to you even as he speaks to Yeji, and his expression is difficult to read. He appears almost bemused. “Lead the way.”

The refuge, while about as bleak as you expected it to be, fills you with an undeniable sense of glee. Mostly due to how big it is, meaning that even if the mass size of the refuge indicates that there have been hundreds driven from the Libaiyan kingdom, there are also far more people who survived and escaped the castle than you’d originally thought.

Gathered just outside of Bebbanburg’s walls, dozens of the beige and tattered fabric tents are clumped together, creating a sort of maze as people make their way between the narrow passages. Head shrouded beneath your hood, the five of you pass through the different camps, ducking beneath laundry lines hanging between tent poles and maneuvering through the small groups gathered around make-shift fire pits as they roast small rodents and birds for dinner.

You watch their faces, searching amidst them for anger, for loss and resentment. While some are quiet, dark circles of tiredness hanging beneath their eyes, others are not so beaten down. There is the sound of laughter in the air, and a group of children nearly bump into you as they recklessly chase each other through the labyrinth of tents.

You smile. All is not lost.

You’d been so focused on your own survival, of getting to Kuroku alive and fighting to give your kingdom a chance, that you hadn’t realized the fear you had of there being no kingdom to fight for. Of not only the castle being besieged, but the entire kingdom being left in ashes.

Yet, even if this is so, there are still Libaiyans left. There is still a nation, full of life, that will not let themselves be stripped of their pride so easily.

“This way,” Yeji says softly, trying not to draw too much attention to your party. A group of girls wave to her as you pass by, and you recognize some of them as your kitchen maids, although you were never close enough to have learned their names.

The women are seated around a small fire. With the setting sun, they gather closed together, a blanket stretched over them. Or, upon closer look, a Libaiyan flag, its golden sun bright against its stark white background.

There is a man playing the lute sitting beside them. He has light eyes and a soft voice, fingers dancing as he strums the small wooden instrument in tune with his voice.

The man sings a Libaiyan folk song, one about a man arriving home to a small Libaiyan village after fighting many long years at war. The song doesn’t make clear which war exactly, centuries old and deriving from a time of high conflict, but it doesn’t really matter.

After all, the song is less about the war, and more about coming home. The ghosts of his fallen comrades following him, cane in hand to support his leg that will never heal, and his love having left the village to marry another man from the kingdom city.

The song is normally sung in a minor chord. It’s sad and melancholic, painting a tale of loss and grief.

However, the man currently singing has changed its tune to a major chord.

A message of triumph. Of defiance. Of the man’s survival, even after all else is lost and destroyed.

A song of hope.

You want to join them. To listen to this man sing your nation's song, to let his tune of triumph fill not only the air, but your entire body. Your heart, even your soul. Reignite the reason you started this journey, why you couldn’t give up.

These people need you. Your people need you.

Yeji wraps her arm around your wrist, giving you a gentle tug forward as you linger near the fire for a little too long.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You’ll be able to hear his voice late into the night, even from your tent.”

You aren’t sure how to respond, how to depict your gratitude for all of this. For her taking you in and letting you hear these songs that you weren’t so sure you’d ever hear again, for being alive and granting you hope.

All you can do is reach to give her hand a soft squeeze, and hope she understands.

Yeji stops before a small tent, one that doesn’t seem big enough for two men, let alone three. “I know it isn’t much, but I hope it will do.”

“It’ll do,” Seonghwa answers with a smile.

“Especially considering we have no luggage,” Woo grumbles.

If Yeji hears the dissatisfaction in his voice, she doesn’t show it. “My own tent is just over there,” she says, pointing to what is only a few tents over. It’s a bit larger than the one before you, although not by much. She turns to you. “You can stay with me.”

You’re grateful for the sentiment, considering none of the men - except maybe San - would enjoy being forced to share such close quarters with you.

“There’s a table inside, if you’d all like to sit and regroup. I can catch you up on all that has happened since the siege,” Yeji says.

Her gaze flickers over to the three men, and it is hesitant. Curious, as it returns to you. “And you can do the same.”

“Scorpion beasts, a mimic, and a dragon-basilisk hybrid all in just a few weeks?” Yeji gapes, hands clutching tight around her mug of hot tea, as if she needs something to hold onto. “And you’re alive?”

“I take it your journey here wasn’t so exciting?” San asks, sipping his own mug. He seems in good spirits today, as he willingly engages in conversation with Yeji. Especially compared to Seonghwa - who is more hesitant, likely less willing to jump the gun on trusting a new stranger - and Woo, who sits with his eyes bearing down into the table, not touching his mug even as the tea inside grows cold.

“No, we took the main path down the Arila River, so far less rural,” Yeji explains. “Although it was a good thing you didn’t do the same. There were Dark Army ports all along its bank. We were stopped and searched at every one of them.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learnt from Yeji’s recollection of the besiegement and the time that followed, it’s that the black-clad men are relentless in their pursuit. They want you, at any cost. You only wish you knew who they were, so at least then you’d know why.

“I really am glad you’re alive, Princess,” Yeji says suddenly, hand drifting to rest on your own atop the table. “Libaiya has a chance to be strong again, so long as your blood sits on the throne. You’ll make the perfect Queen.”

You open your mouth to thank her, albeit bashfully, but are cut off as Woo pushes himself from the table. It rattles in protest, although the elemental does not seem to care, as he stomps towards the tent-flap. He does not meet any of your eyes as he disappears beneath it.

“I’m sorry,” Yeji says, tone worried. “Did I say something to-”

“It’s not you,” San reassures her. “He’s just been dealing with a lot lately.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” you say, because you have a feeling about what may be bothering him. Your blood, as Yeji had said. Although to him, it’s more like poison.

“No,” Seonghwa cuts you off, already rising to his feet. “You shouldn’t, I don’t think he’d take it well. I’ll go.”

You want to protest, as Seonghwa does not know about Woo’s past, about the orphanage. The Libaiyan orphanage, and all the horrors that happened there. But the empath is already heading towards the tent flap, and the words die on your lips.

Even so, maybe he is right. Woo is upset, upset about you and your nation, perhaps you are not the one who should attempt to console him. Besides, Seonghwa has always been far better at that.

Yet, as you watch Seonghwa disappear after Woo, you have the sinking feeling it may not go as the empath plans.

Wooyoung cannot breathe.

Making his way blindly through the darkness of the refuge, the sun having set over the horizon, he pushes past Libaiyan’s as he heads for the exit. They turn and look at him as he shoves past, and he wonders if they know. If they can smell it on him.

“You were his,” they whisper as he walks by, or is that just in his head? “One of his dogs. Our dogs. A machine for use. Worthless.”

The last word is in Warden’s voice, and Wooyoung places a hand over his ears to try and tune it out. The other clutching his chest.

He can’t breathe. By the god’s, he really can’t breathe.

Each short pant is as unsatisfying as the next. He feels dizzy, wanting to summon a ball of flame to guide him, but he can’t seem to move his hands in front of him. He pushes forward, searching for an exit through the mazes of tents.

Then he’s covered in something. It’s thin, engulfing him, and panic rises hot in his chest. They’ve gotten him. Again. It’s happening again. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

It’s only after nobody attempts to drag him away and he gets a whiff of soap that he realizes that what covers him is not a bag, but someone's laundry. With shaky hands, he untangles himself from the fabric, before glancing down at his captor.

It’s a Libaiyan flag.

The bright, golden, and horrible sun stares back at him. The same one hung in the cafeteria, the one he pledged allegiance to three times a day. The one plastered atop the ceiling of his bedroom, watching him every night. The one deckled on Warden’s shoulder, as he tortured them relentlessly, as he murdered Yeonjun.

Wooyoung throws it to the ground, hands still shaking as he walks over it, the dirt on the bottom of his shoe stark against the flag’s white background.

“Woo!” A voice calls from behind him, but it sounds far away. Maybe it’s also just in his head. He keeps walking.

He can hear the sound of the same man singing as when you’d all entered the camp. He has a nice voice as he sings Libaiyan songs. Songs he’s never heard. Songs that were reserved for Libaiyan citizens, not slaves.

Wooyoung’s throat burns with the taste of Libaiyan tea. Only one sip, and it will not leave his tongue.

It tasted like the infirmary tent after Assessment Day in the orphanage. Before Warden got there, but not before Wooyoung got beaten within the sparring ring. They’d given him the tea to calm him down, try and make him forget the burns lacing up and down his arms.

With the taste on his tongue it’s as if he can feel them again, the searing pain starting in his mind and seeping into his skin.

“Woo, hold on!” The voice calls again, closer than the last. This time Wooyoung knows it’s not in his head, as he recognizes it to be Seonghwa. The sound of foot-steps follows behind him, as the empath chases after him.

He does not turn around. He needs to get out of this place.

Wooyoung begins to run.

Tearing through the refuge, he sees Bebbenburg’s outer walls appear ahead of him, the light emitted from the lanterns hung on the outside fortress drawing him in like a beacon.

When he reaches the wall, he makes sure to take a few steps inside and past the gates, to ensure that he is no longer within Libaiyan territory. Here, he is within the Kuroken realm. Safe.

He pauses to catch his breath, less from the running and more from the panic that has seized him. Hands placed on his knees, Wooyoung lets the foggy haze fade from his mind, although it does not relinquish control so easily. His heart continues to race, ears ringing with a constant buzz.

Wooyoung doesn’t know why this is affecting him so horribly. He’s been to the Libaiyan castle since entering the orphanage, having stolen plenty of Libaiyan treasures and heirlooms on their heists within the castle.

Then again, that was in the dark of the night, when there were no songs to be sung or tea to be drunk. When the flags were shrouded in pure shadow, not wrapped around him like bonds of rope.

That was when he was in control. That was when he was taking from them. That was revenge.

That was before he entangled himself with their princess.

“Woo, what the hell?” Seonghwa asks as he approaches, slightly out of breath from chasing down the elemental. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” Wooyoung says, because it is all he can manage. He doesn’t look up at Seonghwa, instead staring at the cobblestone beneath his shoes, blinking blearily as he tries to direct his focus to its stone patch-work.

“Why did you just storm out of there?” Seonghwa asks. He’s not mad. Not yet. He genuinely wishes to know.

“Because of what that woman said,'' Wooyoung answers in his mind. “Because it’s true, she is the Libaiyan throne. Because it is her blood that’s done all of this. That did this to me.”

Wooyoung, of course, does not actually say any of this out loud. Seonghwa won’t understand. He doesn’t know, not only about Wooyoung’s past, but the orphanages in general. He’s from a small town within Zaria’s realm, far away from any news about Libaiyan political treachery.

He won’t get it, and Wooyoung isn’t going to even bother to try and explain it to him, especially when his tongue feels three sizes too large and his heart beats at a million times per minute.

“Leave me alone, Hwa,” he mutters, turning away from Seonghwa and heading deeper into Bebbanburg, hoping the empath will take the hint and piss off.

But he doesn’t, because after all, it’s Seonghwa. The blonde follows after him. “Where are you going to go, Woo? You saw the poster, it’s better to stay together, keep a low profile.”

“Leave me alone, Hwa,” Wooyoung repeats, beginning to walk faster, tone a little more pointed.

“Is this about her?” Seonghwa asks, and now his own tone is rising, annoyed as has to jog to catch up to the elemental. “Look I know you’re mad, I am too. But can’t you just push that aside? We’re almost to Kuroku, then we’ll be past it. We can move on.”

“Right. We’ll get to Kuroku. She’ll leave. San will leave. And then inevitably, you will too.”

After being met with silence, Seonghwa lets out a groan of annoyance, continuing to chase after him.

“Woo, stop!” He calls, reaching out to grab Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung slaps his hand away, perhaps a little harder than he should have. “Can’t we just talk about this? Can’t we have an actual conversation for once instead of you shoving me away?”

Wooyoung keeps moving, because no, they can’t. Not right now. Not like this. Not when he can’t think straight.

“I don’t get what you have to be so mad about anyway!”

Wooyoung stops at this, finally turning around to face Seonghwa. “What?”

Seonghwa stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and mouth parted with surprise that Wooyoung actually stopped. Then he frowns, eyebrows furrowing together, as if remembering his annoyance.

“Yes, she lied to you,” Seonghwa starts. “And I know it sucks. But it’s San’s money on the line, and clearly he’s been able to forgive her.”

Seonghwa swallows hard. “And even if I haven’t been able to do the same, even after all she’s done to me I’m willing to swallow my own feelings to get this journey done. For them.”

Them. By that Seonghwa means San and you. You, after all that you have done - to Seonghwa, to San, to Wooyoung himself - he’s still choosing you.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t, Hwa!” Wooyoung says, and now he’s shouting. It’s good. The anger provides him comfort, something familiar to latch onto. “She used you! She used all of us! I know you have this deep-seeded issue of thinking everyone and everything has good in them, but open your eyes! Not all that glitters is fucking gold! A pair of pretty eyes doesn’t repair what she’s done, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t rotten inside!”

“Just as you are too,” a voice reminds him within his mind, but he ignores it.

Seonghwa opens his mouth to cut back, but Wooyoung is not finished. “She lied through her teeth, and you’re really just going to let it slide?  Keep quiet because it’ll make things easier for her? For the sake of the gods, grow a spine!”

“Why do you care so much about what I do?” Seonghwa yells back, taking a step towards Wooyoung. Seonghwa’s fist is clenched at his side, and for a moment Wooyoung thinks that Seonghwa might actually hit him. He almost wishes he would.

“Why do you care if I forgive her? Why do you care so much about whether I let people walk all over me? Why do you care?”

Wooyoung doesn’t know why he does it.

Maybe it’s the way his mind still buzzes from moments prior, hazy and foggy and unable to think of anything beyond his anger. Anything beyond the way his heart pounds rapidly and vision blurs with an anxious haze.

Maybe it’s the way Seonghwa’s words sting, more than Wooyoung wants to admit, and he wishes to prove the man wrong. Show him that it’s not so simple. Win, in a strange and possibly fucked up way, but win nonetheless.

Or maybe, more than anything, it’s the way Seonghwa is looking at him. Big brown eyes scanning his face, full of anger, but also passion. Desperately searching for an answer, as if there will be a solution to the enigma that is Wooyoung hidden somewhere on the elemental’s face.

Wooyoung knows what the answer is that Seonghwa seeks.

It’s the part of himself that Wooyoung has never admitted exists. The part that he has shoved down, smothered, pretended wasn’t there. The part that flutters at the sound of Seonghwa whining at his teasing. The part that stalls when Seonghwa lets his hand fall onto Wooyoung’s shoulder, thinking nothing of it, simply trying to get the elemental's attention or leaning in to point out something in the distance.  

The part that broke the first night you and Seonghwa spent together. Defeated, angry, and beaten down, crawling into his bed that night in a drunken stooper, aching at the thought of the elemental being intimate with someone. Well, someone else.

The part that he once again shoved away the next morning, and had every day before and has every day since.

It’s that part of himself that he’s dejected and ignored that now comes crawling to the surface, invited by Seonghwa’s searching eyes, that unleashes its presence in a way that will make itself known. That will ensure it will no longer be forgotten, that it cannot be ignored or subdued again.

That part of Wooyoung unleashes itself in the form of a kiss.

It’s a horrible one, teeth smashing into teeth as Wooyoung grabs onto the collar of Seonghwa’s tunic and roughly pulls the man into him. In fact, it’s less of a kiss compared to two faces smashing together, Seonghwa clearly not prepared for it, but the message is sent all the same.

Wooyoung holds him there for three seconds, which feel far more like an eternity as they pass by.

Then Wooyoung pushes Seonghwa off of him, letting go of the man’s collar as the blonde stumbles back.

For a moment they stand in silence, and it’s a deafening one. Seonghwa’s hand drifts up to his lips, grazing them, eyes wide as he stares at Wooyoung. He’s clearly in a state of shock, as he says nothing, just stares with his mouth parted open in disbelief.

“There,” Wooyoung breathes. “Do you get it?”

Seonghwa continues to stare at him. Then his eyebrows furrow together, and when he begins to speak, Seonghwa’s tone is incredulous. “Woo, what are you-”

“Forget it,” Wooyoung cuts him off, because he doesn’t want to know what Seonghwa is going to say. He doesn’t want to hear the empath call him crazy, ask him what the hell he’s thinking.

Because Wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that either. The mind-numbing fog has returned to his head, his heart racing even faster than it had before.

He needs to get out of here.

“Just go back to the tent, Hwa,” Wooyoung says, and then his feet are set in motion. He heads deeper into Bebbanburg, away from the Libaiyan tent. Away from you and San. Away from what he’s done, the irreversible mistake he just made.

He runs away, and this time Seonghwa doesn’t follow him.

“What were you thinking, what were you thinking, what were you thinking?” Wooyoung repeats the question to himself over and over again in his head, trying to make sense of what he’s done.

The look of bewilderment on Seonghwa’s face, followed by incredulity. Shock, then disbelief. Almost angry, and why shouldn’t he be? How could Wooyoung do something like this? Something so blatantly stupid and thoughtless?

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

Wooyoung still cannot come up with an answer, because frankly, he wasn’t thinking. And he still can’t.

He turns down one of the many alley’s surrounding him, head buzzing, not a clue of where he’s going. All he knows is that it’s away, and for now, that is enough for him.

Wooyoung closes his eyes, hand trailing along the wall beside him as he runs. He feels silly, running with his eyes closed, but he cannot bring himself to keep them open. This way, the world around him fades. He can simply be moving, feel the air rush past him, and pretend that nothing happened.

There are no Libaiyan refugees a few alleyways over. He does not care for the Liabiyan princess, nor did he lose San a mere night ago. He did not reveal his feelings to a man he loves and ruin their entire friendship in one fell swoop.

He is merely running in the darkness, chest heaving for air, fingers scraping along the cobblestone wall.

Maybe, if he keeps running like this, he’ll actually have escaped it all.

Or maybe, running like this is not such an acceptable option, as it stops him from noticing the figure that has been following after him.

Wooyoung does not notice he is being followed until it is too late. Until he’s already been shoved sideways, face smacking into the stone wall beside him.

At the very least, the blows knock him from his stupor, and his eyes fly open as he stumbles. Whirling to face his attacker, fire ignites immediately within his hand, dancing in between his fingers.

However, the second he turns, he’s met with a swift punch to the jaw that catches him off guard. Mostly because it does not come from where he can feel the man beside him - who now pins Wooyoung’s wrist to the alley-wall - but from the other side.

It’s not one attacker, but many.

“Shit,” Wooyoung thinks to himself, spitting out the blood that fills his mouth, the metallic taste thick on his tongue and gritty between his teeth. Eyes searching the darkness around him, his attackers are nothing more than blurs within the night, and he gives the one in front of him a swift kick to the groin. The man lets out a long string of curses, and Wooyoung uses the opportunity to try and rush forward.

It’s of no use, as another man (or two, maybe even three?) pins his wrists to the wall.

It’s not the most efficient way to capture a person, as it leaves their legs functional to kick and mouth free to spit, bite, or scream for help.

Unless, of course, you’re capturing an elemental.

Wooyoung tries to summon fire into his hands, and while it manages to dance around his fingers, the inability to move his arms stops him from managing anything greater. He tries to summon the flame with only his mind, staring at his hand with sheer determination. He knows it’s possible, he’s done it before. Once. The night Yeonjun died.

Of course, he didn’t exactly mean to, and apparently it isn’t the sort of thing he can do by will, as his hands remain barren of flame.

Instead, he’s left helpless, pulling against the grips of the men that bind him. His eyes dart amongst the shadows that surround them, and he tally’s roughly ten of them, although he’s certain that there’s more as he hears shouts from down the alley-way.

One of the men’s hands digs into Wooyoung’s hair, pulling his head forward before slamming it back into the stone-wall. Hard.

Stars dance before Wooyoung, and a darkness creeps into the corners of his vision. He continues to kick out in front of him, although each swing is far weaker than the last, as the pain leaves him sluggish.

The man yanks on his hair again, before slamming his head back into the wall once more, and suddenly Wooyoung is on the ground.

He doesn’t remember crumpling, but the stone pathway is cold against his back, so he must have passed out for a moment. He opens his eyes, vision swaying as he tries to make out the men surrounding him.

He can vaguely spot the face of the man above him. Middle-aged, with a dark beard and intense eyes. He speaks to someone beside him, although Wooyoung’s mind is too muddled to make out the actual words.

Likely not thugs then, as they aren’t even bothering to hide their identities. Besides, there’s too many of them to be a regular mugging. Too conspicuous, so it must be targeted.

But if it’s targeted, then who are they?

“W-who?” He asks, because the full sentence is far too much effort. His words are slurred and he sounds drunk. Which to be fair is an awful lot like how he feels.

The man above him doesn’t answer, but instead places a hand on Wooyoung’s throat, silencing him. With his other two hands, the man pins Wooyoung’s wrists to the ground.

No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. He can't have three hands. Which means it must be somebody else pinning his wrists to the ground, as well as another that slips the cloth bag over his head. How many were there again?

By the god’s Wooyoung really can’t think right now.

“Knock him out,” one of the men speaks from above him. Now that Wooyoung can make out.

Then the world goes black.

“And he seriously didn’t tell you where he was going?” San asks, arms crossed as he leans against the training post outside of the men’s tent. It’s covered in grooves, clearly crafted by a sword, and one in the hands of someone not too pleased. A testament to San’s opinion on Woo not returning to the refuge last night.

“I already told you,” Seonghwa replies. His tone is also frustrated as he sits at an outside table, fingers tapping anxiously in rhythm with his jittering leg. “No. He didn’t.”

“He just took off?” San repeats, and you can understand why Seonghwa is becoming a bit annoyed. It’s also the third time you’ve heard San ask, although you have a feeling the swordsman isn’t actually expecting the answer to change. He simply wants to hear it again, to let him fuel the flame of his annoyance. “Without a word? Without a reason? Out into a city we’re currently being hunted in?”

Seonghwa’s eyes shift to the ground. “Yes.”

“And you let him?”

Seonghwa scowls at this. “What did you want me to do? You know Woo, he’s going to do what he wants no matter what anyone says or thinks.”

Seonghwa has been in a sour mood all morning, and something tells you there may be a little more to Woo leaving than he may be letting on. However, now is not the time to ponder what it might be, nor is it the time to start a fight. You simply need to find him.

“Let’s not start bickering with one another just because Woo’s not around to start it,” you say, attempting to remedy the argument before it can start. Fortunately, neither of the men are overly confrontational, at least not with each other.

“You’re right,” San sighs, turning to Seonghwa. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed, I know it’s not your fault.”

Seonghwa gives San a sort of half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before staring back down at his shoes. He appears to immediately lose himself in thought, knee bouncing anxiously.

Yeah, something definitely happened last night.

“This isn’t like him,” San says, pulling his sword out from his sheath and spinning it around in his hand. A nervous habit. “Staying out for the night, sure. But he’s always back by the next day. Always.”

With morning long past, the sun high in the sky with the arrival of late noon, San’s statement of “always” is replaced with “until today”, and a sense of uneasiness passes through you.

Something is wrong. You can feel it.

And with both San’s sword spinning in his hand and the sound of Seonghwa’s fingers tapping the table, you know that they can feel it too.

“I think we should go looking for him,” you say, expecting immediate approval. Instead both men look at you, and San shoots Seonghwa a side glance, to which the empath returns.

“What?” You ask, uncomfortable at the fact that it appears they’re both in on something you’re not.

San sighs. “You shouldn’t come.”

“What?” You say, this time with far more anger than confusion. “If Woo’s in danger then of course I’m going to come-”

“If Woo’s in danger then it’s likely because of the men who are looking for you,” San cuts you off, and while his tone is not accusatory, it is pointed.

You prepare a rebuttal, but it dies on your lips. San is right.

If the black-clad men have done something to Woo, then you going looking for him is likely exactly what they would want for you to do. While the stubborn part of you wants to go anyway, put Woo’s safety before your own. Be daring, bold, and perhaps a little stupid, just as Woo is in the face of danger, you know that this is not an option.

You need to get to Kuroku, and if you aren’t yet certain of the danger Woo may be in, you cannot afford to take such blatant risks.

“Alright,” you say, tone defeated as Seonghwa rises to his feet, San making his way towards the path leading outside of the refuge.

You don’t manage the next words until they’ve already left. Leaving you alone, face shrouded by your hood, suddenly aware of the wind’s chill nipping at your skin. The seasons are turning.

“Good luck.”

They are back sooner than you expected.

You sit at a table with Yeji, playing a game of Skirmish. A traditional Libaiyan game meant for children, due to the fact it has few rules and never really ends, so it can keep them occupied for hours. You didn’t particularly want to play, but Yeji said it might help to keep your mind distracted. You figured it was worth a shot.

It didn’t work.

However, it doesn’t matter, as when both San and Seonghwa approach from down the refuge’s path, the cards are forgotten. Tossing your deck to the side, you give San a look, one that asks: “Any luck?”. Although, you’re fairly certain of the answer, as there is no Woo in tow behind them.

San does not give you a look of his own. In fact, he does nothing. He simply stares back at you, a dead look to his eye.

It’s that look, the emptiness of it, that tells you something has gone wrong.

“What happened?” You ask as he approaches, although San does not reply. Instead he gives Seonghwa a fleeting glance, and the blonde meets it. His own expression is not as empty as San’s. In fact, it is the opposite. Brimming with emotion, Seonghwa’s eyes hold worry, mouth drawn tight, jaw clenched. A look of nothing less than pure fear.

“Seonghwa?” You ask, your own worry settling deep in your chest. Something has gone wrong, but what, and how badly?

The blonde doesn’t answer you with words, instead he moves towards the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but he holds something in his hands. The paper is a light tan colour, the size also familiar, and you recognize it to be one of your wanted posters. Immediately you're confused, as why would Seonghwa show you one of these? You’ve already seen dozens of them plastered all over Bebbanburg.

However, as he lays it down onto the table, the answer is blatantly obvious.

The paper is smeared with blood. The red stark against its light colouring, it doesn’t coat the poster fully, but is rather smothered haphazardly, the semblance of fingerprints notable. It’s testament to a job done quickly, as whoever did this did so with one purpose: to get a message across.

The message is made even more clear by the thick, dark lock of hair tied to the corner of the page.

Woo’s.

Beneath the lock of hair is writing, scrawled in black ink.

The Concursos Mountain Pass.

Three Days.

Wooyoung awakens to the back of his head pounding in a violent, aching fashion. The world sways in front of him, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is exactly.

However, at the sight of tarps on all sides of him, the tent coated in darkness as only the light of the setting evening sun is able to get through, he remembers.

Right, the Libaiyan refuge.

Wooyoung groans, blinking as he tries to get his eyes to focus, his pounding head making his thoughts difficult to string together.

He moves his hand, attempting to wipe the sweat beading along his forehead, only to realize that he can’t.

His hands are tied.

Eyebrows furrowing together, he looks over his shoulder. The chains that tie his wrists to the chair that he sits in are thick and made of iron. If he tried to melt his bonds with the fire between his fingers, rather than catching fire like rope, they’d heat up and burn his wrists.

“What the…” He croaks out, throat raspy. Who would have tied him to a chair? Surely not Seonghwa or San. Not very likely you, as he couldn't see what good that would do you. Maybe your friend, the Libaiyan patriot? But why?

Wait.

Wooyoung’s brain pauses, mind doing a double-take as he stares at his bonds, noting bruising along his wrist. The massive purple marks are dark against his bronzed skin, and are almost line-shaped, as if someone had been holding him.

No, he’s not in the Libaiyan refuge, he’s somewhere else.

The memories of last night come rushing back to him. Running from the tent. The fight with Seonghwa. The subsequent kiss with Seonghwa.

His capture.

The shock of it is enough to cause Wooyoung to jolt awake, mind finally clearing even if the pain at the back of his head does not subside.

As if sensing Wooyoung’s realization, a man appears from under the tent-flap. He’s older, his face like a worn-glove, leathery and wrinkled in its places most used. His dark hair is cropped short, although his beard remains long, as well as scruffy.

Most notably, he’s dressed entirely in black armour. One of your predators.

“Ah, good. You’re awake,” the man says, and his voice is not as deep as Wooyoung expected.

“Who are you and-”

“Don’t speak. Not everyone has arrived yet,” the man cuts him off dismissively. “Besides, we’ll be the ones asking the questions.”

“Oh, my mistake, I thought-”

Wooyoung doesn’t know why he is surprised by the slap, but he is. Maybe because he hadn’t even had the chance to say the insult he was planning yet. Usually the hit would at least come afterwards.

These men, they aren’t playing around, that is clear.

His cheek stings, and he can imagine the bright red mark appearing along his skin as more men in dark armour appear from under the tent-flap. Wooyoung is surprised by the amount of them that manage to crowd into the space, almost a dozen.Then again, it is a big tent. Mostly empty, other than a small table in the corner, scattered with a variety of knick-knacks and spices that seem non-sensensical. Lunadore pollen, silver beads, Alagor Root, and a bunch of other rare ingredients the Wooyoung does not have time to make sense of, although set him on edge nonetheless.

If they plan to torture him, the table should be full of knives. Hammers. Maybe a few pliers to pull off his fingernails. Not plants.

The man who slapped him - their leader, it seems - clears his throat, and the group of men fall silent. Each of them turn to face Wooyoung, eyes glinting with something dark, something that says that they know more than he does.

Wooyoung makes sure to give each of them in turn a glare.

“I’m sure you know who we are by now,” the man says.

Wooyoung considers playing dumb, maybe earning himself a matching slap on the other cheek. However, he needs information, which means at least for now he must play along.

“You attacked the Libaiyan castle. Killed their king,” Wooyoung answers, meeting the man’s gaze. His eyes are sharp, intimidating, and Wooyoung makes sure not to look away. Not to show any fragility. Even if he has been made into the weakest in the room, he need not show it.

“People have been calling you The Dark Army,” Wooyoung says, and then because he can’t help himself, adds: “Cute name. Very scary. Did you come up with it yourselves?”

The man doesn’t answer his question, but instead smirks. “If you know who we are, I’m sure you also know what we’re looking for.”

You. That’s the answer the man wants. But Wooyoung won’t give that to him. “Power?” He ventures instead. “Glory? Access to the king’s many bejeweled robes?”

The man steps forward, grabbing Wooyoung's face in his hand. His fingers squeeze Wooyoung’s jaw, so much so that it not only hurts, but prevents him from speaking.

“Enough playing coy,” the man says. He still does not seem angry, face blank and tone almost bored as he grips Wooyoung’s face between his fingers. “Tell me where she is.”

He eases his grip just enough to let Wooyoung speak. “Where who is?”

The man’s grip tightens once again, fingernails digging into the elemental’s skin, and Wooyoung forces himself not to wince. “The girl you’ve been running all over Burovia with. The princess turned convict. Ring any bells?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wooyoung manages. At this the man lets go of his jaw, but it’s only to deliver another slap that burns along his cheek. The man grips his jaw again, and Wooyoung struggles to focus on the man’s face, blinking away the stars that dance across his vision.

“Yes, you do,” the man says, and this time his tone is almost soft, gentle as he attempts to coax out an answer. Somehow it’s far more unsettling than the blankness. “Is she with the refugees? At one of the hostels, or even a tavern?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth. This time the man does not slap him, but instead grips his hair as he brings Wooyoung face down into his knee. Pain radiates from his nose through the rest of his face, and when the man lifts him back up, it takes Wooyoung a moment to register the man’s face before him through the blurriness.

It’s not until now that Wooyoung realizes the severity of the danger that he is in.

They want him to hand you over to them, and Wooyoung can’t do that.

But why can’t he do that? It would be the easiest thing to do. Nobody would blame him, after everything that you’ve done, especially if it came down to choosing between his own life or yours. San and Seonghwa would understand.

You are the Libaiyan Princess. Your family sent him to the orphanage. Turning you in would rid himself of the volatile confusion that has plagued him, it would fulfill the dream that his younger self wished for every night and morning. So why can’t he do it?

He knows the answer. How he feels towards you has grown beyond hatred. It’s grown beyond mere toleration for San and Seonghwa’s sake. It’s grown beyond the excuses he’s been telling himself for weeks.

He’s not going to hand you over to them to die, no matter what that may mean for himself. Unfortunately, what that may mean for himself is not looking good.

“You’re going to tell us,” the man states, not to persuade, but to simply state as fact. “It’s just a matter of how much you’re willing to put yourself through before you do.”

“Well I have nothing but time,” Wooyoung answers, grinning, and he knows his teeth are bloody. Can feel the grittiness on his teeth, or maybe that’s still from the night before.

The man smiles back. “You have three days.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m just such lovely company?”

“Because that’s how long we’ve given her to come find you.”

Wooyoung pauses at this, and he knows he’s shown a glimpse of weakness. How did they get a message to you? Is he bluffing?

Would you really be stupid enough to come after him?

“Nobody will come,” Wooyoung says, and even he can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Surely you wouldn’t come after him. Not when you’re so close to Kuroku, to San’s freedom. You have to keep going, there’s no way you, San, and Seonghwa could take on a dozen armed and highly trained men, especially considering there’s more of them out there somewhere. It would be pointless, a suicide mission.

But Wooyoung also knows that none of you would leave him behind to die.

“That’s fine,” the man says with a shrug. “Either she comes to us, or we go to her with the information you’ll give us. It doesn’t matter.”

“You aren’t going to be able to torture anything out of me,” Wooyoung says with a scoff, tilting his chin up, defiant. “Pain? Yeah, I’ve been through my share.”

The corner of the man’s lip curves upward, eyes gleaming. “I know. That’s what they told me.”

Wooyoung frowns. They?

The man chuckles at Wooyoung’s weary expression, finally letting go of his hold on the elemental’s jaw. The group of soldiers step back, creating a pathway for him as the man heads over to the table covered with rare ingredients and spices.

The man begins to fiddle around with them, although what exactly he’s doing Wooyoung can’t make out, his vision obscured by the other men standing before him.

“Do you know what they say about those whose body cannot be broken?” The man calls over his shoulder, and Wooyoung catches a glimpse of what is in his hand: a small bowl and mallet, which he uses to grind down the Alagor Root.

“No,” Wooyoung answers, wary.

“Break their mind instead,” the man states, holding up a small vial of purple liquid that Wooyoung cannot identify, before pouring into the bowl. A strange, dark and odorous smoke wafts up from the concoction. It smells like something burning, although what exactly Wooyoung cannot place. That is, until he can. It’s burnt flesh. It reminds him of the infirmary tent, of his scorched arms.

An inkling of fear settles into Wooyoung’s chest as he becomes increasingly aware of the bonds on his wrist. He can’t move, run, fight back, or do anything, really.

For a man with so much power, he’s grown accustomed to never feeling powerless. For a moment, it’s like he’s thirteen again. At Warden’s disposal and no fire to call his own.

The man places the empty vile back down on the table, before grabbing something else Wooyoung cannot see, although he can hear the sizzling noise it makes as he adds it to the bowl.

Wooyoung cannot take the silence any longer, his curiosity - or better, fear - overtaking him. “What are you doing?” He asks.

Instead of answering him, the man begins to mutter something beneath his breath, making a strange circular motion with his hand above the bowl, which he has set back down on the table. Wooyoung cannot make out what he is saying, but the way the words leave his lips is almost rhythmic, like a priest delivering a chant.

Wooyoung scowls, opening his mouth to interrogate the other men around him as to what the hell is going on, but the words die on his tongue. He knows what the man is doing.

It’s part of the Old Faith. Old Magic.

Dark magic.

Wooyoung has never been a devoted servant to the gods. In fact, for all of his life he’s hated them. He hated them as a child for giving him a gift he could not use. He hated them as a teenager for cursing him with the power to destroy everything he held dear. He hates them as an adult for idly standing by as all of the horrible events of his childhood tumbled down one after the other.

However, even with his hatred towards the gods, he’s always considered worshiping them to be far more understandable than the Old Faith. More particularly, the Old Magic aspect.

It’s a breach of order. If the gods blessed the gifted with their powers, then Old Magic defies that. It’s taking from the earth what was not given to you. It’s blasphemous. Immoral and unnatural. At its very core wrong.

Wooyoung tugs at the chains around his wrists, which clatter in protest. Panic begins to rise in his chest, as one thought fills his head: “What the fuck are they going to do to me?”

The man finishes his chant, before digging into his pocket and pulling out a miniature knife. He uses it to create a small cut along the tip of his finger, holding it above the bowl as a drop of blood collects around the wound, before dropping into the potion.

Smiling to himself in satisfaction, the man takes the bowl with him as he heads back towards Wooyoung. Stopping before him, the man takes a moment to meet the elemental’s eyes, that glimmer of darkness potent within his gaze.

Wooyoung does not look away, but by the gods, he wants to.

“Well,” the man says. “Open up.”

Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut, lips pursing together. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, feeling its thump throughout his entire body. He can’t drink that. He isn’t sure what it will do, but he knows that its something horrible.

It will break his mind. That is what the man had said.

And while Wooyoung has always had confidence in his abilities, perhaps even relied on himself more than he should, for the first time that confidence falters.

“So this is what it takes for you to be quiet,” the man jests, earning a few chuckles from the others around him. “Good to know.”

When Wooyoung doesn’t reply, the man nods to a couple of the soldiers beside him. “Open his mouth.”

Four of the men approach him, and Wooyoung fights against the bonds of his chair, even if he knows it’ll be pointless. The chains against his wrists and ankles hold him still, and as two of the men grab his shoulders to stop the chair from rattling, he’s left with nothing but twisting his face away from the men who grab at him.

Hands blur across his vision as he feels one of the men press an arm to his throat. Another digs into his scalp, pulling his hair in order to bring his head back and face upwards. Fingers claw at the crevices of his face, digging beneath his cheekbones, into his ears, scratching along his lips.

It’s overwhelming, but Wooyoung stays focused, repeating over and over again in his mind, “Don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth.”

It’s not until the elbow pressing into his throat has been there for a little too long that Wooyoung registers that he needs to breathe. Black lines creeping into the corners of his vision, head beginning to feel foggy, he does his best to ignore it.

Until he can’t any longer. Against his mind’s will, when the man removes his elbow from the elemental’s throat, Wooyoung gasps for air.

The men do not waste the opportunity.

Fingers dig themselves into his mouth, and while he attempts to bite down on them, their force is too strong as the many hands pull back his cheeks. Limbs bound, hair pinned, and face pulled back, he’s left helpless as the man with the bowl approaches him.

As the man lifts the bowl above the elemental’s face, a smile grazes over his lips, and Wooyoung knows that he is enjoying this.

The liquid burns as it pours down his throat, rubbing like sand-paper along his tongue. It tastes familiar. Like stale bread, but worse. Rotten with mold. Wooyoung gags but the man does not stop, not until the final drops fall from the bowl and into his open mouth.

The men do not release him until he swallows the concoction, and he feels it as it settles down into his gut, twisting and turning like cheap whiskey.

Wooyoung attempts to catch his breath, chest heaving and sweat beading along his forehead as he looks at the man before him. He continues to smile that awful, wretched grin, empty bowl in hand.

“See? Now that wasn’t so hard,” the man says, for no other reason but to rub salt in the wound.

Wooyoung spits on his shoes.

The man does nothing, merely takes a few steps back as he continues to watch Wooyoung with an analytical gaze, as if observing whatever the hell is supposed to happen. For a few moments, Wooyoung feels nothing but the tension that hangs in the room as all of the men stare at him. He feels like a monster in a cage, like one of those griffin’s from a traveling circus he saw passing through Gloria many years ago. Undeniably dangerous, but stripped down to a mere display for people to gawk at.

Then he notices it. It doesn’t start as much, more of a feeling in the back of his mind than anything else. An uncomfortable tingling sensation creeping through him, like an itch beneath his skin, little prickles of worry like ants tunneling through his veins.

He blinks, and his vision goes blurry.

The men in front of him transform into foggy statues and he blinks again, but instead of focusing it only gets worse. He swallows hard, only to find his throat has gone dry, the saliva refusing to go down.

Heat settles itself in his gut, rising into his chest as an aching sensation washes through him. Wooyoung lets out a low whine, one that under any other circumstances would humiliate him, but he can’t bring himself to worry about that right now. Not when his body feels as if it’s rejecting him.

“What did you do to me?” Wooyoung asks, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. The man hums softly, reaching forward to hold Wooyoung’s chin. This time his grip is gentle, and Wooyoung wants to slap it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. In fact, if it weren’t for the man holding his head up, he’s certain his chin would have fallen down to his chest. Maybe it already had, Wooyoung doesn’t remember.

“This is the easy part, Jung Wooyoung,” the man says, and Wooyoung swears that that is the first time the man has said his name. Although the worry is replaced by agony as another ripple of pain rattles through him.

“Remember. You tell me what I want to know, I’ll make it stop,” the man says. “You’d be wise to accept that offer.”

Wooyoung blinks up at him, and he thinks thaf tears stain his eyes, although his vision is too foggy to notice a difference. “And if I don’t?”

“I don’t know,” the man says, giving a soft, condescending thumb-stroke along his cheek. “They always tend to comply.”

You cannot sleep.

The tent feels crammed, even though you’re well aware that there’s more than enough space. Yeji sleeps soundly, a few feet away and face turned from you as the peaceful sighs of deep slumber escape her lips. It is dark, only the faintest hint of moonlight seeping through the tent’s thin fabric, and yet it feels too bright.

You do not wish to sleep. There are things to be done. This is no time for rest.

They have Woo.

The men you’ve been fearing this entire journey. The ones that ambushed your father, that killed Mingi, that besieged your castle and robbed your life right out from under your feet. The men that have made you paranoid, always keeping one eye over your shoulder, creating wariness with each new city and step you have taken.

The men you have feared would kill you, they have taken him instead.

And somehow that is so much worse.

It’s not something you’d anticipated, always having assumed that if the black-clad men were to find you, you would be the one to face the consequences. The idea that travelling with the three men was putting them in the crossfire of the mysterious army hadn’t occurred to you. After all, it’s your wanted posters on every city street, not theirs.

How stupid you had been, and now Woo is gone. Captured by your family’s assassins, and only the god’s know what sort of danger he is in.

It’s your fault. It’s you they really want, he is just a pawn in their greater game. You’ve been outplayed, and Woo is the one forced to pay the price of your failure.

They could be torturing him for information. You know the sorts of things powerful men do to prisoners, having heard whispers about it in your halls, the dungeons located deep beneath the castle. Using a whip to lash the back until there's more blood left than flesh, spending hours drowning them within a bucket of water, pouring vials of liquid metal along the skin. Maybe one of them is a sadist, and Woo’s face is blistered and burnt beyond repair.

Maybe he’s already dead.

You roll over, eyes accustomed enough to the darkness that you can make out the ceiling of the tent above you. Although really, what you see is Woo, pleading for mercy as one of the black-clad men delivers the final blow. Woo goes silent, his eyes still open, and you know that it is over. He is gone.

Another person you care for, dead.

You cannot just sit here like this and let that happen. However, while you were prepared to head to the Concursos Mountain Pass the moment Seonghwa placed the message down in front of you, both he and San urged caution.

“This is clearly a trap,” San had said, wrapping a hand around your wrist to stop you from heading down the path towards the refuge’s exit. “They’re going to be prepared, which means we need to be. We need to come up with a plan before we do anything.”

“We have three days,” you snapped back, frustrated. “Yeji said the journey is at the very least a full day’s ride. We don’t have the time to sit here and twiddle our thumbs.”

“Then we have a day and a half to come up with something,” San replied, tone calm but also curt. He was not entertaining the possibility of going now, no matter how much anger you added to your glare. “Maybe we can form a group of some of the other refugees and leave together.”

“There’s only two horse’s between the entire refuge,” you cut back. “We cannot make it in time by foot. There’s no chance of us building our own army, if that’s what you're implying.”

“We’ll figure it out,” San said, still not budging. However, beneath his steady gaze, you could see the faintest hint of worry. Of doubt. Of knowing that there may have been no other option but to go alone, although he was not ready to admit it. Not ready to acknowledge the truth that weighed down on each of your shoulders.

The fact that it may come down to Woo’s life, or your own.

Thus, a second truth sat just as heavy. He would choose Woo. They both would.

It’s not until this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, that you realize you would choose Woo too.

You will not have him die for you. You will not have the black-clad men take anything else from you. Not him. Not like this.

If they are to kill you, let it be your own doing. Not ambushed for the money they have placed on your head, or killed silently in an alley-way along the streets of Bebbanburg. You will not be your father, stabbed at his own celebration, unaware of what was coming. If you are to die, let you come to them with your sword in hand, fighting for a man who - even when you haven’t deserved it - fought for you.

Rising to your feet, you pull the blanket off of you, heading towards the tent flap. Stopping in place, you turn back, watching Yeji’s sleeping silhouette, chest rising and falling peacefully.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it is not only to her, but to all of them. All of the Libaiyan’s uprooted from their homes, left to wander Burovia with no kingdom to call home. They had finally been reunited with their princess, only for you to leave them once more. It is selfish. It is what your father would consider an abandonment of responsibility.

Maybe you are abandoning your royal duty, or perhaps you are fulfilling your duty to another.

Either way, it must be done.

Slipping out from under the tent flap, you can hear San and Seonghwa talking within their own tent, though you cannot make out what they are saying. Good, they're busy. They will likely not notice you’re gone until morning.

Scanning the field, the man continues to sing by the fire, and it is the same song as before. Lute in hand, he serenades the men and women surrounding him, although the number has depleted under the blanket of the night.

As you approach the horse tied to a nearby tent-pole, you sing along quietly beneath your breath, to the words you have known your entire life.

“My love for whom I do come home,”

“I’ve been bathed in scars, both body and soul,”

“And while I’ve returned beneath darkened gloam,”

“Without you this place may never be whole.”

Although, while you may sing his words, unlike the man within the song you will not be so passive.

You will find Woo, and you will bring him home. Even if you do not come back with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next chapter.

[maxdibert]

i want to know what do you think about Remus since you already talk about James and Sirius i really need to know :3

When someone puts a big topic on the table, in Spain we say: sujétame la cerveza lol So yeah, Lupin is one of THAT topics. Here we go:

Look, I can deal with Remus Lupin having literally zero self-esteem and a massive inferiority complex, and for that reason using Sirius and James as his safety net at Hogwarts, not stopping them when they were complete jerks because he was afraid they'd reject him and he’d end up alone. I can deal with that, I can excuse being an accomplice to bullying just like I can excuse Severus for getting involved with the Death Eaters because he saw himself as vulnerable. I forgive him, seriously. I can even forgive him for being an absolutely irresponsible adult and not taking his potion—Merlin knows why. I can let that slide too. But there are two things I can’t let slide.

The first, and less important one, is that he justified James’ actions to Harry. I mean, it's the least important because I can understand not wanting to tarnish the kid’s image of his father, but when the same kid is telling you that his father and his friends (including you) were assholes, maybe you should admit that you were a total jerk. Or that at least your friends were, and you did nothing. I get why Sirius denied his guilt because, well, Sirius Black. Like, what are you going to expect from him? To him, there was nothing wrong with it. But Remus was aware that it was wrong, and as an adult, he can admit it. You don’t have to make up some story about Snape envying James over Quidditch (lolololol like Severus Snape would remotely care about that gym-bro crap). But anyway, I see this as almost the least serious thing.

What I will never, ever forgive him for in my entire fucking life is that at 36/37 years old, with gray hair already down there, HE WAS ALMOST FORTY YEARS OLD, PEOPLE, he got a woman in her twenties pregnant, had an existential crisis, and was considering leaving her WHILE SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH HIS CHILD. WHAT IS HE DOING?? Like, I don’t even know how to express this in English because my language is Spanish, and I swear I have a ton of adjectives in that language to insult this man, but in English, it’s harder—but hello?? He was ALMOST FORTY YEARS OLD, HIS WIFE WAS TWENTY-FIVE, HE SLEPT WITH HER, GOT HER PREGNANT, AND LEFT??? HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE, REMUS LUPIN?? WHAT’S IN YOUR HEAD?? Like, if he was so terrified of passing on lycanthropy to the child, why didn’t he use a condom?? Or, I don’t know, the magical equivalent—HAVE YOU HEARD OF A VASECTOMY?? And if he really, truly felt so bad about impregnating A WOMAN IN HER TWENTIES—LIKE SERIOUSLY, LET'S PUT THIS IN PERSPECTIVE: SOMEONE THIRTEEN YEARS YOUNGER THAN HIM. THIRTEEN. DAMN. YEARS. Why didn’t he just NOT DO IT? Like, as the adult in the relationship, he could’ve genuinely said no. No, this is unacceptable. No. No, sorry. So many years of gender studies and feminist readings for this. SCREW THE NICE GUYS. Like, his whole “woe is me, I’m poor, I’m old, I’m ugly, I’m dangerous” schtick? Well, you should have gone off to Timbuktu then, but don’t get her pregnant only to then abandon her. A TEENAGER HAD TO GO. A TEEN-AGER had to tell him he was being a piece of shit. This is why I say Rowling doesn’t respect her female characters because if she really did, she would have had Tonks dump him and raise the child on her own because, seriously, what was she thinking?

Just talking about this makes me genuinely angry. It's just that Lupin is THAT KIND OF GUY, you know? The one who acts all nice and soft and like he’s never broken a plate in his life, and he’s all poor me, and I’m super nice and super sweet, but then he turns out to be a huge jerk, like a giant piece of work. He’s the textbook nice guy, and one of the worst, the kind who goes after young women. Look, I’m just saying that if Harry Potter were written today and the topic of Lupin came up, and Rowling didn’t condemn him to the stake in her books, she would have been canceled a long time ago. Seriously. There’s no way that in today’s fiction a man nearly 40 years old gets a twenty-something pregnant and threatens to leave her, and that this guy is seen positively by the narrative. Simply no. Canceled. I’m canceling you, Remus Lupin, not for myself, but for feminism. Thanks.