#he's quite clever and insightful!

[whetstonefires]

Man sometimes I still think about Alfred's Bandit Anecdote in The Dark Knight (2008).

So, the most straightforward reading of this sequence seems to have been the one Nolan intended, because he is not actually a subtle filmmaker, and the further we got into the series the more heavily he committed to making Alfred a mouthpiece. Old man provides words of wisdom that frame the correct understanding of the situation; you can tell it's meant to be correct because subsequent Joker appearances reinforce its thesis statement.

Intended takeaway: some men (like the Joker) don't have rational motivations, they just 'want to watch the world burn,' and you have to account for that when trying to counter them. Chaos agents, basically unstoppable by reasonable means.

But the thing is. This is not a story that stands up to even mild interrogation. The number of assumptions Nolan wants us to swallow without blinking is kind of stunning.

First of all the obvious timeline questions that arise: the Anglo-Burmese Wars and periods between and leading up to them where this kind of white man's burden 'delivering jewels to local elites In The Burmese Jungle to sway them toward British interests, but getting waylaid by bandits' scenario makes any sense all, happened in the 19th century.

The Burmese resistance in the 1930s was centered on university student protests and that sort of thing; it was reasonably successful in moving Myanmar toward independence by increments, though who knows what would have happened without WWII. But it did not provide anyone with reasons to be hand-carrying huge gemstones through forests.

Even if we assume this was somehow a 20th century event, it has to have been before WWII unless we want to postulate a complete alt-history setting, and since The Dark Knight leans heavily into being a modern 21st century story with like, cell phone networking as a major plot point, this still makes Alfred old as balls. Born no later than 1920, and probably earlier.

But that's whatever; comics time. Batman Begins did some fun stuff (possibly in imitation of Batman (1980)) with making it ambiguous what decade it was supposed to be set in, though the sequels dropped that conceit. And anyway, people can be 90 years old.

So that's basically fine, although good god Wayne hire some more servants, this man should be fully retired already.

More problematic is the unfettered colonialism of it all, the confident proclamation that since this guy's motive wasn't profit, since he didn't keep the jewels, he had no motive. Because 'inconveniencing the Raj and weakening their control over the locality' isn't a Real Person Motive that a real person could have had. During or soon after failed wars to resist colonial subjugation.

Like. Come on??

The place where this story utterly shoots itself in the foot, though, is the clever bit at the end, where Bruce asks how Alfred's military unit solved the 'bandit stealing jewels he didn't even want' problem and Alfred's like: 'we burned the forest to the ground.'

Because this is so punchy! In screenwriting technical terms, it's quite well done. It's useless advice that loops the story back to its themes; obviously Batman can't burn Gotham down to get the Joker. Even in a Batman movie that doesn't like Batman very much, this is still obvious.

But at the same time this totally takes the legs out from under Alfred's words of wisdom about human nature. Because if that bandit 'wanted' to 'watch the world burn' then what his unit did wasn't so bad, right; he was basically asking for it. Burning a forest down with all the inevitable collateral damage and economic and ecological cost, all for the sake of horribly killing a group of people in the name of government revenues was totally okay guys!

It transforms the whole thing into a pretty obvious post facto rationalization of colonial violence. Which makes the Insights Into Human Nature bit real questionable!

But the movie gives absolutely no sign of having noticed this.

[rosettyller]

some analysis of this scene from 2x02, because i am going absolutely insane over it:

first up: it's 2 500 BCE. They've known each other for around 1500 years at this point, but they haven't been meeting up very often; it's implied at this point, that they've only met at the Garden, and the Flood, and now here (as well as in Heaven, but there's varying interpretations about how much they each remember of Heaven).

(worth noting that these meetings are all bible-related meetings)

So, they don't know each other very well at all. This is why Aziraphale approaches Crowley so cautiously (apart from the fact that he thinks Crowley's going around murdering goats and soon kids). He doesn't know what happened to Crowley when he Fell, how he changed when he fell in with Lucifer, how God's rejection has warped Crowley's perspective or changed his morals (their meeting at the Flood seemed quite short, not enough time to get a definite picture.)

Aziraphale is still seeing Crowley as demonic, although there's already that thread of doubt - can you really see him trying to talk Hastur or Ligur out of this the way he does Crowley?

Aziraphale clings to the memory of Angel Crowley - Crowley gets quite defensive.

Here, Crowley reinforces that he's changed - personally I don't believe that he did fight in the War, but his views of God's Plan definitely got more extreme than "thats terrible god should get a suggestion box".

But, I also believe that here, Crowley is reinforcing that he is no longer an angel, and therefore no longer has to play by angel rules. He can do what he wants. He's a demon, it's in his job description.

And of course, that he is a demon, and he is Evil, and of course he would kill goats.

(more under the cut, because I just can't stop talking)

This shot is very yellow. Crowley's hair being the season 1 orange rather than red, the yellow walls, all accentuate the colour of Crowley's eyes, highlighting the physical reminder of Crowley's demonic nature.

I couldn't be bothered to gif it, but here, Crowley leans forward into Aziraphale's face. There are two reasons for this:

Get his yellow Demon Eyes right in Aziraphale face, just to hammer home his point.

It's an aggressive action, moving into someone's personal space like that. Saying, I could hurt you, I'm violent and aggressive and dangerous, I killed those goats, the kids are next.

The way the light hits Crowley's eyes in the above shot and the below shot also make them a very bright yellow. (Edit: I think someone pointed out that Crowley is making his eyes glow, but the overall yellowness of the scene serves to highlight this)

Clever wording on Crowley's part, because as we will find out, he faked the destruction of the goats to keep them safe, while making himself sound very evil.

You'll notice the repetition of "blameless"; this makes him seem even more evil, hurting the innocent, but also gives deeper insight into one of Crowley's biggest issues: hurting the innocent. What have they done to deserve this? Nothing.

This ties in quite nicely with what we have seen before of Crowley and free will; he gives people the option to sin. It's their actions that decide whether they end up in Heaven or Hell; they get what they deserve for their actions. He just makes it easier to choose Hell. (see: phone lines being down making people crankier and encouraging them to be horrible to each other, but it still being their choice, setting the holy water bucket above the door, so it's Ligur's choice to come in after Crowley that gets him killed.)

Note also the use of "long":

Aziraphale says to "tell me you want to do this". "Long" has rather stronger connotations than "want", but also rawer, more fundamental. Crowley is reminding Aziraphale that he is a demon, and that he has the traits of a demon, this is what he is now. He longs for violence, for destruction.

Aziraphale looks quite sad here. If you watch the video I linked, his previous conviction that Crowley doesn't want to do it is very strong. He fully believes in Crowley, that all he needs to do is reframe not killing the kids as within the rules of Hell, the way Crowley so often comes to do for Aziraphale ("Then you can't be certain that thwarting me isn't part of the divine plan too. I mean, you're supposed to thwart the wiles of the Evil One at every turn, aren't you?" "If you put it that way, Heaven couldn't actually mind me thwarting you.").

Aziraphale believed Crowley was still good, that the angel he remembered was still in there. But Crowley rejects it - and it hurts. Crowley has become what a demon should be.

Crowley looks quite sorrowful here, too: he already cares for Aziraphale (he fell in love at the Garden), and it hurts to decieve him, to disappoint him, to hurt him.

I would argue that here, Crowley is scared.

He's in shadow, which dims the yellows; his undemonic nature is about to be revealed.

And that is not safe, because Hell does not send rude notes. And here, Crowley is not doing just any temptation, but trying to help Satan win a bet (supposedly). And out of every demon in Hell, Satan is the one you want to piss off the least.

But here, Crowley is scared because Aziraphale could reveal him - because Aziraphale is on God's side, and because it is revealed that Crowley is not nearly as demonic as he makes himself out to be. He's vulnerable. Aziraphale could scorn him, hurt him. But instead:

Aziraphale is incredibly smug. "I knew I was right", he says. "I knew you were still good".

And here is another issue: Aziraphale conflates God/Heaven/angels with good, and demons/Hell with bad.

And Crowley does not see Heaven as good. He doesn't want Aziraphale to see his angelic core past the demonic exterior. He's on his own side.

This, for Aziraphale, confirms that "the angel you knew is not me", is not correct.

And I think, out of the three minisodes, it's this one that does the most for fleshing out Aziraphale and Crowley's frames of mind this series, and why they choose what they choose in ep6.

Aziraphale has been proven right about Crowley's angelic nature, and that he wants to do good, but can't, for fear of Hell's retribution.

And Crowley does not see Heaven as good. He recognises that being an angel again will not allow him the freedom to do good. (as Aziraphale had to try and talk a demon into helping him save the kids from God.)

[satellite-evans]

The Artist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: sometimes, an artist is far more interesting than the art itself.

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: fluff, angst? Anthony not being able to mind his own business, briefly mention of parents passing away

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Lady Danbury’s soirées were the heart of the social season—part chessboard, part battlefield, where every glance and whisper held strategic importance. Benedict Bridgerton, however, approached such gatherings as an observer rather than a player. He found the art on the walls more captivating than the posturing of the ton.

Wandering through Lady Danbury’s grand halls, Benedict stopped before a painting of a turbulent sea, his thoughts briefly drifting to his own half-finished sketches. A voice interrupted him, sharp and vibrant.

“It’s ambitious, but overworked. The sea churns, but the emotion feels... manufactured.”

He turned to see her: a young woman standing a few steps away, her posture poised yet unguarded. She wore her beauty with an effortless confidence, her eyes a vivid storm of intellect and intrigue. She wasn’t like the other women at the ball, fluttering fans and batting lashes. She observed the world with precision, as though she’d already decided it was hers to command.

“An intriguing critique,” Benedict replied, his interest piqued. “Though perhaps the chaos was intentional. Sometimes life demands a lack of restraint.”

Her gaze flicked to him, assessing. “Chaos is compelling, but it must be tempered with truth. This, Mr. Bridgerton, is a performance.”

“You know my name,” he noted, smiling. “You have the advantage over me, Miss...?”

“Y/N,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “And I find that knowing one’s audience is the first rule of any conversation.”

He inclined his head. “A lesson I’ll remember. Tell me, Miss Y/N, are you always this direct?”

Her lips curved into a subtle smile, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned back to the painting. “Do you sketch? You look at this piece as though you’re searching for something beyond the surface.”

Benedict blinked, surprised by her insight. “I do, though I’ve yet to create anything worth showing. You?”

“I paint,” she admitted, her voice softening. “But my work isn’t for the ton’s galleries. Some things are too personal to display.”

“Now you’ve made me curious,” he said, stepping closer. “What would it take to see one of your pieces?”

She tilted her head, her gaze teasing. “Persistence. But I should warn you—I am not easily impressed.”

Benedict smiled, already intrigued by the challenge. “Good. I prefer earning my victories.”

Before she could respond, Lady Danbury’s voice carried through the hall. “Ah, Benedict, I see you’ve met Miss Y/N. And what do you think of her opinions? Sharp as a rapier, aren’t they?”

Benedict glanced at Y/N, his expression warm. “Quite sharp, indeed. But rapier wit is vastly preferable to dull pleasantries.”

Lady Danbury chuckled. “I agree. Well, don’t let me interrupt. Though, Y/N, your brother Charles is looking for you. Something about the carriage.”

At the mention of her brother, Y/N’s composure shifted slightly. “Thank you, Lady Danbury. I’ll find him shortly.”

As Lady Danbury swept away, Benedict offered Y/N a small bow. “Will you grant me the honor of a dance before you leave?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her eyes glinting with amusement. “If you’re persistent enough.”

Before Benedict could craft a suitably clever reply, a deep voice broke through the moment. “Y/N, it’s getting late.”

Both turned to see a tall man striding toward them, his posture commanding yet measured. He was dressed impeccably, the weight of responsibility apparent in his expression. His resemblance to Y/N—sharp features and the same striking eyes—was unmistakable.

Charles stopped beside them and inclined his head politely toward Benedict before addressing his sister. “The hour grows late, and I believe Lady Danbury is beginning to hint that the soirée is winding down.”

Y/N offered her brother a cool yet affectionate look. “You always did have an impeccable sense of timing, Charles.”

Benedict, recovering quickly, stepped forward with a polite bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Charles’s gaze sharpened slightly at the name before he returned the bow with measured precision. “Charles Y/L/N, Earl of Whitestone.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted in recognition, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Whitestone? I believe my brother, Anthony, has spoken of you. He mentioned you were recently elevated to the title.”

Charles gave a brief nod, his tone guarded but civil. “Anthony and I have known each other for some years. He’s a good man, and an excellent Viscount.”

“As I’m certain you’re an excellent Earl,” Benedict replied smoothly, sensing the protective edge to Charles’s demeanor.

The corner of Charles’s mouth twitched upward, though he remained composed. “I do what I can, though the title comes with its share of burdens. And you, Mr. Bridgerton, seem to have a knack for engaging my sister in conversation.”

Benedict chuckled lightly, inclining his head toward Y/N. “Your sister is an extraordinary conversationalist, my lord. I find myself quite fortunate to have made her acquaintance tonight.”

Charles’s gaze flicked to Y/N, who appeared unruffled by the exchange but wore a faint smile of amusement. “Fortunate, indeed,” Charles said evenly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe it’s time to depart. Y/N?”

Y/N turned back to Benedict, her expression unreadable but her tone cordial. “Thank you for the discussion, Mr. Bridgerton. Perhaps we’ll meet again, should the occasion allow.”

Benedict bowed, his tone warm. “I certainly hope so, Miss Y/N.”

As Charles and Y/N walked toward their waiting carriage, Benedict watched them leave, his thoughts lingering on the sharp wit and quiet allure of Y/N.

Charles, walking slightly ahead of his sister, cast a glance back toward Benedict, then murmured to her, “He seems taken with you.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly as she replied, “Let him be. I’m hardly an easy conquest.”

Charles smirked faintly, his tone fond but serious. “Good. Just remember, Y/N, you’re worth far more than simple flattery and fleeting interest.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze forward but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

The clatter of carriage wheels echoed faintly as Charles and Y/N made their way back to their townhouse. The dim glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets, casting fleeting shadows across Charles’s pensive expression.

“You like him,” Charles remarked, breaking the companionable silence. His voice was even, but his words were laced with a quiet observation.

Y/N glanced at her brother, her expression unreadable. “He’s intriguing. Sharp-witted. But liking someone, Charles, is a luxury I can ill afford.”

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her carefully. “Luxury or not, you seemed more yourself tonight than I’ve seen in months. There’s no harm in entertaining the idea—provided you remain cautious.”

Y/N’s gaze softened at her brother’s concern. “I appreciate your vigilance, my dear Earl of Whitestone. But let’s not rush to paint him as either hero or villain. Men of his world are not often held to the same scrutiny as women of ours.”

“True,” Charles admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But Anthony Bridgerton isn’t one to speak highly of a man without reason. If his brother is half as principled, I’d consider him worth the risk.”

Y/N’s lips twitched at his words. “Risk, indeed. But enough about Mr. Bridgerton. We’ve our own affairs to manage, and I’m certain our tenants won’t care for my musings about art or charm.”

Charles nodded, though he noted the faint pink flush that crept up her neck as she turned toward the window.

As the Whitestone carriage disappeared into the darkness, Benedict stood at the edge of the Danbury estate, his gaze lingering on the path where Y/N had vanished. The warmth of the evening had cooled, but he hardly noticed the chill. His mind replayed their conversation—the sharp wit in her words, the spark in her eyes when she spoke of art, and the measured grace with which she had danced around his charm.

“Y/N,” he murmured softly, as if testing the sound of her name. It felt as striking as the woman herself, an enigma he couldn’t easily solve.

Lady Danbury’s sharp voice startled him from his reverie. “Well, Mr. Bridgerton, if you plan to stand out there all night, you might as well help me escort the remaining stragglers to their carriages.”

Benedict turned, an easy smile masking his contemplative mood. “I was merely enjoying the view, Lady Danbury. Your soiree is, as always, a triumph.”

Her keen eyes narrowed with amusement. “And yet your gaze was fixed on the road, not my ballroom. That young lady certainly left an impression.”

Benedict didn’t deny it. “She’s remarkable,” he admitted, more to himself than to Lady Danbury.

“Be careful with that one,” the older woman warned, though her tone was fond. “She has depth. And depth demands substance in return.”

Benedict inclined his head, her words sinking in. As much as he relished the challenge, he realized he wanted more than a fleeting encounter.

The ride home was a quiet one. Benedict sat in the carriage, the sounds of horses’ hooves a steady rhythm that gave his thoughts space to wander.

He’d encountered many women in his time—clever debutantes, bold widows, and those who wore charm like armor. But Y/N was different. There was a quiet power in her deflections, a vulnerability hidden behind her sharp observations.

His mind lingered on her smile, fleeting yet warm, and the way her brother, Charles, had watched over her like a hawk. Benedict respected that protectiveness—it spoke of loyalty, of family bonds he deeply valued.

When he finally reached the familiar halls of his family home, the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft rustle of wind through the trees outside. He retired to his room, but sleep eluded him.

Instead, he sketched—rough outlines of Y/N’s features, her poised stance, the energy in her eyes as she critiqued the painting at Lady Danbury’s. Each stroke of charcoal carried with it an urgency, an attempt to capture the essence of someone who refused to be defined.

By the time dawn’s light began to filter through his window, Benedict set the sketch aside, his resolve clear.

“I’ll see her again,” he murmured, more determined than he’d been in years.

The following morning, the Bridgerton family gathered around the long dining table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Despite the sumptuous spread of fruit, fresh-baked pastries, and piping hot tea, all eyes were on Benedict.

“Who was she?” Eloise asked bluntly, buttering her toast with unnecessary vigor. “Lady Whistledown was positively tantalized.”

Benedict sighed, taking a deliberate sip of tea. “Good morning to you too, Eloise.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Daphne chimed in with a knowing smile. “It’s not every day Lady Whistledown dedicates an entire paragraph to your exploits.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised. “Y/N Y/L/N, wasn’t it? I believe her brother, Charles, is the new Earl of Whitestone. Solid reputation, though he keeps to himself since inheriting the title.”

Benedict nodded, setting down his cup. “The very same. I had the pleasure of speaking with her—she’s sharp, insightful, and refreshingly candid.”

“And beautiful?” Colin teased, his grin wide.

“Extremely,” Benedict replied without hesitation, earning a round of laughter.

Anthony’s amusement faded slightly as he regarded his brother with a calculating look. “Charles is an old acquaintance of mine. We crossed paths during the early years of our titles. A good man, but fiercely protective of his family. Tread carefully, Benedict.”

“Always,” Benedict said, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of determination.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass of Whitestone’s modest garden, a sketchpad balanced on her lap. The cool breeze carried with it the faint scent of lavender from the nearby hedgerows, mingling with the crisp aroma of her graphite pencils. The gardens were her sanctuary—a reprieve from society’s endless noise and expectations. Today, her focus was on a half-finished drawing of a willow tree bending gracefully over the garden pond. Yet, as much as she tried to focus, her thoughts drifted back to Benedict Bridgerton.

She had replayed their exchanges from Lady Danbury’s soiree countless times in her mind. His words had been genuine, his curiosity sincere. Yet it was his gaze that lingered in her memory—the way his eyes softened when he listened to her critiques of the art, as though he truly saw her and not just another face in the crowd. Y/N frowned slightly, annoyed at her own vulnerability. He’s intriguing, certainly, but so are countless men who wander into my path. Why should this one matter more?

Her pencil faltered as the sharp rap of a knock echoed from the front of the house. She stilled, curiosity piqued. Guests were rare at Whitestone, and Charles had already mentioned he expected no visitors today. She heard the muffled creak of the door opening and the low rumble of her brother’s voice, but the words were indistinct. Setting her sketchpad aside, Y/N rose and dusted her hands off on her skirts, wandering closer to the house with light steps.

Inside the parlor, Charles extended a firm handshake to Anthony Bridgerton. The Earl of Whitestone and the Viscount Bridgerton cut striking figures in the modest room, both exuding a commanding presence, though Anthony’s was tempered by a composed air of diplomacy.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” Charles greeted, stepping back to motion him inside. “This is an unexpected visit.”

“I thought it past time we caught up,” Anthony replied with a faint smile, his eyes sweeping the room briefly before settling back on Charles. “Though I must confess, my errand isn’t entirely social.”

Charles raised an eyebrow as he led Anthony toward the parlor’s armchairs. “I assume this has something to do with your family’s estates bordering mine?”

“In part.” Anthony seated himself with practiced ease, but there was a guardedness to his tone that Charles didn’t miss. “The other part involves my brother, Benedict.”

Charles stilled briefly, his expression giving nothing away. “Ah, your brother,” he said smoothly, taking his own seat. “I must admit, he did make an impression at Lady Danbury’s soiree.”

Anthony’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “So I’ve heard. I trust my brother behaved himself?”

Charles smirked faintly, folding his hands over his knee. “Mr. Bridgerton was... eager to engage my sister in conversation. Though I’m not sure she was as willing to reciprocate.”

Anthony chuckled, but his tone shifted, his words laced with sincerity. “Benedict speaks highly of your sister. It’s rare for him to show such genuine interest, Charles. He’s not one to court frivolities.”

Charles leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You understand, Anthony, that Y/N has had her fair share of shallow suitors. She’s cautious, and rightly so. My priority is ensuring her happiness and protecting her from anyone who sees her as a fleeting amusement.”

“Benedict doesn’t play such games,” Anthony replied, meeting Charles’s gaze head-on. “In truth, I’ve never seen him take such an interest in anyone. Your sister seems to have stirred something in him—though, knowing Y/N from your stories, I suspect she hasn’t made it easy for him.”

Charles allowed himself a faint chuckle. “No, she certainly hasn’t. Y/N is not one to be charmed easily. But it’s clear your brother is determined, which could either work in his favor or cause him considerable frustration.”

Anthony inclined his head, his expression softening. “Benedict values substance, as I’m sure Y/N does. They may both surprise you.”

Charles studied him in silence for a moment before offering a measured nod. “We’ll see. For now, I’ll judge him by his actions, not his words.”

Y/N lingered just beyond the doorway, her heart racing at the snippets of conversation she managed to overhear. Charles’s voice, steady and firm, carried faintly through the air. He’s defending me, she realized, a pang of gratitude swelling in her chest. Her brother’s protectiveness had always been her shield against the pressures of society. Yet, there was another voice—smooth and commanding.

The Viscount Bridgerton.

She had never met Anthony before, but his reputation preceded him. To hear him speak so highly of his brother was... surprising. Benedict’s charm had seemed effortless, but perhaps it ran deeper than she had assumed.

Careful not to draw attention, Y/N eased closer to the edge of the doorway, curiosity getting the better of her.

Anthony’s final remark, “They may both surprise you,” was met with a soft clearing of a throat. Both men turned to see Y/N stepping into the room, her expression poised but her gaze quietly assessing.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said with a faint smile, addressing Anthony. “You must be Viscount Bridgerton. I apologize for not greeting you sooner.”

Anthony rose immediately, his movements fluid and respectful. “Miss Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm. “The pleasure is mine. I was just remarking to your brother on your keen sense of discernment. It seems Benedict wasn’t exaggerating.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening. “He spoke of me?”

Anthony’s smile mirrored hers, though he chose his words carefully. “Indeed. Rarely have I seen my brother so animated in recounting a conversation.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Charles, whose stern expression had softened, before settling back on Anthony. “That’s high praise coming from you, my lord,” she said lightly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps I should be flattered—or cautious.”

Anthony chuckled, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “Flattery or caution—either is warranted. But if I may, Miss Y/N, Benedict is many things, but insincere is not one of them.”

Y/N seated herself gracefully, her expression thoughtful. “Then it would seem your brother and I have much in common,” she replied smoothly, though her mind raced. What exactly has Benedict told him?

As Anthony and Y/N exchanged polite conversation, Charles observed his sister closely. Her tone was cordial, her posture poised, but he knew her well enough to detect the subtle sharpness in her gaze—a warning to anyone attempting to pry too deeply. She wasn’t rattled by Anthony’s words, but she was undoubtedly calculating her next move.

Anthony, for his part, seemed at ease. His diplomacy was well-honed, his remarks layered with subtle reassurances. Yet Charles couldn’t help but feel the quiet tension in the room. Anthony was here not simply to visit a friend, but to ensure Benedict’s intentions were made clear—or perhaps to defend them.

“I find it intriguing,” Y/N said, interrupting Charles’s thoughts, “that you’ve taken the trouble to visit us, my lord, when your brother has already made his interest known. Surely, you trust his judgment?”

Anthony’s brow arched slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do, Miss Y/N, though it would be remiss of me not to learn more about the woman who has managed to hold my brother’s attention.”

“And have you drawn your conclusions already?” she asked, tilting her head.

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “Not entirely. But I do know this: my brother is a man of passions—art, creation, and the search for something meaningful. He finds those qualities rare. I suspect he believes he’s found them in you.”

Y/N’s composure didn’t falter, though her chest tightened slightly at his words. Her response was deliberate, each word measured. “An interesting theory, my lord. I wonder what he might say if he were here to speak for himself.”

As the conversation unfolded at Whitestone, Benedict Bridgerton was oblivious to his brother’s bold intervention. He sat alone in the Bridgerton family’s drawing room, a half-finished sketch resting on the desk before him. It was an abstract piece—a hazy rendition of the way the light had played across Y/N’s face as she’d described the painting at Lady Danbury’s soiree.

Frustrated, he set the pencil down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t seen her since the garden farewell days ago, and the memory of her enigmatic smile lingered like a half-finished melody. Every word she had spoken felt deliberate, each glance calculated. Yet, for all her guardedness, he had glimpsed something more—an intensity that matched his own.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the sketch with a mix of irritation and admiration. What is it about her that has me so utterly undone?

The door creaked open, and Colin poked his head inside, his ever-mischievous grin firmly in place. “Still brooding over Lady Y/N?”

Benedict scowled, though there was no real malice behind it. “I’m not brooding.”

Colin stepped inside, uninvited, and plucked the sketch off the desk. “Is that so? Because this,” he said, waving the paper, “tells a rather different story. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over one of Anthony’s sermons.”

Benedict frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Colin flopped onto the settee, clearly enjoying himself. “Anthony’s gone to Whitestone, hasn’t he? To visit Y/N and her brother. He practically ordered Newton to saddle the horse this morning.”

Benedict shot to his feet, his voice incredulous. “Anthony went to Whitestone?”

Colin’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. Didn’t he tell you? I’d wager he’s there now, making some long-winded speech about Bridgerton honor and the seriousness of your intentions.”

Benedict’s fists clenched, though it was more out of frustration than anger. “Of course he would meddle,” he muttered, pacing the room. “I don’t need him playing matchmaker.”

“Perhaps not,” Colin replied, his tone light. “But I suspect you’ll thank him in the end. Anthony may be insufferable, but he has a way of clearing obstacles—even those you’re too stubborn to see.”

Benedict ignored him, walking around in the room furiously waiting for his brother to come home. He did not need Anthony meddling with his business when even he didn't have the chance to visit you or buy you flowers. He prayed that his brother didn't scare or intimidate Y/N in any shape or form.

Back at Whitestone, Y/N’s mind churned as Anthony’s words settled. The sincerity behind them was disarming, but it also raised questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She glanced at Charles, who was watching the exchange with his usual stoicism. Her brother was protective, and she valued his judgment, but she also resented feeling like a piece on a chessboard. Why should my life’s direction hinge on the machinations of two Bridgertons?

Y/N straightened, her voice breaking the charged silence. “You speak highly of your brother, my lord. But I can’t help but wonder if his interest is shared equally by the rest of your family. Surely a marriage, that you keep mentioning I might add, between a Bridgerton and an earl’s sister comes with certain expectations.”

Anthony’s expression didn’t falter, though his gaze turned contemplative. “You’re right, Miss Y/N. Family expectations can be... formidable. But we Bridgertons tend to weigh them against the matters of the heart. My brother is pursuing you not for duty, but for something far greater. That is why I came—to assure you that his pursuit is no fleeting fancy.”

Her breath caught for the briefest moment before she composed herself. “And yet you speak for him instead of letting him speak for himself. Tell me, viscount Bridgerton, is it a tradition of your family that the elder brother visit first before the man himself came here to court me or are you just more excited than Benedict?"

Anthony’s smile turned faintly amused. “Perhaps. But as the head of the family, it is not a tradition, but my duty to do so."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the Bridgerton drawing room, where Violet sipped her tea, listening to Eloise debate some pamphlet on societal reform. Colin, seated nearby, was making a show of writing letters while sneakily trying to eavesdrop.

Suddenly, the front door opened with a sharp creak, followed by the heavy sound of deliberate footfalls. The atmosphere in the house shifted.

“Anthony,” Violet remarked, looking up from her teacup as her eldest son entered. His expression was stony, his movements clipped.

“Anthony, you look—”

Anthony!" Benedict’s voice roared through the house, heavy with fury.

"Benedict," Anthony greeted cautiously, straightening. "What’s the meaning of this outburst?"

"The meaning?" Benedict spat, his voice echoing through the room. "You went to the Whitestone estate without even telling me. You had no right!"

Violet, startled by the commotion, stood. "What’s going on here?"

"Ask your eldest son," Benedict said bitterly. "Apparently, he’s taken it upon himself to play matchmaker or, worse, guardian of my personal affairs."

Anthony’s jaw tightened, though he remained outwardly calm. "Benedict, I was only acting in your best—"

"No!" Benedict interrupted, his voice rising. "You were acting in your best interest, Anthony. Or, at the very least, what you think is best. You didn’t consult me, didn’t even think to ask what I wanted!"

By now, the household was gathering in the hallway, drawn by the shouting. Eloise whispered to Colin, "This is far better than the last novel I read."

Anthony’s patience began to fray as he stood taller, his tone hardening. "I went because I thought you might care for her, Benedict! And if you do, it’s only natural to ensure the family is suitable."

"How dare you presume to know what I care for!" Benedict snapped. "And what of her? Did you think she’d appreciate you barging in, uninvited, to assess her worth like livestock? I don’t even know if I care for her, but now I may never have the chance to decide for myself because of you!"

Anthony’s face fell briefly into guilt before he rallied. "I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I was trying to protect you—"

"Protect me from what, Anthony? From a young woman with a talent for art and a brother navigating his new title? Or perhaps from the whispers you always seem so terrified of?"

"You don’t understand," Anthony said sharply. "These things matter. Reputation matters. If you pursue her—"

"Stop!" Benedict’s voice was loud enough to make the rest of the family wince. "You don’t get to make this about reputation or family honor. You didn’t even think to come to me first, and for that alone, you’ve overstepped!"

Violet interjected, her voice firm. "Both of you, enough. This shouting is unbecoming."

"Unbecoming?" Benedict scoffed, his anger undiminished. "What’s truly unbecoming is my brother meddling in affairs that are none of his business!"

Anthony took a deep breath, his voice dropping but still heated. "I went because I thought it was for the best, Benedict. If I was wrong, then I apologize. But don’t act as if I’ve committed some great crime for trying to protect my family."

Benedict shook his head, his jaw tightening. "If you wanted to protect me, Anthony, you should have come to me first. You should have trusted me to handle my own life."

Without waiting for a response, Benedict turned and stormed out of the room, the sound of the door slamming behind him reverberating through the house.

Benedict rode hard, the crisp autumn air stinging his face as he left Mayfair behind. The rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves against the packed dirt offered little solace, the anger from his fight with Anthony still churning in his chest. The thought of his brother making decisions about his life—his relationships—without so much as a conversation left him fuming.

The horse slowed as they approached Hyde Park. Benedict hadn’t meant to end up here, but the vastness of the greenery and the relative quiet of the park seemed preferable to the confinement of Bridgerton House. He dismounted near a cluster of trees, tying his horse to a low branch.

Wandering through the park, Benedict eventually spotted a familiar figure seated beneath a sprawling oak tree. Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass, a sketchbook balanced on her knee, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hand moved deftly across the page. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice his approach.

For a moment, Benedict simply observed her. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on her face. There was a peacefulness about her that pulled at something deep within him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the morning.

He cleared his throat softly.

Y/N jumped, her pencil jerking across the page. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide before recognition dawned. “Mr. Bridgerton!” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her chest. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” Benedict said quickly, stepping closer. “Startling you was not my intention. I... Well, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, let alone you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, though there was a trace of humor in her gaze. “Hyde Park isn’t precisely secluded, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Touché,” Benedict conceded with a small smile. “Still, I seem to have a habit of interrupting you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in her lap. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edges of the paper. Then, with a resigned sigh, she handed it over. “It’s not finished,” she said quickly.

Benedict took the sketchbook, his eyes scanning the page. It was a study of a fountain in the park, the water captured mid-flow, the surrounding trees sketched with delicate precision. “This is remarkable,” he said sincerely. “The way you’ve captured the movement of the water—it feels alive.”

Y/N flushed at the compliment, though she tried to mask it with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing special. Just practice.”

“Your modesty does you no justice,” Benedict said, handing the sketchbook back to her. “This is more than practice. It’s art.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, but she said nothing, her eyes dropping to the sketch.

They sat in silence for a moment before Benedict spoke again. “I owe you an apology, Miss Y/N.”

“For startling me?” she teased, though her tone was light.

“For that and...for my brother’s intrusion at your home earlier today,” he said, his voice more serious now.

Y/N looked up sharply, her expression unreadable. “You knew?”

“I only found out after the fact,” Benedict admitted, frustration seeping into his tone. “Believe me, if I had known what Anthony was planning, I would have stopped him.”

Y/N studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t unsettling to have the Viscount Bridgerton show up unannounced, but your brother was respectful.”

“That doesn’t excuse him,” Benedict said firmly. “He had no right to involve himself. Whatever this is,” he gestured between them, “it’s our business, not his.”

A flicker of something passed through Y/N’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or even approval—but it was gone before Benedict could decipher it.

“Your brother’s actions are understandable, though,” she said finally. “Family often feels entitled to protect us, even when we don’t need their protection.”

“‘Entitled’ is the word,” Benedict muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Y/N tilted her head, a trace of amusement creeping into her expression. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry,” Benedict admitted, though his voice softened as he continued. “Not just because Anthony went behind my back, but because I... I don’t want anyone to think I need someone else to make my decisions for me. Least of all you.”

Her brows lifted at his candor, and a small smile played on her lips. “I think I can decide what to think of you, Mr. Bridgerton, regardless of your brother’s interference.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them. There was an openness in Y/N’s gaze that felt like an invitation, though to what, Benedict wasn’t entirely sure.

“May I sit?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N gestured to the patch of grass beside her. “Be my guest.”

Benedict settled himself beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. The tension that had coiled in his chest all day seemed to ease in her presence.

“Do you often come here to draw?” he asked after a moment.

“Whenever I can,” Y/N said, glancing at the fountain in the distance. “It’s one of the few places in London that feels...free.”

“I can see the appeal,” Benedict said. “There’s a tranquility here. A sense of space.”

“And yet you seem restless,” Y/N observed, her eyes studying him intently.

Benedict chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose I am. My family has a way of...complicating things.”

“Families tend to do that,” Y/N said lightly.

He turned to look at her, a question forming on his lips, but he hesitated. “Do you...” he began, then stopped.

“Do I what?” she prompted.

“Do you find it hard?” he asked finally. “Being the person others look to? Shouldering the weight of their expectations?”

Y/N’s gaze grew distant, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her sketchbook. “I think we all bear expectations, whether we like it or not. The trick is deciding which ones matter and which ones don’t.”

Benedict nodded, her words striking a chord. “And have you decided?”

Her lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “I’m still working on it.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the faint splash of the fountain. For the first time that day, Benedict felt a sense of calm.

Perhaps, he thought, this wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

( part 2 anyone?)

[syndrossi]

And now for a continuation of what I'm calling the Rescue AU aka "what if Ser Thoren successfully extracted the boys from the Gates of the Moon?" Part 1 and premise can be found here. It ended pretty abruptly, and so we pick up pretty abruptly! This one has a more proper "end" to it, though it's not finished.

x~x~x

“May we go to the market on River Row?” Rhaegar asked. He seemed to pick up on Daemon’s surprise at the request, adding, “Laenor mentioned it before. He said they have all manner of wares from within the realm, and even from across the Narrow Sea.”

“We may,” Daemon said, warmed by the pleased smile he received in response. “Do you seek anything in particular?”

He had presented them with gifts for three of their name days thus far, but that still left five. And some of his other planned gifts would not be ready for months. Any insight into what his children enjoyed was sorely welcome. They spent so little time at play, too serious about their studies.

“Princess Rhaenyra said that your name day is in less than three moons,” Rhaegar said, smile turning stern. “So you must not look if we choose something for you.”

Daemon had not celebrated his name day in nearly a decade, other than alone with Caraxes and one of the few barrels of good wine that made it on occasion to the Stepstones by way of Driftmark. His last true celebration had been a pleasant supper with Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra, followed by a drunken night of debauchery in Flea Bottom that had earned his brother’s disapproval in the morning upon hearing of it.

It had been only two moons after Viserys had quietly taken him aside and “suggested” that he take Lord Beesbury as an advisor in his yet-new position of master of coin. Daemon had known the true source of the suggestion: Otto Hightower. Daemon had been only three moons in the office and still learning its scope; bringing in the former master of coin to all but do his job for him had been clearly intended to undermine him by implying he could not manage on his own.

That was the one office Daemon had resigned from before his brother could directly dismiss him, as he made a habit of. That had been before he’d realized just how short his leash would be for any office while Otto Hightower whispered in his ear simultaneously of Daemon’s immaturity and ambition.

A hand squeezed his, jolting him from his thoughts. “Father?” It was Rhaegar’s voice, gentle with concern, rather than stilted as it could sometimes be when addressing him.

Daemon smoothed wisps of light hair from his son’s forehead, then rested his hands on either cheek, heart a jumbled mess between the sentiment and the barest trace of wariness that lurked in his eyes whenever Daemon behaved in a way he did not expect. He kissed his brow, vowing that one day Rhaegar would come to expect only love at the hands of family, rather than the cold indifference—or worse—he had suffered under the Royce household.

“You can give me no greater gift than your company that day,” he said, transferring a hand to Jon’s cheek as well.

Jon gave a solemn nod. “But if I wrap Rhaegar to leave outside your door, who will wrap me?”

Daemon nearly choked on his laugh, the humor entirely unexpected. His eldest was quite sneaky in that regard, though both had a similarly clever wit. He feared for whoever might earn their wrath once they reached adolescence.

“Would you like a small purse apiece for the market, then?” he asked. “So that you are spared solving such a riddle?”

“There is no need,” Rhaegar said, revealing a bulging purse beneath his jacket. “Uncle Viserys gave us an allowance for it.”

“That was very generous of him,” Daemon said, smiling to mask a sudden flood of resentment at the reminder that nothing that he had to offer them was his own. It was all through Viserys and the royal treasury. He had no holding of his own to build an income, nor would he.

Curious stares followed them through the streets, news of the strange circumstances of his sons’ birth having traveled beyond the court. Laenor had informed him with great enthusiasm that a troupe of mummers were at work on a new play with a working title of “The Hidden Princes and the Witch of Runestone.”

If his sons were uneasy with the attention, they did not show it, more fascinated by the sights and sounds of the city. I should have taken them out sooner, Daemon thought fondly. There was a minstrel at one corner, playing the lute outside of a tavern to lure travelers in, and Rhaegar’s head tilted a moment, listening, before his eyes brightened. He hurried over, Daemon and Jon a few steps behind, and joined the minstrel in his song, his higher pitch shifting into an effortless harmony.

The minstrel looked startled by the sudden accompaniment, and even perhaps dismayed to find himself outperformed by a small child, but his eyes took in Daemon as he approached, and the princely attire his sons were wearing—as well as the growing crowd, drawn by the unusual spectacle as well as the sweetness of the song—and the man seemed to then accept the situation as one of good fortune.

Daemon smiled as he watched Rhaegar, enjoying his son’s obvious joy at an excuse to sing. The song was familiar to him, one of a wandering hedge knight in search of a maiden he had spied bathing in the moonlight and fallen in love with, but rendered nearly haunting with the addition of Rhaegar’s voice, which made it into a duet of man and maiden.

At the final verse, the minstrel made as though to bow, only for Rhaegar to continue on alone for another four, and the tale went from one of happy reunion to bittersweet loss as the maiden revealed the true reason she had evaded the hedge knight’s pursuit: the waters had told her that when she found love at last, they would have but a year before death claimed them.

There were very few dry eyes in the crowd at the song’s conclusion, and there was a light ache in his own throat, but the ending seemed to upset Jon in particular, so Daemon wrapped him up in his arms. “It is only a song.”

“If he had not gone after her, they both would have lived,” Jon said into his abdomen.

“Perhaps so,” Daemon murmured, stroking fingers through his hair as he pondered why the song had touched him so. Elys and Corwyn had died two years after the twins’ birth, and his sons had thought them their parents most of their lives. Rhea’s death was still fresh for them as well, he supposed. “But the life of a hedge knight is not without peril. Perhaps he would have found death another way.”

Jon frowned, not liking that response, and Daemon sighed, releasing him. “Come, let us collect your brother from his admirers.”

The minstrel was splitting his attention between collecting the shower of coin that had fallen at the song’s conclusion and interrogating his son on where he had heard the additional verses.

“From a harpist who wandered through the Gates of the Moon,” Rhaegar said, beginning to look uncomfortable.

Daemon quickly moved into the man’s view, fixing him with a look that halted further questioning.

“My prince,” the minstrel said, bowing with a flourish. “What an honor to have the privilege of sharing a song with your son.”

“Indeed,” Daemon said, beckoning Rhaegar back to his side. “I suggest you content yourself with your good fortune.”

“I am sorry,” Rhaegar said once they were away from the gathered crowd, flicking anxious glances in Daemon’s direction. “I did not mean to—”

“Nonsense,” Daemon said firmly. “You may sing whenever you like. You upstaged that minstrel and he knew it.”

Rhaegar moved to walk at Jon’s side, whispering something quiet to him—another apology, perhaps? Jon shrugged, the motion stiff, but he summoned a small smile in response. Fortunately, the distraction of River Row seemed to take their minds off the matter. The street stank of fish, and was awash in colorful stalls loudly peddling their goods.

They were not even at the market square yet, and he had to corral them back within reach several times with stern warnings of pickpockets and unsavory characters who grew in number as Aegon’s Hill grew more distant.

The chaos was nigh unmanageable by the time they reached the market. They still drew glances, Daemon’s hair and attire—and Dark Sister at his side—making his identity plain. But the people in the market were here for one of two purposes: to sell or be sold to. They kept their gawking to sideways glances for the most part, aside from one very bold hand that curiously reached for his hair before being swatted aside.

The strong scent of cooked meat and vegetables from the side of the market that served tempting dishes that could be held in one’s hand to eat while walking covered up the worst of the encroaching smell of raw fish and nearby sewage. There were sweeter fares as well, including a stall that spun sugar into elaborate shapes to cool and be sold.

The peddlers’ calls grew particularly loud whenever they were noticed, to the point where Jon was beginning to look overwhelmed. Daemon was not without his own tension. Every voice that carried an accent from the Free Cities, and especially the occasional spoken Valyrian, transported him back to the crush and throng of the Stepstones.

They eventually reached a portion of the market that was less frantic, where he was no longer touching four different bodies at once, and Daemon slowly relaxed. The boys went from stall to stall with Daemon looking on a few steps back, moving with them. Occasionally they would lean in for hushed discussion, dark hair against light, then turn to him in unison with appraising eyes before resuming their conversation.

Daemon had no idea what they would decide upon for gifts, but he was greatly looking forward to finding out what they had deemed worthy. They had found something at the present stall, which seemed to be an assortment of leather goods ranging from cow’s hide to more exotic sources.

Jon looked back toward him. “Turn around,” he ordered. “She has to finish making it and then wrapping it.”

Daemon gamely turned away. “Tell me when it is safe to look.”

He contented himself with scanning the rest of the current extension of the market, occasionally meeting the quickly averted gaze of an onlooker startled to be caught. That was nothing he wasn’t accustomed to when walking about openly, though years ago in Flea Bottom, the denizens had come to view his frequent presence among them as something to be expected. When he truly wished to walk about without fuss, he went cloaked and hooded.

A startled cry rang out back toward the portion of the market they had just left, and Daemon glanced that way to see that one of the food stalls had caught flame. He could make out the shouts for water, and a few nearby peddlers flapped with cloth at the fire, seeking to smother it. It seemed to only inflame it somehow, the fire almost dancing from one stall to another, which then caught.

Daemon recognized in the louder murmurs of the crowd the sound of unease yielding to panic, his own alarm growing with it. Panic was unpredictable, and the crowd would seek whatever outlet they thought offered safety, willing to trample whoever got in their way.

He turned back to the stall, ready to sweep his children up and leave before the chaos reached them, only to find the stall empty and his sons nowhere in view. His mind blanked with incomprehension for a moment, breath catching in his throat, and he closed the distance to the stall in an instant, looking around wildly. His sons were nowhere to be seen, but there was a woman’s body in rapidly pooling blood slumped at the other side of the stall.

No. Daemon’s hand closed around Dark Sister’s hilt, an icy fear flooding his veins. He took a deep breath to call for them, only to freeze at the sudden prick of something sharp and metal against his back.

“Quiet,” a voice said behind him, soft and unaccented. “Do you wish to see your sons?”

“Where are they?” Daemon asked, holding perfectly still. He might be quick enough to move before the man behind him sunk his blade in, but he did not know if there were more. There must be, to have taken his sons away. “What do you want?”

“If you do as I say, I shall take you to them. Fight, and you will never see them again.” The man waited, as though to see if he intended to put up a struggle. “Remove your hand from your blade.”

Daemon stared forward, paralyzed by indecision. He could mean to kill me anyway. This may be intended to buy time so that they may take the boys further out of reach.

But what could he—or they—even want? If it was ransom they sought, then the more captives, the better. If it was revenge, they would have killed his sons, and Daemon after.

“That dragon blood of yours is worth a great deal,” the voice said with a hint of impatience. “But only balanced against the trouble you might cause. Remove your hand.”

Ransom, then. Daemon clutched that hope to his chest and released his grip on Dark Sister. His hand was grabbed and twisted behind his back, firmly but not painfully so, and he was guided between stalls, out of view. Then, something smooth and rounded was pressed into his hand.

“Drink this.”

The shouts in the market square had grown louder, and the wind was beginning to blow smoke in their direction. Daemon had spotted the occasional gold cloak earlier, but there were none to be seen now, the men likely moving to seek control of the fire or the crowd. There were far more pressing things for the people milling about the market to pay attention to than a prince tucked just out of view, a blade to his back.

“What is it?” Daemon asked, though he could guess. If it was not poison, then it was something intended to dull the senses and render him easy to move without struggle.

“Drink,” the man repeated. “Or I spill that royal blood onto the cobblestone, which would be a shameful waste.”

Daemon brought the bottle into view, its milky glass obscuring its contents save for a faintly darker line where the liquid within sloshed. A tiny cork served as a stopper.

I cannot see them again if I am sliced open in River Row.

Ransom could be paid. Daemon knew that Viserys would not hesitate on his behalf or his sons’, whatever objections Otto might raise.

He brought the cork to his teeth, and pulled it loose, then tipped the liquid back. He held it in his mouth for a few seconds, debating whether he could feign swallowing, but a hand closed over his lips and pinched his nostrils shut until he swallowed, at which point it moved to grip his right arm again. The man made no move to lead him anywhere, seeming content to wait for the potion to take its effect.

“You have not hurt them?” Daemon asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

“They are not harmed,” the man said with a hint of amusement. “Though I cannot say the same for some of the others. I did warn them about Jon.”

A dizziness rolled over Daemon, followed by a heaviness that came in waves that settled deeper each time. At last he was prodded forward, and it took all his concentration to put one foot ahead of the other. Then another. Then—

[whencyclopedia]

Nih'a'ca Tales

Nih'a'ca tales are Arapaho legends concerning the trickster figure Nih'a'ca, who, according to Arapaho lore, is the first haxu'xan (two-spirit), a third gender, often highly regarded by many Native American nations, including the Arapaho. The Nih'a'ca tales are similar to the Wihio tales of the Cheyenne and the Iktomi tales of the Sioux.

North American Panther

Rodney Cammauf /National Park Service (Public Domain)

Circumstances and situations differ between the Nih'a'ca tales and those concerning trickster figures of other Native peoples of North America, but the central character of the trickster plays the same role – sometimes as sage and mediator, sometimes as schemer and villain – in them all. In the case of Nih'a'ca – always referred to by the male pronoun in English translations of Arapaho tales – he is frequently depicted in legend as someone who tries to better himself, usually at the expense of others or by trying to take shortcuts, and suffers for it.

At the same time, Nih'a'ca can be wise, offering advice, or clever, as in the story Nih'a'ca Pursued by the Rolling Skull, in which he must find a way to escape death. His identity as a haxu'xan is often, though not always, central to the story's plot – as in Nih'a'ca and the Panther-Young-Man where he, identifying as a woman, marries a panther – and, in stories where his gender is highlighted, serves to teach an important cultural, moral, lesson.

The Nih'a'ca tales are still told in Arapaho and Cheyenne communities, as well as others – including LGBTQ organizations – not only for their entertainment value but for the lessons they offer on personal responsibility and the proper respect and treatment to be shown to others. Like the trickster figures of other nations, Nih'a'ca is often depicted as, or associated with, the spider – spinning webs to catch others which often wind up entangling himself.

The Two-Spirit & Nih'a'ca

Two-Spirit is a modern designation, coined as recently as 1990, for the third gender recognized by many Native American nations for centuries before their contact with European immigrants. Because the term is so new, the two-spirit is often, incorrectly, assumed to be a recent 'discovery' made by anthropologists when, actually, European accounts going back to 1775 reference a third gender among North American Native peoples and the oral histories, myths, and legends – like the Nih'a'ca tales – also attest to the long-standing recognition of two-spirits in a given community.

As the term implies, a two-spirit is someone who recognizes both a male and female spirit dwelling within and often, though not always, dresses in the clothes and performs the duties of their opposite biological sex. Because they are understood as both male and female, two-spirits are recognized as possessing especially keen insight and often serve as mediators – in the present as they did in the past – in resolving personal or communal disputes. They were, and are (or can be), also regarded as holy people – "medicine men" and "medicine women" – serving as mediators between the people and the spirit world. Scholar Larry J. Zimmerman comments:

The relationship between a holy person and the spirit world is almost that of a personal religion. The first meeting with the spirits becomes the personal myth, and the power of this myth is important for establishing the holy person's credentials with the tribe, on behalf of which his or her skills are used to locate game, find lost objects, and, above all, treat the sick. The holy person can enter a trance at will and journey to the sacred world.

(132-133)

While Nih'a'ca is sometimes depicted as a holy person, he is more often quite the opposite, possessing characteristics such as selfishness, cruelty, and a blatant disregard for cultural norms. Through the Nih'a'ca tales, which frequently conclude with the central character suffering for his misdeeds, higher values including selflessness, kindness, and respect for tradition and the feelings of others are highlighted.

Nih'a'ca, then, usually serves as an exemplar of bad behavior and is given the identity of a two-spirit – in fact, the first two-spirit in the world – because the recognition of the sacred aspect of the two-spirit further emphasizes just how misguided Nih'a'ca's choices and actions can be. The tales themselves are a kind of 'trickster' turning expectations upside down and, in so doing, offer an audience the opportunity for reflection on their own behavior and the possibility of transformation.

Continue reading...

[freesia-writes]

Ch 27: Reactivity

Master List ~~ Previous Chapter ~~ WC: 2.1k

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Song: “Young and Beautiful” by Lana Del Rey

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“Well that’s interesting,” Phee remarked, leaning back in her chair. Hunter had been unable to hide his “fuss face”, as she called it, and had been goaded into sharing what was bothering him. After recounting the tale of Lyra’s return, as well as her side of the story, he stared at his plate of food to avoid meeting the multiple pairs of eyes fixed on him. Omega was still on Plata, but the rest were gathered for family dinner as usual at Tech and Phee’s house. 

“That does appear to be quite a number of unfortunate misunderstandings,” Tech agreed. “Anyway, remember that blossom you received in the cave?” 

“Smooth transition,” Phee said with a smile. 

“Apologies for any insensitivity,” he muttered, trying and failing to stifle the urge to roll his eyes. “However, Hunter is no stranger to things not going as anticipated.”

“Low blow,” Crosshair chipped in. 

“Alright, well, I am sorry for your pain, Hunter. As for the blossom, Phee and I worked on deciphering its runes for quite a while, and then, to be honest, it was somewhat forgotten as we tackled a new endeavor together.”

“Is that what you’re calling it nowadays?” Echo asked with a suggestive eyebrow.

“If you are referring to intercourse,” Tech answered, unfazed, “the answer is no. We call it intercourse.” 

“He really knows how to set the mood,” Phee murmured, winking at Echo as he choked on an ill-timed sip of water. 

“Anyway,” Tech continued, exasperated at the repeated derailing of his train of thought. “We consulted one of the Xyloan elders, who responded to the somewhat supernatural news of its origin with virtually no surprise, and she read the message on the petals with ease.”

“And?”

“It is still somewhat cryptic, but it describes a pool here on the island that feeds into a waterfall, and if the blossom is placed into the waters and its owner bathes in the cascade below, he shall receive insight into his deepest fears or conundrums.”

“Sounds like some weird Dathomir tale,” Wrecker muttered.

“Perhaps, but the unique circumstances in which Hunter received the flower, reminiscent of our adventure on Skara Nal, suggests that there may be more to it than a simple children’s fantasy,” Tech said.

“Well? Gonna check it out?” Wrecker asked, looking at Hunter as he glowered in the corner. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he evaded.

“Well. I shall determine its precise location and provide specific coordinates, should you find the proper impetus to pursue it,” Tech nodded, lifting his finger in the air as another thought arrived. “Ah, also, I thought you should know… I did find a narrowly-published article regarding the death of Lyra and Breslin, which we now know to be feigned.. It seems they were successful in removing themselves from the Empire’s list of known traitors, therefore any bounty that may have been on their heads would have been canceled.”

“Clever,” said Hunter.

“It was effective. However, I did dig further into the records regarding Lyra’s imprisonment, and there do seem to be some inconsistencies as to the precise nature of her crimes… I found it fascinating that–”

“I don’t really want to hear it, Tech.”

It wasn’t open for discussion, and the bespectacled clone studied his angsty brother for a moment, then nodded and turned to Echo to change the subject to the training academy’s expansion. Wrecker waited for their conversation to pick up, then leaned over to Hunter and spoke in a low voice.

“You’re really torn up about all of this, eh?”

“I’m fine, Wrecker,” Hunter insisted, face hardening slightly.

“Alright,” his brother conceded, sitting back a little. “I mean, I get it. It’s a lot of back n forth.”

“Yeah, and I’m tired of it,” Hunter admitted. Wrecker lowered his gaze to the table at the vehemence in his voice. 

“Well, you seem happy enough with Luci?” he offered inquisitively. “So maybe it’s just a lesson learned…”

“Yup.”

Wrecker reclined in his seat, considering Hunter with a thoughtful expression, then resumed eating his dinner. Crosshair, having watched the exchange from across the table, rolled his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, noting the curve of Hunter’s shoulders and the tension in his eyebrows. He exhaled softly through his nose, face revealing nothing, then nodded at whatever Tech had been saying.

* * * 

Luci squealed in delight as Hunter hung on for dear life, his arms wrapped around her waist as they shot through the waves on the ocean. She had borrowed a jet-speeder and invited him to straddle it behind her, cranking the handlebar and sending them careening out into the open sea. The wind was loud in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the engine, and he pressed his head against hers to hold her wild curls from smacking his face repeatedly. 

A large wave approached, curling out of the water below with an imposing swell, and Luci lined the jet-speeder up, rocketing them along its rolling barrel and out the other side as it crashed behind them. She whipped them around, perpendicular to the next wave, and hit the throttle again, shooting up and through it before slowing, soaked and exhilarated, on the other side. 

“You’re insane,” Hunter yelled in her ear, earning a full-bodied laugh as she angled the speeder to roll with the waves in a slightly calmer approach. 

“You love it,” she called back, releasing the handlebars with one hand to give the top of his thigh a squeeze. “You want to steer?” 

“Alright,” he agreed, surprising himself. But he knew a thing or two about piloting, and he had a feeling she would appreciate his skills. She carefully rose to her feet, straddling his side for a moment as he scooted forward, then nimbly swung her leg over the seat behind him and fit every inch of her body along his own, tucking her arms around his middle. She was an intoxicating mixture of warm and strong, and the sensation of their wet skin touching gave him a bubbly feeling in his core. “Hold on,” he said, and her little “ooh” in response to his authoritative tone made his chest swell just a tiny bit. He needed this. 

They tore across the ocean again, lost in the sheer delight of speed and thrill, and he navigated expertly through the waves until they were both completely tuckered out. Slowly cruising in toward the docks, they secured the jet-speeder and walked, arms around one another, up to the stairs leading into town, laughing freely as their wobbly sea-legs caused a few stumbles along the way. They emerged onto the stone sidewalk at the bottom of The Cobbles, the business district that consisted of one long street that rose in a steady incline across the side of the island, and paused, regarding one another with exhilarated fondness. 

“I’m starving,” Luci admitted, her thin wrap fluttering around her swimsuit. “Is it pasta time?”

“Apparently it’s always pasta time,” Hunter said wryly, flinching as she took a sudden, giggling swat at him. 

“Damn right!” she cheered, looping her arm through his. “Let’s go change – I have extra clothes at my house.”

“My extra clothes?” he asked, tilting his head quizzically.

“No, just generic extra clothes. You never know when you might need them,” she answered without the hint of a joke in her voice. 

“Do naked people show up at your apartment on a regular basis?”

“They don’t usually show up naked,” she grinned, giving him a coy wink as they wove their way through town. 

“Hmm.” He had nothing to say to that. She’d been completely transparent about who she was and what she enjoyed, and her unapologetic way of embodying herself without shame or regret was a refreshing change from most anyone else he had met throughout his life. It was clear that she wanted him and would go as far as he’d let her, but she also never pressed, and he was grateful for that. He didn’t know what was holding him back – their kisses were as incendiary as they were satisfying – but he wasn’t in any hurry to dive in, even despite his recent decision to try to “go with the flow”. 

She did indeed have some clothes in her apartment that fit him well, and as he rolled up the sleeves on the light blue linen shirt, she peeked around the doorway from her bedroom, catching his eye. He held his hands out to the sides, showing her the result, and she gave him a thumbs up before stepping out into the hallway and mimicking his position to show off her own ensemble. She wasn’t wearing much – he couldn’t tell if it was underwear or lingerie or a dress or what – but his mouth was immediately dry and he found himself taking a quick deep breath due to the sudden lack of oxygen he seemed to be experiencing. 

“Just for you,” she winked, vanishing again to finish getting ready. She came back out a while later, her hair falling in gentle waves down to the neckline of a dark blue satin dress that nearly reached her toes. He discovered that it had slits up either side when she approached with a dark look in her eyes, leaning into him and lifting up a leg to rest against his hip. He instinctively placed a hand on her thigh where the silky fabric had fallen from it, and as she ran a hand up his chest before pulling his head down for a deep kiss, he felt every nerve in his body light up. She stepped back, brushing the front of her dress and pulling her breasts up into perfectly-cupped cleavage, then turned to get her shoes. 

Hunter couldn’t believe the life he was living.

They tucked into their table at the restaurant, greeted warmly by the server that had come to recognize them both in their semi-regular visits, and Hunter relished the adorable look of surprise on Luci’s face when his order of drinks arrived – not the usual bottle of sparkling wine, but some fancy cocktails made of much stronger stuff. 

“Oh, you’re looking for some trouble tonight, are you?” she gasped after taking a large swallow that left her nearly coughing from the liquor blazing down her throat. 

“Never,” Hunter grinned, unfazed by his own sip. 

They ate and chatted, laughed and flirted. Dinner led to dessert. Luci dipped a dainty finger into the whipped cream between them, then slowly licked it off as she lifted her emerald eyes to his. Hunter felt a sudden need to cross his legs. She told stories of her adventures, asked him questions about his favorite foods, and the night drifted by in contented enjoyment. Beneath a velvet sky peppered with twinkling stars, he walked her home, weaving through the last vestiges of the nighttime market in the Town Square. His arm hung loosely around her shoulders, possessive yet relaxed, and she toyed with his waist as they watched the vendors putting away their goods while the few remaining customers finished their transactions. 

Luci stiffened suddenly with a small gasp, and Hunter followed her gaze to a stall across the square, feeling a sinking in the pit of his own stomach as well. Lyra was tucking something into her canvas bag, nodding in thanks to the owner and handing him some credits. She waved goodbye, dipping her head with yet more gratitude, then continued on her way. 

“She’s back?” Luci said, more dumbstruck than Hunter would have expected. 

“Guess so,” he muttered, steeling himself against the feelings that began to fester.

“Huh,” she said thoughtfully, a million more thoughts beneath that single word as she seemed to recover quickly from her disproportionate shock and vehemence.

They made out in an alleyway that night, then again on the doorstep of Luci’s apartment building. She teased and challenged, offered herself freely, appreciated every bit of him. It was a heady rush, and he felt intoxicated by the simple bliss of it all. The way she tugged on his shirt, the look in her eyes as she gazed at him, the little bite of her lip when he could hear her heart racing… It all invited him to let go. To be present. To leave the past behind. 

He extricated himself from her arms, his hair rumpled in every direction from her desperate hands roving through it, and stepped back with a shuddering sigh. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

“Quite the opposite,” she purred, straightening herself as well. “You sure you don’t want to come up?”

“Yeah…” he said regretfully, confused at his own answer. 

“Okay,” she said softly, fingertips brushing along his cheek. “Hey…” Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at him. “Let’s take a little trip. Want to?”

“What do you have in mind?” he murmured, leaning back in to press his lips to her neck. She was absolutely irresistible at times, and his entire body was alight with warm desire. 

“Hunter,” she whispered, sending a chill straight to his core with the breathy way she said his name. “You’re such a tease.”

“I thought that’s your job.” He smiled against her collarbone, pulling away with one last kiss. “Alright. Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s just go to Plata for a few days. There’s a big music festival. Good food. Pop-up nightclubs. Lots of people. It’ll be a blast.”

“That sounds awful,” he admitted, and yet somehow it didn’t sound awful at all, but represented an escape of sorts from the relentless tumult within. She giggled, nuzzling her face into his neck now as he shivered involuntarily. 

“It’ll be absolutely terrible,” she said, stroking the side of his face before resting her hand on his chest. 

“Deal.”

.

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[useless19]

no but megatron falling for Knockout and dating him without even realizing it until someone, ahem optimus, points it out to him.

It starts with megatron attempting to keep knockout in line by keeping a close eye on him. After all given what he saw in starscreams memories it's clear he overlooked the medic and that is not a mistake he intends to make twice. So he spends immense amounts of time with the medic, he drops in randomly to "check on his progress" brings him with him whenever he goes somewhere hell he even invites him to eat with him just to make sure the pressure never let's up. It goes on for weeks and megatron finds himself content with knockouts company. It's strangely revitalizing to have someone with a little fire in them to talk to. Maybe he likes knockouts playful, irreverent demeanor, maybe he likes the jokes and the gossip and the affectionate teasing. Maybe he likes the genuine questions and critique when he shares some of his writing with him. Maybe he was going about this wrong, after all scaring him clearly doesn't work mostly because there is no authority in the galaxy knockout won't sass, maybe a sweeter approach is needed.

So he sets about making the medic feel appreciated, he asks his opinion on decisions and events, includes him on important matters, hell he even confides in him during their meals together. It's not like he has to actually listen to him, he just has to make him feel heard. Though he'll admit some of knockouts suggestions are quite clever and his insights on others are surprisingly accurate. Maybe there's some value in his words, he'll hand it to the medic his understanding of people is rather impressive. He eventually starts following him when he heads out to the surface, flying above as he races across the street. He even starts taking him to specific locations he thinks the medic will appreciate.

it's no surprise when during one of these outings they end up having to fight together, it is a surprise to see knockouts skill on the battlefield. It's a snap decision when he invites him to spar one he doesn't regret after a very enjoyable match so obviously it becomes a regular thing between them. He quite enjoys his medics unpredictable style and it's a treat seeing glimors of the predator hiding beneath that pretty frame. It's a mistake when one of those matches leads to a rather passionate kiss. A mistake he repeats. And repeats and repeats until he skips the match entirely and starts inviting knockout to his berth. It's only fair that he gift him fresh paint and waxes since it is his fault the medics going through his supply so quickly thanks to their almost daily sessions. It's the same reason he helps him fix his paint afterwards.

Those sessions help him understand the care his medic puts into himself less as an indulgence and more as it truly is, a show of resilience, his way of finding strength and control. When knockout swaps his signature gold and silver for gunmetal gray its because of the new found appreciation that megatron notices and fully grasps the meaning behind it. Such a small change but one that would mean everything to his medic, one that atleast between them made it clear where his loyalties lied. It was a nice confirmation that knockout was someone megatron could trust, he was a confidante an alli, a friend. Which was why he returned the gesture of comraderie with one of his own by slipping him some dark energon, he deserved the comfort of power after all and megatron would not risk losing his knockout easily. He was his friend after all.

SO HOW THE FRAG WAS HE SUPPOSED TO KNOW EVERYONE ELSE THOUGHT THEY WERE AN ITEM!?

Fuck this got out of hand. I am very sorry but at the same time you have brought this on yourself.

Excellent.

I love a relationship where one or more participants don't know they're in one XD

In the background Starscream is frothing at the mouth at Megatron paying attention to anyone else and the Autobots try to avoid combat whenever the pair of them show up because it just gets awkward.

Because, at spark, Megatron is a romantic. Everything he does is big grand gestures. Feelings of triumph, betrayal, vindictive glee — everything is at 1000%. He would burn down cities and thinks everyone else would do the same (and the lack of other grand gestures is due to their lack of commitment, not personal tastes).

Which is why a lot of little obvious relationship moments can fly over his helm. If he's courting someone there's going to be fireworks, damnit. How can you expect a mech to know your intentions if you don't shout them to the world? What do you mean you can form a relationship from a handful of soft intimate moments, if that were the case then he'd practically be conjunxed with —

Scrap.

Because Megatron is good at utilising his command staff effectively (at least through their assessed abilities, less so the interpersonal stuff). Because Knock Out is very good at walking the fine line of outspoken but not fully insubordinate (at least he does when it's Megatron in charge). Megatron has dangerous ideas and Knock Out runs parallel to them. It's only natural that if they find something that works, be it plotting together, fighting together, or stress relief, then they'll keep doing it.

I really like the idea of Knock Out changing his paint to match somewhat, for such a vain bot he wasn't one of the few to get a fresh paintjob in season 3. And he'd make it look good, whatever it ended up being.

(And if the Megatron applies extra attention to Knock Out because of seeing him conspiring with Starscream in Starscream's memories part is interesting to anyone, you'll definitely like this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57470866)

[narwhalandchill]

how are we feeling about this project amber update

assuming this is in relation to childe bc who the fuck else JWDJWJKDJKW anon im so sorry if not. also so so sorry for how out of hand this got. i am simply unwell about him.

But! Well. there certainly are thoughts

(obviously 4.6 datamine of arle SQ and her voicelines; This Will Not Spoil Anything Abt The Main SQ Plot, i only discuss the relevant parts. also some p Heavy negativity towards fanon ooc at the start youve been warned dont @ me)

(i mean i didnt even read anything of the SQ but The scene w childe so idek the main plot of the quest rly either lmao. tho go at ur own risk if u wanna check the dialogue out; its the 2nd quest log but it does hint at the greater story)

TLDR: how i feel abt his appearance in a vaccuum? quite solid despite the briefness, actually. accounting for the way fanon is 100% likely going to be reading into this and turning it into the Lets Infantilize Ajax Even More 2024 championship? conflicted.

in other words; a certified labyrinth warriors moment - theyve expanded on childes character in a very interesting and quite a compelling way and while i Do like the potential in what im seeing from hoyos end theyve also done it so that its going to be misinterpreted to hell and back by fanon so i kinda have an immediate jaded love-hate moment going on JJWJDKJDKJWJDWKJ

its literally just labyrinth warriors flashbacks - that event has some of my ALL TIME favorite insights into who ajax is and how he views the world and himself but when the event came out all everyone cared abt was to warp it into baby boy stuck in scawwy paper boy dungeon dehumanizes himself by calling himself a weapon and doesnt love himself he is such a sad trauma meowkitten 🥺🥺so yeah

bc like lets look at this properly for a bit; okay he went back to fontaine to look for skirk still somewhat injured and waa waa my 286 month infant baby cannot Make decisions like that!!!!!11! which is to say. i am tired of him getting this shit every time.

is it smart of him to get on the move immediately with just the bare minimum of rest? no. do i like that hes straining himself before proper recovery? not particularly no. do i feel the particular need to psychoanalyze this grown man and feared warrior whos 100% survived Way Worse in Way More Extreme Situations for it? hell fucking no.

while not at all the course of action a medical professional would approve of. from childes POV its perfectly logical hes priorizing going back for skirk when its literally the FIRST TIME shes showed up in like. a Decade. when hes been looking for her all this time are you kidding me 😭😭😭 but fanon must keep fanoning for their widdle baby girl so what does a hater like me know

anyway. seething and venting over im gonna try to avoid bringing up how much i hate this kinda infantilization of ajax now im sorry for bringing it up so much on ur innocent ask anon KJWDJKWKJDJDKWJKD. neutral discussion moment. i Promise

so it seems that theyre going for the pulcinella-is-shady-about-ajax (and prolly his family) angle for good and like. personally for me as long as the only real source of that claim was scara (a cynical edgelord who doesnt believe in non-exploitative human relationships, mind you) i was rather skeptical towards just instantly drawing that conclusion, but well. with the scene in arles AQ it appears to be sth theyre building towards

i actually really fucking loved that scene bc while theres outsider perspectives (scara obvi; and even arles line for him has that vibe. and ppl still take that shit face value 💀💀) and a lot of fandom assuming childes like. completely clueless and naive and ignorant towards the potential risks involved with trusting pulcinella. this is actually a very clever demonstration of quite the opposite? and showcasing how despite his aversion towards schemes and lies hes still intelligent and knows the kind of people hes dealing with when it comes to his fellow harbingers

like. childe has a negative opinion of arle based on what pulcinella has told him about her because at face value many of her deeds are in heavy conflict with his values of loyalty and family. and because he does not have the further context behind her actions and what the HotH under her is really like. Obviously hed hold a very hostile and wary view towards arlecchino

(ESPECIALLY when with all this biased intel hes still going to run into kids from the house!!! and then hes going wtf? these are good kids. what the hell is that knave doing with them??? blink twice if you need help i will start a civil war for yall like thats how he is with kids!!!!)

so YES. pulcinella has given him if not false then at least misleading intel based on the political tension between himself and arlecchino and the wider HotH. and childes taken that at face value! sure! he is close with pulcinella of course he would!

BUT. THEN. he returns to fontaine and seeks arlecchinos help looking for skirk. and observes her behavior and modus operandi for himself as well as the kids. does he go "nah she must be just hiding the crazy evil shit i would never distrust pulcinella" and leave it at that when reality doesnt completely match his expectations?

NO. because when offered the opportunity through the traveler asking about the HotH childe immediately capitalizes on the opportunity to prod for answers and see if pulcinella is lying to him!!!!

and hes so fucking smart with the way he does it too???? i LOVE his intelligence. the entire thing is so simple yet elegant; it Completely relies on his reputation as the kinda gullible harbinger whod Never scheme or hide Anything to indirectly affirm or deny his suspicions. he doesnt Need to Pretend to care about the possibility of arle betraying the kids bc he genuinely does!! and when she pushes back against the accusation he doesnt Need to fake admitting to her that well, actually, its all just rumors so he could be completely wrong. and so on. like he navigates the entire thing so effortlessly. and whats the end result?

childe has Confirmation of pulcinellas possible ulterior motives in action AND that arlecchino is a much more reliable ally than he initially assumed. all the while appearing as just The Straightforward 11th. like obviously id need to hear it voiced first to be sure but in text it v much gives the impression hes almost kinda just. playing up the threats towards arle and being "dumb" on Purpose?? to get the answers he wanted out of arle without appearing like hes fishing for anything particular. and i just hhhhhhhhhhh

i love when he does this so muchhhh!!!!!! 😭😭 he doesnt need to become some machiavellian schemer to be able to strategize !!!!!! he avoids scheming bc he Dislikes it not bc hes incapable of it like this has Always been the case Since Liyue AQ and i love whenever they show that side of himm . my Beloved

so anyway. while i do still think the like "pulcinella is bad and has his family hostage" is still kind of a generic plotline and i hope the writing regarding the whole thing wont ultimately turn out to be sth That simplified and black and white. its p clear theyre doing Something with pulcinellas motivations and as they are. im Really glad theyre letting it show that childes not just some completely passive party being manipulated in this all. he Is thinking abt this stuff and his position among the harbingers. ig we shall see where it goes - not the greatest fan of the concept still, but canon text supports it becoming a thing way more than when it was just scaras word we had for it. hope theyll surprise me positively w how they go about it!

then briefly for the rest uhh

also loved arle and childe just shittalking the rest of the harbingers it was amazing. i wasnt expecting this kinda dynamic between them at all but its great lmao. also i wanna see childe hang out w the HotH kids

as for project stuzha; so we dont really get anything solid on it other than being summoned back to snezhnaya for it is apparently a Big Deal. but still very interested. let my man have his endgame significance Trust

childes appearance was obviously v brief ultimately but that was clear from his leaked linecount to begin with - i am pretty satisfied with what they seem to have done w him. like its not The Best but also i wasnt expecting his lore to get some massive expansion in another harbingers SQ . the worst i feared was that it was just going to be a flashback of arle returning his vision which did Not happen so massive W. i am super hyped to hear this scene voice acted proper and happy to see him again, i really hope he gets to appear at least once more in an interlude or dains quest or something before going on hiatus again but idk if thats too much to ask LKKWJDJWDJWD

also: i am never changing my namecard after this patch drops. oh my godddddddd its So Fucking Beautiful 😭😭😭😭

But. Yeah. lots of good stuff. unfortunately lots of it will get misinterpreted and fanon will get obnoxious about it. but i still love getting to see him again and i am speedrunning that namecard day fucking one mutuals and/or followers in EU please add me (UID 711090267) ill need coop buddies for the world bosses

thank youuuuuuu for the ask i hope this monstrosity of a monologue doesnt scare u off 💀💀💀

[beyondflashpoint]

Jasmine “Jazz” Fenton! As promised!

I stuck pretty close to her original design, with a few minor tweaks.

Amongst the Fenton family, she’s probably the most concerned with her physical appearance. She works out pretty regularly, and has even been taking MMA classes. Because she wants to stay fit, and be able to defend herself, obviously. Certainly not because the guy who instructs the classes is a hottie with severe daddy issues and she can totally fix him. Not at all.

Jazz strikes me as a more “natural” make up kind of gal, so instead of giving her red lipstick like her canon counterpart, I went for a glossy natural shade. She probably still put a lot of effort into getting her look perfect.

She’s a freshman at Miskatonic University, just a few miles from Amity Park, where she’s studying psychology in hopes of becoming a therapist. She spends most of her weekends at home, when she’s not pulling shifts at the local coffee shop. She also offers tutoring to students at Casper High.

Jazz is under the impression that she’s always right, which wouldn’t be quite as annoying if it weren’t almost always the case. Insightful, clever, quick witted, and Jazz is impossible to lie to, and that hasn’t done anything good for her ego. She can be a bit arrogant at times, and come across as an insufferable know-it-all, but she at least has the good grace not to rub it in when she told you so. Most of the time anyways. The one enigma she can’t puzzle out, however, is her little brother.

Until recently, Danny was a sweet, thoughtful, gentle young man, but recently he’s become temperamental, dismissive, distant. Jazz is very worried that her dear baby brother might be mixed up in something bad for him.

[chiefdirector]

Playing | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Act One | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26

The cell was everything (Y/N) had expected.

The small six by eight foot cell was kept in meticulous condition. The bed was made without a crease in the cheap prison linen, a singular spare uniform folded precisely at the foot of the bed, and a small stack of books tucked onto the far corner of the tiny desk.

It was exactly what (Y/N) had expected from a woman like Rosalind Dyer. She craved control. She was trying to take control of (Y/N)’s life, almost as if she was a puppet master pulling every single string.

Rosalind Dyer needed control, and (Y/N) was not one to be controlled.

Rosalind did well to mostly cover the fleeting shock on her face when (Y/N) entered the cell before making a quick and smooth recovery. “Hello Detective Bradford, what a nice surprise.”

“Let’s skip the formality Dyer.” (Y/N) said, keeping her tone cool.

“If you insist.” Rosalind gestured for (Y/N) to sit down next to her on the bed, smiling as the detective refused. “What brings you to my neck of the woods then? I don’t suppose it’s a social call?”

“Even if I wanted to, you’re not the type to have friends… or to be able to keep them anyways.”

“Snarky. I like that; but it won’t get you very far. So I’ll ask again, Detective. Why are you here? Because I’m quite sure that pretty husband of yours wouldn’t approve.”

“What he doesn’t know…” (Y/N) let her words drift off as she walked into the room, peering around, trying to find any form of imperfection. A crack in Rosalind’s armour. “I’ve come to ask you something.

Rosalind nodded. “Ask away. Although you may not like the answer.”

It was (Y/N)’s turn to smile as she could see Rosalind starting her infamous mind games. “Why me?”

“I’m not sure I’m following. Care to elaborate some?”

“Why me,” Bradford repeated. “Out of anyone in the department, in the LAPD as a whole, and you pick me. I just don’t get it.”

“Don’t put yourself down so much. You should think much more highly of yourself. Why wouldn’t I pick you? You’re clever, cunning even. And you would be good to ruin.”

(Y/N) chuckled at this although she didn’t find humour in the given answer at all. The two of them both knew that they had to keep a cool and calm facade, and her small laugh caused Rosalind’s to falter.

“What’s so funny, detective?”

“Nothing,” (Y/N) continued to chuckle, although her laughs had begun to soften as her words grew more taunting. “I just thought that you would have something to gain. I mean you’re the great Rosalind Dyer. You had the nation fearful for their lives, and yet the most you can do is fail to spook me. Even worse, your motivation is because I’m ‘special.’ thought you would be cleverer than that.”

“And who said I don’t?” Dyer snapped, rising from the bed, leaving behind creases from where she had sat. “I could just be having you on, playing the long game.”

“What is the long game for you?”

“Freedom.”

(Y/N) snorted this time. “Unlikely. If there was something you wanted from me, you would’ve made a play by now. I may not know you, but I know your type Rosalind.”

Rosalind’s eyes darted away at (Y/N)’s words before they focused back on the Detective. “If you know my type,” Rosalind said, moving forward, causing (Y/N) to take a step back, “then you would know I don’t lose. Now I suppose it’s time you take your leave, don’t you?”

(Y/N) nodded, as she turned towards the cell door. “Have a good day, and thank you for our chat, it’s been very…insightful.”

———-

Fishing the small phone out of her pocket, (Y/N) quickly dialled Grey’s number as she walked through the parking lot towards the nearest bus stop. She listened as the phone rang and went to voicemail.

“Grey,” she said after the tone went, “it’s Bradford. Call me. I’ve got a lead.”

Pressing the end call button, (Y/N) continued to walk until she heard a whistle from behind her. Spinning on her heel, she was greeted by Nyla, leaning on her car.

“What are you doing here?” (Y/N) said, approaching the woman.

“I would ask you the same thing, but I already know. Get in.” Harper snapped, moving round to the driver's side of the car. (Y/N) followed, slipping into the vehicle.

“Here, take my phone. Call Tim. He’s going out of his mind.” Harper pulled out of the car park. “He had half the department at your house earlier. Thankfully, I was one step ahead and covered for your ass. The last time I do so though.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me; call your husband before I rat on you.”

(Y/N) just hummed as she dialled the familiar number and lifted the phone to her ear.

——

“Okay, I love you. Bye, bye.” Tim hung up the phone, sliding it back into his trouser pocket as he walked towards Grey’s office. Knocking, he entered as the Watch Commander beckoned him in.

“Harper was right, I presume.” Grey said, looking up from his computer.

“Yeah, she was. Just got off the phone with (Y/N). They’ll be back by midday.” Tim let his words drift off, the silent worry hung heavily in the air.

Grey looked at Tim with knowing eyes, holding back any form of sympathy. Officer Bradford had never appreciated it before, and he wouldn’t start now. But Grey could only imagine how he was feeling. The Watch Commander knew all too well what it felt like to be shut out of Morgan’s inner workings, the detective was far too independent and it would be her downfall.

“What’s bothering you? Is it the trip this morning?”

“Yes-no. Maybe” Tim stuttered, taking a seat in front of the desk as Grey gestured for him to do. “It’s just that we promised no more secrets and I wake up and she’s gone. And it’s like nothing changed. She doesn’t trust me.”

“Yes she does. You know she does.” Grey reassured, spinning slightly in his chair. “(Y/N) is still on high alert. And you know her best, Tim. Put yourself in her shoes. If someone like Dyer was on the warpath for you, and Morgan was in the line of fire…”

“I would make sure she wasn’t involved. Keep her away.”

Grey shrugged as his point set in. “Look, I’m not saying that she was right. But she had Harper there. She wasn’t alone. Besides, if she had told you, or me for that matter, what would’ve happened?”

“I would’ve stopped her. Or at least gone with her.”

“Exactly. Don’t be too hard on her. That’s my job. She broke so many protocols, she’ll be doing paperwork for today into retirement.”

Tim chuckled at the thought. Thanking the Sargent, he stood and made his way out of the office and towards his boot who was waiting expectedly for him.

tags: @xceafh @kmc1989 @buba424 @salty0cracker @iamasimpingh0e @malindacath @rookietrek @hufflepuffwhore13 @tessalynni @anaferreira-4 @starstruckchopshoptyphoon @alessiamargaux @rexit-mo

Masterlist

26 | 28

[vidavalor]

Do you think Aziraphale has a raging praise kink in addition to his 'food' and 'Crowley watching him do stuff' kinks? *hands you a box of spiced apple muffins, along with the recipe: https://www.hairybikers.com/recipes/view/spiced-apple-muffins*

Hi @jotun-philosopher! A recipe!!! I'm so excited. The website you shared is quite interesting. I'll have to make these on the other side of my holiday food as they look delicious. Do I think Aziraphale has a raging praise kink? Oh, yeah. Raging might be an understatement lol.

Praise kink and trauma thoughts under the cut.

In S2, we go from Lord Beezlebub paralleling Aziraphale, missing their Crowley (Gabriel) while in Hell, and musing that it'd be nice if someone ever told them they were doing a good job over to Aziraphale doing some difficult trauma work in Edinburgh and calling Crowley to talk to him about it. What goes a little undersung here, imo, is the way this is filmed and how Aziraphale can't stop talking about 1827 to a point that Crowley actually has to prompt him into telling him what he learned at the pub about Gabriel. This is because while Aziraphale-- who really didn't need to go to this cemetery at all for any reason related to figuring out what happened to Gabriel-- has been back to Edinburgh since 1827 (Crowley mentions him going to Edinburgh "for the festival" in 1.01), he's never been back to this spot since the night Crowley was yanked to Hell in front of him.

When we come in on Aziraphale at the cemetery, it's right off of that scene in the 1827 flashback and then we watch Aziraphale turn around again, now in the present, right? It's that he does have to turn around that's pretty significant. It says that he's not here because he thought maybe seeing Gabriel's statue again might give him some random insight as to what's happening to Gabriel in the present. He wasn't looking at the statue at first-- we come in on him looking at the spot where Crowley was taken.

Crowley and Aziraphale are in a place between S1 and S2 where Armageddon: Round Two could theoretically happen at any time. They have no idea if it's happening in five years or next Thursday or in an hour, really, and that's made the fact that Aziraphale has really never gotten over 1827 worse for him, to a point that it now bothers him to be away from Crowley for any significant length of time, especially if they've been arguing, because he's always worried that something will happen while they're apart and he'll never see him again. He spent almost a month (estimated by the dates in his diary) in 1827 thinking that had happened. He does some work on that in Edinburgh by deciding to go to the spot again and, when he does, he has to magically get the nearest cell phone so he can talk to Crowley from the spot because he knows that hearing his voice will help.

By telling Crowley that he's looking at the statue of Gabriel, we get in his knowledge that Crowley will understand the significance of this (and in Crowley's response indicating that he does) that they've talked about this at some point. There are other suggestions of that in the season (like the "I'm coming back. I won't leave you on your own" moment) but this phone conversation says that Aziraphale has verbalized to Crowley at some point how much 1827 still bothers him and Crowley understands that Aziraphale is telling him that he's taking a step towards trying to deal with it more.

(This is also an example of Aziraphale having done something clever and needing to call Crowley to tell him about it before he pops lol, which he's apparently been doing a lot lately since he no longer can get a pat on the back from Heaven, not that he ever did much, which is part of the whole damn problem. One could then perhaps presume that Crowley's been doling out a lot of praise over the phone of late, in addition to in person.)

So Crowley responds to Aziraphale telling him that he's in the cemetery in Edinburgh and looking at the Gabriel statue/trying to deal with 1827 by doing what they do sometimes-- cheer each other up from some depressing stuff about the past with a little of some of each other's favorite sexy chat.

This is basically a mirror in reverse of the scene in S1 in the car on the way to Tadfield where Crowley tells Aziraphale more about the antichrist baby swap and how it went wrong. Crowley was feeling depressed about the whole mess and how Armageddon was imminent now as a result of it and Aziraphale's response was to pivot to what was, effectively, dirty talking him in blasphemous Bible speak euphemisms in a dry-as-all-fuck, combination Pompous Angel/mildly soft dom tone because Crowley's sooooo weak for that lol. (I'm talking about the "seeds of destruction" scene, the dirtiness of which is probably a whole other meta, since we're mostly talking about Aziraphale here.)

Aziraphale's version of that is a massive praise kink. He looooves being told he's good at something or he did a good job or really just anything related to him and goodness, since Heaven's done a number on him and he struggles sometimes to fundamentally believe that he is good, which is lunacy but so are negative thought cycles in the first place. The praise thing with Crowley isn't unhealthy-- I'm not suggesting that. Aziraphale's negative thought cycle is unhealthy, obviously, but the praise kink thing with Crowley is actually not a terrible counter to it. It's obviously not the entire solution to dealing with Heaven's abuse of him but it is also doesn't hurt that Aziraphale believes Crowley and values what he thinks, which can help break up negative thoughts.

It exists both in and out of bed and Crowley was intentionally blending that over the phone in the Edinburgh scene by responding to Aziraphale being like I did the really hard trauma work thing we were talking about today and I'm still here go me with the kind of praise you'd give someone for doing something that was tough ("good job") but delivered low and with the little "mmrmm" before it, which was to associate it with, uh, other kinds of praise Aziraphale has elicited from Crowley before, by way of also invoking Aziraphale's Assorted Rumbly Crowley Sounds Kink as well.

Aziraphale undoubtedly heard it and replied around it, like he was doing with most of Crowley's flirting with him in S2, because driving Crowley slowly insane is also Aziraphale's favorite past time. It was made funnier by the fact that he left Crowley in London to get The Shop Lesbians together, explain The Vavoom to a memory-wiped Jimbriel, answer any questions about love for the Inspector Constable angel Heaven sent to spy on them, and fix Shax's "hot water boiler" so The Love Doctor was in and getting no love himself lol. Crowley's comment wasn't meant to go anywhere anyway, really-- Gabriel was literally five feet away at the time, which was probably also amusing Crowley-- but yeah, I think the conscious, intentional way Crowley phrased that is meant to suggest that Aziraphale not only likes positive reinforcement in life in general but has a bit of a raging praise kink in bed, with which Crowley is very familiar.

[warabidakihime]

Vicious Deceptions

Character: Actor!Toji Fushiguro x Actress!Reader | hollywood au Synopsis: Cunning minds entwined, weaving a web of treachery and desire. In a world of secrets and hidden intentions, their love became a tapestry of vicious deceptions.

Content warning: adultery, smut, profanities. minors dni.

*

The news of your movie's blockbuster success spread quickly, and the anticipation for the sequel soared. You, a renowned actress, and Toji Fushiguro, a confident and cool-headed actor, were in the middle of a script-reading session with your co-stars, preparing for the shoot that would begin in three days.

As you read your script, you felt a blush creep up your cheeks when Toji, sitting beside you, subtly moved closer. His mischievous grin hinted at something beyond the innocent facade you both presented to the world.

Pointing to a particular scene, Toji's eyes sparkled.

"It looks like we have a steamy shower scene coming up," Toji remarked, his voice bold and teasing. He knew exactly how to push your buttons and enjoyed the playful banter you shared.

Your eyes widened momentarily, betraying your interest in the intimate scene. You quickly composed yourself and responded with a clever retort.

"Quit acting as if this will be your first time doing a shower sex scene."

Toji chuckled, locking eyes with you.

"I'm not. I'm just excited. I can't wait to shoot this scene with you, Y/N. I can't wait to smack that ass in front of everybody."

"Focus on your script," you said, and for some reason, that was enough to appease your big brute of a leading man.

Your exchanges danced on the fine line between professional camaraderie and subtle seduction. Only the two of you were aware of the charged undercurrent, concealed from your co-stars, the staff, and the prying eyes of the media.

As the script reading continued, you and Toji engaged in insightful conversations that seamlessly intertwined with your characters' dynamics. You traded witty banter, your words carrying double meanings that hinted at a deeper connection.

Your interactions sparked curiosity among those around you, whispering of an off-screen chemistry that exceeded the boundaries of your roles.

Your gazes would occasionally meet, exchanging unspoken promises and shared secrets. The tantalizing prospect of bringing your hidden desires to life on the silver screen left both of you eager for the upcoming shoot.

As the session came to a close, the bustling energy of the studio began to subside. The other cast members bid their farewells, disappearing into the corridors one by one. With a gentle smile, you excused yourself, knowing that a whirlwind of magazine shoots and interviews awaited you.

Slipping away from the crowd, you found Toji waiting, his expression a mix of mischief and anticipation.

Glancing around to ensure no prying eyes lingered, you approached Toji with a knowing glint in your eye.

"See you later. Text me."

Toji smirked. "So bossy."

You rolled your eyes at his teasing, earning a chuckle from him and a resigned sigh.

"I know, I know. You know where to find me anyway; I gave you the passcode to my other penthouse, right?"

You chuckled sultrily.

"Of course you did. Now, goodbye. Let's talk later."

With one last lingering gaze, you both went your separate ways, diving headfirst into the demands of your busy schedules. The weeks flew by in a whirlwind of commitments, each day bringing you closer to the highly anticipated live premiere of your movie.

*

The red carpet stretched like a scarlet river, leading to the grand entrance of the premiere venue. Cameras flashed incessantly, capturing the splendor of the moment. There you stood, a vision in your elegant gown, each step a testament to your confidence and grace.

Beside you, Toji exuded dashing charm in his tailored suit, his ruggedly handsome appeal drawing whispers of admiration from the crowd. As you walked the red carpet together, your co-stars added to the aura, each radiating their own unique charm.

Amid the sea of well-wishers and photographers, your husband stood by your side, his presence not escaping Toji's notice.

Though masked by a smile, a hint of disappointment and jealousy flickered in Toji's eyes. You had promised him that you would leave your husband to be with him, but life's complexities had delayed the fulfillment of that promise.

Engaging in light banter, you navigated the crowd, stealing glances at Toji, who effortlessly mingled with guests and media alike. His charisma seemed to enchant those around him, amplifying the excitement of the premiere.

As the evening progressed, anticipation mounted as the cast and crew took their seats in the opulent theater. Sitting beside Toji, the proximity sparked an intoxicating tension.

With a hushed voice, he lamented, "It's a shame, isn't it? Our characters share such undeniable chemistry on screen, yet the same can't be said for our off-screen circumstances."

You met his gaze, intertwining your fingers subtly. "Patience, Toji. Between us, I'm yours."

Toji pouted, a rare sight, yet in your presence, he revealed new facets of himself. "Divorce the doofus already." 

You chuckled, "Let's enjoy the movie for now."

The lights dimmed, signaling the start of the film. As the familiar opening sequence unfolded, the tension between your characters came alive on screen.

And as you watched the story unfold, you couldn't help but wonder what the future held for you and Toji, both on and off the silver screen.

*

The film enchanted everyone in the theater.

The undeniable chemistry between your characters pulsed through the theater. Throughout the movie, both you and Toji felt a strong sense of pride within yourselves, as the two of you were ecstatic and relieved that you were able to give your characters more justice than you did in the first installment of the franchise.

Following the electrifying premiere, the theater crackled with anticipation and jubilation. Cast, crew, and insiders alike mingled, basking in the triumph of the film.

Amidst it all, Toji's gaze found yours, a glint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

With a smirk playing on his lips, he leaned casually against a nearby wall, observing as you discreetly excused yourself from the group. Your husband, engrossed in conversation with your co-stars, remained oblivious to the brewing tension between you and your on-screen partner.

Taking a deep breath, a surge of audacity propelled you forward as you reached for Toji's hand.

"Toji, I need a moment. Come with me." 

Arching an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips, Toji quipped, "Oh? And what mischief are you plotting now?"

With little time for preamble, you tugged him along assertively and led him backstage.

"Just come."

With your hand firmly in his, you guided Toji through the maze of hallways until you reached your dressing room. The anticipation hung thick in the air as you stepped inside, the door closing behind you, except you failed to close it all the way.

So whatever moment you'll be having with Toji, it can be easily detected by anyone who passes by the area.

Without wasting a moment, you settled on top of your vanity table, your gaze fixed on Toji with a sultry intensity. His eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and excitement dancing within them, as he realized the intent behind your actions.

You beckoned him closer, your legs wrapping securely around his waist and drawing him in.

The intimate contact sent a jolt of electricity through both of you as you felt his arms encircle your body, his touch both possessive and tender.

In the charged silence, Toji's voice broke through, filled with a mix of anticipation and mischief.

"What if somebody walks in on us?"

He says that, but he's already leaning toward your inviting lips while his other hand is holding the zipper of your gown. Wasting no time, you wrapped your arms around his neck and reeled him in for a heated kiss, holding little to no regard to the possibility of getting caught.

Of course, Toji was more than happy to oblige and responded to your advances enthusiastically.

In that intimate space, you both embraced the reckless abandon of the moment, knowing that the world outside those walls could never comprehend the intensity of your connection.

"Toji--" you moaned in his mouth as you felt his grabby hands caressing your sides and squeezing your supple skin. In return, you slide your hands up and down his sturdy chest, shamelessly feeling his abs through his silky dress shirt.

Toji's husky voice contributed to the music being made in that tiny room as he spoke, "You picked this skimpy dress to tease me, didn't you?"

"Did it work?" you responded cheekily, which earned you a dark chuckle from him.

"I wanted nothing more than to bend you over and take you right there and then, the moment I saw you emerge from your limousine."

"What stopped you?" You asked him

"Your husband killed my boner. I didn’t even know you were bringing him along."

You let out a sultry chuckle as you began to grind your hips against his, purposefully tempting his flaccid cock to spring back to life.

"We can't have that now, can we?"

A wicked smile played on Toji's lips, reveling in your audacious nature and feeling his desire grow stronger.

"Absolutely not."

In the dimly lit room, Toji and you shed your clothes with an eager urgency. Every garment fell to the floor, revealing your naked bodies to each other. Your eyes locked, filled with desire and longing. You closed the distance between you, your bodies pressing together.

The heat of your skin ignited a fire within, intensifying the need for each other. There were no inhibitions, only the raw passion that enveloped the room.

Your hands explored, fingers tracing every curve and dip, igniting shivers of pleasure. Each touch sent waves of electricity through your bodies, heightening the intensity of your desire. Time seemed to stand still as you surrendered to the intoxicating pull between you.

Breathless and desperate for more, you locked eyes with him, pleading silently for him to take you to greater heights of pleasure.

"Please, Toji," you whimpered, your voice filled with need.

Toji's lips curled into a mischievous smile as he reveled in the power he held over you.

His voice dripped with playful teasing as he responded, "What's the magic word?"

The teasing only fueled your need, making the anticipation unbearable. But you knew deep down that the wait would be worth it and that Toji's mastery of seduction would lead to a culmination of ecstasy unlike anything you had experienced before.

"Toji~ I don't have time for this."

The man towering over you could only chuckle in amusement, "You're such a brat."

Despite what he said, he immediately adhered to your request and placed his throbbing cock at your entrance, and then he slowly let himself in, filling you nicely and snugly.

Each thrust felt more incredible than the last. The sensations overwhelmed you, evident in the sounds of pleasure escaping your lips and the expression of bliss on your face.

You continued to cling to Toji as he continued to fuck you relentlessly. Moans, profanities, and loads of skin-slapping filled your tiny dressing room.

You were so lost in your little world that you didn't even notice your horrified husband watching from outside.

Normally, you would have been filled with horror and embarrassment, but an unexplained boldness washed over you. Instead of feeling shame or shock, you met your husband's gaze with a cold, unwavering expression.

Toji was right.

It’s high time you end things with your husband and finally be with him. You made a mental note to yourself that, after this, you would deal with your husband once and for all.

Time seemed to stretch as your husband continued to look at you and Toji, his eyes widening with surprise, and you could've sworn you saw tears stream down his face.

Obviously heartbroken by your blatant betrayal, but you remained undeterred, focusing solely on Toji and continuing to lavish him with your undivided attention.

With a mischievous glimmer in your eyes, you even went so far as to put on a captivating display.

And of course, Toji loved your little ploy.

A sly grin spread across his face as he decided to play along.

"Tell me, Y/N, who's making you feel good right now? Hmm? Answer me."

Your response was a fervent moan that escaped your lips.

"It's you."

A teasing glint danced in Toji's eyes as he continued to ravish you, his voice laced with desire.

"And what's my name, darling?"

"Toji," you moaned.

Toji rewarded your response with a playful smack on your ass, eliciting another intoxicating sound from you.

"Good girl."

That was the last straw.

With a shake of his head, your husband left the scene, but none of you were in the mood to care as the both of you were so invested in each other.

Toji's voice was filled with desire as he commented, "You're still so tight for me. Fuck."

You were unable to form coherent words in response, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. Your focus was solely on the sensations coursing through your body, leaving little room for anything else.

He ran his hands along your sides, igniting shivers and goosebumps along your skin.

"You're doing so well," he praised, his touch adding to the intensity of the moment.

The pleasure was building rapidly, and then finally, that hot coil you've been feeling from within shot throughout your body, sending you into overdrive.

To enhance your climax, Toji increased the pace, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. Every movement brought you closer to a mind-numbing state of ecstasy.

-

Later that night, after a few more rounds, Toji drove you home, a satisfied and triumphant smile adorning his face. The energy between you two was still electric, and the intensity of the night lingered in the air.

Upon entering the house, you were met with a somber sight. Your husband sat on the sofa, hunched over, his body language reflecting the weight of his emotions.

It was clear that he had been drinking and crying.

For a few seconds, you observed him, your expression void of any semblance of guilt or shame. In actuality, you're looking at him right now with pure disdain and maybe even disgust. 

The weight of your decision lingered in the air, as you knew what you needed to do.

Silently, you retreated to your bedroom, retrieving the divorce papers carefully stashed in your side of the closet. Each step resonated with resolve; your mind was steadfast in its decision.

Returning to the living room, you stood before your husband, the papers clenched in your hand. With a deliberate gesture, you slammed the documents on the coffee table.

Your voice rang out with finality.

"My signature is already there. I trust you'll have it signed by tomorrow. Good night."

With those words lingering in the air, you turned away to get ready for bed, but as you were walking towards the bedroom, you heard your husband mutter under his breath, "Whore."

With a smug smirk on your face as you continue to march back to your soon-to-be former shared bedroom, you responded in a sing-song manner:

"Remember to use a black pen."

[batsplat]

What was the deal with dovi and his two teammates he did NOT get along with? Personal dislike or what?

so I've rattled off the actual details of the dovi/jorge feud here and this post gives great insight for dovi/iannone. the thing about dovi is that it's kind of funny that it happened twice to him of all people, you know? and the fact that there's (to my knowledge) been fuck all reconciliation? like I said here:

which I think is probably like... my general explanation. it's a) circumstance and b) abysmal interpersonal chemistry. in both cases, you've met the general criteria for intra-team issues:

I should have added that the first criterion is a little more complex than that, because it's also about how competitive the bike is versus expectations. if you thought you were going to be fighting for a title and you're not because the bike is shit, then that's not really the time and place to be starting feuds. but by 2015 ducati was very much on the way up again: for a hot moment early that year it looked like dovi might be a genuine title threat in that year and in 2016 they got their first win since 2010. so, suddenly you've got a manufacturer that's reevaluating its current line up and deciding they want a bigger name to lead the actual title charge... which is where you get the stakes from in both those feuds. dovi/iannone was driven in large part by 'which one of us will get fired' and dovi/lorenzo had the tension of 'this is not the challenger ducati was expecting'. so now you are competing over something a little more substantial... and that makes the difference between 'ah whatever I can paper over these interpersonal tensions' and 'you know what fuck this guy'

the interpersonal chemistry question is obviously more opaque, and again you have to say dovi just got a little unlucky in that regard. from how he talks in his autobiography, it seems like the first feud was just a bit of a radical mismatch of personalities. in iannone, dovi sees someone who is arrogant, obsessed with image and too concerned with beating dovi. it's not exactly a surprise that dovi was severely displeased when he thought he would be dropped for iannone. with jorge... well, you can really see how the competitiveness comes in here, right - the relationship was broadly cordial in 2017 when jorge was in the wilderness and then swiftly deteriorated when he actually got to grips with the bike

also, clearly jorge had some slightly weird stuff going on with dovi... idk, some of the passages read like he thought dovi kinda looked down on him? constantly talking about how clever dovi is, how dovi knows what he's doing... the thing about jorge is that he had a lot of stuff going on as a young man and he was overthinking a lot of things... and some of those things were definitely his rivals... and that did affect several of those relationships for quite a few years. then there's the stuff where jorge repeatedly says how much effort he put into that relationship, celebrating dovi's results in 2017, dovi not appreciating it... I mean, maybe? I can imagine dovi being extremely unmoved by this lol, and certainly not feeling like it means jorge has any credit in the bank the following year. he doesn't like jorge, which is fine... but then occasionally he says something in the press with just enough ambiguity that it allows jorge to go absolutely ape shit and it spirals from there. just a bad combination, really. jorge thought he'd be number one, dovi was very possessive of that project and not willing to cede the lead without one hell of a fight... and they have history and they're both not really particularly willing to give each other the benefit of the doubt. not great

as much as I obviously wasn't being serious calling dovi an awful teammate, he's also not that conflict-averse. he's always been opinionated, reasonably willing to get into arguments (including with the ducati higher ups) and also clearly willing to judge his fellow riders, often quite harshly. he's perhaps not particularly inclined to change his mind either once he's made it up... definitely a character, and perhaps not the type who's really interested in reevaluating relationships post-retirement. jorge on his part has mended quite a few bridges, but it really is just with his fellow aliens - you'll note he's repeatedly incredibly rude about dovi's track record and lack of premier class titles. jorge in general can have a bit of a habit of 'punching down' in a way you won't really get from the other aliens. his nostalgia-inflected warmth towards other riders again really does seem pretty limited to just the aliens, which is how you get him doing instagram throwbacks to motegi 2010 (bonkers lol) and all this *gestures* dani stuff... but with him and dovi, neither of them have really made an effort, and I doubt they will. dovi's the type of guy who wants to see himself as honest and straightforward with these things, so no forcing reconciliation after the fact I reckon. what's wrong with a couple of burnt bridges, right

[tinybirbwrites]

The Ultimate Strategy (Astarion & Reader)

This is very silly. Set rather early on in the game. Nothing romantic, just silly and fun. Gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, sort of implied player!reader. Sort of graphical description of someone being set on fire? Not too graphic but it happens. 1,6k words.

People would often think you’re stupid—Astarion could tell by the way they looked at you or talked to you. He himself thought you weren’t the brightest of the bunch when he first met you. Ohh, but you weren’t stupid at all. Yes, maybe some logical thinking and some puzzles proved a challenge for you, and sometimes the subtext was too hidden for you to see, but you could read people quite well. You could tell when they were trying to fool you; there was always that little knowing smile on your lips and that glimmer in your eyes when you knew exactly what they were trying to do, and yet you went along anyway to humor them, only to beat them at their own game. 

Sometimes Astarion wondered whether you were a master diviner, someone who dreamed about the future every night, because he swore some things you knew shouldn’t be possible. He would see you buy or collect some strange item and think “how unnecessary,” only to be proven wrong a little while later. 

“Humor me,” he said to you one morning, making you look up from your bowl of leftover food from the evening before. “Why are we collecting these?” Astarion gestured over to the big pile of barrels, each either containing oil, smokepowder, or firewine. Quite hazardous, which is why it was being kept far away from Karlach’s tent. You had insisted on collecting each explosive item you could find and carry it back to camp, and because everyone had grown to trust you, no one argued. Because, just like Astarion, the other companions had also noticed your futuristic insight and fondness for ridiculous yet clever strategies. 

You beamed at him. “I’m so glad you asked, Astarion.” Putting your bowl down for the time being, you instead took a stick and drew some lines into the dirt. “Using your wonderful imagination for a moment here, you would see that this,” you tapped the middle of your drawing, “is the place right outside the grove. You know, where we first encountered the goblins that were attacking the tieflings and humans outside the gate.”

He tilted his head, then went to stand directly behind you to look over your shoulder. “I can sort of see it. What about it?”

“Well, my dear friend,” you turned your head and grinned up at him, waggling your eyebrows. “What if I told you that there will be a big confrontation, and we could easily solve it with the right means.” You nodded towards the barrels. “Just imagine; the whole field, full with explosive barrels. One little bolt of fire and they all go boom.”

Astarion imagined it, and yeah, okay, that sounded like fun alright. “And who are we blowing up, exactly?”

“The goblin army, of course,” you said, as if it was obvious. Noticing his frown, you quickly explained, “Everyone keeps talking about ‘the big goblin problem’ this and ‘the goblin camp’ that. Obviously there will be a confrontation at some point, and I just wanna be prepared for it. We’ll probably find out more once we go to the goblin camp ourselves.”

He raised an eyebrow, partly impressed, partly doubtful. “And, what? We just put barrels all over the field and hope they won’t notice and just walk right into the trap?”

You pursed your lips. “Okay, good point. Either we bury and hide the barrels, or we, uhh… Maybe we could put some illusion spell on them? Surely Gale knows a way.”

Astarion stared at you for a moment. “You’re only thinking about this now? You honestly thought the enemy wouldn’t notice—” he looked over at the pile and roughly estimated the quantity, “thirty-something explosive barrels standing around an open area?”

You cleared your throat and put the stick away to keep eating. “... Maybe. But, hey, thanks to you, we can prepare for it now. Thanks, Astarion.”

He could have made more indignant and snarky comments, could have teased you more, and usually he would have. But your smile was so earnest and genuine and bright, all he could do was make a small noise at the back of his throat and shake his head.

Turned out that Gale did indeed know some good spells to disguise the barrels, by putting an illusion on them to make people think they were something else, like a bush or a piece of wood or a big rock. After a few hours of setting everything up, you declared a job well done and that you all would infiltrate the goblin camp the very next day. 

Again, things worked out more smoothly than Astarion thought.

You’d revealed the grove’s location to the drow, Minthara, much to the other companions’ shock. When Karlach took you aside to question your decision, you had assured her that everything would be fine. “I planned for this, remember? It will all work out, trust me. They won’t step one foot into the grove, I won’t let them.”

Astarion personally didn’t really care either way—he had absolutely not grown fond of the tiefling refugees or any of their thieving children, thank you very much—but he was very much invested in your strange plan at this point.

So when the time came, tieflings and druids warned about the goblin army (with most of the refugees actually preparing for the fight, while the druids hid away like cowards inside the caves) and everyone stood up on the hill by the big horn, and you watched as at least a hundred goblins, big and small, together with their blood hungry pets marched up to the gate, you were confident. Perhaps even a little smug.

Minthara was on higher ground, the hill near the middle of the field, and Astarion remembered how you had insisted on carrying several barrels up there as well, fretting about their exact positions. Again, he was convinced you must have somehow known about this. This couldn’t be just a lucky guess or coincidence. 

Some of the goblins even carried little explosive barrels on their backs, which were lit up like a bomb as they ran towards the gate to blow it up. Before they could get any closer, you had already given Astarion the order to shoot the fucker down and let it explode next to one of your own hidden barrels. 

He held his breath, and everyone watched as the chaos unfolded so very beautifully. It was a wonderful and perfect chainreaction; one barrel exploded, immediately setting off the next, and then the next, the fire and explosions taking all of the goblins with it. Before Minthara could react, you quickly told Gale to throw a firebolt at one of the hidden barrels near her position as well. It hit, and Minthara was soon blown off the hill and hit the oil-covered ground. She screamed as she was burned alive, trying to put herself out and sort of succeeding. 

“Karlach, Wyll, can you take her?” you asked. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Karlach growled, taking her greataxe in hand. 

“With pleasure,” Wyll nodded, drawing his own weapon. Again, under your command, they drank a Feather Fall potion to jump down, and Gale used some spells to put out the flames so neither of them would get burned to a crisp. They were resistant to fire, but not immune, and everyone knew you didn’t want your friends to get hurt. 

With fresh burns and wounds all over and her ears ringing from the explosions, Minthara could barely put up a fight. She tried, of course, and she did better than most in her position would have been able to. But with both Wyll and Karlach, still at full health and energized, she didn’t stand a chance. Merely a minute or two later, Minthara was dead. The tieflings cheered loudly, some patting you on the back while Astarion did his best to avoid the praise. The gate was opened to let Wyll and Karlach back inside, and you laughed as you were hugged and picked up by several people (sadly, Karlach still couldn’t touch anyone, otherwise she would have probably done the same). 

“That was incredible!” Zevlor laughed. “We barely even had to do anything, and not one of us got hurt!”

Later on, as you cleaned up the battlefield a little with some others, looting the goblin corpses, you eyed Minthara’s armor, then looked up at Astarion with a critical eye.

“What?” he asked, crossing his arms defensively. 

“Do you think this would fit your frame?” You gestured at the armor—it was rather beautiful, golden and dark gray, the shapes of the plates reminiscent of spiderwebs, fitting for a Lolth-sworn drow like her. 

“Maybe,” Astarion said slowly. “Why? You want me to wear it?”

You shrugged. “I think it would suit you nicely. If you want it, it’s all yours. Maybe Dammon could modify it a little if it doesn’t fit, before he leaves the grove.”

Astarion looked down at what he was wearing now—armor mostly made out of leather, good for stealth, but not the most fashionable, in his humble opinion. Then he looked back to Minthara’s corpse, humming thoughtfully. “Oh, by the Hells, why not? But I want it thoroughly cleaned, I can still smell the smoke and oil all over it.” 

You grinned. “It looks so good, right? I kept eyeing it when we first met her.” 

Reluctantly, Astarion relented. “Well, you’re not wrong.” Hesitantly, he asked, “You really think it will suit me?” He wasn’t self-conscious about his looks, of course. He just hadn’t seen his own reflection in quite some time, and he barely had any idea what colors suited him now. Though he supposed he was doing something right, because most people still swooned when they saw him—including even you.

You nodded eagerly. “Yes, trust me. Gold, silver, black, red, blue… all of it would suit you. I think you could make any color work, if done right. But this armor is just… perfect for you.”

Astarion did not blush—he wasn’t even sure if he physically could. But whatever the case, Astarion didn’t blush, ever, for anyone or anything. Absolutely not.

[peachdues]

Hi Peachhhhh!

FIRST OF ALL i LOVE your work and everytime I see your posts i always get excited. especially when it's abt twatm or compass, they have my heart. you put sm thought and dedication into them ❤️ and it's truely just amazing and so inspiring.

BUT GIRL I NEEDDDDDD a little post about what the hashira think about setsuna ishikuro and what she thinks about each of them. not with thr official kyn background that the other ones have, ik you're busyyyy. just a short post. it'll be so cute to see what sanemi thinks of his little tsuguko !

thanks again girly for all your work. coming home from a day of work and seeing your post, whether it's your actual work or just replying to people's comments, honestly puts a smile on my face.

Omg bestie hi!! This ask is so dangerous because it sent me down a HOLE!!

Read below the cut for Setsuna’s opinion of the other Hashira/their opinion of her! Enjoy!

HOW ISHIKURO SETSUNA VIEWS THE OTHER PILLARS

The Sound Pillar— smug face that would make good target practice for a fist. Still hasn’t learned to keep his mouth shut. Decent fighter. (Still on her shit list).

The Stone Pillar: I don’t know him that well, but I respect him and his strength.

The Insect Pillar: we’ve gotten closer since I became a Hashira, and I’m glad for it. She’s shrewd and insightful in many ways, but she can be a little aloof when it comes to matters of the heart. Hardworking and exceedingly clever. Stronger than she looks.

The Wind Pillar: I respect him now just as much as I did when he was my master. Our breathing styles just didn’t mix well, but that wasn’t his fault. He was a good teacher, and he was able to handle my rage better than anyone. I trust him the most. …. I feel flustered when he looks at me.

The Love Pillar: I adore her. A little over-indulgent as a teacher and we probably deserved to get in more trouble than we did, but she’s the very best among friends. She used her experiences developing love breathing to help me get control over Lunar Breathing. Her command over her sword is something to admire.

The Water Pillar: who?

The Flame Pillar: good natured and encouraging. I see where Mitsuri gets it from. Very honorable. He’s a man I would trust the most, after the Wind Pillar.

The Serpent Pillar: he keeps his distance but I believe it’s out of respect, and I’m grateful for it. He frequented the Love Pillar’s estate for meals quite often while I was there.

HOW THE OTHER HASHIRA VIEW ISHIKURO SETSUNA

The Sound Pillar: Flamboyant when she fights. Sharp-tongued. Looks like Shinazugawa when she scowls. I still stand by my earlier comment, though I won’t say it out loud anymore.

The Stone Pillar: remarkably more at ease than when she first joined the Corps. Her outward confidence tends to mask her shy and gentle heart. She returns the Wind Pillar’s strong feelings.

The Insect Pillar: she is still haunted by her past, but she smiles more easily now. I enjoy her company. She’s become a good friend.

The Wind Pillar: she’s grown into her role as the Lunar Hashira very well. We spar often. I look forward to our meetings. Still as stubborn as she was as a tsuguko, but her rebellious streak seems to have flamed out. I think time with the Love Pillar was good for her. Strong and capable, but I still worry for her. …. she looks good.

The Love Pillar: my dearest friend! The best tsuguko a girl could ask for! She was a fast learner and a total softie once her shell cracked! As beautiful as the moon, and I admire her deeply!

The Water Pillar: i haven’t talked to her much. She once forgot we’d already been introduced.

The Flame Pillar: a worthy heir to the lunar breath clan! Powerful with her techniques and her weapon is magnificent!

The Serpent Pillar: I tend to stay away because of what the Wind Pillar said, but she’s quite strong and seems to have progressed well under the Love Pillar. She has my respect.

BONUS!

The Stone Pillar on the Wind Pillar, Sanemi Shinazugawa: He possesses a strong will and is honest at heart. He’s a bashful person. He is in love with the Lunar Pillar.

Thank you so much for your kind ask!! I enjoyed this so much omg

[garchu-garchu]

Guys, I love Ace as a character. He's cool, he has an interesting story and growth, I love that he has a (quite literally) fatal flaw, and his parallels with Luffy are very nice...

BUT.

I'll always die on the hill that his death doesn't hit as hard as it could have. When Impel Down/Marineford comes by, we barely know anything about Ace himself. He has had such minimal screentime. We know and care for Luffy of course, so his unwavering determination to save his brother compels us to care too because we want Luffy to succeed, and Ace was a nice guy back in Alabasta so we have a shallow bond with him. We also know that he got caught in the first place because he wanted to defend Luffy, so it adds to that brother bond. That alone is part of why we care for his death - because it hurts seeing Luffy lose his brother after EVERYTHING he has done to save him. After he was already technically saved. It's a very touching scene to follow from Luffy's perspective, and Ace's last words are heartbreaking and bittersweet. It's very hard not to feel emotional because the scene is very well written.

But just IMAGINE if we had gotten the ASL backstory before. Of course, I'd tone down the "I'm not going to die!!!" Ace constantly says to still keep the shock of his death, but it would've been MILES more impactful. The backstory is there to add more context to Luffy's grief (and does an amazing job setting up the "I still have my crew" line), and it still hurts when you look back and realize how tragic Ace's death was in retrospect - but we've already felt the bigger feelings!!! The "climax" has already happened and only now we're building up on it? Don't get me wrong, this retrospective storytelling format CAN totally work. But this time, I think Oda should've gone with the standard "backstory to build the climax" format he usually does in his writing. Retrospective storytelling often works best with smaller bits of info, mysteries, and plot twists - not something so big and special like a character death. It also works for Brook! I think it's very clever to have his backstory only be told in the latter part of the arc as closure. Because we already know what happened to his crew and we've learned to care for Brook through the arc, so the scene hits hard like a truck. It works because his backstory isn't very relevant to the arc's climax anyway, only for his own character growth.

The ASL backstory gives us so much more insight on both why this is important to Luffy and helps us understand Ace's character. To me, the most heartbreaking fact we don't know in a first watch and that I think we should is the fact that Luffy (assumedly) has already lost a brother. This completely changes the framework here. It adds a very huge layer on why Luffy is so set to save Ace at all costs. He's lost a brother before, and he's not about to lose another. He has a chance this time. Back with Sabo, they felt hopeless - but now he's strong enough to at least try. And yet, he loses. He's all alone now. He's lost both of his brothers. And that's such an important tidbit we only learn after the fact!!!

We also completely miss the fact that Ace felt alone and rejected by the world ever since he was a kid. Yet he had a whole fleet he saw as a family and his little brother show up in the main Marine base to fight against all the Admirals just to save his life. This adds a LOT of impact to his last sentences and to Whitebeard's sacrifice. Yet... we don't feel that at the moment, either. We only learn of this later (if I recall correctly, I could be wrong about this one).

I genuinely truly feel like showing the backstory before would've made Ace's death more emotional. To me, as it's written, it feels like punching Arlong without knowing why Nami was hurting. It feels like seeing the Nine Scabbards' annihilation without seeing Oden's backstory. Or seeing the Going Merry burn without watching the rest of Water Seven. These would all still be emotional and impactful scenes on their own, but the context makes us understand their stakes and the emotional weight behind them. Because as it stands, Going Merry's death made me cry a river... while Ace's death made me emotional, maybe got my eyes a little watery. And it's a shame because I'm sure I would've cried a river too if I knew the whole context.