#i always forget his a raymond

[romewithlove]

Ray Toro study with some flowers: charcoal on paper + dried flowers (to hide my mistakes). I'm still trying to figure out what to do with the background.

[invinciblerodent]

btw since I'm Verbenaposting, nice as your LI's smile is at the end as it is, and how I like how it kind of echoes the way they gaze up at the Inquisitor and their advisors after the final fight of that game (which, really nice, here they're beside you and in no way below, driving home the way Rook in the story is part of the group while the Inquisitor is always above in some way), I kinda wanna rewrite it for myself the same way I did then, and hc that the immediate aftermath of the final fight is far less dignified.

Like you can't give me sweet, passionate men like Davrin and Dorian, and just have them SMILE at their beloved after they return from what, to everyone reasonable, looks like absolute mortal peril.

It's not just a nice, fond smile, but a fucking bone-squeezing, leg-swinging, drunk on victory kind of hug that's still dripping all sorts of grime and blood, but nobody really cares because (to live with Davrin's turn of phrase) bleeding thorns, you're here, we won, you're alive, you're here, you're mine, I love you.

... So I think that following the endgame, Ver holds it together just until they manage to descend from the Thing (the one that I keep wanting to call the brainstem even though it's not), and Davrin was left down there to help defend the people so he's there to catch her as she basically leaps into his arms and crumples- just like he's always been there to catch her, to lend his strength, and wherever you are, that's where I am, god bless

in my mind, the bottom of that thing being just. a big heap. a cuddlepile.

Ver first crumples into Davrin's arms from like a foot up that thing still. then Taash and Bellara, who came up with her, silently embrace the both of them (Bel on shaky fawn-legs and looking like she's unsure of whether she's about to burst out laughing or into tears; Taash with their head dropped and stock still save for the tremble in their hands- processing still but about five minutes from a "WHOOOO!!!! YEAAAAAHHHH!!!!!"), all three (now four) covered in Elgar'nan's weirdly sticky, tarlike blood that smells like death and clings like a shadow (but it no longer sings with Blight, so Davrin honestly doesn't give half a shit).

Assan is circling their legs like they're slalom poles, overjoyed that his other favorite person is back again. There's all the couples embracing (with most of Neve's weight probably being supported by Lucanis tbqh, poor woman must be so terminally exhausted), but honestly, few people really care whose hand they're shaking or whose arms are circling around their waist, because they fucking won and survived, and there's the fucking Sun, and the overwhelming joy ripples out from the epicenter of it all until the soldiers and citizens in Minrathous are all crying and laughing and embracing one another.

(Dorian is off to the side fussing over his amatus for climbing down a fucking Blight-wall with essentially one hand because for some reason he didn't think that he shouldn't wear his everyday, carved wood prosthetic hand this morning instead of one that moves in any way, and honestly, what is he to do with this man, Maker he's going to be the death of him, they'll have to find another Archon, and then he'll be sorry.)

[croquis-el]

Self-addressing of minor male characters in Ace Attorney (Gyakuten Saiban) / Personal pronouns

We've talked about the main male and female characters, but we shouldn't forget about the minor male characters who accompany us throughout at least each part of the Ace Attorney (GKS) series

The first man who accompanies us throughout the first trilogy is Itonokogiri Keisuke (Richard/Dick Gumshoe)

And here's an interesting point. His pronoun is "jibun" (自分)

自分は、刑事課の イトノコギリという者ッス。

Jibun wa, keiji ka no Itonokogiri to iu mono ~tssu.

I'm from the Criminal Affairs Division. My name is Itonokogiri.

This is a rather rarely used pronoun; it literally translates as "self", although it has the meaning "I/me".

Jibun is used by about only 14% of men and 1% of women. This fact makes the pronoun gender-neutral, but predominantly masculine.

Compared to other first-person pronouns, the nuance of 自分 is introspective, and it's often associated with the military or athletic community, which have strong hierarchies. This suits Itonoko's personality very well, considering that he is a subordinate of the prosecutor and rarely thinks for himself.

Also, "jibun" can be an indicator of the Kansai dialect (Osaka), where it is used to denote both the first and second person. But, since Itonoko's speech was not noted to have any dialect (there are other features), and he was born and raised in the same city (and the city is from the Kanto region), this option is out of the question.

Interestingly, even after Itonoko realized that detectives should do their own investigations rather than rely on directions from prosecutors, and began making decisions on his own, his self-address did not change. Probably a matter of habit.

自分は、何をしたらいいッスか････

Jibun wa, nani o shitara Ī ~tsuu ka...

What should I do...

___________________________________________

Next is our dear friend's father, Mitsurugi Shin (Gregory Edgeworth)

His speech is very formal (like his son's), and he uses the formal personal pronoun "watashi" written in kanji.

私は弁護士の御剣信と申します。

Watashi wa bengoshi no Mitsurugi Shin to mōshi masu.

My name is Shin Mitsurugi, a lawyer.

___________________________________________

Let's not forget about Mitsurugi assistant - Shigaraki Tateyuki (Eddie Fender, almost wrote Raymond Shields)

Most of his dialogues take place with Mitsurugi and young Yatagarasu, and he stubbornly continues to call himself "uncle". (オジサン - ojisan)

オジサン、アトでここの館長に 文句言っとくから。寒すぎだって。

Ojisan, ato de koko no kanchō ni monku I~tsu toku kara. Samu sugi datte .

Uncle going to complain to the director of this place later. It's too cold.

It was not easy to catch his personal self-addressing with other people, but not impossible.

In dialogues with others, Shigaraki-san uses the polite male pronoun "boku" (like Naruhodō/Wright)

ぼく、その････! がんばって助けますからッ!

Boku, sono! Ganbatte tasuke masu kara ~Tsu !

I, well...! I'll do my best to help you!

___________________________________________

Let's not forget about our permanent presiding judge (here is someone who, with rare exceptions, is always with us)

ええ!わ、私がですか?

ē! Wa, watashi gadesu ka?

What? Me?

___________________________________________

The new generation is first represented by rock star and hard-working prosecutor - Garyu Kyoya (Klavier Gavin)

Despite his prominent image as a musician and rock star, Kyouya uses the polite masculine pronoun "boku" (the same one used by Naruhodō/Wright).

ぼくも楽しみにしているんだ。

boku mo tanoshimini shite iru nda.

I'm looking forward to it too.

His speech is generally polite, and in the original he uses various English phrases in his speech, written either in Latin or Katakana. These phrases, by the way, are often used at concerts of musical groups whose first language is not English. (In the localization, as you know, German was used as a substitute).

オーケイ、ベイビー!

ōkei, beibī!

Okay, baby!

___________________________________________

Mr. Garyu Kirihito (Kristoph Gavin) uses the personal pronoun "watashi", which is written in kanji, indicating formal speech and an adult character.

___________________________________________

The second prosecutor from the new generation is a master of psychological manipulation, Yugami Jin (Simon Blackquill)

To be honest, his image as a samurai somewhat clouded my eyes, and I expected some self-addresses inherent in this category (for example, "yo")

But no, Yugami-kun uses the crude male pronoun "ore" (like Odoroki/Apollo)

それと、俺は検事ってェ立場上、 おめえさんに手は貸さねェからな。

soreto, ore wa kenji tte ~e tachiba-jō, o-me e-san ni te wa kasa nēkara na.

Also, because I'm a prosecutor, I won't help you.

We don't know when he started using this designation (there are no monologues from him before his arrest), but judging by his characterization from other characters, he behaved very noble and politely, so perhaps he could change the personal pronoun to a more rude one to maintain the image of a "cruel criminal".

His manner of speech is, in principle, extremely interesting, and, I think, worthy of a separate post. In short - he speaks in a dialect + uses obsolete words + he has a special way of addressing other characters

___________________________________________

The third prosecutor from the new generation, who is also a monk from the kingdom of Khurain - Sahdmadhi Nahyuta (his name was not localized, thank you)

But this young man has an extremely interesting way of addressing himself.

"Sesso" (拙僧) literally means "inept monk".

This is a VERY modest form of address that was used by Buddhist monks.

拙僧がこの事件の担当に ふさわしくないと････?

sessō ga kono jiken no tantō ni fusawashikunai to?

Are you saying I'm not fit to take charge of this case...?

But, this is very different from his speech. Canonically, he is a foreigner, so he does not know all the features of the language in which the hearings are held. Therefore, Nahyuta uses, either unknowingly or intentionally, quite rude vocabulary and manner of speech (at the first hearing with him as a prosecutor, the judge, Odoroki and Kizuki were shocked). Even a native speaker, whose walkthrough I watched, was surprised and commented on this moment.

___________________________________________

Well, that's probably it for now on the topic of personal pronouns, but if you're interested in someone specific that I haven't mentioned, give me a sign.

[mauvecherie-writes]

the kaleidoscope theory: l.hamilton.

• pairing: lewis hamilton x kalani halloway.

• chapter warnings: infidelity.

• ru��s 💌: i won’t be giving out chapter summaries for this story as I genuinely want this story to the kind that you engage with without any hints given. if this story is a success, who knows what the future could be for it 😉. don’t forget to comment, reblog and like 💋.

• tip: kofi | paypal

• w.c: 1.03K

PROLOGUE

JUNE 2022.

The Thompson Hill youth football club the ‘Thompson Tigers’ had won their away match against another local rival team so their energies were still high as the group of young teenagers congregated in the Nando’s restaurant. The team took space at the back of the building but their table had a good view of the high street outside.

“How can you call yourself a Nigerian but you’re ordering lemon and herb?!” Tyrique, the goal-keeper of the team, criticised Michael - one of the defenders. “You’re a disgrace to your ancestors.”

“First of all! I’m half-Nigerian and two, not all of us were born with the devil’s arsehole for a mouth.” The remark caused an eruption of laughter throughout the restaurant.

Emil, who had been quiet in his corner with one headphone covering his ear just chuckled to himself and shook his head as he turned back his attention to the video that was playing on his phone. The footage was of him at the recent match. He had scored twice, his last one being the deciding the goal of the match.

It was something that he was proud of but there had been too many missed opportunities but the rival team had put on a good defence and were quite aggressive with their offence. However, he felt like he could have done more. If he was going to get scouted, he needed to be better.

“Right Emil, what am I getting you lad?” The Thompson Tigers’ head coach. Raymond Wright asked the young boy.

“Erm, just a quarter hot spice chicken with spicy rice and coleslaw . Refill drink please.” Emil ordered his food.

“Any desert for the man of the match?” Emil felt his cheeks warm at the statement. Everyone had agreed that he had deserved the badge of honour. Throughout the entirety of the match, Emil was the man lifting the spirits of the other players, keeping them going.

“No, I’m okay. Thanks coach.” the older man patted his shoulder and then walked towards the counter. As Emil turned his attention back to his phone, a message popped up.

Mum ❤️: Coach just sent me videos of the match! You smashed it honey and I’m so proud of you! I’m sorry that we couldn’t make it. But I will be making your favourite food tonight. Love you baby boy.

The message caused him to smile. His mother was always expressive and she did not care that he found it a little embarrassing and cringe, especially when they were out together in public.

He quickly typed a response back.

Emil: Thank you mum you only missed this one match and that’s only because Titi is sick. As long as I get the most plantain on my plate, we’ll be okay.

Exiting the message thread, he clicked on the thread that he shared with his father. The last message that he had received from his dad was in the morning and it was a google luck text. Emil was a little disheartened but he knew that once his father knew about the results of the match, he would reach out.

Emil shook his head as he locked his phone and took his headphones off so that he could join in conversation with the rest of the team.

Coach and a couple of teammates returned to the table with some refill glasses and cutlery. Emil was focused on cleaning his fork and knife when his name was called out.

“Wassup?” He acknowledged his teammate, Jamal, who had called out to him.

“Isn’t that your dad?” He used his head to indicate towards the window. Outside on the high street was a parked uber and outside of the vehicle stood a man. Emil observed the man. The man’s back wasn’t particularly large, he was just tall. The back of his shoulders stretched out the fabric of the fitted suit and it was in a colour that was typical of the navy blue colour that his father would wear for work. Whilst Emil took after his mother’s rich dark skin - his father was more of a lighter brown that, when it got too hot, he would tan.

And it wasn’t until Emil spotted a tattoo of a small bird behind the man’s ear did it full recognise in his brain that the figure was his father.

Without a further thought, Emil shot out of his seat and rushed towards the exit of the restaurant without a care. His dad was outside and the joy riddling his young body was uncontainable. Months of not having his father not being able to turn up for any of his games, him making that extra effort when his mother was home bound with his little sister meant the world to him.

He swung the door of the restaurant open and only slowed down to cross the road, Emil ran over. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and frowned in confusion at the sight a few feet ahead of him.

Just a few steps in font of him, Emil watched as his father, not even turn to face him, but to open his arms as a woman get out of the fashion boutique they were standing in front of. It was a woman he recognised but in that moment, Emil could not put a name to it.

The woman jumped in his father’s arms and embrace him the way that he had witnessed his mother do so many time before. Emil’s brain was trying to catch up with what was happening but his body was already reacting.

He felt his heart pinch with an acute pain that made it harder for him to breathe. Then tears began to well behind his eyes as the pain was becoming too much as the confusion mounted.

And yet, it wasn’t until his father kissed the woman did that confusion and hurt manifested into a deep betrayal and a furious anger.

His quick feet propelled him forward until he felt his hands pushed against the bodies of the adults, breaking them apart.

“What the fuck Dad!” He yelled as the older man stared down at him with a panicked look washing over his face.

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @serpenttines-library @saturnville @hopefulromantic1 @cocobutterqwueen @bluesole16 @chaneajoyyy @emjayewrites @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @sapphireheaven @olyvoyl @lewisroscoelove @lh44adore @hellomadamebutterfly @scorpiobleue @qveenmelanink @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bekindbecoolbeyou @greedyjudge2 @itsapurrfectstorm @createdbylivingclocks @samiwzx @omgsuperstarg @peyiswriting @miyuhpapayuh @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @perfecttrashface @alianovnaromanovanatalia @leilaxaliel

[aurianavaloria]

KoH - What Good May Come (Baldwin IV x Reader)

Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven

Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader

PoV: Mixed/Split (Tiberias - Fem!Reader - Baldwin)

Length: Long (8k+ words! 😬)

TW: Vague mentions of disfigurement/leprosy

A/N: FINALLY, I've finished the Y/N fic that was voted on so long ago in this poll. Since the results were fairly close, I simply eliminated the least-voted option and went with a combination of the rest. 😁I've tried my best to keep Y/N truly generic, although she is female; in all other ways, though, it was my hope to make her vague enough that readers could envision whomever they liked in whatever universe/version of the story they wished. Backstory and circumstances are also left as vague as possible. As far as personality, I tried to go with what seemed most popular in general, again in an attempt to appeal to the widest audience. I sincerely hope you enjoy, and thank you all for being awesome! 🤗

================================================

“She adores you, you know.”

It was these words from Tiberias that broke the silence between king and vassal – a companionable one… one born from years of acquaintanceship that had seen both parties through their fair share of strife and misunderstandings. A type of camaraderie perhaps only two leaders in their position could comprehend and be satisfied with.

The Count of Tripoli watched as his liege-lord’s attention was drawn from the bright Jerusalem outdoors into which he was all but forbidden to emerge. Watched as eyes as blue as the sky Tiberias knew was above drifted to his own. One was clouded, now – a sign of impending blindness. But Tiberias remembered well when both possessed such a clear and sharp forget-me-not stare, bidding all who beheld their gaze to indeed forget them not…

“I beg your pardon, Raymond,” the king replied, the silver mask he wore slightly muffling carefully-chosen words, smooth as the waters of the Jordan. “My thoughts have wandered, as they often do these days, and I am uncertain as to whom you refer.”

The smallest of laughs escaped Tiberias’s lips as they briefly twisted into a half-smile – a response to His Majesty that perhaps only he could get away with. He swirled what remained of the deep claret wine in his goblet, leveling his gaze at the king over the rim; the Count had known his lord since before he had come of age, and no amount of masks could cover the fact that Baldwin IV of Jerusalem was always aware of more than he pretended.

“Forgive me for my lack of clarity, my lord,” Raymond answered wryly. “I speak of Lady Y/N.”

“Ah, yes.”

Baldwin’s response was accompanied by the slightest nod, silver shimmering with the movement as it caught a sunray. His eyes fell to the chess pieces that functioned not as part of an actual match between them, but merely an occupation for restless hands. Particularly the king’s. Gloved in white, one of those half-numb hands still somehow moved with grace, a slender finger perched atop the head of a knight, resting upon the carved arch of the stallion’s mane.

Tiberias noted the short answer, half-sighed. No doubt His Majesty’s thoughts continued where his lips dared not to go, if the Count knew him as well as he thought he did…

“She speaks of you fondly and often,” Raymond added, sipping of the wine. “I believe she is single-handedly determined to bring your presence back into court by mention of your name and titles alone.”

White fingers released the knight. “The court is far too vicious a place for as good a soul as hers,” Baldwin said at length, sitting back in his chair, another sigh escaping him like the hiss of steam behind his mask as he glanced away. “Lately, I have been thinking of what to do with her. It is increasingly obvious there is no place for her here. Not amongst these vultures.”

“Oh?” Tiberias’s brows arched high. “Isn’t there?”

“No. There is not.”

At that, the Count’s lips pressed together as he leaned forward, setting his goblet on the chess table and folding his hands in his lap. “My lord, surely you aren’t thinking of sending her away. Not from here, where she has found joy despite everything.” He caught his liege’s gaze as it returned to him, adding pointedly, “Where you have found it.”

“My joy is irrelevant,” Baldwin replied flatly. “And as for hers...” he paused, and Raymond could see the king’s throat bob past his bandages. “It will not persist. It is best she seek it elsewhere, before that which she has found here meets its inevitable end.”

The corner of the Count’s mouth twitched. “You, or Jerusalem?”

“I am Jerusalem,” the king answered simply.

Tiberias glanced away, closing his eyes for a moment as silence stretched between them. The Count in him knew that Baldwin was, in a way, correct. Disaster loomed on the horizon – a kind of calamity from which they might not return, and it would most assuredly begin with His Majesty’s death. If the physicians were right and not being overly generous in their assessment, then the king had less than a decade left in his short life. And imbeciles like Guy de Lusignan seemed determined to shorten it further. Yes, she would be safer – and perhaps happier in the long term – elsewhere…

Yet there was something so terribly tragic about it all that Tiberias couldn’t help but feel sympathy grow in his heart for the boy. Yes boy. He hadn’t even had the chance to grow a man’s whiskers on his cheeks before that damned disease had twisted his face almost beyond recognition. And Tiberias had seen it all. Even through the at-times frustrating trials of Baldwin’s kingship, the Count of Tripoli had watched as the golden-haired warrior of sixteen years had wasted away into this silver-faced specter that had become far too wise, far too young…

…but he had also watched those specter’s eyes glow with a long-absent light the moment Y/N had stood before him. For a fleeting instant, he had once again seen the eyes of a younger king, reminiscent of past joys and glorious victories.

Baldwin would extinguish that light in an instant for her sake, romantic fool that he was. Or perhaps it was Raymond himself who was the fool, as he thought of Y/N and how she, too, had been drawn to the king the moment they’d met. How such a precious creature, so rare upon this Earth, had fallen into such a deadly trap… and now it seemed, like a snared rabbit, her only option was to chew off her own limb before the hunter found her.

How to rescue them both from such a fate?

“The girl is in love with you, my lord,” he began after a moment, his voice a growling murmur. “To send her away would break her heart. It would destroy her.” He shook his head, meeting the king’s stare with his own. “As it would you, and you know it.”

“What would you have me do, Tiberias?” Baldwin asked, Raymond’s more familiar moniker finally coming out now that the Count’s words had pierced past the royal façade. “To let her stay will cause her only despair, and that will destroy the both of us as well. And I cannot be that selfish to such a benevolent soul.” Tiberias heard a long exhale behind the mask as the king cast his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for answers amongst the lofty vaults. “Were it not for this disease I would ask her father for her hand and devote my life to her as her husband before the altar of God. But I am a leper, and I am forbidden that.” The pale gaze that returned to the Count’s was a haunting one now, as if all the ghosts of Purgatory screamed through it for salvation. A mirthless laugh followed, a dark sound born of darker thoughts. “It seems I can do nothing else but waste away before her very eyes. So tell me, my wise vassal – if I cannot protect her from what is to come, what is it that I can do?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Tiberias’s lips. “Love her, my lord. As I know you already do.” He paused, propping his elbows on the table and rubbing his sword-calloused hands together as he thought.

“It’s the whole reason for your self-flagellation, is it not?” he continued after a moment. “This talk of sending Y/N out of Jerusalem – your crown tells you one thing, but your heart tells you another, and for the first time you want to toss the crown by the wayside, and that makes you fear you are an incompetent king. So you pick up the crown again in hopes it will crush the heart, and perhaps the love along with it.”

Another sigh, the lids of the king’s eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I only wish to do what is right, Tiberias. It is what I have striven for my entire life, and I will not abandon such principles now. If it means my own suffering, so be it. And as for her,” his eyes opened once more, latching to Raymond’s, “tell me what good may come from the love of a leper.”

This time, it was the Count who sighed, sitting back in his chair. “Peace. Mercy. Comfort. Everything you have brought to this kingdom.” He crossed an ankle over his knee, peaking his fingers. “You cannot know that a little cruelty now will not hurt her any less than what will come later. But you do know that loving her can only bring happiness to you both in the present moment – and that is what she lives for. Not the future.” He cocked his head at the king. “There is nothing wicked in what she desires. Nor in what you wish for her. The both of you want nothing more than the other’s well-being. How can that be anything but right?”

Raymond saw Baldwin’s throat bob again, the mask shimmering in the sunlight as he shifted in his seat, first looking down towards the floor, then back to the illuminated arcade.

“How shall I court her, then?” he inquired at length, his voice softer, cynicism at last yielding to tender warmth. “How to show her this affection of mine without forever staining her honor?”

Tiberias’s jaw worked as he thought for a few moments in silence. “If you wish to be discreet, my lord, I believe I may assist in this matter.”

It was then, as Baldwin returned his attention to the Count, that the latter saw a glimpse of boyish mischief sparkling in his liege’s eye. “I would trust no other to the task.”

================

“My lady, a courier flagged me down today and told me to give you this.”

Your lady-in-waiting approached, holding out a small wrapped parcel.

“What is it?” you asked, interest piqued.

The handmaid shook her head. “I have no idea, my lady. The courier didn’t say.”

You felt your brow furrow as you took the parcel in hand. The fabric was fine, but not terribly so – a soft cream color, tied with a simple yellow ribbon.

“Hmm. I wonder who it is from.”

“He didn’t say that, either,” your companion commented.

Curiosity mounting by the second, you decided to succumb to the impulse to open the parcel, tugging at the ribbon. Casting it aside, you pulled back the corners of the fabric to reveal a folded piece of parchment, within which had been tucked something slightly weighty…

Merely tilting the parchment to the side let the object slide free into your waiting palm, and you couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped you. There, in your hand, lay a lovely brooch, sparkling in the sunlight that streamed in from your window. A small disk of gold, swirling floral patterns weaved across its surface and wound about its edge like vines of roses. At its center was set a sapphire cabochon, polished and glimmering, and from its bottom edge hung a single creamy white pearl, like a teardrop in shape.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!”

The words came from your lady-in-waiting; you were too busy still holding your breath as you took in the details of this exquisite piece. You ran a finger over the filigree and atop the smooth stone in wonder. Who could have possibly gifted you something so beautiful and why?

As if reading your mind, your fellow courtier prompted, “Maybe the parchment says who it’s from.”

Finally remembering to breathe, you nodded, carefully unfolding the small piece of vellum to see a tight, neat script, punctuated with neither signature nor seal:

You will never know how much light you bring into the lives of others. It is my only hope that this small token of my regard brings a measure of light into yours.

This time, it was both you and your handmaiden who gasped in unison, barely stifling squeaks of girlish delight as you exchanged looks with one another.

“You, my lady, have an admirer!”

In awe, you stared at the parchment, reading the words over and over again. But who could have possibly written them?

“So it seems,” you replied at length, running a thumb across the surface of the brooch.

“Well,” your comrade continued, straightening and putting her hands on her hips, “that will give you plenty to talk about at the feast tonight.”

Your brow furrowed. “Feast?”

She nodded with a grin. “Yes, feast! Princess Sibylla arranged it. Perhaps you’ll find your mysterious admirer amongst the guests there, hmm?”

At that, you could only blink for a moment, your thoughts a whirlwind in your mind. Of all the things to find in Jerusalem, you hadn’t quite expected an admirer to be one of them…

“I’m not sure whether to be frightened or excited by the prospects,” you finally replied honestly, a nervous chuckle following your words.

“Oh, lady,” your handmaid admonished, swatting a hand playfully at your shoulder. “It will be quite fun, I’m sure. The princess’s functions are always lighthearted affairs, or so I hear. I imagine there will be dancing and merry music aplenty. Just plan to enjoy yourself, and if something – or someone – intriguing comes along…” she trailed and winked.

You tried to fight the blush that sprang to your cheeks, but to no avail, leading your handmaid to laugh heartily. “Ah, my lady. By your leave, I must see to a few things before evening falls, but I will return to help you get ready.”

You couldn’t help but smile back, giving a nod of assent. “Of course.”

With that, the lady-in-waiting dipped into a polite curtsey and left, closing your chamber door gently behind her and leaving you to your increasingly-anxious thoughts. Your attention returned to the parchment and brooch – both were fine indeed, indicating that, whoever your admirer was, they were certainly someone of status. Yet there was a certain practicality to both; the author’s penmanship was practiced and elegant, but not overstated, and the brooch itself was obviously expensive, but neither was it overly extravagant.

It was also a rather fitting gift, considering you had only just lost your old one on the way to Jerusalem…

And then it hit you.

It can’t be…

Your heart began to beat harder in your chest as it all came to you in a rush. Yes, you’d lost your beloved brooch on the long journey to Jerusalem – one of your last remaining ties to your homeland. A silly thing to get upset about, you told yourself later on, and yet the loss of it affected you even after your arrival at court. Nevertheless, no one up until that point knew besides your lady-in-waiting. And there was only one Jerusalemite native to whom you had confided that little detail.

The king.

Your mouth ran dry as you remembered the instance as clearly as if it had been yesterday. It was only your third day at the palace, and you’d yet to become accustomed to its maze-like halls. Couple that with your fascination with the local architecture, and that led you to places, in hindsight, you probably ought not have tread. Yet no one stopped you, even as the number of palace guests thinned and you emerged upon a quiet, sunlit terrace…

…only to run right into a tall man in white.

It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that you’d plowed headlong into the king himself – quite embarrassing that. In fact, you were so mortified that you were sure you would die of it on the spot, even as you apologized profusely with the deepest curtsey you could manage on weak legs.

To your surprise, however, not even the slightest admonishment came from him. Instead, he chuckled, the sound muffled by the mask he wore. That caused you to look up, still frozen in your curtsey, and that was when you saw the bluest eyes you’d ever seen in your life looking back at you, their squinted corners evidence of a smile behind the almost-angelic visage of silver.

You smiled back nervously, at which point he bid you to rise, assuring you that you had done nothing wrong. An awkward introduction followed, during which you admitted that curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you praised the well-kept grounds and the lovely accommodations you’d been given…

As it so happened, however, he already knew precisely who you were from your name alone – where you were from and why you’d come to Jerusalem. Whether he had gleaned this information from spies or the rumor mill of the court, you weren’t certain, but the more he spoke, the more difficult it became to keep the flabbergasted look off your face. And along with that astonishment came the slightest bit of fear – if he knew this much about you, how much did everyone else know?

Despite your best efforts, though, you must have been unable to keep your face expressionless, as that was when he had invited you to his chambers to speak further in private.

To say you were surprised by such an offer was something of an understatement; it was the last thing you expected to hear after what had just transpired between you, especially from a king to a freshly-acquainted subject. And yet you found yourself quite unable to decline even out of modesty. For one thing, declining the offer of a king seemed most imprudent, and for another…

…well, you were actually rather curious about His Majesty, unwilling to end the encounter just yet.

So you followed him, marveling at him all the while. You knew he was a leper – that was something you’d been informed of before you’d departed for the Holy City – but that didn’t frighten you. You had seen lepers where you were from, and they hadn’t frightened you, either. You also knew the mask was meant to hide the deformities beneath. In fact, it was the presence of that mask that had led you to guess the identity of its owner before it was ever confirmed by his lips – it was a symbol as powerful as a crown. None of that was what had drawn your curiosity; you were motivated neither by morbid fascination nor a sense of pity.

No, it was his astonishingly-welcoming demeanor that had you almost spellbound. The easy willingness to listen and to forgive. The quiet, yet poised decorum. You’d known men and women alike with rank much lesser than his who possessed a cold and domineering manner that was immediately off-putting to almost everyone around them. Yet here was the king of this realm, conversing politely with a lady who had merely lost her way.

Already you had learned volumes about his character, and he’d barely spoken at all.

He had posted guards, you noted, but they kept their eyes straight ahead as you passed them, following King Baldwin into his private quarters. It was a mighty struggle, but you managed to resist the urge to succumb to the eye-wandering that had gotten you into this situation to begin with. Instead, with the same discipline of his guardsmen, you glued your gaze to his back, occupying yourself by mentally tracing the subtle patterns in his coat of white damask silk.

Ultimately, he offered you a seat, and as you accepted with another curtsey, he sat himself a respectable distance away, only the slightest stiffness of his limbs betraying his condition as he settled into the chair opposite you. In fact, you could imagine he occupied his throne in much the same manner as he leaned back, both white-gloved hands curving over the ends of its arms. A servant, unbidden, came forth out of the shadows with a fresh cup of wine, which you took with a polite nod. The man then retreated as quietly as he had arrived, disappearing beyond sheer curtains of pale fabric.

And then, you talked.

It was mostly he who asked the questions, and you answered them as best as you were able; you weren’t brave enough to ask him much of anything, and so you settled for what small bits of information he voluntarily divulged over the course of your conversation. All in all, it was a relatively light discussion. He mostly inquired about your homeland and of your journey – of whether you had experienced any hardships or had witnessed anything of interest on your way to the Holy City, and if you had troubles acclimating to Jerusalem. It was during this exchange that you revealed the caravan’s run-in with thieves… how they had stolen what small bit of jewelry you possessed, sneaking in and out of the tents of the pilgrims and vanishing into the desert night before anyone could catch them.

You only offhandedly mentioned the brooch as the one piece you had any sentimental attachment to. In all honesty, you weren’t even sure if he had been listening at that point, as he had closed his eyes for a long time. You thought perhaps he might even have fallen asleep for a moment; if so, you couldn’t blame him, as you knew his condition was exhausting – you couldn’t imagine dealing with it on top of everything else expected of a king.

It was also quite possible that you were boring the poor man out of his mind with your lengthy and rambling answers, and he was simply too polite to cut you off.

Yet if what your gut was telling you was right, then he had indeed been listening, and far more closely than you could ever have realized…

You hadn’t known, however, at the time. Instead, you’d felt increasingly self-conscious as his eyes opened again, their gaze meeting yours with a piercing stare. Truly, it was as if he was looking through you rather than at you as you turned the conversation to lighter matters – mostly all the wonderful sights you’d seen since arriving in the Holy Land, especially Jerusalem itself. Your observations seemed to please him, and he voiced his gladness that you were, for the most part, enjoying yourself. You’d thanked him for his hospitality, and it wasn’t long after that the discussion ended, king and subject cordially parting ways with nod and curtsey.

Little did you know that one meeting would soon turn into two. Then three. Then more.

Somehow, a few days after your unexpected first encounter, you ran into him again in the garden – though, thankfully, not literally this time. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he once more invited you to further conversation in private, and again you accepted. This time, he inquired if you knew the game of chess, and to your surprise (and secret amusement) he appeared rather pleased when you affirmed that you did. He then promptly challenged you to a match, to which you heartily agreed. Yet even though you were handily beaten, it was an enjoyable game, and you found yourself acquiescing to a future rematch.

It wasn’t long before these games became almost a routine part of your afternoon, save for the days when His Majesty was busy with his council or holding court. And it was during the course of these games that you realized just how lonely he must have been. For the more games you shared, the fewer of them were seen to completion; far more time was spent talking with the board sitting untouched between you than it was actually playing.

He never kept you longer than you desired to stay, and certainly never more than was appropriate for an unmarried lady such as yourself. In fact, he seemed to leave the coming and going mostly to you. Yet you didn’t fail to notice the way his eyes lit up when he saw you, their corners crinkling with a smile you couldn’t otherwise see. It broke your heart that he spent so much of his days, outside his duties, in near-isolation, when he was such a thoughtful, inquisitive, and intelligent soul… such a joy to converse with. And so you’d been sure to praise these qualities amongst your fellow courtiers whenever the chance arose…

It had only just occurred to you in the middle of a recent sleepless night that the reasons behind your persistent compliments might have run a bit deeper than the simple desire to keep his spirit alive in the court he barely saw.

You couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up when your eyes met – those eyes that you couldn’t quite decide were more like the sea or the sky. And it wasn’t just the content of his speech you enjoyed, but the way he delivered it… with a voice that was so easy to listen to for hours on end, so reflective of his serene and introspective nature.

And then there were the times, when he accidentally fumbled the pieces, that your fingers and his gloved ones nearly touched. When you both reached for the fallen pawn only for one of you to swiftly withdraw, each time followed by a soft chuckle. But you couldn’t ignore the sensation that charged the atmosphere, like the feeling that permeated the air just before a storm, and your heartbeat was the warning thunder in your ears…

You shook your head, your thoughts returning to the present as you rubbed your thumb over the brooch’s smooth gem. It was then that the tiniest doubt began to tickle and nag at the back of your mind. What if it wasn’t him at all? What if it was merely a coincidence? Something your heart foolishly yearned for, but that your mind knew well would never happen?

A frown pulled at your lips. Baldwin had proven to be someone to whom you could speak about almost anything without fear of reprisal. Nothing you had confided in him had ever escaped the bounds of his chamber – and there was plenty you had discussed, especially lately. Even if he hadn’t sent this jewel, you could trust him to advise you with wisdom. And despite his relative absence from court, there was no one who knew its members better…

By the time your handmaid returned to help you prepare for the evening, you’d made up your mind.

“I shall wear the blue bliaut tonight. To match this lovely brooch.”

================

Even past the bandages of thin linen and the silken veil covering his ears, Baldwin could still hear the distant strains of music floating through the palace’s long and lonely corridors… the latest in Sibylla’s efforts to keep the place lively even as its king slowly wasted away, out of sight and out of mind.

He could have made a surprise appearance, he supposed. He did that on occasion, whenever he felt particularly energetic, much to his physicians’ chagrin. It was mildly intriguing to see what kind of looks he would receive and from whom– though by this point, those expressions and their bearers had become almost boringly predictable. Fear and awe were ever present, manifesting in the form of slackened jaws and widened eyes and hushed whispers behind hands and veils. Rarer looks of disgust and revulsion were always quickly covered by feigned indifference. Then there were those especially-bold souls who dared to reveal their open contempt in their thinned lips and narrowed eyes.

It was pity, however, that he despised the most.

Dread, loathing, hatred – these were all traits with which any monarch could be clothed whether they wished to or not. Such was the burden of leadership. But pity…

Pity was a mantle that was distinctly his to wear.

Every time he saw it in the faces of those who looked upon him, he was reminded that his crown was secondary to his condition. That they saw the Leper before they saw the King. It was not that he lacked appreciation for those who truly worried for his health and his well-being, but in their eyes he saw reflected back at him what he tried desperately to ignore from the moment his physicians departed in the morning until they returned at night to dress his wounds.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath his mask, and his quill stilled, poised for a moment in the one hand of his that still had life in it before he reached to return the pen to its stand.

Lady Y/N had never looked at him that way.

Sitting back in his chair, he wondered if she was enjoying herself this night. If Sibylla was hosting her well. He hoped that she was, and that his sister had not overwhelmed the poor girl with her almost shamefully lavish tastes. It was evident that Y/N was quite unused to Jerusalem’s abundance in almost every respect; those first few days after her arrival at court, her wide-eyed wonder had rendered her speechless on more than one occasion, or so he’d heard.

A light hum escaped him at the memory of their first meeting. It seemed as though it was forever ago, and yet, at the same time, it felt as if it were only yesterday.

She had been rather distracted, he recalled… so distracted, in fact, that she hadn’t seen him in the corridors, watching as she’d unwittingly wandered into the realm of the royal apartments. With great accuracy, he’d anticipated the trajectory of her meandering steps, and he purposefully made to intercept her before she breached the threshold of what the guards deemed acceptable, even for a lost lady.

Baldwin wasn’t quite as quick as he used to be, though, in part due to that damned dragging foot of his, and he’d neglected to account for his reduction in speed, resulting in an unfortunate collision on the terrace above the gardens.

Or perhaps, he thought in hindsight, it was fortunate after all…

He’d heard enough from his informants to guess who she was. Tiberias and others amongst his court might have suspected she was an assassin simply playing the part of a lost newcomer, and he had to admit that the thought had crossed his own mind, if briefly; in a world such as theirs, it was difficult to imagine anyone without some kind of ulterior motive. Yet it soon became apparent that she was as innocent as the day was long – if there was anything his disease had given him, it was experience reading tone and body language, and he wasn’t certain the best actress in the world could have feigned her level of self-conscious nervousness.

No, Y/N was simply curious and lost. And from what those same informants had told him, she was in desperate need of someone local she could trust. Though evidently satisfied with her new home in every other way, she had been slow to acclimate to the social environment of the court, preferring to keep to herself whenever possible. From this, he suspected her need to get away from the appraising gazes of total strangers was what had initially propelled her away from the great hall, and her natural inquisitiveness had continued to pull her into the quieter depths of the palace.

But the faint smile she’d worn and the sparkle in her eyes had been replaced with fear the instant she realized who she’d run into, and the stuttering apology and low curtsey she’d given him betrayed her anticipation of reprimand.

That was something he’d had to correct, and quickly.

In the moments that followed, he’d gauged it most appropriate for them to smooth over this encounter by getting to know each other better, and thus he’d invited her to do just that in the privacy of his quarters, where they would face little chance of interruption.

As he’d hoped, she’d accepted. And it was this first conversation of theirs that had led him to believe that Lady Y/N was terribly lonely.

Her chatter was slightly nervous and yet, at the same time, somewhat eager. There was little doubt that he’d learned far more about her than she had about him; with but a little coaxing, he had discovered much about her circumstances and about what plagued her. It had displeased him greatly to hear about the thieves that had raided her entourage’s tents on the way to the Holy City, and it irked him even more that she’d lost a treasured possession because of it. Her journey had already been a long and arduous one – had that not been enough?

Y/N put up a rather convincing façade of indifference on the matter, but when he focused on her voice alone, he heard her pain. No, she was no actress, he concluded.

He also hadn’t failed to notice her willingness to make eye contact with him… to look him full in the face and speak freely with every question he asked; she dodged neither query nor gaze. Outside her initial fright on the balcony, she displayed few other signs of trepidation regarding his presence. In fact, it seemed as though she’d just been waiting for someone with whom she could share her thoughts and feelings – as if she’d bottled up everything he’d asked about since arriving in Jerusalem and finally found someone willing to listen.

Had she truly felt so comfortable with him already, or was she simply a trusting soul? He was unaccustomed to both, and it was… refreshing.

His instincts warned him that the jackals of the court would surely eat her alive, and he feared what their viciousness might do to her. What kind of slander and gossip would come from what had been innocent curiosity on her part. How much her character would be maligned for sport. The very thought of it being a possibility made his blood boil.

Over the course of their subsequent conversations, however, he was forced to rethink that initial assumption. Kind-hearted she was, and still too good for the likes of her peers, but she could hold her own among them better than he had anticipated; a few casual inquiries over a few chess matches revealed that much. She saw, heard, and understood far more than her outward appearance would suggest. Behind that warm, gentle, and charmingly-inquisitive exterior was a clever and tenacious woman whom he found to be utterly captivating. No matter the storm around her, she always projected an air of geniality and good cheer, evidently determined not to let this unsettled world tear her down.

In short, the court didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve her.

She never asked him for anything, and likewise she didn’t press questions upon him about his condition. Whenever they passed time together, he felt like neither king nor leper, but like an ordinary man. In her sparkling eyes and healing presence, he saw not pity, but life. A normal life for once. One where he did not have to dread what the next morning might bring.

Alas, that glorious feeling of contentment left him with her every departure.

The sound of exuberant cheers down the corridor pulled him from his musings, and he found himself back in the relative darkness of his chambers, watching the candle’s flame flicker upon his desk. He wondered which dance it was they’d just finished, imagining Y/N in his mind’s eye moving as hypnotically as that very flame. If she danced as beautifully as he envisioned, she would have the whole court entranced…

“Sire, you have a request for an audience.”

The guard called from the entrance to his quarters.

“Who is it?” he asked, hope, dread, and fear all churning in his stomach in a toxic maelstrom. He hadn’t the patience or the energy to deal with most petitioners this night, other than-

“Lady Y/N.”

His eyes widened.

That was quick.

Hope surged forth at the mention of her name, but neither dread nor fear was eliminated by this revelation. Not completely. He had a feeling the gifting of the brooch he’d commissioned would bring her to him sooner or later, but he hadn’t anticipated it being that very day, and especially not with the festivities Sibylla had planned…

Perhaps it is not that, he reminded himself solemnly, but something else altogether.

“I will see her,” he called back at last. “Let her pass.”

There were precious few seconds for him to compose himself before he saw her, at first a shadow at the entrance to his chambers, and then illuminated by lamp and candlelight as she cautiously strode forth. His breath caught in his lungs at the sight of her, her eyes glittering like stars from all those dancing fires. She wore the most beautiful court dress he’d ever seen her in – a sapphire-blue silk bliaut, laced tight at the sides to flatter her form, seemingly a thousand shimmering pleats flowing from her hips to the floor. At her waist had been tied a fabric belt of lighter blue, embroidered in gold, double-wrapped about her body and knotted in front in Frankish style. Her belled sleeves, with their golden trim, allowed only a glimpse of her stark white chemise beneath, and there, upon that same trim that adorned the dress’s wide neckline, had been pinned the brooch, pulling the dipping V above her heart into an elegant keyhole.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted him with a curtsey, offering a smile that shot straight to his heart. “I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time.”

“Not at all,” he gestured for her to rise, turning in his seat to fully face her, “although I would have expected you to be at my sister’s gathering.”

Another smile. “I was, in fact. Alas, I felt the need to speak with you on a matter of great import. I hope Her Highness can forgive me for my early departure.”

The king nodded once. “I am all but certain she will. I am, however, glad you were at least able to make an appearance,” he remarked as he slowly rose from his chair, stifling a groan that threatened to escape him from his aching limbs. Then, pausing, he tilted his head as he allowed himself to take in her attire once more. “You look lovely. It would have been a shame to have wasted such beauty on my poor eyes alone; better indeed that you allowed others with keener sight the chance to appreciate your taste and talents before slipping away to these dark and distant halls.”

Even in the low candlelight, he could see her cheeks flush, and as her gaze briefly flicked away from his, he felt his twisted lips pull into an unseen smile.

“You are too kind, my lord,” she replied. “In truth, I found myself… inspired… by this new jewel I received just this afternoon.” Her fingers drifted to that very piece, pinned above her heart, and Baldwin forced himself to school his gaze… to pretend he hadn’t been the one to write up the specifics of its creation for the royal jeweler… that he hadn’t entrusted it to Tiberias to give to a capable courier… that he hadn’t prayed to God he hadn’t made an irreversible mistake by daring to tread on this unknown path.

“Do you like it?” she asked suddenly, her eyes meeting his. “Believe it or not, it is, in fact, the subject of my concern.”

Something in both her gaze and her tone told him she’d made the assumption he wished. Good. He had no desire to drag this out; indeed, hadn’t the time for it. And now that she was here, following the lead he’d purposefully fashioned, his only task was to find out if Tiberias was truly right about her and her feelings…

Swallowing back where his heart had gathered in his throat, he replied coolly, “Yes, it suits you. Although, I am uncertain as to why you would approach me for such an opinion,” he added with a chuckle, slightly bemused at the way she was choosing to approach this mystery. Indicating the chess table where they’d held so many conversations of late, he beckoned, “Come. Sit.”

Wordlessly, she acquiesced, dipping her head before moving to take her usual place, as he did his.

“I…” she began after a moment, her stare focused on one of the pieces as he settled himself opposite her. “Well, the truth is, I was hoping I could ask you for advice in a matter related to it. Regarding the one who sent it to me, in fact.”

“Yes?” he prompted as he watched her. Time to confirm that assumption.

“Well, you see… I don’t really know who sent it…”

His eyes met hers, squinting a little. “You don’t?” he asked, keeping the skepticism from his tone as he began to pull her thoughts from her.

“No.” She shook her head. “There was no name on the note that accompanied it, so I cannot know for certain who might have sent it. But,” yet another smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, her eyes sparkling again as she leaned forth and propped her elbows on the edge of the table, “I do have an idea, and I was hoping perhaps I might pass my thoughts by you. You know a great many in your court, after all. Perhaps you could confirm or deny my suspicions?”

Oh yes, she knew. He knew she knew. And now she played with him as much as he with her, both seeking confession…

“Perhaps I could,” he answered musingly. “What are your thoughts, then, Lady Y/N?”

“Well,” she began, dropping her gaze to the pieces once more, her fingertips toying with the white king, “I was just thinking of how appropriate such a gift was. Indeed, the person who sent it must know me rather well. It appeals so much to my tastes and is so fitting given recent events.”

His heart felt like it was about to beat itself out of his chest. “How fortuitous.”

“My thoughts precisely,” she agreed, glancing up at him. “And of those whom I’ve spent the most time with, there are few who would know me in such a manner.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

She paused, and he felt her eyes studying him intensely. “In fact, there is only one man who would have known just how fortuitous it was. Only one who would have known I would have need of such a piece. Now,” she leaned back a little, offering him a pointed look, “I do realize that brooches are popular as courting gifts,” she paused, her gaze latching to his, “but even so, I find the choice rather… convenient. Don’t you, my lord?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I understand your meaning.”

Deafening silence stretched between them during which neither of them moved.

“Only one man,” she repeated, her own voice having gone quiet, and Baldwin saw her eyes glimmer in the lamplight. Before he could even open his mouth to offer another comment, she leaned forward again, her gaze burning a hole through him. “Only one man who bothered to know me. To know my heart. To care for me and my life enough to remember what I held dear.” He saw her swallow heavily. “You, my king. You sent it to me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed, nodding once in affirmation.

“Do you mean it?”

Her question was barely a whisper, yet Baldwin felt it in his heart – a probing inquiry seeking out the truth of his intentions.

His blood was rushing in his ears. “Every word, written and unwritten.”

And with that final admission everything was confirmed on his part. But as for hers…

The tears were obvious in her eyes now, pooling at the edges of her lashes. In that moment, he was sure he understood how the condemned felt just before the stroke of the headsman’s axe, before the tightening of the hangman’s noose. What would her answer be, then? He knew in his heart it would be better for her to simply walk away. But would she? Would she willingly doom herself to heartbreak?

At last Y/N spoke once more, her voice a tremulous whisper, and he hung upon every word as though his very life depended on it.

“I know this cannot be a courtship in the traditional sense,” she began softly, her liquid stare never leaving his, “and I know what the others will say…”

He began to feel lightheaded. At this rate, he was going to faint before he could hear her answer in full.

“…but I don’t care. For as long as there is life left in both of us, my king, I am yours. In whatever capacity you desire.”

“Oh.”

The word left him on a whoosh of breath, hissing behind his mask as relief washed over him in a powerful wave, every muscle in his body relaxing at once. Yet he couldn’t help the warped smile that overtook his countenance behind that façade of silver at the implications of her words.

She…?

“Yes,” she said with a nod, as if hearing the question his thoughts posed. A soft laugh followed, even as a shimmering tear slowly tracked down her cheek. “I love you, Baldwin. With all my heart. And I have since the day we met.”

At that, then, there was no longer any question of her feelings. He felt his own eyes welling with emotion, and he leaned towards her as close as he dared, propping his good hand on the table for support. “I regret that I will never be able to show you the extent of my own for you, my dear Lady Y/N. But understand this…” he paused, swallowing heavily. “My purest devotion has and always will belong to you. As much as a wretch such as I can be, I, too, am yours.”

She shook her head. “You are no wretch. Not to me.”

It was then her hand slowly moved towards where his gloved one yet lay on the table’s polished surface, and he flinched, a spike of fear darting through him like the bolt from a crossbow. “Y/N, no…”

Her gaze bored into his, her hand yet poised above his own. “I’m not afraid, my lord.”

“Y/N… please…”

The word was barely a whisper, slipping between the slightly-parted lips of his mask before he could catch it – a cry for her to stop and yet a plea for her not to. It was as if he had been paralyzed, unable to move away despite every corner of his mind screaming at him to withdraw.

If the glove was not enough… if it couldn’t safeguard her…

And yet all thoughts of everything came to a halt the moment her fingers lightly grazed his own, his breath catching in his throat. He felt it – the warmth of her through the thin silk – and it took all of his strength not to flinch away from her again, to curl his hand into a fist and recoil in upon himself to protect her from his horrid disease. Her eyes searched his, seemingly sifting through his soul as further she went. Slowly. Steadily. Her fingertips brushed with a feather-light touch over each set of knuckles, back and forth, and he couldn’t breathe. His lungs were desperate for air as she traced the delicate golden embroidery on the back of his hand; they finally betrayed him then, a shuddering exhale followed by a hitched intake of air he was certain she heard.

Yet Y/N only smiled at him once more, in that warm and gentle way of hers, her hand stilling as it rested atop his. And the entire world stilled along with it, his fear slowly ebbing as reason returned to replace it. These touches were all they had, he realized. All they could permit themselves. And yet still they could hold all the tenderness of a kiss.

Speaking of which…

He moved much more gently, then, as he twisted his hand underneath hers to catch her fingers in his grip. His gaze holding hers, he stroked his thumb across her knuckles before bringing that hand to his mask, where the cold and unfeeling lips touched the back of it in place of his own disfigured ones.

Despite not being able to give her a proper kiss, though, she evidently still understood the gesture, as another blush flushed her cheeks. A soft chuckle escaped him, and he remarked dryly, “There appears to be a bit of an obstacle here…”

At that, uncontrollable laughter burst from her, merry and full, and she clamped her other hand over her mouth to muffle it, leaning against the back of the chair as she continued to shake. He, too, laughed softly at her merriment, and for a moment the sound filled the room with a kind of joy it hadn’t witnessed in years.

After a moment, Y/N finally recovered, and she glanced over her shoulder as the faint strains of another song could be heard. Her gaze glittering with stars, both hands grasped his now and gently tugged as she stood. “Come. Dance with me.”

He blinked even as he slowly rose before her. “I… fear I’m not capable of much these days…”

“Not to worry,” she assured him with a grin, “I’ve just the dance in mind. Like this…”

With that, she pulled him to the open floor at the center of his chambers and began to show him the steps – two sidesteps here, two sidesteps there, a slow twirl of the lady in his arms, and begin again. For the first few cycles, she counted quietly until he caught the rhythm, and then there was only a warm, comfortable silence between them, the two gently swaying and turning to the distant music.

Tiberias was right. In that moment, Baldwin knew only happiness. Peace. Comfort. And so long as Y/N, too, felt these things, he could be content with whatever God had willed for him. He could only pray that, upon his death, the Almighty would be merciful to this woman, a living angel on Earth…

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If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! If you want more of my writing, I also have a WIP Baldwin-centric longfic posted on Ao3 (shameless plug)! 😁Do let me know if you want me to continue this Y/N story! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Also, the dance mentioned at the end of the story was inspired by this lovely one:

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: happy sunday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stop in the openness of the library. Just ahead is the long counter that arcs in front of the windows that look into an office space lined with desks. There are monitors facing away from you, those meant for the librarians and their assistants, and along the far edge, a sign denotes the stations meant for self-checkout.  

You always thought of coming down but never found the energy. Besides, you wouldn’t want to borrow books that could be ruined at home. Beyond that, venturing into public has never been a simple task for you. You go for biweekly trips to spend the food credits on groceries and that’s about it. 

Your eyes skitter around frantically. You hear the babble of children in the kids’ section with its bright colourful chairs and couches and a table of toys for the tots. You quickly surpass it and wander into the stretch of tables and chairs by the reference section. You put your bag down on a chair and sit next to it, folding your hands on the table then pulling them back into your lap. 

You look over at the wall of tall windows that look out into a narrow strip of foliage. The brick walls are covered in thickly woven vines and birds flit in and out of the leaves. It’s pretty. You feel entirely out of place here. 

You check the time on your digital watch. Almost ten. You can at least tick the early box, even though you might fall short of everything else.  

You twiddle your fingers and keep your head down. Your toes tap in your sneakers and you fidget as the time ticks on. What if he doesn’t come? What if you’re not worth it? Should you check your email? 

As you reach your bag, a figure approaches the table from the other side. You retract your arm and peer up at the man as he sets a leather briefcase on the wooden surface. Professor Smith nods at you and greets you by name. You feel like you should stand to greet him. 

He offers his hand as you struggle to get to your feet. You tremble as you hesitantly accept the gesture. You don’t touch people and they certainly don’t touch you. It’s only a handshake. His grasp is firm and his skin slightly rough. Your hand feels weak and tiny in his confident grip. 

He let you go as your fingers tingle, “good morning.” 

“Morning, Professor, er, sir,” you stutter dumbly. 

“Please,” he pulls out the chair on his side and you lower yourself back to the seat. “How are you today?” 

“Mm, okay...” you swallow dryly, “er... you?” 

You almost cringe. It must be rude to forget that. You’re not so use to interaction and you’re certain it shows. 

You cross your arms over the table as his cheeks twitch and he smooths back his blond hair, “good, good,” he answers in his edged accent, “lovely sunshine today.” 

“Erm, yeah, uh...” you don’t know what to say or do. 

You close your eyes and reproach yourself. You must look totally lost. You drag your bag into your lap and unzip it. You take out your notebook and fish around for the chewed bic pen. You flip back the cover and flutter the pages, looking for a blank one. Your conscious of every single move you make as you feel his gaze on you. 

“Right, so, I suppose you’re eager to be done with it,” he begins, “was their particular activities you found challenging? Maybe a formula in particular--” 

“No, I... I think I got it but...” you twirl the pen and try to look at him. You get as far as the knot of his tie, the rest of it tucked beneath a sweater that seems rather much given the weather. “I just... fell behind. I’m s-sorry.” 

“Well, that’s fine. It happens. So, if you can do the work, I can wait on it,” he assures you. “I’m not here to reprimands, that hardly fruitful for either of us. I want us to come to an accord. Let agree on a course of action.” 

“Oh, alright,” you answer stuntedly, “well, I guess if I start Coursebook Four tonight I could have it done by—by Monday?” 

“That’s a good first step,” he encourages as he pushes his glasses up his nose, drawing your eyes up to his. They are icy blue but not cold. “I like it. Setting your own goals. I find for some, it’s more effective than tossing a bunch of dates at them.” 

“Thanks, professor, I... I really appreciate you... doing this,” you can’t help the shame that seeps into your voice. He pities you, you know it. You can see it in his face so you put your focus back to the table. 

“Mm, given your...situation I think it’s understandable,” he says, “not easy to work in a racket.” 

“Professor,” you put your hand to your forehead, dipping your head to hide behind it. 

“Very concerning to hear,” he says, “and to think of a young woman in that environment.” 

“Just my mom and her boyfriend. They don’t bother me.” 

“Seems they do with all that yelling.” 

“I-- I guess but—I—I need to use the bathroom,” you stand up and sway, “sorry.” 

"As you will," he allows lightly, "I'll be here." 

He sits back and checks his watch. It's much nicer than your plastic casio. You nod and sidle out from between the chair and the table. You shuffle away, only looking for a sign as you come out next to the front counter. You have to turn back to get to the bathrooms, your clueless meandering adding to the heat in your cheeks. 

You lock yourself in a stall and try to muster the strength to come back out. Why did you come here? You feel so much worse sitting across from that man. Look at him. How could he not judge you?  

You take and breath and try to shake away the anxiety. Someone else comes in and you make yourself leave. You wash your hands and steel yourself for another delve into the general public. You emerge and stop before the room of tables. 

Professor Smith sits patiently across from your things. You round the table and close your notebook, sliding the pen back in the spiral. You chew your lip and slide it into your bag. 

“I will have Assignment Four done like I said,” you speak barely above a whisper. 

“Sounds great,” he stands as well, “I must thank you for going to the trouble of meeting me here today. I do find virtual appointments hardly have the same... effect. Might I buy you a coffee for the inconvenience?” 

“A coffee? I... no, that’s--” 

“Or a tea?” He suggests. 

“Professor, um, no, that’s okay.” 

“I insist,” he says, “I saw a cafe on my way in. Just on the corner.” 

“I didn’t... bring my wallet.” 

“As I said, my treat,” he intones, “don’t worry, we won’t be talking business.” 

“Erm,” you sniff and slant your mouth one way then the other, “well, I...” you hate to keep saying no, it’s starting to feel rude. “Sure, er, okay, thanks.” 

“My pleasure,” he gestures you ahead of him, “ladies first.” 

You sling your bag on your shoulder and step past the table. You cross the library floor and tread by the curved counter. As you come to the doors, he quickly gets ahead of you and pushes the door open, holding it for you. He’s polite, almost to a stifling degree. 

The sunshine you casts a yellow haze, warming the dark fabric of your hoodie. You descend the steps and he catches up to you, keeping pace as he stays at your side. He points you to the left, “this way.” 

You obey and feel the brush of his sleeve against yours. Pedestrians across the street seem to stare at you. No doubt they can see how you don’t belong with that man. Him in his prim outfit; his sweater pulled over a tidy collared-shirt and tie, and his glasses denoting and air of professionality. But you, in your wrinkled hoodie and jeans, must make a paltry contrast to the man. 

“Right ahead,” he nudges the back of your arm gently before you can veer in the wrong direction, “would you like to sit outside? It’s beautiful out and I see a free table.” 

“Er, if you like,” you shrug and cross your arms, “you really don’t have to...” 

“I want to,” he assures as you come up to the patio area before the corner cafe, “please, you find a table and I’ll go inside. What would you like?” 

You stop just beside the short wooden fencing that block off the seating area. Tea is usually cheaper. You’d rather not stretch his pity past a few dollars. 

“Black tea.” 

“Milk?” He asks. 

“No, thanks.” 

“Sugar?” He arches a brow. 

“Just tea.” 

“Ah, got it,” he dips his chin, “I will return. Please, have a seat.” 

He turns on his heel and as he struts up to the front door, you search the patio. You find a table for two near the wall. You won’t be centre stage there. You put your bag under the chair and sit with your back to the street. 

What are you doing? You could leave now. You could just go home. You came to talk about your schoolwork. So why are you here getting tea with this man? You need to go home and get started on it. You hang your head and lean back in the chair, arms folded as you gnaw your chapped lip. 

The voices of the patrons around you buzz in the air. You catch snippets of conversations; excitement over a date they just had, or complaints about their work life, and even the low murmurs of intimate partners cooing at each other. Life is all around you, happening to other people but you remain in your corner. 

You wince as Professor Smith returns. He places a porcelain cup before you. One you can’t just run off with. He sits across from you as you look up. 

“Thank you, sir,” you utter as you sit up. 

“Not at all,” he blows over his mug, a dark coffee with a thin layer of foam around the sides. You can smell it. “I do get curious,” he sets the steaming cup own, “about my students. Teaching from a screen can be rather disconnecting. I meet all sorts in my work but you... I didn’t see your name in the introductory forum.” 

You look evasively at the brick wall. You untangle your arms and pinch the tag of the tea bag dangling over the brim. You shrug. 

“I must’ve forgot to post.” 

“Ah, never to worry, I won’t dock marks for it,” he kids, “so, you live with your mother.” 

You nod and your eyes drop to the table. 

“She must be proud.” 

You tear the tag from the string and it recoils and falls into the tea. 

“Proud?” 

“Yes, well, you’re going to school. It’s not nothing.” 

“Yeah, but...” it goes without saying; you’re not doing very well. 

“Like I said, you’ve shown you can do the work, so do it,” he intones. 

“I know.” 

“What made you choose this program?” 

“I don’t... know.” 

“Well, you seem to have a natural affinity for numbers. Did anyone ever mention it?” 

“I guess,” you lift the cup by the handle and blow over the top. You cautiously taste it and burn yourself nonetheless. You put it back down and cover your singed lip, the tip of your tongue pulsing. 

“You alright?” He asks. 

You nod furiously. 

“Mm, well, I must admit, I am rather bad at subterfuge. This is a bad ploy,” he sits back, one hand on the table as he taps his index against his thumb, “I’d rather you take your time with the tea and not only for the sake of your tongue. I... hoped to keep you busy so that you needn’t return home so quickly. To that.” 

“That?” 

“What I overheard,” he says. 

“Oh, I told you--” 

“It may be usual for you but it doesn’t make it any safer,” he interjects. “I don’t know if you saw the email but I sent some resource you might look into. Grants. Some for housing. You could extricate yourself. You should.” 

You’re breathless. It’s humiliating. How pathetic you must be in his eyes. 

“I didn’t come to embarrass you,” he leans forward and slides his hand across the table. 

You turn your head and gulp, the lump in your throat suffocating. Your nose tingles as your face scalds. You shudder and push your shoulders up. 

“You’re a bright young woman, I only thought I might...” he struggles to find words, “well, I did not begin as a professor. I did not even start as some high and above pupil. No, I was a miserable lad. Barely made it through my first year but... all I’m saying is I might not have been where you are, but I get it.” 

Your lashes flutter as you fight back tears. You’re so tired of crying. You’re exhausted of feeling this way. No matter what you do or where you are, you just feel like you don’t belong. 

You look at your watch, “I’ll have to go soon.” You won’t even come up with a lie. You need to go before you break down completely. 

He sighs, “right.” 

[siriusblack-the-third]

Matching Misfortunes: Susan Pevensie

I enjoyed writing this one so much. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much!

.

Susan’s cheeks hurt.

She smiles at the boy as he throws an arm around her and winks, and she feels the muscles of her face ache with the effort of holding a smile for hours and hours on end. She wants to shrug off the black-haired boy’s arm, wants to tell him to piss off and not bother her again lest she ask Peter to ensure his distance from her with violence, but she simply smiles at him.

She straightens her spine and smiles.

She ignores the glares her female classmates are throwing at her from all corners of the classroom. She is beautiful, she knows she is, but that does not mean he enjoys being the nectar to the bees that are the hormonal, idiotic boys of Westbrook. She has never enjoyed being known for her beauty, for it has always been nothing but a miserable curse— three wars had been fought for her hand in marriage over the course of twenty years, and Edmund has sometimes called her Helen of Troy for her troubles.

She hates that fucking name.

Her cheeks hurt. Yet, she smiles her most charming smile as she subtly leans away from Raymond— she has heard of the way he treats girls, and she has no interest in being one of his thrice-damned conquests. She has no interest in being a challenge, a trophy to be earned, a thing to be owned. She is to be respected, dammit, she is smart and keen-eyed and knowledgeable. Heaven’s sake, she is a Queen—

She breathes. Pushes the thought out of her mind. Maintains her smile.

Raymond smirks back, dull greyish blue eyes glinting like a broken steel sword in the sunlight that streams in through the windows, and tries to draw her closer to him using the arm that he has around her shoulder. Susan does not deign to move. She does not bother to pretend that she is not stronger than this arrogant youngling, this boy playing at being a man, and simply sits there, unmoving and seemingly oblivious, until he furrows his eyebrows and stops trying to move her without her permission.

Her cheeks hurt.

“C’mon, Pevensie,” he leers at her, and she stops herself from lifting a hand to her back. Five and a half years, and she still hasn’t forgotten the phantom presence of her quiver full of arrows, her bow made of the finest wood covered in intricate carvings.

“Say yes, darling,” he says, and she smiles so that she does not try to stab. “The party would be boring without the prettiest girl in school there.”

Susan has heard that compliment fall from the lips of powerful Kings and lovesick fools alike, and she has never been affected by it. Raymond falls into the third category of the people who have called her pretty, the one where they simply want to be known as the one who broke the prettiest girl’s heart, who claimed the love of the Beauty of Narnia—

She breathes in. Pushes the thought out of her mind. Maintains her smile.

“Well, I don’t know about that, Raymond,” she says in the smoothest, most convincing one that she can muster, and she does not fail to notice the way boys and girls alike sway towards her just to listen to her speak. She ignores the way her heart hums at being listened to, a song she has tried (and failed) to forget for five and a half years. “Parties aren’t really my fancy, you see.”

Raymond waves a hand lazily, and Susan wants to scoff at how far the action is from the effortlessness she is sure he wants to portray. He is an arrogant airbag of a boy with an inflated sense of importance playing at being a powerful man. “Oh, now we both know you’re lying, my darling.”

Susan feels the sudden urge to cut off his tongue, for daring to refer to him as his darling. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and laughs softly, notices the way the students gathered around laugh with her as if following her lead. Her throat feels tight and her eyes burn, and she pushes both feelings away.

“No, I’m telling the truth,” she says, laughter colouring her words in just the right amount that tells everyone that they are welcome to laugh along and sure enough, they do. They do not take their eyes off of her, and follow her unspoken command by laughing along. She ignores the strange warmth that settles behind her heart in her chest. “I get too tired at parties, they’re too much for me.”

She loves parties. She has loved parties for ages and ages, since she was a nine-year-old child and she dressed up to let her father take her and mum out for dancing, and then a twenty-something year old Queen dressed in the finest silks and talking circles around Princes enchanted by her beauty and Kings madly in love with her—

She breathes in. Pushes the thought out of her mind. Maintains her smile.

Raymond’s arm tightens around her shoulders. Susan’s fingers twitch, but she forcefully presses her hand into her lap to stop herself from reaching for the quiver that no longer hangs from her back. There is no quiver. There is no bow. She is a schoolgirl, not an archer. She has textbooks in the bag that hangs from her back. She is a schoolgirl.

“Oh, be a sport, Pevensie,” Raymond scoffs, and Susan wants to rise to her full height and demand that he treat her with the respect she deserves. “It’s just one party, and it’s the first party of term. C’mon, you can even be my date.”

Susan ignores the way the glares are once again aimed at her, ignores the disgust that roils in her stomach, and masterfully stops her smile from curving into a disdainful sneer. An arrogant boy playing at being a powerful man, who wishes that she would clamour for his love. Ha. She has seen many thousands of men just like him.

Many thousands of men trying to seem more important than they are, vying for her attention, looking to claim her, looking to own her, aiming for her throne and her kingdom—

All of them learnt to fear her over time.

All of them learnt over time that she was not just Beauty. They learnt that she was not just respected for her looks. They learnt, over time, that she was Beauty and Brains and Brawn. She was beautiful, she was the peacekeeper, and she was the most talented archer in all the known lands. She was a dangerous enemy to make, and despite her preference for non-violence, would not hesitate to hand out gruesome and painful deaths if needed.

Susan is Gentle, not Harmless.

Men learnt over time, in Narnia, and so will Raymond learn it in England.

She straightens her spine and gently shrugs off Raymond’s arm. He tries to move it back to its former place, and she stares at him with a smile she knows looks too wide and too sharp, making him stop halfway through his movement. That is one good thing that comes out of being truly beautiful— Beauty, true Beauty, is terrifying. It is deadly. It is something that a simple human cannot help but be bewitched by, and Susan knows this. She has known this for decades. She has successfully used this piece of knowledge to her kingdom’s benefit time and again.

Raymond does not try to throw his arm over her shoulder again, and Susan makes sure her smile goes back to its most charming as she engages the rest of the students.

“I will have to decline your.. generous offer,” she says, laying the sarcasm on so thinly that only Edmund would have noticed.

Alas, her dearest younger brother is not here to witness her exercise her power over her classmates. If he were, he would have enjoyed watching them move to her word like mice moved to the Pied Piper’s tune. He is absurd like that, but who is she to deny him his entertainment?

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she sighs as she pushes herself off the desk and stands to her full, impressive height. She brushes her hands over her skirt, takes her water bottle from a boy with a soft smile that has him blushing bright red, and waves to everyone. Without saying a word more, she walks out of the classroom with her head held high and her shoulders pulled back.

Her cheeks hurt.

She walks in silence, ignoring the students that mill around in the corridors of the school. The girl’s bathroom is on the floor above, and it takes her barely a minute to reach it; people clear a way for her, moving out of her path as she walks with measured and careful steps. They do it almost without noticing that they are, almost like a force is making them do it.

Susan locks the door of the bathroom behind her, takes a good look around to make sure she is alone, and bursts into silent tears.

She drops her bag to the floor and leans her back against the door, screwing her eyes shut and letting the tears run down her cheeks and drip off her jaw. Her chest heaves with quiet sobs, and she sucks in shuddering breaths as she slides down to sit on the floor with her head buried between her knees. The warmth behind her heart turns into a painful burning sensation, and she chokes on her tears and emotions that she cannot fully understand.

No matter how much she tries to bury her memories behind smiles that sway the students, no matter how much she tries to forget, she knows what she is. She knows what she always was, and what she always will be.

She is Queen Susan the Gentle of Narnia, the Eagle-Eyed Marksman Queen, Second of the Beloved Four, Defender of the People.

[starboyjun]

batboys as brothers in a isekai manhwa

my first post, please be nice lol.

i have given a lot of thought into bruce and the robins and what type of brother they would be in a isekai family manhwa.

you are the youngest daughter in the family and recently have trasmigrated into the body of the youngest princess of wayne. you had a reputation of being a "wicked" and "brat" in the family. you decided to make sure your family loves you to avoid being killed and having a cushion if something goes wrong in the future.

so... you change and here is how i think the bruce and the robins would treat you.

included in this post: bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, timothy drake, and damian wayne.

ft. a short snippet of alfred pennyworth, cassandra cain, & stephanie brown

bruce wayne - the overprotective father similar to: regis adri floyen (father i don't want to get married)

i think bruce would be suspicious of you at first. like all horrible manhwa dads, he neglected you a lot but he has his reasons. personally, i dont think he's one to hate you if you "killed" your mother during childbirth. i think he would just distance himself. he would give you money and all the support but never be there for you. which is why you think he hates you. there is a lot of misunderstandings, but after seeing that you're making an effort to change he'll be a tsundere and be very clingy and overprotective of you. especially when it comes to potential suitors.

richard "dick" grayson - the one who always supported you similar to: raymond millainare (the tyrant wants to be good)

dick has always been a kind brother, in both lives. though when he actually found proof of you being a horrible person he sort of distanced himself from you. he wants to think you're a good person but you find ways to prove him wrong. he tries to talk to you but you hated him. so when you changed, he had a optimistic view and tried to see if you really changed. you showed how you changed and now he's back to being the brother you once had. he's overall very supportive over you and loves to spend time with you. he's not as protective as some brothers but, he has that brotherly protection. he's the person that knows you best, even knows you more than you do.

jason todd - the one who hates you the most similar to: reynold eckhart (villains are destined to die)

jason hated you, he hates everyone in the family but thats besides the point. jason is known to hate you but he actually doesn't. he secretly just hates his father for how he treated you. he knows how it feels for bruce to treat his children like mere guests at the estate. up to a point, jason never truly hated you. he just wanted to make you into a better person but you proved him wrong. he was the last to believe that you are a brat until a incident happened. then jason just ignored you. he couldn't believe it, his little sister was a brat. when you changed, jason was suspicious, he didn't know what to believe. you showed him time after time that you weren't the person you were, this took jason a long time to believe. he would probably be the last one. jason now loves you dearly and is probably the most protective over you, nobody touches his sister. jason likes to teach you self defense (against bruce's will) to make sure you know how to "kick those evil suitors ass" and protect yourself from his enemies.

timothy "tim" drake - the one who didn't know you existed similar to: cassis pedelian (a way to protect the female lead's older brother)

tim is undoubtedly the most loyal to bruce (imo) so much so that he forgot you existed (he can't forget damian bc he actively causes trouble). you don't make a big scene other than inside the castle, i feel like he helps bruce so much that he forgets about what happens outside of the office. if he's not in the office, alfred is forcing him to eat, sleep, and bath so he has no time to think of you. once you changed, he caught a wind of it from the chattering of the servants and so he decided (be honored he went outside his office for you) to investigate. he watched you in secret and even joined mealtimes to see you and observe you. tim found that he enjoys your presence and often asks for you to hangout in the office (to bruces excitement) just for your company. tim is very loyal to you too now, and would do anything to keep you safe. that includes secretly burning marriage proposals.

damian wayne - the problem child who also thinks youre a problem similar to: ixion (lord baby runs a romance fantasy with cash)

damian views everyone (with the slight exeption of bruce) as a peasant. he has a hard exterior with a inside of just wanting to prove his worth in the family. when you were born damian pretended he didnt care for you but secretly escaped his room (he was under room arrest for his last incident) to go see you while you were sleeping. as you grew up, he noticed how similar you were to him (though he grew up with his mom for most of his life) he wanted to protect you and shield you but he was afraid his "dirty" hands would taint your innocence. so he watched you from afar, watched you grow into a person too much like him, too arrogant, too reckless, too much like a brat. damian was the only person to not hate you. he just pretended to hate you. so when you changed overnight, he was suspicious, who was this person? how did my sister change overnight? so he tested you, test after test. you passed all of them with flying colors. he wanted to know more about you, instead of just staying in your shadows (plus he was jealous of his other brothers spoiling you) so "insists that you go play with him" or "insists that you hug him." he's also a very overprotective one, he's the one that dick has to tie down when you get a marriage proposal. he steals the flowers and gifts you receive and burns them (or sells them to selina for a hefty price) bonus: alfred, cass, and steph

when cass and steph visited for the weekend, they were surprised about the change in the atmosphere, no maid was sobbing or bruised up. they knew of your reputation in the castle. so they decided to not avoid you but hangout since they heard of your change by alfred. alfred sung of your praises and that you stopped damian from cutting down the bushes in the garden. once they hung out with you (besides the annoying visits of the brothers) they decided to stay for the weekend to get to know you more. after all, you're a unique child, one who will be known for generations. part two: batfam as types of isekai romance tropes

[akascow]

the more posts i see about tua4 the more im convinced none of the writers went back and watched the previous seasons because literally so much is wrong dude HAHA

annoying words under the break and spoilers !!

for starters since when has allison ever helped klaus in the previous seasons🧍🏻‍♀️ it was always diego man. im glad he got to be the fun but very cautious uncle for claire but allison rarely helped klaus with anything except in s2 where they just got drunk together on the kitchen floor HAHA

also lila 'i dont like bracelets' pitts who was already shown making bracelets in 2 (with diego), losing her bracelet at the end of 2, then diego giving it back to her in 3 (and she wore that shit !!) all for it to be thrown away for whatever the fuck happened in the strawberry timeline lol

this ones a throwaway rant but 1) why did none of the fives in that diner experience paradox psychosis and 2) whyd they all look the same lol u cant tell me every five chose to wear the same exact suit with the same haircut (and the same age appearance wise!!)

someone already said this one so dont credit me but five wouldve 1000000% recognized his apocalypse that second he stepped outta that train (by the smell) and would not need to look around for 10 seconds at the debris he spent like 40 years in to clock it as ".....i know this place,, its my apocalypse" lmfao yeah man

not gonna get into this one but raymond "id rather spend a day with you than a year without you" chestnut would never fuckin walk out on allison and claire lol WHAT

anotha one that ppl have already mentioned but ben wouldve told klaus what happened to him when he died right? like he stuck around for 15 years because he wasnt ready to leave his siblings he for sure woulda mentioned it at some point right 🧍🏻‍♀️

and biggest of all (for me bc its been bugging me) but if lila had to be there in the end "otherwise itd just reset again" then why the hell didnt the other oct 1st people need to be there too are we just supposed to forget about them (RAHHH) if the reasoning is that they shouldve never existed (awful reasoning btw) then why do the others get a free pass HUH?? unless theyre like "well the cleanse took over the entire world so they got slorped up too" or "the others died a while ago these 8 are the last marigold kids" which is a stupid cop out and i will not accept it lmao.

also they never went anywhere with reggies alien self HAHA not a problem w me bc i do not care about him at all but like,, why was he an alien (i cant remember if they explained it in the comics but) HAHA whatever man

[arioloyal]

[[Sepandarmazgan ]]

(King baldwin iv x reader

Part 3)

Warnings: none

Reblogs are appreciated

:"The Saracen say that this disease is God's vengeance against the vanity of our kingdom.

as wretched as I am, this Arabs belive that the chastisement that awaits me in hell is far more severe and lasting." then he came closer and tilted his head a little.

:"...if that's true, I call it unfair." ended his sentence with a chuckle.

: "Instead of really worshiping and loving God and fighting with their personal feelings, these fanatics always fight with others and from generation to generation, sow the seeds of hatred and scare everyone. If a pessimistic person Wherever he looks, it is natural that he sees everywhere full of evil. Whenever there is an earthquake or a drought somewhere, they consider it a sign of God's wrath, even though God said: "My mercy is always greater than my wrath." However, they sit and They wait. They want to take their revenge. Their lives are full of hatred and enmity. Unkindness is a black cloud that always covers their faces,though it's not true about all of them. There are good and bad people everywhere. " said y/n .

Fanatics, whatever their religion and cult, choose only those sentences from their scriptures that are compatible with their anti-human nature. Don't let the details make you forget the generalities. " y/n then looked her king in the eyes with a motherly smile and said, " Don't worry about your appearance. God is always forgiving and I don't see you like others at all. A beautiful essence is always superior to a beautiful appearance."

King baldwin iv happily took y/n's right hand in both of his hands. It is as if she is an angel who came from God, took the form of a human and is here only to guide and comfort him.

:"Just don't look for heaven and hell in the future," Lady y/n continued in a beautiful tone :" Whenever we can love someone without expectations, calculations, and transactions, we are in heaven. Whenever we quarrel with someone and infect our soul with hatred and jealousy, that is the moment when we have made our own hell."

The leper king stated decisively while tilting his head: "So with that said, I am now in the highest level of heaven." Their laughter broke the silence of the room.

Many days passed and the king changed a little every day as if his body was here but his soul wasn't. Others, especially Princeess Sibylla, believed that this was just a passing excitement and eventually, no matter what, they would get tired of each other, but on the contrary, they became more intimate and close everyday. Their privacy was just for two people and there was no room for a third person. How much did they say to each other?

Finally, these forty days of solitude ended.

:"We have never seen such dishonor! Have you heard the news, my lord?"

The person who asked this question was called jerrard, who was one of the closest friends and supporters of lord Lusignan. he added: "A few nights ago, King Baldwin was seen in a tavern in the Jewish quarter. Raymond was with him!"

lord Guy said: "Of course I've heard, how could I not have heard? But I wasn't as surprised as you. It is not unlikely that someone who decided to make peace out of fear of Saladin's attack would surrender to the wishes of a strange woman."

jerrard shook his head and said: "You're right. It was obvious from the beginning that this would happen. We weren't aware. I wish we had known sooner."

:" Notify all the templars immediately. We must hold a secret meeting. That snake of Persia... We must get rid of her, or she will get rid of us....

:"it's Obeyed my lord."

(Guy de Lusignan pov:)

From the very beginning, the king was soft with non-Christians, until now he's in peace with Saladin. He's friends with all the infidels, or even with vagrants and travelers like y/n. This woman, whose origin is not known at all and where she came from, let her get into his chamber, causing him to deviate completely from the right path. This was enough for me to not trusting them anymore and take an important step to start a big change. Every day I warn my dear wife and my knights to be vigilant against this devil who has assumed the face of a woman. she may deceive them at any moment and turn them away from the God's path."

Lady y/n is the devil herself. It must have been her own doing to send Baldwin IV to the pub. God knows how she convinced that helpless leper to do this

It is good that the people have finally realized the truth. The number of people talking about lady y/n is increasing day by day. They have even made rumors about her forty days of solitude with Baldwin IV, which if she hears, I'm sure she'll pass out right there. From the beginning, I knew that this woman is an infidel beast. she's a fire worshiper. a witch who subjugated the king with spell and magic.

I was walking and thinking about these things. I arrived late for the meeting. All the knights must now wait in the secret hall.

When I entered the hall, I hadn't taken a single step before I felt that the situation was different from usual. All the knights and templars were sitting on two sides. All of them were pale and staring at the ground. Absolute silence ruled the space.

I suddenly realized what was happening. a person was leaning by the window at the end of the hall. A woman with long black hair who had her arms crossed in front of her chest and was standing in front of me with a sweet rude smile at a distance. It was none other than Lady y/n.

she raised her voice from the end of the hall and said, "Greetings to you, lord Guy de Lusignan! We've been waiting for you. You're late."

I hesitated for a moment. Should I answer her or not? In the end I didn't answer. Instead, I turned to the knights and questioned them.

:"What is this infidel woman doing here? Why did you let her interrup this meeting? Didn't I say that this meeting should be private?!"

No one answered me. Everyone was surprised and worried. Y/n broke the silence again. She looked into my eyes again and said: "Don't blame your soldiers, Lord Lusignan. This was my idea. I was walking in the palace this morning when I suddenly thought of coming here and see the person who hates me more than anyone in this land with my own eyes.i had to see if he can tell me the things he says behind me and the king's back face to face?"

(Pictures are not mine. Thanks for reading.)

[flwrcrxwnlyon]

I went back to the scene where they talk about Leon and Targent to make sure that this isn't another case of me misunderstanding something in English again, but yea I think they're very much implying Leon caused Targent to be corrupted

Same with the Mystery text

This part always annoys me when I replay Azran Legacy. Leon could have made Targent worse, but he's not the root cause of Targent's evil. They were kidnapping and threatening people before he ever joined

(side note : I like how Raymond's first 2 lines also apply to Des somewhat. Like Father Like Son [derogatory])

This infuriates me as well honestly!!

The game literally contradicts itself, Targent was born as evil.

They literally separated a family and perhaps other ones as well, and the only thing that the game says is "yea, but it's Leon's fault." which is not true!

I think level-5 changed the things last minute, maybe talking about crime organisation and how the arrest of one (1) leader doesn't really stop the problem was a topic too dark for kids.

(strange since they talked about corrupted politics in lost future, and this isn't a kid friendly topic as well. Plus, Bill Hawks wasn't even punished in the end).

Also, about the two lines apply to both of them, god. Des truly somewhat became the one who hates.

Just like his father, he lost everything (twice), and he's completely mentally destroyed due to trauma and his past.

Can we talk about how he clearly has hatred for his past self, Sycamore. The fool who couldn't even protect his loved ones?

Descole, at this point, could be pretty much a mask. It was a role that he gave to himself in order to forget how much he feels guilty for what happened. A mask full of rage that became what he despited the most.

[failedaethercore]

Another chapter

So...I wrote that last mini fic I posted, but had this brewing for a couple weeks in the back of my mind, so...I just wrote it.

Obviously (if you read the last one) this is only my third fic ever. So I apologize for any inconsistencies or poor writing. I'm trying to improve.

Enjoy, and please feel free to let me know if you have any requests, I am willing to try!

Pairing: Rafayel x MC (reader, usage of "y/n")

Content: Some drama, mostly fluffy at the end.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel twirled his paintbrush idly in his fingers, he was distracted, lost in deep thought as he remembered your last visit.

He had always put up a strong, flirtatious front. He always winked and smirked, and said something to put you on edge, especially when he could pull a clever innuendo out and make you blush first.

But more often than not, your straightforward and candid remarks, gentle and innocent touches, would drive him wild, causing his ears to turn a deep shade of pink. His blood would boil in his veins, unable to control himself whenever your naiveity showed, while you drove him closer to the boundary between respecting your boundaries, and tipping over the edge into taking what he wanted.

You had forgotten. Again. And that in and of itself was enough to drag his heart into depths of sorrow reserved only for those who lost their soulmates to the deep undercurrents. So when you fell back into his life…heh…more like, he tempted you as subtley as he could. The coral he had ground into paint was no mere coincidence. He knew what he was doing, and had hoped that somehow, in some way, you would be pulled in.

He had heard of your new position as a Hunter, so he had hoped you would be a part of the investigation. When Thomas let him know via text a Hunter had come to investigate his paintings, specifically the one that Raymond had bought before his death, he wanted to sing. But when he discovered it was you yourself, he was ready to dance as if there was a bonfire in the center of his studio. He was selfish to drag you back into his life, but he was done being the silent observer. His heart had grown too impatient, too ravenous.

Too weak.

But he gave in to the temptation, finally. His heart had won, and he was slowly playing this game with you, trying to tempt you to choose him, one more time.

Except…

Every small glance, every tiny smile, your angry face when you argued with him, the way the light reflected in your eyes when you laughed. They made his heart beat faster, his temperature rise, and his eyes darken. It would make sense to him, except you were so innocent now. Your memories would flash in your dreams, but never linger long enough to make him feel comfortable to reveal the truth. When you would mention those dreams…or sometimes, nightmares, his heart ached and growled against his ribcage, begging him to tell you. But you would remain in the dark until the day you remembered on your own.

He couldn't thrust the past sins of both your lives onto you, when you were innocent now. He would wait to let those memories resurface on their own, and let himself enjoy the time he has with you now, before the burdens of history rip you from his arms again.

He got to see you often right now, and you had come to rely on him, even if only a little. His heart sung when you would call him out of the blue, or send him a poke for no reason. You wanted to see him, to hear him, you wanted him to think of you, too. But he never needed a reminder to think of you. His heart would never let him forget you, even when he had wanted to. You were his soul, his devoted follower. His heart of itself.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

But now he was consumed by the thoughts of you, as it had been so long since he last heard from you…your recent silence was driving him slowly mad.

He dropped the paintbrush when the phone rang, his thoughts had dragged him far away into the depths of the ocean to reminisce. At first, his irritation overwhelmed him, but then he held a glimmer of hope. Could it be…?

It was Thomas. He left a voicemail mentioning an upcoming interview for a magazine. He had been really putting the pressure on him lately to be better at his media presence. But he sighed angrily, and threw his phone across the studio. It fell with a thud under the sofa, as he reclined against his elbow, sitting halfway up his ladder and staring at the unfinished painting before him.

The blurred smears of color weren't right yet, and he was already annoyed because of that. But you hadn't called him in two weeks. He knew you were on a mission, but the fact that you hadn't so much as checked in once yet, he was ready to snap. You usually at least sent him a text or something by now, just letting him know you were alive.

He refused to text you first, he wasn't the needy type. He meant it. He wouldn't cave. He wouldn't give in. You were the one being childish. Not him. He would hold out until you came to him first.

But when Thomas called again, and wouldn't leave a voicemail, but kept ringing back again and again until Rafayel picked up… He finally picked the phone up from under the sofa, and sighed as he answered. So when Thomas was saying that his bodyguard had ended up at Akso Hospital in critical condition, he didn't hesitate to drop everything and run. He didn't even bother to remember his phone, let alone change out of his wrinkled and paint-splattered clothes. He drove like a madman, the wheels of his sports car squealing whenever he took a turn too hot, and he didn't even apply the brakes if he could avoid it. Running lights whenever he could, if it weren't for the fact that the roads were quiet, he would have been pulled over and arrested for endangering the public.

He pulled into the emergency vehicle loading zone, parking and dashing in, ignoring the shouts of the understandably frustrated paramedics and drivers who now had to deal with his haphazard parking job. He sprinted to the reception desk, immediately asking for you by name.

"And what is your relationship to y/n l/n?" The gentleman behind the desk was clearly exhausted and overworked, nearing the end of his shift, as he glowered up at Rafayel's handsome face. Rafayel didn't even miss a beat, stating bluntly, as if you had agreed ages ago to this arrangement. "My fiancee, she's just been admitted in critical condition, where is she?" The gentleman takes a moment, before making a quick and quiet call to someone on the phone. After hanging up, his face hardened into indifference, as he looked up at Rafayel and motioned down the hall. "She's already been admitted to room C127. You can wait outside until the nurse is done in there."

Rafayel strides to the room without so much as a nod, and grabs the door handle. Before he can open it, he hears a long, painful groan from inside. Your voice. It sounds like you're in agony. He throws it open, shouting your name before the nurse can shush him for being loud.

Your body is laying on the hospital bed, weak but still very much whole. Scratched and battered, and clearly not doing well, but you are not missing anything that he can see. Maybe some hair got chopped off somehow, but you look beautiful to him regardless. He would love you even if you came back as a sea cucumber in the next life, he didn't care.

So when you locked eyes with him, startled by his shout and the slamming of the door, your blood ran cold. You had dropped your phone at some point, the screen shattered and the special hard case you had gotten completely useless, so the entire mission your mind had nagged at you at how worried he must be. You spent all your time teasing and sometimes flirting, but you hadn't been able to shake this feeling that you needed to tell him something more. Your thoughts had drifted to him frequently while you were out on your mission.

So when things started going wrong, and you mean very wrong, you couldn't let him know to wait for your call, or to assure him you were going to be okay, that your wounds were mostly superficial. His eyes, piercing and intense, bore a hole into your heart as if he was trying to make you pay for your betrayal, as if you had broken a promise from centuries past that you had made with him. You quickly tried to cover yourself in a defensive position, even from the bed.

The nurse immediately began to scold him, but he ignored her, as other staff began to run over at the shout. He was about to be escorted out, when you called his name. "Rafayel…" He stopped struggling against the orderlies in that moment. "Y/n! Tell them! You're my fiancee, are you not?!" You blinked through tears of fear, the repercussions of your actions would be indeed steep. "Yes! He is my fiance! Please, let him stay!"

The staff release him soon after, deciding to let it go. Before he could take a step into the room, he was pushed past by a tall, black-haired doctor. He felt familiar, but he couldn't place him. The door was shut shortly after with a cold, short "please give me a moment, she is my patient." And Rafayel stood there, dumbfounded. And a little embarrassed.

He glanced around as people whispered and stared, until he went to sit down outside the room on the chair, and folded his arms impatiently.

He was tapping his leg in annoyance until the door opened again. He stood and watched as the doctor left. He noted now that he was very handsome, and a pang of jealousy gripped his heart as he watched him solemnly nod to you in the room, and then ignore him on his way out. The nurse left shortly after.

You were laying there, in the room. You looked a little haggard now, as if the doctor's words had drained the energy out of you. He strode in, reaching your side in three long steps, only to grab your unbandaged hand and squeezing it.

You were looking down at your hand, as you tried to brace yourself for the barrage of questions, accusations, and the inevitable fight. But suddenly you felt tears on your hand, as his eyes blankly stared at you, large tears rolling down his gorgeous face. Your eyes locked onto his, and he nearly burst into an argument on the spot.

But you held your other hand up to stop him, before he could vent his anger. "I know. I messed up." His eyes softened as he took your other hand and pressed it to his cheek. "Don't do this to me, y/n…" The tears wouldn't stop, he was so angry. He had stayed home for weeks, absolutely worried sick over you, and the first thing he learns is that you've been injured like this, and you just ignored him instead of letting him know yourself.

Then he saw tears, returning his overwhelming emotions with your own. "I'm sorry…my phone…it got damaged…" You keep your hand clasped in his, the other still gently stroking his face. His eyes softened until he found himself holding you, his face buried in your neck. "Don't you dare ever do this again. Never again. You have to tell me when things happen…you must come back to me. Every time. In one piece." Before you could make another move, he scooched you over so he could sit beside you and hold you close. "This is why I hate your work…why can't you just be my bodyguard, and never leave my side? You're not supposed to be hurt like this, y/n…"

You wrapped your arms around him and held him for a moment. Your partner had kept you mostly safe, as he could handle himself, but you had fallen down a hill because of a misstep, which was the main cause of your obvious injuries. This was the first time in a very long time you had needed so many bandages, you usually just needed a quick patch on your way home. But this time you had messed up. You were such a clutz sometimes. But you would berate yourself later.

This man, this beacon of confidence and light-hearted whimsy, who always came bounding into your days with a smirk and a witty retort, was trembling in your arms, as if his world was shaken to its core. You stroked his back and buried your face in his collarbone, sighing softly in his warmth, as you waited for his quiet sobs to subside.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

He was on top of your treatment plan after that, talking to the nurses, and even Zayne, your primary care physician. They were cold and calculated with eachother, and Zayne seemed especially displeased when he now knew the supposed relationship between you two, but you knew it was because Rafayel had wanted to see you right away, he didn't want to be hindered at the entrance. He didn't love you like that, but you were happy that he cared so deeply, nonetheless.

Zayne took him aside and spoke with him frankly in private, and you couldn't help but overhear some of what was said outside the door, as Rafayel was questioned mercilessly about his intentions, if he was lying, and if he truly even cared for you. When he flat out stated that he loved you and would die for you, your cheeks bloomed red, and you sat frozen to the spot, unable to move ever again.

When a nurse brushed past the two men glaring eachother down outside your hospital room, you were forced to focus on something else, as she mentioned you should be able to leave tomorrow, as your injuries turned out to be almost all superficial in nature. You had been covered in blood, scratches, and some severe bruising when you had arrived, but there was no internal bleeding, no deep gashes, no major bloodloss. Your Hunter partner was elsewhere in the hospital receiving treatment, and she advised you to be more careful from here on out, as she wouldn't be there tomorrow to see you released. The scolding smarted, but when the two men came back in after the nurse left, the room's atmosphere dropped to a point below freezing, as the two of them still hadn't reached an understanding.

"Um…Rafayel, this is Zayne…he's my doctor, and childhood friend…uhh…Zayne…this is Rafayel…he's…" you trail off, unsure what he was to you. Were you just friends with a deep bond? You didn't want to overstep his boundaries, making assumptions on his behalf. "Her lover." He stated flatly, still glaring at Zayne with a firey rage. Zayne maintained his aloof nature, glancing away from Rafayel to look at you. Your bright blush returned as you didn't argue the point in any way, and that seemed to answer the question he had.

"…I see." He nodded curtly to you. "Then I will leave you two to talk… Make sure she gets plenty of rest after this, and don't let her move around too much, she's still wounded." He turns to leave, before you have a chance to say anything to the contrary, and you are left in a storm of emotions, overwhelming and causing your heart to bob in your chest like a buoy at sea. Did he mean that? Did he want that…why would he say that to someone so important to you, without asking you first…you swayed between anger and fear, to warmth and joy at the idea that he wanted you to be in a relationship with him like that.

Before you can speak, he puts a finger to your lips. "Shh. I'm not going to force this, but…I was honest, what I said." Your heart flutters at that. Normally you wouldn't be swayed by his words like this, but his eyes were full of honest determination. He held your hands as he looked into your eyes. "I'm going to let you choose. But know that I want this…" He kisses your knuckles as he continues to stare into your eyes, holding you transfixed.

You gave it a lot of thought before you gave Rafayel an answer, and surprisingly, he didn't push the issue. He did spend a lot more time with you lately, making sure you ate and relaxed. He kept an eye on your bandages while you healed, and kept your mind busy with games and chatter all day when he dropped by. He almost lived at your apartment for a few weeks, so much as to even meet Xavier on his way home from the hospital himself. The two also didn't get along, and you found them outside your door having a silent argument, when you came out to see what was taking him so long to come back with the snacks.

"R-rafayel…this is Xavier…he's my partner. We go on missions together." Rafayel's eye twitches with jealousy at the mention of it. Xavier gives a faint smirk of smugness. "Xavier…this is…Rafayel…h-he's my…l-lover."

And in that instant, Rafayel's heart burst, and his smug smirk outshone even the sun. You had made your decision in that moment, without having any thought behind it. It just felt right. Xavier nodded quietly. "Well…I'm back, we'll talk soon at work…" Xavier turned to leave, and you gave him a smile and a quick "uh huh". Before he had taken even a step, Rafayel was pulling you into the apartment and shutting the door behind him.

You let out a scared gasp as he pinned you to the wall beside the door, and looked into your eyes, searching, pleading that it was true. "…are you sure?" You swallow hard, blushing deeply, before you let yourself finally nod silently. He smiles brightly, and takes your face into his hands gently, before placing a soft kiss to your lips. "Good. I was growing impatient."

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

a/n: I wanted something that pulled on some of the lore that really made you think about how Rafayel approached MC in general. I dunno, writing this made me happy. ♡

[glubandeepspace]

good morninggg i love how mc keeps being born into vulnerable positions no matter if theyre a royal or became a hunter or mutually considered an equal to their friend/partner and so on because they seem to always know the least out of everyone else before dying and even whenever theyre bound by some greater force or by choice(s) to whoever it's in a (sometimes also mutually) doomed way

or a way that doesnt even work in mc's favor bc theres setbacks mc especially doesnt know (mc doesnt remember, or mc has to say a name a certain way (rafayel, rafayel who in floral promise says hes allowing himself to be trapped as if it's the first time, as if he didnt very soon after make her realize that she only can sway him through the bond by calling his name a specific special way, as if he didnt not change his name and did seek out her company (like a pepper spice that stings but can still be held & sought and beautiful (aheem heem whimper Anecdote)) then accidentally like her again too much the way he accidentally ended up still liking various aspects of the surface world in general in the process of trying to mostly just learn it because his big thing is seeing the beauty in/despite darkness and not being entirely consumed by his duties (godhood, artist work stuff, justice against raymond-core mfs), as if hes not who keeps seeking her with a softness through multiple lifetimes despite his conflicts n how she forgets him entirely and he already died for her at least twice (fragrant dream, forgotten sea's purposefully ambiguous end's likelihood) he has so much else to do but so does she and

theyre both just ppl fighting to escape / fix fucked parts of the already fucked roles they were assigned by being born))

they said Fate Sucks In All These Directions Let's Beat It Up Til It Goes Where We Wish Or Literally Die Trying Because I Willingly (Perhaps Even Forbiddenly) Gave My Heart To You (Perhaps Literally) And Don't Want It Back Even If Others May Push Or Not Understand Us Or If Even You Won't Understand, Over and Over (new fall out boy song title dropped) that applies to

probably every of the main characters in their own ways and

i love rafayel (can you tell hes my bias)

and his processes & cycles of love & grief for one person + so many people and

i love mc for miraculously still subverting the damsel in distress trope

[fruchtfliege]

🫡🤍🐺

please I am in a Thiam craze and NEED this

...ask from this post...

🫡 - the caretaker

“I'm fine,” Theo groans.

“Do you know the story of the boy who cried wolf? You're like the opposite. You say I'm fine and I immediately start to worry,” Liam says with a bit of sass as he bites his nails and taps his foot on the clinic's floor.

Even Deaton grins at Liam's joke because he has to admit, it's not unjustified.

Theo rolls his eyes. “You got hit by the powder too. Why aren't you getting checked out?” he throws at Liam who's standing way too close to Deaton as he checks Theo's vitals.

At that, the vet stops and turns to frown at the beta.

“Well... I was gonna. I'm just waiting for my turn.” Liam blushes under both Theo's and Deaton's unconvinced looks. “And you hit your head pretty bad, what if you got a concussion or something!”

“I'm an invincible supernatural creature,” Theo reminds them with a groan, growing more grumpy and annoyed every second he stays on the examination table.

Deaton looks into the chimera’s eyes and raising three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding?”

“Six,” Theo answers, bored.

Deaton and Liam share a look.

“I'm joking!” Theo exclaims like that was obvious.

🤍 - first chimera!liam au

“Try and get his scent,” Stiles urges him. “Get anything?”

“Well, it's a mix of honey with a bit of sweat but it's not bad, it's actually-”

Stiles punches Theo's arm a bit harsher than necessary. “Not his actual scent! His emotional state. Chemosignals!”

“Oh,” Theo says, now a bit embarrassed.

Well, Theo hasn't been around Liam all that long but there's always some kind of low rage to his scent. Even when he's happy and smiling. So he disregards that, thinking that it must be more his scent than an actual emotion that he drags everywhere.

“He's sad.”

“Wow, in a cemetery? No way,” Stiles tells him sarcastically, still so impatient. “Don't tell me. It's grief.”

“It's not grief,” Theo tells him, not fazed by Stiles' attitude. “It's uh…” Theo is puzzled for a few seconds. He's not that bad at chemosignals usually. It's one of the only shifter things where he's pretty average. Which is a good thing. “It's resentment.”

Before he can add something else, he smells the rage in Liam's scent suddenly flare up and explode into the air. Theo is shocked by it even at this distance.

Liam starts kicking the dirt furiously in front of the tombstone. Both Stiles and Theo stay silent, speechless. Even from a distance, they can hear Liam sniffing and it's clear that he's crying, passing a sleeve over his face often.

A bit more controlled, Liam takes the flowers that were on the tombstone and puts them on the one next to it, not really caring as long as they're not for this particular person anymore. And then he leaves.

They wait until Liam is fully out of the cemetery before they approach the tombstone.

Raymond Dunbar

Loving son, father, and husband

1974 - 2005

Theo does the math in his mind. He died the year Liam first left town. Where there is bright and luscious grass everywhere else, Liam's father's tombstone is barely more than dirt with pathetic patches of dry grass. Liam must come here often to make sure there's never any green here.

🐺 - stuck as a wolf!theo au

“Alright, just one final thing! No matter what… we can't let Stiles know that we're going out!” Liam says quickly as he takes his backpack, ready to go.  

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Liam says again, nodding at Theo with relief. “Great!”

“Are you sure?” Mason stops their “exactlyyy” moment to ask. “Maybe it would be better to come forward and-”

“No!” Both Liam and Theo exclaim at the same time.

Mason isn’t the angry type. At best, he gets annoyed and then, a few minutes later, he somehow forgets about it. Liam has always been envious of that quality. That being said, it also means that, when Mason looks at him with that peeved look, Liam knows something is definitely bugging him. That light squinting is probably the equivalent of Liam getting his claws out and growling. So he thinks about it for a few seconds. 

“Maybe after the pack meeting,” Liam suggests, trying to find a compromise.

“Yeah, like in ten years,” Theo adds with a snort. 

Liam slaps his arm but, based on Theo’s puzzled “what?”, it seems the chimera didn’t spot Mason putting his foot down. 

Mason’s intense look lands on Theo and Liam knows he’s about to get it. 

“Didn’t take you for a romantic, Raeken, but ten years? Wow, you must love Liam a whole lot to picture yourself still with him in a decade.” 

Theo doesn’t move but his face gains just enough blush for Mason to be satisfied as he turns on his heels and heads for the door.

[izasbjdphoto]

I’m pleased to introduce Zai, doll number 51. He is Jazz’s first mate and lover, and the father of her daughter (Bonnie). I still need to get a picture of the 3 of them together…

Zai is a Dollzone Raymond-1, who took Val’s previous body (B70-003). I knew he’d fit as Raymond had been originally released with that body way back when. I got the head secondhand.

He is normal pink, though the body is the old dark normal yellow from 2015. I knew I’d have to color match no matter what head I decided on. I’ve always liked the Raymond head, just didn’t know which character he suited, but his gaunt features are perfect for Zai!

Here’s some closeups of his Faceup. I’m really proud of his scarring, I always forget how much I love the look of them. They require patience as I use the glue method to apply them, which means I gotta wait for the pva glue to fully dry before I can seal and continue…

The what is what:

Sculpt: Dollzone Raymond-1 in normal pink color matched to normal yellow on a DZ B70-003 body

Eyes: EyesinaBox on Etsy

Wig: Monique Gold 8-9 Reeva in black-brown

Faceup: me over at @izasfaceups

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Stephen A. Crockett Jr. at HuffPost:

I’ve always been stunned at former President Donald Trump’s physical prowess.

I mean, who can forget when his White House director of communications, Anthony Scaramucci, gushed about witnessing Trump throw a perfect spiral through a tire? Or his claim that he’s seen the confirmed thousand-aire at Madison Square Garden in a top coat at the foul line swishing free throws? And despite all of us knowing that the former president’s diet relies heavily on fast food, that didn’t stop his White House physician, now Rep. Ronny Jackson (R-Texas), from praising his genetics. “Some people just have great genes,” Jackson told reporters in 2018. “I told the president if he had a healthier diet over the last 20 years, he might live to be 200.” So it has been quite the show watching the gymnast-like contortions of the former president to avoid getting to know, or actually court, Black people to support his campaign. Earlier this month, in his latest episode of “See? Black people like me!” the president stood during an obvious photo-op at an Atlanta Chick-fil-A while smiling Black workers appeared to pose while taking his order. Trump reportedly ordered 30 milkshakes and some chicken, dealing out fast food for free publicity before heading to a high-dollar fundraiser in a largely white neighborhood.

A Black woman in the restaurant said, in her best untrained actor voice, “I don’t care what the media tells you, Mr. Trump, we support you!” I later found out the Black woman was in fact Michaelah Montgomery, a conservative activist who had arranged the entire scene. To her credit, the bigger story was supposed to be a conversation between students from nearby HBCUs and the presidential candidate about conservatism and possible inroads with the Black community. The moment became a meme. As with most Trump moments. Because what Trump and those around him don’t understand or care to involve themselves with is that Black people, more specifically Black women (also known as the spine of the Democratic voting bloc), are three dimensional, alive, actual human beings.

In Trumpland, Black people are caricatures of all of the worst stereotypes that have ever been imagined. They are rapists, thieves and murderers who want to terrorize… wait, no, that’s immigrants. But the point remains: The idea of even possibly courting Black voters never moves past stereotypical ideology. Which is comical when you consider that in 2024, the year of our lord Dawn Staley, an actual presidential strategy for winning the Black vote was… wait for it… sneakers. In February, Trump unveiled his $399 “Never Surrender High-Tops” at SneakerCon in Philadelphia. Trump didn’t just premiere the gaudy gold high-top decorated with an American flag motif, the sort of faux patriotism that’s truly become Trump’s signature brand, he actually went to the event to help hawk the ridiculousness that was an attempt to capture not just youth culture but ... well, I’ll just let Fox News contributor Raymond Arroyo say the quiet part out loud. “This is ... connecting with Black America. Because they’re into sneakers. They love sneakers. This is a big deal. Certainly in the inner city.”

Arroyo got bashed for his take, as he should, but his take was a glimpse into how many Republicans, especially Trump, see Black people as sneaker-loving, inner-city dwelling and easily swayed by shiny, expensive things. It’s Republican typecasting in which a Black person remains the villain/magical negro who serves only to further the white protagonist’s storyline. And make no mistake about it, in the story of Trump, as told by the narcissistic narrator, the former president is always the hero.

Which brings us to Blacks 4 Trump (aka Black Voices for Trump), you know, that hodgepodge group of Blacks (mostly men) who have proclaimed their allegiance to Trump and who stump for him despite his lackluster attempts at any tangible metrics with the Black community. Don’t act like you don’t remember Michael Symonette, Maurice Woodside and Mikael Israel (these are not three people; it’s one man who has gone by three names), more commonly know as “Michael the Black Man” (his name for himself, not mine) who magically appeared behind Trump at a 2017 rally in Arizona. Always strategically placed in the camera’s view wearing a shirt that says “Trump & Republicans Are Not Racist” or “Blacks 4 Trump.” The funny thing is that the group Blacks 4 Trump didn’t ever seem to really do anything other than allow their Blackness to be co-opted for the then-president’s political gain. The group didn’t have an agenda or a political manifesto (at least it never presented one) that noted how Trump could actually earn the Black vote. They just showed up and allowed their images to be used to sell a product.

Because, never forget, Trump is always in the Trump business. Which leads to arguably the most disturbing attempt by Trump’s campaign to court Black voters, which Trump’s camp openly admits they need to win over in the upcoming election: Insisting that because Black people have been the victims of an unjust criminal system, they relate to Trump more because he, too, is a victim of the Man.

[...] Trump acknowledges that there is discrimination and, more important, that Black people have been discriminated against. This means nothing to him, of course, as that only serves to get him to his second point, which is that he can relate, which therefore makes him more relatable to the discriminated class. He doesn’t want to fix the problem, he only wants to leech off of the sympathies related to it. It is in this brushstroke that Trump ― who has been charged by Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis, a Black woman; Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg, a Black man; and New York Attorney General Letitia James, a Black woman ― that he, too, is a victim of systemic racism.

“When I did the mug shot in Atlanta, that mug shot is number one,” Trump said. He added that the Black population “embraced it more than anyone else.” He also said: “I’m being indicted for you, the Black population.” First, the obvious. I’ll just let President Joe Biden’s campaign spokesperson Jasmine Harris explain it. “The audacity of Donald Trump to speak to a room full of Black voters during Black History Month as if he isn’t the proud poster boy for modern racism. This is the same man who falsely accused the Central Park 5, questioned George Floyd’s humanity, compared his own impeachment trial to being lynched and ensured the unemployment gap for Black workers spiked during his presidency,” Harris told The Washington Post.

“Donald Trump has been showing Black Americans his true colors for years: an incompetent, anti-Black tyrant who holds us to such low regard that he publicly dined with white nationalists a week after declaring his 2024 candidacy.”

Stephen Crockett Jr. wrote in HuffPost that Donald Trump's attempt to court Black voters is based on stereotypical traits of Blacks from a conservative POV, including by claiming to relate to being victims of an unjust criminal system that Black folk face.