#i can see very compelling arguments for both

[givemaycoffee]

Oh my god. I just wrote an essay in the comments of a fanfic and I was like Wow, I sure had a lot to say.

And then I remembered I actually took my adderall this morning XD

[troublesomesnitch]

Meeting Vhagar - Drabble

Aemond x Wife!Reader

Much to your dismay, Prince Aemond insists on bringing your little son to Vhagar. Set sometime during the Dance.

Contents: Just a little practice thing... Dad!Aemond, Targaryen parenting, subtle fluff. Little bit of subtle angst too. No filth this time..

Words: 3000, and very sloppily proof read.

The carriage can only take you so far as to the Iron Gate. 

Beyond its massive doors, the Rosby Road winds North, poorly maintained and full of potholes, as it is the shortest of the main roads, and thus the least important. It is not as busy as others, and the gate is not guarded as well - clearly, as the men who should be protecting it are presently engaged in a game of cards, laid out on top of a large, flat rock.

That is where the driver will wait, but it is not your destination. 

There is another little trail. One that runs in the opposite direction, scarcely used and partially hidden, visible only to those who know it. No horse or wagon can make the journey, and there is no option but to walk - first along a narrow, trodden path, and then further still, down treacherous steps, carved into the very rock the city rests upon. Past the watchtower, and across the Northern beach, to the vast caves of Maegor the Cruel, where Vhagar has made her nest.

You walk alone, just the two of you. The prince in his coat and boots, and yourself in attire much less suited for the occasion. Fine shoes, fine skirts, and with your little son cradled in your arms. 

The gentle rocking of the carriage has lulled him to sleep. Four months old, he is, and a source of such joy that your poor heart can scarcely contain it. From his first high-pitched cry when you brought him into the world - oh, the pains of labour were all but forgotten, as was the threat of the raging war. And when the prince came to see his son, you could hardly even bear to let him hold him. 

He wanted to bring the boy much sooner, but both you and the dowager queen staunchly put your foot down against that. Children should not be brought outside the home until they have at least lived through the first perilous weeks, and possibly even their first fever. And even then, most would argue, they have no business being around ferocious animals. 

“I don’t like it,” you say, for the umpteenth time, taking the hand offered to you by the prince to help you cross a treacherous stretch. “It is mad, bringing an infant to such a beast - ” 

“Vhagar should know him,” he says, steadfast and determined. As he has done whenever you voiced your concern. 

It does nothing at all to calm your nerves. But it is his most compelling argument, and the only reason you have allowed this lunacy in the first place. So the dragon would recognise the boy as his, and as one of her own. So she would know to protect him, if - something should happen. 

You make it halfway across the pebbled beach before the prince pauses. And you do too, lifting your gaze to follow his line of sight; see what he is looking at. 

An enormous, greyish mass, some yards away, that at first you thought was a moss-grown rock, or years of washed up seaweed. But the mass makes a rumbling noise and begins to shift and lift itself, slowly and carefully, as though with much effort. Part of it becomes a leg, another part unfurls into a great wing, and the rock nearest to you becomes a head, with a mouth full of jagged teeth, and two eyes opening slowly. Amber in colour, and with slitted pupils staring straight at you. 

“She can sense me,” the prince declares, with no small amount of pride, lifting his chin and straightening his back. 

You, however, are paralysed, utterly shocked by her vastness. You have never seen Vhagar this close before, and though you knew of her impressive size, it is one thing to see her soaring across the sky, and quite another to be right next to her, unprotected and vulnerable.

It seems to you that the span of her wings could cover half the city, that entire buildings could fit in her mouth. And certainly, she could end all three of you with her fiery breath, or with a single swipe of her claw or her massive tail. One wrong move, even if accidental, even if she did not mean to - you would all be dead. 

“Come,” the prince says, pushing at the small of your back. But you stall, digging in your heels, frozen in place at the sight of her. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” you stammer. “We should go back - it is not safe…”

The prince gives an overbearing, if somewhat irritated sigh. 

“Dragons are loyal beasts,” he reassures. “Vhagar is loyal to me, she obeys me - ”

“She is a beast,” you hiss, hugging your drowsy son closer to your chest. “She cannot be trusted. It is too dangerous - I won’t let you bring him any closer - ”

Prince Aemond does not like to be challenged. He turns around to look at you coolly, his voice low and scornful as he speaks. 

“Is your opinion of me so unfavourable, wife, that you think I would risk harm to my own son?”

“No,” you respond, quietly, but truthfully. Since you were married, your opinion of the prince has only risen, slowly but surely. And it continues to do so, still - though perhaps not right now. “I don’t like it - ”

“Mhm - so you said,” your husband says dryly, all but wrenching the swaddled boy from your arms. 

He does not complain, the boy. Prince Aemond comes to visit often, at least once a day, and sometimes more. He sits with the child, reads to him, lets him fall asleep in his arms - not for very long each time, but it is at least enough for the little boy to recognise his father’s low voice and stern face as something safe and comfortable. As is evident from the way he now settles against the prince’s leather-clad chest, tangling his little fist into a lock of his hair. 

The beast remains still, pensive as her rider approaches, her serpent’s eyes fixed on the thing in his arms, on what he is bringing her. Your most precious treasure, your life’s very purpose, completely at the mercy of the greatest dragon in the world. 

You might have felt more at ease if the soft, sparse hair on his head had been silver like his father’s, but alas, it is not. It is exactly like yours, and only the bright violet of his eyes gives away his true inheritance. 

And that seems like too little a thing for such a large creature to notice. 

Prince Aemond calls out in that strange language of his, with the open vowels and the rolling R’s. It is beautiful, especially in his mouth, and the dragon responds at once, contorting herself to let him touch her wrinkled neck with affection. Which is a strange sight, but what is even stranger is the way she grumbles - as though she likes it. He speaks to her as if she was another person, in long, full sentences that are much too complicated for you to even attempt to understand. There is only one word you can make out, for the sole reason that he says it twice - yoreliatzeh, or yorelatzya, or something akin to that. You haven’t a clue as to what it means. 

Vhagar snorts once, and the prince steps back to give her room to move, to rise up onto her legs and bring her head closer, her nose almost touching his hip. While you stand at a distance, staring at the utterly bizarre scene playing out in front of you. A fearsome, vicious beast, sniffing the child like a dog would. Gently and carefully, only she is so big that each of her cautious breaths is like a small gust of wind, making your husband’s hair billow about his face. When she makes a grunting noise, he carefully unwraps some of the swaddlings, holding the child up to let her see him better, smell him better. 

He is bright, your darling boy, and curious, like all babes and children. His eyes are wide as they take in Vhagar’s scaly form, and he gives a soft squeal of surprise or wonder, kicking his little feet under the blankets. Reaching his arm towards the beast's massive head, her massive teeth -

“Aemond, please - ” you gasp, clutching your hands to your throat. 

The prince turns his head to give you a stern look, one that clearly shows he is running out of patience. And maybe this time it is justified, because your fearful outburst startles the boy, who begins to squirm unhappily in his father’s arms. Fussing and whimpering; a sound that is as painful to you as salt to an open wound. 

“Bring him to me,” you plead, “can’t you see that he is frightened - ” 

“He is frightened because you are frightened,” the prince says, as soft spoken as always, but with a hint of something sharp underneath.

He cradles the boy closer to his chest, bouncing him gently, holding his head and murmuring soothing words. Exactly as you would do, and to the same effect. It calms him down, and his big, round eyes start darting around again, taking in his surroundings. The dragon, the grey sea, the fine silver clasps on his father’s clothes. It does seem that the latter intrigues him the most. 

Vhagar lifts her neck and tilts her head just slightly, seemingly very interested in the child, in this tiny little creature; the way he moves his little limbs, and his soft coos and noises. There is an almost… thoughtful look in her eyes, or at the very least a curious one. 

It makes you wonder about the extent of her perception. Whether she truly knows that this is Aemond’s child, that it came from him, from his body, his flesh. If she can sense it somehow, through the bond they purportedly share, or if she understood it when he spoke to her. 

How intelligent is a dragon? Are they like dogs or horses, able to learn the meaning of certain words, but not the full breadth of language? Or do they think as people, with nuance and emotion, and a mind as vivid as your own. 

You do not know. You suppose no one really does. 

“Come,” the prince calls, reaching his arm towards you, beckoning you closer. However, a single glance at Vhagar, whose mighty gaze is now focused on you, is enough to inspire disobedience in even the most well-behaved wife.

“I would really rather not - ”

“She must know the both of you,” he insists. 

“Is that - necessary?” you squirm, wringing your hands, very much aware that you are not a dragon rider, that you haven’t a drop of Valyrian blood. “Vhagar has no reason to think fondly of me…”

The prince scoffs. 

“Are you not the mother of my child?” he says. “Now, come.” 

You must go to him. He is your lord husband, and he is a prince, and such is the way of things. But you are not at all glad to, and you walk with shaky, reluctant steps, gripping onto his elbow and cowering behind him like a frightened child. 

You close your eyes when the dragon lowers her head once more, bringing it towards you. A sudden, low-pitched growl makes your heart tremble, but the prince speaks a soft command. Lykirī, Vhagar. Lykirī.

It has a calming effect on you too. As does the arm he keeps outstretched in front of you - solely for your comfort, you assume, as it would make no difference whatsoever, should Vhagar decide that she does not like you. But you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

The air is warm, this close to her, and your skirts move around your legs when she breathes, slowly and deeply, while the prince speaks to her in soft tones. That word again, the one from before, and many others. You know the words for wife, for king, for father, brother, sister, even for dragon, but he says none of those now, so you have no guess as to what he is telling her. Or if she understands. Or what he would call you, if not his wife. 

This woman is my - spouse? lady? lover?

You do have a kind of love for him, and sometimes you think he does for you, too. Sometimes. One can never be sure of anything with the prince, who keeps himself so closely guarded. Even after more than a year of marriage. Even now that you have given him a child. 

The birth went mercifully well, but your recovery was long, and he has only recently begun to come to your bed again. And so far, only a handful of times. The first time, it was so painful for you that the act could not be completed, and the second time, he finished so quickly that it barely even counts. The third was better. Pleasurable for both of you, but still strange after going so long without it - at least for you. It is both likely and possible that the prince satisfied his urges elsewhere while your body was indisposed. You do not know. Nor do you wish to. 

The ground shifts beneath your feet, and the heat around you lessens, as does the heavy smell of burned flesh and brimstone, the very same one that so often clings to your husband’s clothes. When you open your eyes it is to the sight of Vhagar, settled onto her belly, her head laid atop her claws. Calm and docile, and with a deep rumble coming from her chest - one that is probably a sign of contentment, even if it sounds utterly terrifying. 

“Touch her,” the prince commands, giving a gentle push to your back. “You have nothing to fear, touch her.” 

It is quite clear that Vhagar is unruffled by your presence, that she is resting. But with her eyes heavy and half-closed, it makes her look so menacing, so evil - even though you know that evil does not exist inherently in any beast. Only in those who train it. 

You draw in a steadying breath, gathering up your courage, reaching your hand out - only to then think better of it and let it fall. 

“I am afraid to,” you whisper.

The prince sighs. But his hand closes gently around yours, bringing it to rest on the side of her nose, first the tips of your fingers, and then your whole palm. 

It is like nothing else you have ever felt, her scales. You always imagined that a dragon’s skin would feel like leather, but Vhagar’s skin is so much tougher, so much rougher, like running your hand over little rocks. And she is warm - so warm, as though a fire is always burning somewhere in her throat. 

She does not object at all to your touch, even when the prince withdraws his own hand, leaving only yours. Only you and Vhagar. The largest, oldest being in the world. 

To think, the things she has seen. The conquest, the Dornish Wars, the very founding of the realm of the Seven Kingdoms. Dozens of castles have crumbled in her fire, and thousands of people have perished, and she has fought and won hundreds of battles; torn through stone, rock and earth as though it was boiled jelly. 

It is at once terrifying and romantic, like something from a fairytale, or stories of ancient times. A creature of such myth and legend that you almost feel as though you should bow down to her, as one does before a great matriarch.

Vhagar the Conqueror. Queen of all Dragons. 

She closes her eyes when you draw back. 

“He might ride her too, some day,” the prince says quietly. Wistfully. 

“But dragons only have one rider - ” you protest, cutting yourself off when you realise what he meant. What he left unsaid. 

This is war. The realm is at war. Death is everywhere; at the end of a blade, in the point of an arrow. And if not on the field of battle, then in tainted water or plague-ridden camps; empty bellies or festering wounds.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” you mutter, looking down at your feet. Your dirtied shoes. 

The prince does not answer. A heavy mood has settled over the rocky beach, something vast and bleak and empty, only compounded by the surroundings. The colourless sky, the sombre crashing of waves. Even Vhagar gives a doleful sigh, as though she too is weary of what is to come.

She has been the prince’s companion since childhood. He was born to the queen, but Vhagar made him what he is, made him ruthless, made him brutally ambitious. Made him Aemond One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer. Prince Regent, Protector of the Realm. She has known him boy and man, as well as any, and better than most. She has known him in life, and she may yet know him in death.

You push that thought away as forcefully as your mind allows. You shouldn’t think such things. 

A coo from your son breaks the tension, and his eyes turn to the sky, where a large heron is flapping its wings. The afternoon is turning to evening, and soon the bell will ring for supper - something warm and comforting, you hope. You are cold, your breasts feel sore, and you have most certainly had enough excitement for one day. For several days, in fact.

“Can we go, please,” you breathe, looking up at your husband with wide, pleading eyes. 

“She is tired,” he says, with a soft glance at Vhagar’s terrifying face, and a gentle touch to her side. “Yes, we should.”

—

You walk slower on the way back. Uphill, with sore feet, and your boy now fast asleep in your arms. Safe and snug where he belongs. 

“My Prince,” you begin, sweet and innocent. “What does… yoreliatzeh mean?”

There is a sly little smile on his face when you look at him, a self-assured look in his remaining eye.

“Jorrāeliarza,” he corrects, with an artful pause before he continues. As though to keep you in suspense. “It means dear. Or… beloved.”

If he sees the sudden blush on your face, he does not let on. 

“Jorālitzeh.”

“No,” he says. “Jor-rāe-liar-za.”

“Jor-rāe-liar-za,” you repeat, trying your very best to mimic the exact movements of his mouth, the way he gently rolls his tongue. “Jorrāeliarza.”

“Better,” he nods, and then you round a corner, just in time to see the guards hastily hide their cards away, and the driver shuffling back towards the carriage, eagerly shoving his winnings into a pocket. 

Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. 

Dear. Beloved. 

You like that very much.  

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness, @aemondsbabygirl, @qyburnsghost, @blackswxnn

I am a mess with the tagging, I'm so sorry if I forgot or wrongly tagged anyone. Let me know, I will fix it.

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

With his romance with Lavellan, Solas learned a horrific truth—that him simply as a humble man was enough to be lovable. He had been plied out of the Fade by Mythal because of her need for him, and out of devotion, he became something more and dreadful for himself, for her. And she never reciprocated that devotion with the same intensity. He spent millennia fighting for her as a thing he detested—a man of war and death, a being whose mortal body imbued him with innate qualities and emotions that would further twist his Wisdom nature. He was producing the very poisons that would normally corrupt a spirit by virtue of [Being a Person]. The external influences now harbored inside him.

But Lavellan showed him. That being you are, the one that wished to ponder and reminisce of spirits, who valued liberty and freedom and knowledge and the wry observation? That was enough. That was always enough. But he can’t accept it, because millennia of being Fen Harel, being devoted to Mythal and her cause.. to sunder it from himself would feel like a magnificent loss. He has been that for so long, is there anything yet truly left of the Wisdom spirit that once was?

Not only that, but given corporeality, Solas is compelled by the operant [If I can, I must]. He CAN do something about the Veil, so he will. If he doesn’t, then he is forsaking the memory of those he destroyed with his choice. He is forsaking his own principles. To do nothing in the face of injustice and cruelty is a sin he cannot bear.

He comes to the Inquisition as a “humble apostate”, both as disguise and because in his de-powered state he is of little greater use (if he had greater power I’m certain he would have nudged the Inquisition toward their goals). This is a costume he is wearing, or so he tells himself. He exists to advise, to suggest, to subtly direct toward more peaceful and humanitarian and spirit-friendly directives. He operates as something reminiscent of his former [Wisdom] spirit state.

And Lavellan grows to love it, to appreciate it. She grows to appreciate [Solas as Wisdom]. That part of him, the part of him that he has put aside for thousands upon thousands of years, though his nature craves to return to it. Without his ability to be Fen’Harel, it is pretty much all he has. And oh, this mayfly mortal born of a “forsaken ignorant people”, she is drawn to him, seeing him as a [man], seeing him at his (comparatively) weakest, most ineffectual state and finding it pleasing. Desirable. [Enough].

Enough. He is enough as Solas, simply Solas. But if it is enough for Lavellan, why was it not enough for Mythal? No, no, there was a reason. There was a war. War requires more of people. It requires limits to be broken and terrible mantles to be donned.

But Lavellan is fighting an existential war against Corypheus. And she does not demand more of him. She values what little he is able to provide—guidance, insight, his magic. It is [Enough].

We Solavellans have dissected and discussed at length about the nature of the relationship being one built on deceit, the moral and ethical quandary of love cultivated under a false identity. Veilguard has confirmed the existential struggle and quiet agony that Solas experienced by transitioning into [Being]. While Lavellan should of course had been informed of his ‘true identity’ before falling in love with him, an argument could still be made that Fen’Harel is not his true identity but a long-worn mask that he wishes he could ditch. The man Lavellan fell in love with is who he should be, who he wants to be. Far more underpowered than he’s comfortable with, sure, but the personality for certain. Just a person giving advice, discussing at length about topics he enioys, exploring memories and ruminating over them, smirking over small verbal sleights of hand and sly tricks, engaging in philosophical debates. All of that is already there, that is who he is in peacetime. The man has known war and conflict for so long that he has mentally split Solas and Fen’Harel as two people, because he needed to, but they are the same. Solas who wields the martial prowess of Fen’Harel. Fen’Harel who possesses the wry levity and artistic sentimentality of Solas. SOLAS YOU ARE BOTH AND MORE THAN THESE TWO HALVES.

[cruel-seduction]

Tom Riddle Headcanon || 18+

(���୧) 6’3 | Tall, intimidating, and he knows it. He’s tall, but not towering—it’s the kind of height that lets him loom over you just enough to make you uncomfortable in the best way. His presence is magnetic, commanding, like he’s taking up more space than he actually does. (You think you can hold eye contact with this man without second-guessing your life choices? Good luck.)

(୨୧) Lean, but it’s that sharp, calculated kind of lean. Like he was sculpted out of pure ambition and dark magic. His cheekbones? You could slice your finger on them, and his jawline looks like it was chiseled by Salazar Slytherin himself.

(୨୧) He doesn’t have He’s not bulky—oh no, Tom believes muscles are for people who need to physically overpower others. His strength is in his mind, but don’t mistake that for fragility. He’s all sharp edges and taut sinew, like a blade just waiting to cut. Tom has power. Subtle, unassuming strength that hits you when he casually pins someone to the wall or clenches his fist during an argument, making every vein in his forearm pop. (And suddenly you’re wondering if you enjoy being terrified of a man.)

WE LOVE A MAN WHO COULD STRANGLE US WITH ONE HAND AND STILL LOOK PERFECT DOING IT!!!! 

(୨୧) Abs? Oh, he has them. But they’re not flashy gym-bro abs—they’re carved out of years of silent rage and perfectionism. You’d only see them under candlelight, the shadows teasing you just enough to make you question every moral fiber in your body.

(୨୧) Tom doesn’t work out. Ever. He’s too busy reading ancient texts and rewriting the definition of “overachiever.” Yet somehow, he has the kind of body that looks like it was sculpted by dark magic itself. His posture is impeccable, every movement deliberate and precise, like he’s constantly two steps ahead of everyone else.

(୨୧) Long fingers, veins visible, nails always perfectly kept. These are the hands of someone who can cast a killing curse with chilling accuracy—or caress your skin like you’re the most fragile thing in the world.

(We LOVE a man who could both destroy and cherish us with the same hands!!!)

(୨୧) His face? The blueprint for the resting evil smirk. He doesn’t even have to try to look dangerous. One glance, one slight quirk of his lips, and suddenly you’re doing whatever he wants without thinking twice. (You: “Why am I holding this cursed object?” Tom: “Because I asked nicely.” …And now you’re smiling like an idiot while the Horcrux slowly sucks away your soul. Love that for you!)

(୨୧) Hotness Level: Nuclear

Tom doesn’t just walk into a room—he owns it. His hotness isn’t in your face; it’s insidious, sneaking up on you until suddenly you’re wondering how you got trapped in his web.

His energy? He doesn’t need to ask for your soul. You’d willingly hand it over while thanking him for the privilege.

And when he’s angry? Oh, you feel it. That piercing stare, the slight tilt of his head, the way his voice drops an octave just to let you know you’ve made a very, very big mistake.

THERE’S HOT, AND THEN THERE’S TOM RIDDLE HOT—THE KIND THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR BREATHING TOO LOUDLY.

(୨୧) A Walking Manipulation Manual Tom doesn’t ask for things. He makes you want to give them to him. Every glance, every word is carefully calculated to pull you into his orbit. He’s not just charming—he’s dangerously compelling. (One conversation with him, and suddenly you’re questioning your entire moral compass. Like, “Oh, you want me to help you break into the Restricted Section? Sure, Tom. Anything for you.”)

(୨୧) Validation is His Drug Let’s be real: Tom craves approval like it’s oxygen.Tom will deny it to his last breath, but he needs to be the best. He doesn’t just want to succeed; he wants to be the only option. It’s not enough for him to win—everyone else has to lose. (And don’t get me started on how he reacts to praise. Compliment him in the right way, and you’ll see that flicker of pride in his dark eyes before he schools his face into that unreadable mask again. We love a secretly vulnerable king.) He’s spent his whole life proving he’s better than everyone else, and it’s not just for pride—it’s because he doesn’t know how to not seek validation. He thrives on being the teacher’s pet, the top student. Maybe it’s because he never got his parents validation. But trust me when I say he is a bitch for teacher’s validation. (But let’s be clear: the second you start overshadowing him, he’ll knock you down a peg faster than you can say Avada Kedavra.)

(୨୧) Control Freak Everything about Tom screams precision. His desk? Immaculate. His spells? Flawless. His plans? Perfectly executed. He doesn’t just like control—he needs it. Chaos makes him itch, which is ironic considering he’s the embodiment of quiet destruction. (And He will make sure you’re oriented too) 

(୨୧) Manipulative but Subtly Possessive He doesn’t say you’re his. No, Tom makes it clear in subtler ways—like the way he rests a hand on your back just as someone else looks at you too long. Or the cold, sharp glare he gives anyone who dares speak to you without his permission. (A man who makes you feel like a queen while also terrifying everyone else around you.)

(୨୧) Unyielding Ambition Tom doesn’t just want success—he wants power. He wants to be remembered, revered, and feared. He’s the guy who’ll smile sweetly at a professor while planning to steal their research for his own gain. He has a goal. He will do anything to get there. Anything can include from threatening someone to killing someone. He is, as poet says a psycho. 

Tom Riddle | The Duality

(୨୧) The Charm is a Weapon His voice? Silky smooth, with just enough edge to keep you on your toes. He’s polite, refined, and utterly disarming. But behind that charming smile is a predator watching his prey. (You’re falling for him, and you don’t even realize it until it’s too late. And honestly? You don’t even mind.)

(୨୧) Dark, Brooding, and Mysterious Tom’s the guy sitting alone in the library, surrounded by ancient tomes, quill scratching quietly against parchment. He’s untouchable, aloof, and yet somehow you can’t stop staring. (You just know he’s plotting something, and you want in on it. Even if it’s dangerous. Especially if it’s dangerous.)

(୨୧) The Possessive Gentleman He’ll hold the door open for you, pull out your chair, and offer you his arm as you walk. But don’t be fooled—this isn’t just gentlemanly courtesy. This is Tom Riddle subtly marking you as his. (Imagine him offering you his coat and then hexing anyone who dares comment on it. THAT’S the energy.)

Tom Riddle|| Personality 

(୨୧) He’s the Most Dangerous Kind of Asshole—Polished and Calculated Tom isn’t like Mattheo, who might yell across the hallway for a laugh. No, Tom is refined, cold, and deliberate. When he doesn’t like you, you won’t hear him shouting about it—he’ll make you feel it. He’ll dismantle your self-esteem with just a few carefully chosen words delivered with a sharp smile. (“A shame you couldn’t understand the assignment. I suppose not everyone’s meant for greatness.” Translation: You’re an idiot, and he’s better than you.)

(୨୧) He’s Addicted to Control Every aspect of Tom’s life is planned. His work is immaculate, his appearance is flawless, and his ambitions are unshakable. He thrives on structure because chaos reminds him of what he came from—something he’s desperate to leave behind. Don’t ever try to surprise Tom; he’ll take it as a personal offense. He hates unpredictability because it’s the one thing he can’t manipulate.

(୨୧) A Master of Masking His True Self Tom can charm anyone. Teachers adore him. Classmates admire him—or at least pretend to, because who wants to get on Tom Riddle’s bad side? He wears his “perfect student” persona like armor, and it’s nearly impenetrable. (But let’s be real, you know he’s sneaking into the Restricted Section at 2 a.m., whispering spells under his breath like it’s his birthright.)

(୨୧) Unhinged Beneath the Surface Tom doesn’t snap in loud, dramatic outbursts. No, his anger is a quiet, simmering thing, so much worse because you never see it coming. He’ll stare you down with a look so cold you’ll swear the temperature dropped, and then suddenly— “I suggest you choose your next words carefully. You won’t like what happens otherwise.” (And when he does lose it? You better pray you’re not in the blast radius because that’s some “destroy-everything-in-sight” level fury.)

Tom Riddle | Relationships and Obsession

(୨୧) Emotionally Unavailable, But Intensely Possessive Tom doesn’t do feelings. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He views relationships like he views everything else in his life: something to control. But when he does fixate on someone? It’s all-consuming, suffocating, and terrifyingly intense. He won’t shout “you’re mine” from the rooftops. Instead, he’ll show it in the way he glances at anyone who gets too close to you, the subtle squeeze of his hand on your waist, the icy calm he maintains when someone dares flirt with you. (“You’re being watched, princess. I’d think twice before entertaining fools like that again.”)

(୨୧) Manipulative in the Most Beautiful Way Tom has mastered the art of making you think his darkest ideas are your idea. He’ll twist your words, your emotions, until you’re second-guessing yourself and believing that he’s the only one who truly understands you. (“You don’t need them. They’ll only disappoint you. I’m the one who’s always been here, haven’t I?”) (Yes, it’s toxic, but are we complaining? Nope. Absolutely not.)

(୨୧) Softness is Reserved for You and You Only Tom is cold to everyone—except you. When it’s just the two of you, he lets his walls down just enough to show you glimpses of the boy beneath the monster. He’s still composed, but his voice softens, his touch gentles. He’ll sit beside you in the library, his hand brushing yours as he murmurs, “You’re brilliant, you know. Far more than they deserve.” (That’s right. You’re his weakness, and we’re eating that up like it’s our last meal.)

Tom Riddle | Dark Habits and Quirks

(୨୧) Obsessive Overachievement If Tom gets less than perfect marks on anything, he’ll lose sleep over it. He’ll re-study every detail of the assignment until it’s engraved into his mind. (If you try to comfort him, he’ll glare and say, “Mediocrity is unacceptable.” …Okay, Tom, calm down.)

(୨୧) No Time for Fun or Friends Tom doesn’t “hang out.” He doesn’t do parties or casual drinks with the boys. His version of “fun” is solving an ancient magical riddle or perfecting a spell no one else has dared attempt. (Though I imagine he secretly finds your mundane activities fascinating. He’ll pretend he’s annoyed, but he’s watching you decorate a cake like, “How… how does one enjoy this?”)

(୨୧) Petty in the Most Refined Way Tom won’t call you out in public, but he will ruin your life in ways you don’t even realize until it’s too late. (“Oh, did you fail the test? Strange. I suppose all that time gossiping didn’t leave you much room to study.” Cue his perfect grade plastered on the board.)

(୨୧) Refuses to Eat Like a Normal Human Being He’s the type to skip meals because he “doesn’t have time for such trivialities.” When he does eat, it’s methodical, quiet, and eerily polite. (You could be scarfing down chips, and Tom’s over here delicately slicing his food into perfect pieces. Honestly, it’s infuriating and hot at the same time.)

(୨୧)  When Tom Realized He Was in Love Tom was the last person to admit he was capable of love. He didn’t need it. In fact, he despised the very idea of vulnerability. At first, he simply enjoyed the control, the power he had over you, the way you seemed so easily ensnared in his web. But then something changed.

It wasn’t dramatic. No hearts aflutter, no sudden epiphany. Instead, it was little moments—the way your laugh made his heart tighten, the way his thoughts lingered on you when he was supposed to be focused on his next conquest. It started to feel like something deeper. The first sign? He found himself doing small things for you, things that felt personal—that were not for his image, but just for you.

Like when you were late for a class, and Tom “accidentally” got your notes for you—notes he knew you didn’t need but knew you’d appreciate. Or when he made sure the books you wanted were always ready for you in the library, despite the fact that he despised wasting his time on “mundane tasks.” He would act as if it was no big deal, but his eyes would linger on you a moment too long, watching you with a touch of something he refused to name.

(୨୧) When He Realized He Loved You

Tom didn’t have some grand epiphany. It was a slow, torturous process of denial. But the moment he knew? It was after you smiled at him after a particularly heated argument about something inconsequential. You stood your ground, refused to back down, and still looked at him like he wasn’t the monster he feared he was. He walked away, but later that night, when the castle was silent, he whispered the words into the dark, testing them out as if saying them aloud would make them feel less… dangerous. "I love her."

(୨୧) His “Confession” Was Terrifyingly Intense

Tom doesn’t stumble through his words like Mattheo might. No, when Tom confesses, it’s calculated and deliberate—but still deeply unsettling.

“You’ve done something to me,” he said, his voice dangerously low, his gaze piercing. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop thinking about you. And I won’t. So you’re going to stay by my side, because that’s where you belong.”

(Translation: We are gonna stay together forever. And we belong with each other. )

(୨୧) Tom’s Denial and “Caring” Moments When Tom started feeling what people call “love,” he fought it. He refused to let himself admit it, convinced that emotions were a weakness. He never said “I love you”—not in the way that other people did. Instead, it was subtle. Insidious. He’d show his affection in the smallest, most frustratingly subtle ways. He wouldn’t bring you flowers or offer grand gestures. No. Tom’s “love” was found in the way he’d drag you into the darkness of the restricted section when no one was watching, the way his fingers brushed yours for a split second before he pulled away, pretending he didn’t want to touch you.

And he definitely wouldn’t say “I love you” unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t need to. His actions spoke louder.

But then, one evening, it just… slipped out. You were sitting together in his private little corner of the library, your laughter echoing in the otherwise silent space. Tom, for once, seemed genuinely relaxed, his usually tense frame at ease. He was looking at you, his gaze dark but softened—something that wasn’t there before.

“You... make everything easier,” he muttered, almost to himself. When you raised an eyebrow, he didn’t immediately elaborate. Instead, he just leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he added, “It’s ridiculous how much I care about you.” and you just smiled and pecked his lips.

There was no "I love you," not in so many words. But you heard it, and it made your heart do something strange—flutter, maybe? But you weren’t sure if you were imagining it because Tom's voice was still so casual. Like everything he said was just... a matter of fact.

(୨୧) Praise Where It Matters Most

Tom doesn’t throw compliments around lightly. When he says something nice, it’s like being struck by lightning. His words carry weight.

“You’re brilliant,” he’d murmur, his voice low, his gaze intense. “More than anyone else here. Don’t ever let them make you think otherwise.”

(And yes, you’d be a puddle on the floor because Tom’s version of praise feels like a rare, precious gift.)

(୨୧) Tom’s Trust and Relationship Dynamics Here’s the thing: Tom doesn’t get jealous. He’s above it. It’s not in his nature. If you’re his, you’re his, and no one dares to get in the way. He doesn’t need to question your loyalty, because in his mind, the moment he chose you, he is gonna trust you more than anyone. For him you’re never at fault but the other person is gonna die. It’s not that he’s insecure—it’s that he knows you would never cheat on him. Why would you? You have everything you could ever need in him.

He doesn’t even feel the need to keep tabs on you, though don’t get it twisted—he is watching, but he does it from the shadows. If you’re not at his side, he trusts that you’ll come back. You always come back. And if you don’t, well… that’s where things get a little interesting.

He’s not showing you off like Mattheo might; he’s staking his claim.

If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, you’ll feel the shift in his demeanor immediately.

“Do they think they’re worthy of your attention?” he’ll whisper, his tone deceptively calm. “They’re not. Let me remind them.”

(Spoiler: He will. And it won’t be pretty.)

(୨୧) Acts of Service, But Darker

Tom will do things for you, but it’s always with a hidden motive. Did someone upset you? He’ll “take care of it.” Did you want something rare or hard to find? He’ll get it for you, no questions asked.

“Consider it handled,” he’ll say with a ghost of a smile. But you know better than to ask how he handled it.

(୨୧) The Gaslighting Is Unreal

If you ever try to put distance between you and Tom, he’ll make you question everything.

“Why would you leave? After everything we’ve built together?” His voice will crack just enough to make you hesitate.

And when you falter, he’ll pull you back in with a kiss so intense it leaves you breathless, murmuring, “I can’t lose you. Don’t you see? You’re my weakness.”

(୨୧) First Kiss

It happened in the library, of course. You were studying, lost in your notes, and he was pretending to read while stealing glances at you. He didn’t plan it, but you looked up and caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head with that infuriatingly perfect smile.

He leaned in before he could stop himself, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips met yours. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was intense, consuming, like he was staking a claim. When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmured before returning to his book as if nothing had happened.

(୨୧) The Reality of Tom Riddle’s Love

With Tom, everything is earned. He doesn't just give his heart away, and certainly not without demanding something in return. But for you? You’ll always have his trust. You’ll always have his attention. You’ll always know that beneath that cold exterior, he’s obsessed.

Tom Riddle | Intimacy and the Smut

(୨୧) With Tom Riddle, intimacy is an art—meticulous, calculated, and suffused with a dark intensity that leaves you trembling in its wake. He isn’t one for rushed encounters or fleeting passions. No, when Tom takes you, it’s deliberate, almost ceremonial, like he’s claiming something he already knows belongs to him.

(୨୧) The Build-Up Foreplay with Tom is a slow burn, a game of control that he always wins. He knows exactly how to make you crave him without even laying a finger on you. His voice, low and commanding, is enough to send shivers down your spine. He has this way of leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs things that are simultaneously a praise and a promise.

“You look exquisite when you’re begging, darling,” he whispers, his hand ghosting along the curve of your neck, stopping just short of touching you fully.

Tom thrives on anticipation. He’ll spend what feels like an eternity trailing his fingers across your skin, watching your reactions with a sharp, almost predatory focus. Every gasp, every arch of your body—it’s all cataloged in his mind, stored away for when he decides to unravel you completely.

The way he kisses you is enough to leave you breathless. It’s not hurried or frenzied; it’s controlled, methodical. He tilts your chin up with a single finger, his lips slanting over yours with a precision that makes your knees weak.

When he finally touches you, it’s overwhelming. His hands are strong, commanding, but there’s a certain reverence in the way he holds you, like he’s savoring every inch of your skin.

(୨୧) The Act Tom is not gentle, but he’s not reckless either. He knows exactly how to toe the line between pleasure and pain, how to push you to the edge without ever letting you fall. He’s all about control—his control over you, your body, your mind.

His stamina is almost otherworldly. Where others might falter, Tom thrives, his focus unwavering as he pushes you past your limits. He doesn’t stop until you’re completely spent, your body trembling beneath his, your voice hoarse from calling his name.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his tone laced with dark amusement as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Falling apart so beautifully for me. Are you even aware of how perfect you are?”

He loves to whisper things into your ear, things that make your cheeks flush and your heart race.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough and commanding. “Every part of you. Do you understand that?”

And when you nod, he smirks, his lips ghosting over yours.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

(୨୧) Pet Names and Praise Tom isn’t overly creative with pet names, but the ones he uses are potent.

Darling: His go-to, spoken with a dark edge that makes your knees weak.

My love: When he’s feeling particularly possessive, usually whispered against your skin.

Good girl: Said in a way that makes your heart race and your mind spin.

Perfect: Because to him, you are, and he never lets you forget it.

(୨୧) Roughness and Domination Tom doesn’t shy away from being rough. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, his teeth graze your neck in a way that makes you shiver, and his pace is relentless. He loves the way your body reacts to him, the way you cling to him, desperate and needy.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “I know you can. You’re stronger than you think, my love.”

And when you finally break, when you can’t hold back the cries of pleasure that spill from your lips, Tom smirks, his satisfaction evident in the dark gleam of his eyes.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers, his lips pressing against your temple. “Always so perfect.”

(୨୧) Aftercare Despite his roughness, Tom isn’t cruel. Once the heat of the moment has passed, he softens ever so slightly. He doesn’t say much, but his actions speak volumes. He’ll run his fingers through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender, and press soft kisses against your forehead.

“You did well, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “Rest now. I’ll take care of everything.”

And he does. Because while Tom Riddle might be a lot of things—manipulative, calculating, and intense—when it comes to you, he’s nothing short of devoted.

[saintsenara]

Hi, do you have an analysis for why you prefer bottom Tom? Most fics have him as a top, but I'm very interested in your perspective ma'am.

well, the short answer is because i want to and because i can.

the longer answer is that i just don't find any of the arguments for why voldemort would never bottom under any circumstances to be as convincing and definitive as their proponents claim them to be.

my issue - to be clear - isn't with people having a preference for reading or writing about him being a top. it's with the fact that him only being a top - and not only that, but him being repulsed or humiliated by the idea of bottoming - is typically presented as such an objective fact that preferring to read or write about him being a bottom provokes responses which range from the simply annoying - "this is out of character!" [any fic in which he consensually shags his prophesied child-enemy is out of character, be serious] - to the genuinely troubling - "it's disgusting! voldemort is a real man and real men don't want anything up their arses!".

obviously - let's be real - a lot of the arguments about why bottom!voldemort is impossible are just typical "slash fandom reinvents gender roles" shit - they essentially boil down to "omg no harry would bottom because he's the girl".

but others do come with more weight behind them. and two of these are:

that the gender norms voldemort was raised with would inculcate in him a big lump of internalised homophobia which would make him see bottoming as feminine, and - in seeing it as feminine - see it as weak, humiliating, dependent, and incompatible with his understanding of control and power. that voldemort would be horrified by the idea of being penetrated, because he would see it as something which polluted or profaned the body he considers to be sacred.

i do think it's possible to argue both of these points robustly, using actual readings of the text rather than just vibes. i've just never found any of these readings compelling.

and the reason why all comes down to this:

"I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something." [HBP 13]

he's talking about something specific - how he's always known that he's a wizard - here, of course. but we can also take this statement and use it to think more generally about how he views being perceived as deviant, strange, or wrong by the norms of the society in which he lives.

by which i mean... he's somebody who believes that being different makes him special and that people who try to punish or shame him for his difference are idiots who simply haven't yet worked out that he's superior to them in literally everything he does. he's not someone who perceives being different in a self-flagellating way - he doesn't think there's something wrong with him, he doesn't think that his difference makes him a pathetic or unimpressive person. and he's also not somebody who views being criticised or punished for his difference as something which causes him sorrow or anxiety. it causes him rage - because it inconveniences him [it creates obstacles he has to overcome, although he entirely believes he can overcome them] and because it doesn't recognise his self-conception as the protagonist of reality:

Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious. "You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course - well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"   "I am not from the asylum," said Dumbledore patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you -" "I'd like to see them try," sneered Riddle. "Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, "is a school for people with special abilities -"   "I'm not mad!" [HBP 13]

you can entertain a very dark reading of this scene - in fact, i have - but it's also possible to entertain a liberating one, and see the child voldemort as someone who has always been proud of his difference and prepared to defend that pride in the face of censure, and who is absolutely delighted to be given the language to define and describe his difference and to be given access to a community of people who are similarly - in his words - special.

all of which is to say... the standard interpretation in fandom seems to be that a queer voldemort would fall somewhere on a spectrum from indifferent to his sexuality to actively ashamed of it.

but i think it's much, much more plausible that he'd actually be proud of it, and for his statement - "i knew i was different... i knew i was special" - to be used as the starting point for how we might imagine him realising that he's queer.

and this is why the "he'd have so much internalised homophobia he'd never bottom" argument always falls flat for me - it rests on an assumption that queer men having to grow past a childhood/teenage fear that there's something wrong with them is the default position. it overlooks the fact that there are many ways for somebody to come to understand their own sexuality.

and that two of those ways are "defiantly" and "spitefully". aka the lord voldemort special.

something which always stands out to me about the canonical voldemort, both when he's a good-looking teenager/young man and a monstrous, serpentine adult, is that - even with all the phallic symbolism which surrounds him [enormous snakes and ultra-powerful wands and so on] - the text presents him as somebody who comes across as fairly effeminate:

he's typically described - as we can see from this excellent analysis from @said-snape-softly - as speaking "softly" or "quietly". when he isn't, he's often "shrill", "shrieking", "screeching", or "screaming".

he has a hair-trigger temper and he's extremely emotionally volatile.

he's typically described as moving in ways which have similarly feminine connotations - he "drifts" and "glides". while the primary doylist reason for this is clearly so the reader associates him with snakes, ghosts, and dementors, it ends up giving him a quality of movement which is fey, rather than powerful and purposeful. indeed, we only ever see him do one thing which requires physical, as well as magical, prowess - duelling. but, like fencing - which is its real-world equivalent - good duellists aren't people who are physically strong or imposing, they're people who are cunning and nimble [and the other men the text emphasises are good at it are snape, flitwick, and harry - with harry's quick reflexes being explicitly given as a reason why [i.e. GoF 34] ]. his ability to fly is a demonstration of his magical power alone, since it allows him to circumvent the need to use a broom, which does appear to require physical strength [hence why the only main characters who aren't fond of using brooms are either women or fat, cowardly little boys like neville...]

building on this, he's often described in ways which make him sound quite physically fragile - he's very thin, he's very pale, he's always cold, every time his heartbeat is described it seems to be irregular and so on.

his reputation in his teens and young adulthood is as a "polite [and] quiet" goody-two-shoes who "showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all" [HBP 17]. i think that point about aggression is really important - it builds on what mrs cole tells dumbledore about it being "very hard to catch him" bullying other orphans [HBP 13]. he's not dudley - or james and sirius - using his physical talents to subdue and control people. he's sneakier... more insidious... indeed, in chamber of secrets, ron explicitly compares him to percy - somebody else the text presents as fairly effete - in order to complain about him "squealing" - aka, running to tell a teacher, like a girl, instead of settling things like a man - on hagrid [CoS 14].

when he's a young man, living alone for the first time, the text thinks it's very important to tell us that he has "slightly longer hair" than he does at school [HBP 20]. "slightly" is obviously the operative word here - i don't think he's strutting into hepzibah smith's house in a twenty-four inch lace-front - but we can certainly imagine him with the sort of greaser or pompadour haircut which was understood in the 1950s as being a bit counter-cultural...

of the five horcruxes which are objects - rather than harry and nagini [who is, of course, female] - three [cup, diadem, locket] originally belonged to a woman and are acquired from a woman, two [cup, locket] are acquired by killing a woman using a stereotypically female murder method [poison], two are connected to voldemort's rage at his mother being disparaged [locket - he's furious to hear hepzibah say that merope must have stolen it, ring - he attacks morfin immediately after morfin calls his mother a "slut"]. and all five of these horcruxes also depend on women to introduce them into the narrative in a way that facilitates their destruction: the diary is given to ginny; dumbledore puts on the ring in order to speak to his sister; the locket is associated both with walburga's grief [it's literally moved from the cave - voldemort's grave for his mother - to the house which is walburga's own tomb!] and with umbridge's performance of femininity; the cup is given to bellatrix [and the text is very clear that both she and voldemort understand it as having only been given to her, rather than to her and rodolphus] and is then destroyed - albeit off-stage - by hermione; and harry is given the tools to acquire the diadem by cho, luna, and mcgonagall, although he has to overcome the obstacles of alecto carrow and helena ravenclaw to get hold of it. harry - of course - also only becomes a horcrux because of a woman - lily's - sacrifice.

his favourite death eaters are a woman and a very feminine-coded man. but - more interestingly - what the text finds unimpressive isn't that he likes bellatrix and snape... it's that he leaves a lot of his dirty work to male minions who are characterised by their brutish strength - people like greyback, hagrid [who he makes carry harry up to hogwarts], rowle, gibbon, amycus carrow and so on. there's the heavy implication in the text that voldemort's preference for leaving the violence to others - as i'm always pointing out, his canonical kill count is really low; most of the murders in the series are done by other death eaters acting on his orders - is something we should see as weak.

the text associates him with this effeminacy - i think it's really important to note, given who jkr is - as a criticism. it's something - much like the text's presentation of him as aromantic, and the fact that the degradation of his looks via the creation of the horcruxes makes him look sexless/eunuch-like - being used to underscore his villainy. he's feminine-coded in a toxic way.

but let's take this in another direction [and let's also return to the actual question you asked me...] and read him as someone who has always had to deal with being perceived as queer by other people, and having that perception be associated with negative assumptions.

he's very easy to imagine as a child/teenager who's the target of ridicule from his fellow orphans/fellow students [for not being sporty, for liking to sit in the library for hours on end coming up with anagrams of his own name, for the way he walks and speaks] which hinges on the idea that his failure to conform to the expected conventions of "proper" masculinity mean that he's not a proper man... and that if he's not a proper man then... he's not straight.

but then we have to come back to the "i knew i was special" point, don't we?

voldemort's belief in his own superiority can - in my view - be used to read him as somebody who would embrace being camp or effeminate or whatever term we want to use, in order both to express his contempt for people who criticise him ["think i'm a messed up little deviant, do you, mrs cole? well, you don't know the half of it!"] and who conform to social norms he thinks are reprehensible ["oh, do purebloods frown upon bottoming, abraxas? well - guess what - so do muggles. do you agree with what muggles think?"] and to humiliate, subjugate, and control them ["you think i'm a faggot, do you...? well, you're right... i'm a faggot who's defeated you in battle and now i'm about to kill you... still feel like a man?"].

while - obviously - appearance/gender presentation has nothing to do with preferred sexual roles - the manliest men on earth can be bottoms! being femme doesn't prevent you topping! - i really do think that voldemort is someone who can be written entirely canon-coherently as thinking that the homophobic perception of bottoming as weak, powerless, or humiliating is complete nonsense, and who would actively flaunt his rejection of this perception as a way to mock people who subscribe to it.

after all, we see him do something similar in canon when it comes to his blood-status and social class. the death eaters - lots of whom are posh pureblood men who conceive of themselves as the most important people in the universe - are made to kneel at the feet of and kiss the robes of and be branded like cattle by and be at the beck and call of someone who's neither pureblood nor posh. there are - as lupin tells us - no wizarding princes... and yet the closest things the wizarding world has to an aristocracy are rolling around on the ground debasing themselves and calling a half-blood orphan "my lord".

voldemort does this to humiliate them. but he also does this to amuse himself - à la logan roy making men who've displeased him play "boar on the floor".

[wormtail being forced to care for him when he's in his half-form at the start of goblet of fire, for example. he's not humiliated in the slightest by his dependence on wormtail... wormtail is humiliated by it, and voldemort finds it hilarious.]

and so i think we can plausibly imagine him also deeply enjoying making his straight, married, "i would die before i let anything near my arse", "i'm not getting changed for quidditch with so-and-so there, he's queer", "i'd disown my son if i found out he let other men fuck him" death eaters grovel for the favour of someone who loves getting railed...

this deeply aligns with how voldemort understands things like power and control - and it's why the argument that he'd only top because he would regard it as the only way of being powerful and controlling never hits for me.

because this also rests on an assumption - that the bottom always understands themselves as the passive partner. i do think the fandom is broadly getting better at recognising that bottoms and submissives are different things [although the bar was on the floor...], but i think there's still a tendency to default to the idea that the two people involved in sex are an active partner and a passive partner, and that the passive partner is - for want of a better term - the receptacle.

the language used around bottoming reinforces this assumption. its voice is passive - the bottom is penetrated, is bred, is fucked, is taken - its verbs are passive too - the top does, the bottom receives.

but the thing is... this is just semantics. and it's a semantic argument directly rooted in misogyny, and the homophobia which stems from and connects to it.

and - since it's just semantics - we can change the language we use at any time to completely reconfigure the assumed power dynamic.

the bottom grants access. the bottom consumes. the bottom takes. the bottom absorbs. the bottom uses. the bottom captures. the bottom detains. the bottom grips. the bottom devours. the bottom permits. the bottom destroys.

the top is the person who's passive - who receives permission, who is granted access, who is consumed, who is absorbed, who is captured. the top is the person having their life-force leached from them. they're just a toy, just a piece of meat. they literally don't matter.

and the text already uses this sort of language - the language of consumption and capture and permission to cross thresholds and so on - to talk about voldemort's attitude to power, magic, and the body.

he drains the blood of unicorns; he uses up the life-force of the people and animals he possesses; he grows stronger by consuming ginny's secrets; he is restored to his body by taking from his father, wormtail, and harry; he takes the money dumbledore offers without feeling the need to thank him or regard it as a gift; he offers up gifts to people he wants to use for his own gain; he "doesn't march up to people's houses and bang on their front doors" [OotP 6]; he hoards and conceals precious things; his soul is kept safe by being encased by the horcruxes; his locket is guarded by something which has to be drunk, which destroys anyone who assumes they can simply take it without his permission; he "would be glad to see anything miss hepzibah shows me" [HBP 20] and then seizes her secrets and uses them to bring about her doom; his descent from slytherin is proven by his control of the threshold of the chamber of secrets; he places himself and his talents at dumbledore's disposal, "i am yours to command" [HBP 20]; he controls snakes and they do his bidding; he drains the ministry of its secrets; he controls the dementors, who devour joy; augustus rookwood "has lord voldemort's gratitude... i shall need all the information you can give me" [OotP 26]; he is the greatest legilimens - that is to say, he is excellent at pulling other people's secrets into his own mind and using them as he wishes - the world has ever seen; he has seen ron's heart and it is his; his followers live to serve him...

his followers are called death eaters, not death fuckers.

and so it's inarguable, really, that he'd have a legion of service tops under his command...

[caelummink]

Imagine lying in bed, desperately trying to make yourself get up, but failing miserably. Eating, showering, brushing your teeth — it’s all too much.

And then you hear the familiar sound of your f/o’s footsteps.

They don’t speak right away. You can feel their presence as they stand in the doorway, their piercing gaze taking in your motionless form.

Finally, their voice cuts through the suffocating silence, “So, this is how you’ve decided to spend your evening. Hiding from the world, pretending it will disappear if you don’t face it?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Their words hold no malice, but they cut through you anyway, the truth in them too heavy to acknowledge.

“Very well,” your f/o sighs, the sound more resigned than frustrated. “If you insist on drowning in your misery, I will not stand idly by and watch.”

Before you can even process what they mean, they’re pulling the blanket off of you, their movements firm yet careful, as though they know exactly how fragile you are right now. Your f/o scoops you up effortlessly, one arm around your back, the other under your knees, cradling you as if you weigh nothing at all.

“Dinner first,” they say simply, already carrying you to the dining room. Their tone is final — there’s no room for argument.

When they set you down at the table, there’s already a plate waiting for you. Your f/o stands nearby, watching you closely as you hesitantly stare at the food.

“You needn’t finish it all, but you will eat,” they murmur. “For me, if not for yourself.”

The weight of their gaze compels you to pick up your fork. You take a bite, then another, and though you feel weak and slow, their unrelenting focus doesn’t waver. When you pause, their voice softens just enough to be comforting.

“Good,” they encourage. “Keep going.”

When you’ve eaten as much as you can, they help you to your feet again, their hand steadying you as they guide you to the bathroom. You freeze when you see your f/o pick up your toothbrush, but they don’t hesitate, squeezing the toothpaste onto the bristles as though this, too, is their responsibility now.

“Open your mouth,” they order, glancing at you with a look that’s both exasperated and oddly tender.

You comply, and they slowly brush your teeth for you. When they’re finished, they wipe the corner of your mouth with their thumb, the touch lingering for a moment before they speak again, their voice quiet.

“There we go,” they say, as though it’s a task only they could have done properly.

Next is the shower. Your f/o turns on the water, testing the temperature, their expression unreadable. You hesitate, unsure, but the look they give you leaves no room for doubt.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” they huff. “I’ve already taken you this far.”

You step into the water, and though they remain just outside, you feel their presence like a shield against the world. When your legs wobble, the glass door opens slightly, their hand reaching in to steady you, their fingers brushing against your cheek to wipe away a tear you didn’t know had fallen.

“Enough of this,” they whisper, their tone softening for just a moment. “You’ve endured, that is all I ask.”

When your f/o finally guides you to bed, you’re too drained to even argue. The sheets are cool and smooth against your skin, and their hands are impossibly gentle as they pull the blanket over you.

“F/O,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Why are you doing this?”

They pause, their gaze unreadable, yet so intense as though they’re staring straight into your soul.

“Because you are mine,” they say simply. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”

They settle beside you, their presence grounding you in a way that nothing else can. Your f/o’s hand brushes yours under the blanket, their touch surprisingly warm.

“Sleep now,” they murmur, their tone softer than you’ve ever heard it. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, I’m not going anywhere.”

And as their thumb traces small circles over your knuckles, you finally feel the heaviness in your chest begin to lift. For the first time in days, you close your eyes, and believe them.

[scoutofmymind]

hey loved your fics you are incredibly talented. i have a scene picture some angst reader is kinda like jo march if u watched little women and luigi is laurie in that one hill scene. basically reader prioritizes acads because of her upbringing - high achiever, academic validations, the whole package and luigi somehow is the same but he compels the reader in a magnetic way because luigi gets to be so carefree and awesome about it and turns out luigi and reader have a common thread and it's turning out rlly good but then reader is slightly scared of commitment in a relationship dare i say? because it was all acads for reader even though there were dreams of having a relationship, it all seemed abstract and unreal!! and the angst comes when luigi confesses to reader and reader reacts very defensive i suppose spitting out word vomit enumerating reasons why luigi shouldnt like her and how he's too good for her and luigi just shuts reader up by pinching their cheeks and holding them steady saying i want you all of you all that sweet stuff...this is just a thought i want to say i admire you heavily your writing is pivotal

Without Me — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, pining, best friends, purest love, summer, unrequited, lowkey gut-wrenching (sorry)

Wc: 6,843 (I could not stop writing)

Notes; Before we begin, I have to say, anon, I very much enjoyed writing this!! And thank you so much for sending me this request! ✨ there are only a couple bits of dialogue that match the hill scene, but I wanted to throw them in there!

This is lowkey a mini-fic, so enjoy!

Side note: If anything is badly edited, I will likely come back to do some cleaning up. But maybe not. Also I’ve started picking songs to include in requests wherever they may fit in. I want to mention too that backstory is something I just simply can’t leave out when it comes to angsty or emotional scenes, so I’m sorry I literally can’t shut up.

The cicadas weave their summer hymn through the gentle lap of water against stone, your body stretched across whisper-soft grass beside the reservoir.

This spot holds years of you both — echoes of skinned knees and bruised elbows soothed by cool spring water, of childhood dares and teenage secrets.

"You never swim with me anymore." Luigi's voice carries no accusation, just a quiet observation that somehow makes it worse. You can picture his expression without looking —that gentle, knowing thing that always sees too much. "All you do now is torch yourself in the sun."

Your back peels away from the grass, elbows bent to prop you up. Through his borrowed sunglasses — because of course you forgot yours back at the house, and of course he had a spare —you study him.

He's summer personified: water-darkened hair curling at his temples, shoulders golden in the early evening light, wearing a smile easy as breathing.

"I just don't want to get my hair wet, Lu." You say it with the comfortable certainty of someone who's had this exact argument a hundred times before.

"Well, don't then." His retort is quick, familiar. He moves through the water with an easy grace that somehow makes the old reservoir look more inviting than it ever has, though you'd never admit it.

Your shoulders are painted with freckles from all these summer days — chasing chickens in the fields, racing bikes into the city with him riding at your back, his presence as constant as the seasons.

"But then when I get out, I'll be cold." The words float between you like lazy dragonflies, and Luigi just shakes his head, spattering droplets that catch the light.

He pouts, but not like you do.

Where your pouts are theatrical productions, his is a quiet thing — eyebrows drawn together in thought, bottom lip pulled inward instead of jutted out dramatically. His gaze fixes downward at his feet beneath the crystal-clear water, methodically toeing one stone over, then another, like the placement of each pebble might solve some grand puzzle.

You watch him wage his silent war of reorganization, using nothing but his ten toes as construction equipment. It's such a Luigi thing to do — finding the smallest tasks to occupy himself instead of splashing around like he usually does, trying to tempt you in.

"Bet the water feels incredible," he murmurs, more to the stones than to you. His toes have created a perfect semicircle now, a tiny amphitheater beneath the surface. "Like that lemonade your mom makes — you know, the one with mint?"

You do know.

The kind she only makes when the temperature crawls past ninety, when the air feels thick enough to chew. Like today. You can almost taste it — tart and cool and perfect — which is exactly what Luigi intended with that particular comparison, the sneak.

"You're not as subtle as you think you are," you inform him, but you're already sitting up straighter, your legs beginning to tingle from staying still too long in the sun.

The grass has left impressions on your skin, tiny crosshatched patterns that Luigi always says look like secret maps, his fingers drawing lines upon them.

He doesn't look up from his underwater construction project, but one corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Never claimed to be subtle. That's your department, avoiding the water like it's personally offended you."

"The water hasn't offended me," you say, though you draw your knees up to your chest, putting another inch between you and the shoreline. "We have a mutual understanding. It stays there, and I stay here."

"Mhm." Luigi abandons his stone circle, wading a few steps deeper until the water laps at his knees, stood there in his trunks, the cobalt blue ones that hit just above his mid-thigh. "And how's that working out for you? Enjoying your dusty patch of grass while I'm out here living like a king?"

The problem is, he does look a bit regal out there, all long limbs and easy grace, like he was born for summer days and spring water.

You've known Lu since you were both gap-toothed and gangly, but sometimes — like now — he seems to have grown into himself while you weren't looking.

Yet, your own limbs still feel too long, too awkward, like you're wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit.

Meanwhile, Luigi wears summer like a second skin, all easy movements and natural grace, as if the universe decided to polish him up while leaving you in your perpetual state of stumbling through doorways.

"A king of minnows, maybe," you counter, but you're already uncurling, letting your feet stretch toward the water's edge. Not to join him, obviously. Just to... test the temperature.

"Ah," he says softly, watching your toes creep closer, his voice taking on a funny narrators tone, an accent thrown in that sounded similar to his fathers. "The snail emerges from her shell."

"Shell-less snails are just slugs," you inform him primly, but dip one toe in anyway. The water isn't as cold as you expected — it never is, but that doesn't stop you from putting on this show every single time. "And I'm neither."

"No," Luigi agrees, dropping the accent but keeping that amused lilt in his voice. "You're more like- like one of those hermit crabs. The ones that think really hard about switching shells but then just stick with the same one anyway."

You splash water at him with your foot, and he doesn't even try to dodge. "Fuck, Lu —That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."

"Is it?" He takes a few steps backward, deeper into the water, like he's laying out a trail for you to follow. "Because you're still sitting there, thinking about coming in, just like you do every time.“

Luigi could easily remember all the days spent here, in this very body of water together — the secret collection of precious gems that were really just polished river rocks, the fossil that turned out to be an old bottle cap, and that infamous river snake from an overturned stone that had you shrieking and refusing to dive under for weeks.

"Can't be thinking about doing it if I'm already doing it, Lu." You roll your eyes, your shins now lapping gently with clean, cool water. The trees droop overhead like nature's own parasol, their leaves casting dappled shadows that dance across your shoulders.

He's quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. And then. “Remember when we thought we found actual dinosaur bones here?"

"You mean the plastic fork?"

"A very convincing plastic fork."

The water feels like silk against your skin now, and you find yourself wading deeper without really meaning to. It's muscle memory, maybe — your body remembering what your mind keeps second-guessing.

"At least I wasn't the one who tried to sell it to the museum.” you remind him, the water now swirling around your waist. Each step stirs up tiny clouds of silt that disappear into the clear water.

He splashes in your direction, grinning. "We were tweleve! And Mrs. Henderson at the museum was very nice about it."

"She gave you a cookie and a lecture about scientific integrity."

"Exactly. A win-win."

You're deep enough now that you have to lift your arms to keep them dry, though you're not sure why you're bothering. Your bikini is already clinging to you, and that familiar weightless feeling is starting to take over — the one that always made you feel brave before.

"You know what your real problem is?" Luigi quips, but this time his voice is gentler. "You forgot how to play."

The words hit harder than you expect, maybe because there's no teasing in them now.

Just truth, floating there on the surface like a leaf.

"I didn't forget," you say quietly. "I just- I put it away somewhere."

The look in his eyes tells you exactly what's coming, but muscle memory kicks in before you can retreat, your arms already up in defense position as he sends a massive splash your way, the arc of water catching sunlight like scattered diamonds before it hits you full in the face.

"Luigi!" you shriek, but you're already laughing, already moving. Your soul remembers this dance even if your mind's been trying to forget it, and the water parts easily as you lunge toward him, years of practice making your movements swift and sure.

He tries to dodge, but you know all his tricks — the way he always feints left before going right, how he can't resist staying just within splashing range.

The water battle that ensues is immediate and fierce, both of you laughing and gasping, sending waves in every direction, limbs smacking into each other at times, your body trailing away from his while he charged closer.

"See?" he manages between splashes. "The Queen of minnows!”

You're about to respond when your foot slips on a smooth stone, and suddenly you're going under.

For a split second, panic flares — but then the tranquility and silence envelops you, and it feels like greeting an old friend, your eyes open underwater, seeing the filtered sunlight create shifting patterns all around you, and suddenly you remember why you used to love this so much.

When you surface, pushing wet hair from your face, Luigi is watching you with a grin, his sunglasses pushed away from his face and atop his head instead, nestled in his damp black curls. “You got your hair wet.” He gives you one last gentle splash, his grin so carved into his features it may as well be everlasting.

Luigi, the son of Marco Mangione, whose genius lay in transforming his grandfather's modest Milan carpentry shop into Mangione Artisan Living — now a name whispered in the same breath as Fendi Casa and Bottega Veneta's home collection.

When Marco married Sofia Bernardi in the 80’s, a celebrated interior designer, they moved to America, the local papers painting it as another wealthy foreigner's passing fancy — this modernist villa rising among cornfields and weathered barns.

But Marco had seen something in these hills that reminded him of Tuscany, in the calloused hands of local woodworkers that echoed his grandfather's.

The Mangione Mansion stands like a slice of northern Italy transplanted to American soil, with its stark geometries softened by groves of imported olive trees and terraced gardens.

It's a world away from your family's farmhouse, where the paint peels in honest patches and the screen door creaks a familiar welcome, yet Marco moves between these worlds with effortless grace, discussing the merits of different wood grains with your father across the fence line, or clearing out your mother's farmer's market stall of preserves, declaring each jar Perfetto, just like my Nonna's! with the same genuine warmth he uses to greet European royalty.

Luigi, who could have been pressed into private academies and dinner jackets, groomed for Ivy League legacies and country club memberships, had instead grown up alongside you in public school — though his future was cushioned by both financial security and natural brilliance.

You can't remember a time when academic excellence wasn't your north star — every assignment a stepping stone, every grade a battle in the war for your future.

Being a veterinarian wasn't just a dream, it was your escape route from the endless cycle of farm life that had worn your father's hands to calluses and bent your mother's back.

Perfect attendance since kindergarten, straight A's through AP Biology, even showing up on Senior Skip Day — just you and Lacey Williams, the would-be neurosurgeon, bent over your textbooks in an empty classroom.

Now here you both are in the water — you with your scholarship letters and student loan applications waiting at home, him with acceptance letters from Harvard and Yale gathering dust on his desk.

Two lives that should never have intersected, meeting in the middle of sun-warmed water, your shared freckles catching golden light, limbs tangling as Luigi feints another playful attack.

•

Summer buzzes by your eyeshot like a cicada in a hurry, the season winding down with cooler, longer nights and shorter, blazing hot days.

August comes barreling through like it always does, hot and sticky air clinging to your skin as you sit with Luigi upon the sloped side of the barn, a Birds Eye view of the farm, this very spot the first place the two of you had tried smoking weed, the very first time you ogled at a traumatizing porn everyone at school was talking about — this spot, worn from years of shared moments together is the very place you create some distance.

For the first time.

“I think I want my own party this year.”

The words land like a stone in still water, ripples of hurt crossing Luigi's face before he can master his expression.

For a moment, he looks eight years old again, standing in the tall grass with his first American birthday cake — the one your mom made because his parents were still learning that birthdays here meant homemade frosting, not elegant catered affairs and grand garden parties.

"Oh," he says, and it's the smallest you've ever heard his voice. "Yeah, of course. That makes sense. We’re turning twenty-two. Not eight anymore.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes, hands fidgeting with the bracelet you’d made him years and years ago — the same nervous tell he's had since childhood. "Actually, Ma’s been saying I should do something more — you know, formal this year anyway."

The lie sits between you like a third person.

Luigi, who once convinced his parents to move his elaborate garden party to your barn because you had the flu has never cared for formal anything.

You can see him rebuilding his walls, brick by careful brick, protecting himself the way he never had to with you before.

"Send me pictures though?" he adds lightly, but there's at least fifteen years of shared candles and off-key, bi-lingual singing wrapped in that request, fifteen years of your mom's chocolate cake and his ma’s tiramisu side by side on the same table.

"Luigi, it's not-" you start, then pause, because it is exactly what he thinks it is. A separation. A gentle fracture. "I just need to figure out who I am without- without being part of a matched set. Does that make sense?"

The words feel clumsy in your mouth, inadequate to explain this need that's been growing since your acceptance letter arrived.

You watch him nod too quickly, the way he does when he's processing something that hurts.

The same way he looked when Benny, one of the milking cows had passed three summers ago, or the way he looked when you told him you couldn’t go on the Mangione trip to Italy, desperately needing the vet clinic hours.

"My party's probably just going to be pizza with my study group anyway," you continue, trying to make it sound smaller than it is, even though you've already planned every detail — your first real birthday party that isn't shaped around accommodating both your worlds. "And you should do something spectacular. Twenty-two is a weird number, but you could make it your thing.“

He laughs, but it's his polite laugh, the one he uses at his father's business dinners. "Maybe I'll rent out that new rooftop place in the city," he says, playing along with this sudden pretense that the two of you haven't spent months quietly planning your joint party like every year before. "Very grown-up."

The space between you fills with unspoken memories — dual parties with increasingly ridiculous themes, the year you both got chicken pox and celebrated in quarantine together, or the year his mother hired a magician who pulled you both on stage as assistants.

Fifteen years of wishes and synchronized candle-blowing, and you’ve put an abrupt end to it, with not so much as a warning.

"You're not mad?" you ask, even though you can see he is — not angry-mad, but hurt-mad, the kind that makes his shoulders tight and his smile too careful.

He stands abruptly, brushing invisible dirt from his shorts. "Mad? Nah, come on. We're not kids anymore." The words come out just a touch too fast, too light. "Actually, I should head back. Papa wanted to discuss something about the company tonight."

It's barely seven, and Marco's in New York City until Thursday — you both know this. But Luigi's already stepping back, that practiced social smile firmly in place, the one he uses when he needs to retreat but is too polite to say so.

"Night," he calls over his shoulder once he scales the side of the barn down to the grass again, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

You watch him walk away, his usual easy stride now stiff and measured, leaving you alone with just the sound of the bullfrogs near the pond, and the chickens settling in their coops for the night.

The sunset feels colder somehow, and you wrap your arms around your knees, trying to convince yourself this is what growing up looks like as you sit there until the mosquitoes start biting, watching the space where Luigi disappeared and wondering if this is what independence is supposed to feel like — this hollow victory that tastes nothing like freedom and everything like loss.

•

The late August evening slowly begins to melt into night, the air carrying whispers of autumn though summer still reigns.

You breathe in deep — catching hints of hay being baled in distant fields, leaves just beginning their subtle shift from green to gold, and lake water evaporating off sun-warmed skin. The pontoon boat hums steadily beneath you, loaded with friends sprawled across every available surface, their laughter echoing across the darkening water.

You'd done your best to prepare them all, carefully explaining the separate celebrations to avoid awkward questions.

But Luigi's absence feels like a shadow you can't shake — in the pause after every joke, in the empty space at the boat's stern where he always sat, in the way conversations drift and fade without his easy charm to bridge them.

You're learning that some people leave gaps too precisely shaped to fill, and you catch yourself waiting for sounds that aren't coming —the full-bodied laughter that usually ricochets across the lake, the constant stream of Luigi's commentary that made even silence feel alive.

No one's standing at the boat's edge, goading others into increasingly ridiculous diving contests. The absence of these things sits heavy in your chest, like missing the last step on a familiar staircase.

"Good for you for doing your own thing this year," Mia offers, wine sloshing in her solo cup as she gestures vaguely. "Must be nice not having to compromise on everything for once."

Not really, you think.

The evening settles into dinner in the back garden, strings of lights casting warm halos over familiar faces — relatives, neighbors, friends who'd trickled in as the day aged and as if on cue, the peaceful scene splinters at the sound of tires on gravel and a booming voice that makes your stomach drop.

"Where's Luigi?!"

Cousin Tony's borrowed truck sits askew on the path, driver's door still swinging open like an afterthought.

He bounds toward you, one arm clutching what's clearly a wine bottle wrapped in what looks like yesterday's newspaper, his face bright with the anticipation of seeing his favorite duo.

The sight makes something in your chest twist.

He’s always treated you both as his own blood, never drawing lines between family and chosen family.

You're crushed into a bear hug before you can dodge it, his familiar cologne mixing with engine grease as you try to breathe through compressed lungs, but he’s still calling for Luigi over your head, each shout making the other guests shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"He's somewhere in the city, Tone," you manage to wheeze out.

Your phone burns in your pocket, where Luigi's latest Instagram story sits unopened — some rooftop view you're deliberately not thinking about.

"What'da ya mean?" His grip loosens just enough for you to see his face fall, confusion creeping into his features like a slowly spreading stain.

"We're... trying something different this year," you say, words feeling clumsy as you glance over your shoulder at the laden table — a spread that still unconsciously includes all of Luigi's favorites alongside your own. The sight of his mother's recipe for stuffed shells sitting next to your grandmother's pierogies makes your throat tight.

"Well, is he at least comin' later?"

"No." The word falls between you like a stone. "He couldn't cancel his reservation without losing the booking fee, so I just told him it was fi-"

"No, no, mia cara," Tony drags his hands through his hair, face crumpling like you've just told him the world is ending. "Potrebbe essere l'ultimo!" The words tumble out in his rushed native tongue, his distress making him forget himself.

"You just said that in Italian." Your voice sounds far away, even to your own ears, like it's coming from the bottom of a well.

"Shit — It could be your last time, cuginetta." Tony's sigh seems to come from his bones as he pulls out his phone, cursing when he sees the no-service icon.

"My last time?"

Tony lifts his head slowly from his phone screen, eyes finding yours with a weight that makes your stomach drop. "What — oh, Dio — do you mean to say he has not told you?"

"Told me...?” You brace yourself, chest aching with a sudden, sharp regret for all those breakfast lessons with Luigi's nonna, her patient voice guiding you through pronunciations you'd carelessly let slip away between coffee and lunch.

"He got big'a job in the big city," Tony's hands sweep upward, as if trying to encompass the vastness of a metropolis that stretches far beyond any gesture could capture. "Saying bye-bye forever to smelly farm." His hands fall, and his expression softens into something dangerously close to pity. "Sorry.”

"Leaving? Like — he's moving there?" The words feel strange in your mouth.

You're standing in the same garden where you and Luigi once buried treasure maps at age eight, where you learned to cartwheel together at twelve, where you shared your first illegal beer at sixteen — and suddenly it all feels like archaeological evidence of something that's already gone.

"That's where zio Marco is now, making sure Princess Luigi has all the things he need there for — uh—" Tony lapses into rapid Italian, but you've already stopped listening, the rest of his words fading into white noise.

You're hung up on the present tense of it all — Luigi’s father is there now, apartment hunting, setting up a brand new life while you stand here in your shared history, surrounded by people who apparently knew more about Luigi's future than you did.

The realization hits very suddenly.

Luigi was moving away, and he spoke not a word of it to you.

Tony manages a plate of food before borrowing your landline, desperate to track down Luigi in the sprawling city and when his truck finally crunches back down the gravel path, you feel it like a physical wound — as if he's taking a piece of you with him, torn straight from your core, yet, you maintain your composure with award-winning precision, a smile fixed firmly in place as guests filter away into the darkness.

You go through the motions, accepting kisses on cheeks, graciously receiving gifts labeled with just your name - no more Dynamic Duo or Thing 1 and 2 scrawled in familiar handwriting.

You help clear the garden, stack chairs, wash dishes that held food Luigi would have fought you for the leftovers of. You kiss your father's cheek goodnight, and tell your still-bustling mother you're heading out for some stargazing.

It's not entirely a lie.

You do end up beneath the stars, though you hadn't exactly planned to collapse here by the waterfront, where the distant dock creaks its lonely song, the splash of jumping fish and the bold croaking of nearby bullfrogs barely register — sounds that would normally make you jump now feel as distant as satellite signals.

You're lost in the undertow of your thoughts, barely noticing the warm tears tracking down your neck until your t-shirt is damp with evidence of a grief you didn't know you needed to prepare for — the silence holds you, envelopes you, and you’re almost convinced you can disappear here until-

"Hey, stranger."

His voice cuts through the cricket symphony like a knife, and you freeze, tears still wet on your face.

You don't turn around — can't turn around — because you know exactly what he'll look like: silhouetted against the moons full and distant glow, wearing that stupid designer jacket he bought last month that suddenly makes too much sense.

Big City boy.

The grass whispers beneath his feet as he approaches, each step measured like he's greeting a spooked animal.

It's funny — he used to just crash down beside you, all elbows and laughter.

When did you become something he had to be careful with?

"Tone called me," he says softly, still standing. "Said he found you but couldn't find me." There's a pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Told me other things, too."

The lake laps at the shore, a steady rhythm that used to calm you both on countless nights like this.

Now it just sounds like a countdown.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Your voice sounds small against the vastness of the lake, broken and confused, betrayed and disbelieving.

"Would it have changed anything?" His words come sharp, defensive. "Would you have suddenly decided to stay?"

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" The laugh that escapes him is bitter and unfamiliar. "You want to talk about fair? I watched you apply to every college more than fifty miles away. Watched you light up talking about leaving, about getting out. Never once asking—" He cuts himself off, his gaze turning up instead at the trees that sway and rustle in the midnight air, a chill taking your spine.

"Asking what, Lu?”

"If I wanted to come with you." The words hang in the darkness between you. "If maybe I had dreams too, ones that didn't involve watching you disappear."

"I never said you couldn't-“

"What do you think I was going to do, wait around forever?" His voice cracks at the end, brittle and broken. "God, I've spent my whole life orbiting you like a personal Pluto. I don't even remember my life before you." He paces now like an agitated zoo animal behind a sheath of thin glass, just out of reach. “And yet, you expect me to stay here without you? While you go to college, make your own dreams come true?"

The moonlight catches his face as he turns, and you see something break in his expression. "I would have waited. I would have always waited, but fuck—" His hands tremble as they rake through his hair. "You've pushed and pushed and pushed me away. Every college application, every excited story about your future somewhere else, the party -“ he watches as you stand, your posture ridged and nervous, but attentive.

"Lu, please -“

"So what do I do?" His voice drops lower, trembling. "I have to think of myself too. I have to accept that we won't always be this way." He watches as you scrub your hands over your face, your unsteady legs carrying you off the dock.

The cool, damp grass beneath your feet becomes an anchor, something real in a moment that feels anything but.

He follows, his body angled toward yours like a compass finding north. "But it didn't have to be like this." His voice softens to barely above a whisper, his dress shoes crushing the grass with each step.

"Well, what exactly did you expect?" You whirl around, wiping furiously beneath your eyes, moonlight catching the tears on your cheeks that refuse to be unseen. "We were going to play in the river forever? Did you think we'd just find our way without ever trying?" The words come out harder than you mean them, sharp with the kind of anger that's really just fear in disguise.

"I- you-" Luigi's voice breaks.

His eyes are bloodshot, the bridge of his nose red from earlier tears hastily wiped away in the party bathroom. In the half-light, he looks both younger and older than your shared twenty-two years — a boy trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers, a man facing his first real loss.

"You know, maybe it might have been that easy for you, Lu." Your eyes drift to the Mangione Mansion, its windows gleaming like jewels against the dark hills, an anomaly among the endless cornfields. "You never had to lift a finger — it always just..." You gesture vaguely, bitterly. "Fell into place."

The words taste like copper in your mouth, sharper for how unfair they feel.

Because he's always shared everything.

Those lavish family dinners where his mother insisted you sit next to her, those delicate necklaces from Rome that he'd drape around your neck with careful fingers, those shopping trips where his nonna would press dresses into your arms with a conspirator's wink.

He's never once made you feel like charity.

But there are some things that can't be shared, some advantages that run deeper than generosity.

While you pieced together credits between evening classes and online courses, fighting for every inch of progress, he'd come home rolling his eyes at another Harvard letter, another Yale recruiter calling.

You take a deep breath, feeling the summer air fill your lungs, and air that smells like it always has, like corn silk and cut grass and the all-consuming night. "Did you think we'd just stay here in our bubble, Lu?" Your voice softens despite yourself. "The only place we've ever known?"

All he can do is stand there, helpless, caught between a nod and denial.

His expression crumples into something raw and pleading — such a far cry from the boy who, just last week, had painted patterns across your skin with river mud, both of you laughing until your sides hurt.

The same boy whom you could communicate with without even speaking to, who knew exactly how you took your coffee, who was born the day before you, and who could read your silences like a book he'd memorized; yet now he's looking at you like you're written in a language he never learned to speak.

"No." The word propels you forward, feet moving before your brain catches up.

His face softens into something unbearable — like watching a star collapse in slow motion, finally understanding that this isn't just another one of your theoretical late-night talks about the future.

His carefully constructed composure crumbles, leaving behind something young and scared and achingly real.

"I love you." The words fall from his lips like muscle memory, like breathing, like the thousands of times before — whispered against your hair during movies, shouted across parking lots, mumbled sleepily during long car rides. But now they land heavy between you, a weight pressing against your chest until it hurts to breathe. "I always have, and I always will—"

"No. No, Lu." Your voice cracks on his name, and your pace quickens, bare feet crushing grass beneath desperate steps.

But he matches you stride for stride.

“My life has been so intertwined with yours, when you began to pull away - I- I panicked,” He was rambling now, quick and out of breath but keeping up with you nonetheless, the two of you navigating the vast property, moon and starlight the only thing guiding your path. “I settled on what I knew would be easiest,”

“That’s the problem.” You stop again to look at him, your chest heaving. “You don’t need to settle, Lu — you’re brilliant, you’re so fucking brilliant-“ he grabs your wrists gently, taking several steps to close the gap between you.

"I have never settled on you." Luigi's voice goes rigid, cracking in the middle like ice breaking over deep water. Each word carries the weight of years — shared secrets, dreams whispered under blanket forts, and promises made in tree houses. "You have always been my first option."

You catch your breath, the familiar warmth of his hands on your wrists suddenly feeling like shackles.

Your head shakes, slow and deliberate, as you try to pull back — but his grip steadfast remains. "How would you know of the other options?" The question comes out softer than you mean it to, weighted with everything you've both been too scared to say. "Do you know yourself without me?”

"I don't want to know myself without you."

"Luigi. Please stop-“ You wrench your wrists from his loosened grip, your feet carrying you forward through the night but he follows, like an echo you can't shake, like a shadow that refuses to fade with distance.

His words tumble out faster now, chasing the shrinking space between you and home, visible through the wavering corn stalks like a lighthouse warning of rough water ahead. "I know I'm not — I know I'm not Matthew Williams, or that guy that works the stables near the Bradshaws. And I know I’m not a perfect man, but—"

You stop once again, so abruptly this time he nearly collides with you, turning to face this strange new version of Luigi — one you've never seen before, one who wears his insecurities like an ill-fitting suit.

He's brave, you'll give him that, but he's also terrified in a way that makes your chest ache.

This boy who's never had to compete for anything in his life, suddenly listing off names like entries in a contest he thinks he's losing.

"You stop that." Your finger jabs at his chest, connecting with the expensive fabric of his jacket. "You are the most-the most magnificent person I have ever met, Luigi. And you're not perfect, no-“ You swallow against the rising bile, against the irony of having to defend him to himself when you're the one walking away. "But you're honest, and you're good — a goddamn great deal too good for me."

The last part comes out like a confession, like something you've carried so long it's carved itself into your bones — the real reason you're running, the fear that someday he'll wake up and realize it too.

The night holds its breath around you, your ragged exhales mixing with his in the space between heartbeats, and the trees shiver their leaves like witnesses to your undoing, crickets falling silent as if they too understand the gravity of this moment — this closing act.

"But-“ You step into his warmth, drawn forward like a moth to flame, even now, knowing it would burn. You’re close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with fresh-cut grass and summer sweat. Close enough to see the moonlight catching in his eyelashes. Close enough to break both your hearts properly. "I can't love you the way you deserve to be loved."

The words tear themselves from your throat like barbed wire, each syllable drawing blood.

Your stomach twists inside out, acid creeping up your throat again, "I can't love you like that. I’m - I’m so, so sorry, Luigi — I just - I can’t,

His hands find your face with the reverence of a prayer, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the geography of your skin. "Listen to me," he whispers, his voice thick with desperation. "Listen."

The tenderness in his touch nearly breaks you — the way his fingers tremble against your jaw, the gentle circles he traces beneath your ears, the familiar callous on his right thumb from his tree-climbing habit.

His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath hitching, unsteady and warm against your lips.

"You've already loved me better than anyone else ever could," Luigi's voice cracks, splintering like ice in early spring. "You love me exactly as I am — not the heir, not the prodigy, not the Mangione name." His hands slide into your hair, “You have loved me even though I can’t remember to help feed the hens, but I can recite every constellation. And you’ve loved me even though I name every cull cow — even though you think it’s cruel.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the raw hope in his gaze is almost unbearable. "Please," he breathes, the word more air than sound. "Please don't decide for both of us what kind of love I deserve." His thumbs catch the tears you didn't realize were falling, smearing them across your cheeks like war paint. "Let me choose.”

“Then choose someone else!” You shake your hands at him, helpless and wishing to disappear. “I - I’m so unsure of myself - every goddamn thing I do, Luigi. I break everything, I’m useless at being a homemaker. I’m awkward, I’m a black sheep, even all the way out here.”

You aren’t made for the big city like he is.

The moonlight catches in his dark eyes, turning them to liquid as they search yours. "I don't need perfect love. I don't need textbook romance or fairy tale." His voice breaks, raw with honesty. "I just need you. But - but I can’t live like this forever" He’s speaking faster than you’ve ever heard the smooth-talking, easy going Luigi say anything.

You try to turn away, to escape the weight of his words, but his touch holds you steady — gentle but unwavering. "Luigi — let me the fuck-“

"No," he breathes, the word ghosting across your lips. "No, don't push me away because you think you're protecting me. Don't make decisions about what I can handle." His fingers thread through your hair, cradling the back of your head. "I choose this. I choose the messy parts, the broken parts, the parts you think are unlovable. I choose all of it."

I am stopping this here. Love you 💕

[evermoreness]

study session | regulus black

pairing: regulus black x reader

summary: you and regulus are having a study session but both can't focus enough.

obs: reader is james potter's sister.

masterlist

The Hogwarts library was bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. You sat at a corner table, your books spread out around you in organized chaos. Across from you, Regulus Black was scribbling notes into a neat scroll, his handwriting precise and elegant as always.

“You know,” you said, glancing up from your Arithmancy textbook, “if McGonagall saw how quickly you finish your homework, she’d probably faint.”

Regulus smirked without looking up. “That would only be amusing if I could get a picture of it. Do you think your brother would lend me his camera?”

You chuckled softly, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. “I doubt it. James would probably hex you before he even heard the question.”

“Well, that would be consistent with his behavior,” Regulus replied smoothly, dipping his quill into the ink. “Your brother has quite the flair for dramatics.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted with a grin. “But to be fair, you do have a bit of a reputation, Reggie.” You emphasized his nickname, knowing it always earned you a reaction.

The nickname made Regulus’s heart skip, though he’d never let it show. He looked down at his book to hide the small smile threatening to form. “I prefer ‘Regulus.’”

You suppressed a laugh "You always do."

Regulus paused, his quill hovering midair, and gave you a mock glare. “You do realize you’re the only person in the world who can get away with calling me that?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Oh, I know. And I fully intend to abuse that privilege.”

For a moment, Regulus’s usual stoic expression softened into something almost tender. “Lucky me,” he muttered, returning to his essay.

---

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor Common Room

James Potter was pacing the length of the common room like a caged lion, his messy hair even more disheveled than usual. Sirius Black sat sprawled on the couch, watching his best friend with a bemused expression. Remus Lupin sat in an armchair nearby, a book in his lap, though his attention had long since shifted to James’s theatrics.

“I just don’t get it,” James exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Why does she have to spend so much time with him of all people?”

“Because he’s tolerable, which is more than I can say for you sometimes,” Sirius quipped, earning a sharp glare from James.

“This isn’t funny, Padfoot,” James snapped. “Regulus is—he’s—well, he’s him.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite the argument, James. Very compelling.”

“You know what I mean!” James groaned. “He’s a Slytherin, and not just any Slytherin—he’s a Black. What if he’s using her? Or trying to get information on us?”

“Regulus?” Sirius scoffed. “He’s not exactly running back to Mum and Dad with secrets, trust me. Besides, she can take care of herself.”

“That’s not the point!” James said, throwing himself into a chair. “She’s my little sister. She shouldn’t be hanging around someone like him.”

“Someone like who?” a calm voice interjected.

The three boys turned to see Lily Evans standing at the bottom of the staircase, her arms crossed and a knowing look on her face.

“Lily, my love” James said, his tone softening immediately. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

Lily sighed, walking over to sit in the arm of James’s chair. Her arms going around his shoulders. “I think you need to trust her to make her own decisions. She’s not a child.”

“She’s sixteen,” James pointed out.

“And incredibly smart and capable,” Lily countered. “Besides, have you ever considered that maybe she sees something in Regulus that no one else does?”

James frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “You’re all against me,” he muttered.

“Not against you, mate,” Sirius said, barely hiding a grin. “Just enjoying the show.”

---

Back in the Library

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head. “I swear, if I have to write one more footnote for this essay, I’m going to scream.”

Regulus glanced up from his parchment. “If you’re trying to get us kicked out of the library, there are less dramatic ways to go about it.”

“Oh, come on, Reggie,” you said with a playful pout. “Live a little. Be a bad influence for once.”

He snorted softly. “If anyone here is the bad influence, it’s you.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Me? I’m an angel.”

“Angels don’t drag people out of bed at 6 a.m. to study for Arithmancy,” he pointed out.

“That was one time!” you protested, laughing. “And you needed the help.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a rare smile. “Did I?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of someone clearing their throat made you pause. Both turned to see James standing at the edge of the table, his arms crossed and a look of pure disapproval on his face.

“Hello, Regulus,” James said, his tone icy.

“Potter,” Regulus replied, his voice equally cool.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, James. What are you doing here?”

“I was just checking on my little sister,” James said pointedly, his eyes never leaving Regulus. “Making sure she wasn’t being...bothered.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, you jumped in. “I’m not being bothered. In fact, we were having a perfectly pleasant afternoon until you showed up.”

“Pleasant?” James repeated, looking scandalized. “With him?”

“Yes, James, with him,” you said, exasperated. “Regulus is my friend.”

James looked like he wanted to argue, but before he could, Sirius and Remus appeared behind him, both looking far too amused by the situation.

“Fancy seeing you here, Reg,” Sirius said, his grin widening when Regulus scowled. “Having a nice time with y/n?”

“Go away, Sirius,” Regulus muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Remus chuckled, placing a hand on James’s shoulder. “Come on, Prongs. Let’s give them some space.”

“But—” James started to protest, only to be dragged away by Remus and Sirius.

You sighed, shaking your head as they disappeared. “Brothers,” you muttered.

Regulus watched you, his expression softening again. “You’re worth putting up with them,” he said quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard, but then smiled. “Careful, Reggie. You’re starting to sound almost charming.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said, returning to his essay, though the faint smile on his lips remained.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way Regulus quickly masked his moment of softness with his usual cool demeanor. There was something so endearing about him when he wasn’t trying to be aloof.

“I’m serious, you know,” you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. “You don’t have to deal with James like that all the time. He’s... protective. Sometimes a little too much.”

“I’ve gathered that,” Regulus muttered. “He seems to think I’m a threat to your well-being.”

“Well, he’s not entirely wrong,” you said with a teasing grin. “You are a Slytherin, after all.”

Regulus shot you a sideways glance. “I’m not sure whether you’re insulting me or trying to be funny.”

“A bit of both, I suppose,” you replied, your voice light. “But, seriously. If it weren’t for James, I think you and I would have a much easier time hanging out in public.”

“I can manage it,” Regulus said with a shrug. “I’m used to... complicated situations.”

You studied him for a moment, your expression softening. “You don’t have to always act like you’ve got everything under control, Reggie. It’s okay to let your guard down sometimes.”

He met your gaze, his green eyes lingering on yours for a second longer than usual before he looked away, clearing his throat. “I suppose you wouldn’t let me live it down if I did.”

You chuckled, but there was a touch of warmth in your eyes. “Maybe not. But you’d have to admit, it’s a lot less exhausting to just be yourself for once.”

Before Regulus could respond, the library door swung open again, and the familiar chatter of students filled the otherwise peaceful room. You glanced toward the entrance and then back to Regulus, feeling a sense of quiet contentment washing over you. The constant push and pull of her relationship with her brother, the Black family, and everything in between seemed momentarily distant, as if it didn’t matter.

In that moment, it was just the two of you in the cozy corner of the library, sharing the rare peace of a late afternoon, without the weight of the world pressing down on them.

Regulus’s voice broke the silence. “You know, you’re probably right. I’m not always as... composed as I seem.”

You smiled, your eyes twinkling. “I’m glad you’re starting to realize that. I think I like you better this way.”

Regulus met your gaze, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe I like you better too, y/n”

And for once, as the soft golden light bathed the library in a quiet glow, it felt like everything—just for that moment—was exactly as it should be.

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

Okay, I'm going to make a wild prediction about Adar and Galadriel in Episode 8, so strap in.

An overarching the/major motif of the Rings of Power from the very first episode has been, obviously, the interplay between darkness/light.

"To find the light, we must first touch the darkness." / "Before light, darkness must flee, etc."

Adar and Galadriel together are a manifestation of that duality between light and dark and accordingly, I think there's a compelling case for them to team up against Sauron at the end of Season 2.

Here's my attempt at this argument:

PARALLELS BETWEEN ADAR AND GALADRIEL

The show has established a few strong visual parallels between the two of them.

Mourning ritual. Galadriel mourning for Finrod in S1Ep1 is echoed by Adar's mourning of the Uruks in S2Ep7. They even mirror the single tear.

What's more, Galadriel bears WITNESS to Adar's funeral ritual, enforcing the connection of this moment.

Seed planting. Frankly, my jaw hit the floor when S2Ep2 had Galadriel planting seeds in the memorial garden in Lindon, because the shots/framing were almost IDENTICAL to the seed planting Adar does at the beginning of S1Ep6. The sentiments of both instances are the same "life over death," though the words do differ.

Flip sides of the same coin/mirror to one another. The show has also presented us with many instances where they function as mirrors to one another. If not signficant, why do?

Barn scene. The barn scene in S1Ep6 is a PRIME example, when Adar literally calls Galadriel out for the hypocrisy of her hatred of the orcs.

The dinner scene. Adar once again holds up a mirror to Galadriel, pushing back against her notion that "you yielded to him. I resisted." Then they have the shared acknowledgement that without Sauron, the world seems a "dull grey" (GREY, interestingly, a halfway point between dark and light). Adar's face in response to her admission will live rent-free in my mind forever-- it's like he's been SEEN for the first time in his life.

So while Galadriel sees herself as a warrior of light, and views Adar as a creature of darkness, the show does a pretty superb job of showing that both of these characters have light and dark within them in equal measure.

They were both tempted by Sauron and succumbed.

So there is a clear, thematic link between these two from that standpoint.

ADAR'S JOURNEY TOWARD THE LIGHT

Next, I think it is clear Adar on a path toward light/redemption as an elf, and it tracks in a VERY LITERAL SENSE.

First time we see Adar, he is bathed in an angelic light. As he performs the funeral ritual for Magrot, light streams into the Uruk tent.

The shot at the end of S2 Ep1, when the camera lingers on Adar as Gil-Galad's call to the Eldalie commences. Adar feels the undeniable call to his elven past. That camera shot was NOT A COINCIDENCE, and I'm FOREVER FERAL ABOUT IT.

Cavalry charge at the siege of Eregion. Adar is OBVIOUSLY backlit:

There is a dividing line between light and shadow an Adar is RIGHT on the border of it.

When he steps up to take possession of Nenya, the sky behind him is split between a darker side and a lighter side. (You can argue that it's a CREEPY light, but it's still light. There is almost no all-black coloring on him in that second frame when he actually has the ring. For a character that's been head to toe in black the entire series, this is Significant.)

So where does that leave us for the big Sauron smackdown?

My first wild prediction: In an INSANE reversal, Galadriel will be the one to bring Morgoth's dark crown to the confrontation, while Adar will wield Nenya, a symbol of light.

It's not inconceivable that Gal could have smuggled it out of Adar's camp somehow under her oversized Uruk cloak. And Adar, OBVIOUSLY now possesses Nenya at the end of S2Ep7.

I think the fight between Galadriel and Sauron is ACTUALLY a three-person fight; we just haven't seen Adar in the promos because

1. Obvious plot spoilers and

2. HE WILL BE FIGHTING IN A FAIR FORM BECAUSE NENYA WILL HEAL HIS CORRUPTION.

My second wild prediction: This three-person fight is telegraphed in The Last Temptation. There's a new motif (not musical, so unclear if this is the correct term??) that starts around 1:07. It sounds like an aggressive children's choir. Interspersed, we get some of Gal's themes and Sauron-flavored music. I think this new bit could be either a combined theme for Gal/Adar fighting side by side, OR a new motif for a changed/elven Adar. It's aggressive, which to me tracks with Adar's fighting style that we saw through S2Ep7, and it builds and gets more voices added to it as the song progresses. At one point, it blends perfectly with Gal's theme.

Third wild prediction that I hope I'm wrong about: Adar will likely get fatally stabbed during this fight. I could see him giving Galadriel the ring at a crucial moment, in as a redemptive act, which would forfeit any protection it might have offered him, and I think he'll receive a fatal blow from Sauron, but not before we get a much clearer picture of EXACTLY who Adar is. IF they do it this way, it will be a deeply satisying end to Adar's story arc, IMHO.

Last thoroughly unhinged thing I will leave you with:

Nolwa Mahtar translation (from S1), according to Bear's blog:

Finish the war, the darkness, end this suffering

Impossible to pursue, deep in shadow, follow light

Finish the war, the darkness, end this suffering

Bright warrior against darkness.

Obviously this theme plays a HUGE role in S2. I believe the lyrics are different; we don't know what they say yet.

But I have contended all along that this piece has always applied in some way to BOTH Adar and Galadriel.

Galadriel is the bright warrior standing against Sauron's darkness, yes, that image is obvious.

But Adar, a figure who lived deep in shadow, follows light, ultimately finishing his own war and ending his own suffering.

[shadamyheadcanons]

Who would be the first to confess? Or the first to realize their feelings?

I’m of two minds on this. In my experience, the more common concept is “Shadow falls first, Amy falls harder.” This Twitter thread sums up the trope very well:

[Image ID: a screenshot of a tweet by user absolutesilly on April 17th, 2023 that reads, “it’s important to me that the “A fell first, B fell harder” trope ISN’T about B loving A more. it’s about A spending a long time just getting used to having this (seemingly) hopeless pining going on in the background 24/7, while B is just. hit by a truck with it all of a sudden.

fell first: been suppressing their emotions for so long that it’s like white noise to them. always there but mostly manageable. a bruise that only hurts when you press on it

fell harder: if We Don’t Get Married Tomorrow I’m Gonna Start Biting People” /.End ID]

And I don’t think I even have to clarify which one’s which. Shadow’s love is quiet and intense. He’s loyal and devoted. His affection is usually of the slow-burn variety. He hasn’t had any canonical crushes so far, but you can see it in his familial/platonic love for those he cares about. It’s natural to assume romance would be the same way.

And falling hard and fast is what Amy does. Need I mention Sonic? And her desire for marriage?

“Shadow has a crush on Amy for months/years until he suddenly sweeps her off her feet” is common for a reason. I’ve written plenty of it myself, including multiple WIPs. It was how I saw these two for a very long time, and there’s no denying that it’s compelling and in-character. If I were writing a shadamy-esque relationship in a movie, I’d write them that way.

HOWEVER...

I don’t think game canon is following that trajectory.

Under the cut: lots of ranting and images/hints, both old and new. You’ll recognize a lot of this if you’ve read my meta analysis posts, particularly why I ship them, how they’d resolve their arguments, and my feelings on TMOSTH. There’s a tl;dr and relevant headcanon at the end.

In my opinion, “Amy falls for Shadow later” doesn’t quite jive with canon because I think there’s ample evidence to suggest she already has a crush on him. It’s not as strong or obvious as the one she has on Sonic yet, but it’s there, just a little. To make a long story short:

She doesn’t look at someone like this...

[Shadow the Hedgehog 2005]

unless she has a crush on them:

[Sonic CD]

She doesn’t go out of her way to seek someone out this fervently...

[Sonic Battle]

...unless she has a crush on them:

[Sonic X]

She doesn’t insist on bringing someone along like this...

[The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog]

unless she has a crush on them:

Wallpaper posted on Sonic Channel 2/22/21. Art by Yuji Uekawa

One fun aspect of all of this is that the social media team seems to agree with me and keeps noticeably leaning into it. The Twitter Takeovers obviously aren’t canon and I’m not putting those in the “evidence” pile, but it’s cute how they keep having Amy act flustered about her feelings regarding him, and it’s definitely not something I’m imagining this time. It’s most obvious at 18:14 here:

The gushing, the stuttering...it’s obvious what they’re implying. Cindy Robinson’s very convincing at sounding smitten with him, which isn’t surprising considering her feelings on shadamy:

The question before that one in the Takeover arguably counts, too, and the social media team was primarily in charge of The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog, after all. This is consistent for them. There are plenty of other bits and pieces from them and the not-so-subtle marketing team these days, but I’d be ranting like a conspiracist and hunting down links all day if I got started on those.

^ Me at 2am.

I bring this up not just because it’s fun, but also to prove I’m not the only one who sees it. It’s definitely there, and it always makes me wonder what would’ve happened if she’d met Shadow first instead of Sonic. Would her little crush on Shadow have become the primary one if he’d entered her life first? Would we see this kind of thing all the time if Shadow were the protagonist?

[IDW issue 59]

Yes

We’ll never know, I guess! 🙃

Regardless, she met Sonic first, so her attention is...divided. She’s usually in-tune with her emotions, so even though her outlook on love is tinted somewhat by hero worship, I do think she’d figure out she had feelings for Shadow if her crush on Sonic were sidelined. As she got to know him better, she’d find even more things to love about him, and before long, she’d be hooked.

For Shadow’s part, it’s pretty clear to anyone who’s paying attention that he has a soft spot for her of some kind. In my experience, even non-shadamy fans will usually agree with this if asked. And why wouldn’t they?

1. He let her hug him and see him cry in SA2, then saved the world because she asked him to. There’s a reason fans hate it whenever Amy’s elevator speech at the end of SA2 is put in someone else’s mouth. It’s just not believable that he’d save the world for anyone else--not Sonic, not Chris Thorndyke--because the gentleness isn’t there for anyone but her. That had to be built and proven.

2. She inspired yet another heel-turn of his in the conspicuously-named “Miracle of Love” route in ShTH where “bad boy” Shadow ditches Black Doom to help her, resulting in a hero classification.

I think we undersell how big of a deal this is. For those who aren’t too familiar with Shadow the Hedgehog (2005), that story route starts out with Shadow ignoring Sonic and...*checks notes*...defeating fifty G.U.N. soldiers? The mission says “defeat,” not “kill.” But Black Doom says “finish off those soldiers,” “destroy them all,” “exterminate,” and “annihilate.” In a game where you’re explicitly encouraged to use firearms. On human soldiers. So this Shadow quite possibly has a significant body count by the end of the level, and then he immediately snubs Rouge to destroy Earth’s digital highway system. There’s a reason he can’t get a hero ending past that point if he doesn’t help Amy. Just like in SA2, she’s the only one left who can turn him into a hero. She speedruns his redemption with one jaunt through a haunted castle. This is the sequence:

[Source]

The way he trails off at, “I didn’t have any reason to help her, but since I was looking for the doctor anyway, I figured...” stands out, like he’d forgotten how good of a person he can be.

This brief Twitter thread summarizes the events in a much funnier way than I can:

3. The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog is the most recent and blatant example. Goes to a party. Dresses up in a silly outfit. Embarrasses himself to get her a thoughtful gift. Agrees to go to a concert for a band he can’t stand just to make her happy. I don’t think I even need to explain this one, but if you want to see me do so anyway, here’s that link again.

4. In Team Sonic Racing, he’s sweet to her when they’re on the same team...

...and he’s borderline flirtatious when they’re on opposing teams. ;)

His lines are delivered in a snarky, teasing way, especially when he calls her cute, and she’s matching that competitive banter.

[Source: this Twitter thread by MeliCross22:

Absolutely worth a read, and it includes links to the lines so you can actually hear them.]

The question is whether his soft spot is romantic in nature, and as biased as I am...I don’t buy it. In the first two, she’s just reminding him of who he is by calling to mind his memories of Maria, and “Miracle of Love” isn’t meant in a romantic way. Likewise, in TMOSTH, it’s extremely sweet of him and he wouldn’t do that for anyone else, but it’s still not inherently romantic. TSR is less cut-and-dried. It could be flirtation, but it could also just be the race stoking their competitive spirits. It’s also just a side game, and while it’s still canon, I don’t know if Sega would put that kind of dynamic between them in the main series. It could be a case of the TSR writers being secret shadamy fans who are tossing us crumbs, but it could also just be them mixing it up so there isn’t yet another instance of Amy saying variations of “Sorry, but I’m in it to win it!” every time she hits someone with an item. Trust me, it gets old.

Canonically, I don’t see Shadow as being romantically interested in anyone to a significant extent at the moment, Amy included. He’s been too focused on his past, his identity crisis, the alien invasion, etc. I don’t think there’ll really be room for romance in his life until he fully makes peace with his trauma. This moment at the end of his game...

...just doesn’t do that. Shadow Dark Beginnings has made it abundantly clear that he hasn’t moved on.

And this is where Amy comes in, because I think she’s the ideal person for the job.

Sega seems to pivot back and forth between “Shadow has no friends” and “Shadow has two friends, but he even keeps them at a distance sometimes.” Without people in his life who are willing to reach out, he withdraws, and it’s really not good for him. A lot of fans feel he’s hesitant to bond with others because no one else is immortal and he knows how painful loss is. It’s not explicitly stated, but it’s consistent with his behavior. Isolating himself is easy. It’s safe. It’s something he can control.

But it’s not sustainable.

He needs love. He needs it so much. It’s his very purpose, in the most literal sense. Maria said it best in episode 2 of Dark Beginnings:

“You have a big heart! It may be difficult for you to express it, but I know that deep down you really do care. About me. About everyone! What you do is what defines you. I know you’re having a hard time finding answers, but I’m certain you will one day. Then, you’ll find even more people you can trust.”

^ This is what I mean when I say Maria would love Amy. Amy’s the only other character who feels love as deeply as Shadow does, the only one who could fully understand, and she just so happens to be a clingy girl who’ll reach out to anyone, even people who think they want to be left alone. It’s baffling that Sega basically hasn’t let them interact for two decades because she absolutely would insist on befriending him.

Shadow hides, but Amy chases. She loves a challenge and doesn’t shy away if she feels she belongs with someone, even if that person runs. If she decided Sonic wasn’t right for her, I think it’s only natural that she’d pursue Shadow given her obvious fondness for him. The only difference is that when someone chases Shadow, he doesn’t run. He clings. He clung to Maria, he clung to Team Dark, and he’d cling to her, too, and I don’t think he’d stand a chance against her charm from there. He’s a romantic in his own way, and that soft spot of his would turn rose-tinted in a heartbeat. If there’s anyone who could convince him that love is worth it, it’d be her; I highly doubt she’d regret her past love of Sonic, and if he thought about it, I don’t think he’d regret his attachment to Maria, either. Amy told him the people of Earth deserved a chance to be happy. Now he lives on Earth with her. Couldn’t she convince him that he deserves that chance, too?

And if he hesitated and tried to ignore his feelings for Amy, I could see Rouge stepping in to kick him in the right direction. It wouldn’t be the first time she talked some sense into him for the sake of his own happiness:

[IDW issue 36]

tl;dr: Amy already likes Shadow. If she spent more time with him, those feelings would grow, and it wouldn’t be long before she’d be pursuing him in earnest. With her talent for breaking down barriers and his existing soft spot for her, it wouldn’t be a very long chase.

This headcanon is the one that I think portrays it best. I don’t think I’ll ever fully stop writing Shadow Falls First, Amy Falls Harder because it’s so damn compelling, but I love this interpretation, too, and it lines up too well with canon to ignore.

[lipstickchainsaw]

Things I would've liked to see in Arcane S2, in no particular order:

Caitlyn doing some more heinous shit after becoming dictator. Let her be evil, damnit! Let her fuck up the Firelights' sanctuary to achieve whatever goal! Make some people mad!

More of a sense of the power struggle between Ambessa and Caitlyn. Let Caitlyn look into the disappearances as well, or at least give us a sense of what she thinks is going on. Maybe give Shoola something to do after even Salo left. Make the upper class of Piltover feel more alive.

Give Caitlyn the initiative in her turn away from Ambessa, mirror Vi choosing to trust Jinx while facing to Warwick here, and have it take a little more to get them on the same page.

Let Ekko and Jinx actually rally Zaun in the final act. The way they're seen by their people was a pretty big deal, and I would've liked to see that go somewhere in the climax.

Actually, have Zaun actually discuss what to do in the Noxus/Piltover war. Both sides oppressed Zaun pretty badly, so maybe there's some people who want to support Noxus (a very small group), or who figure they're happy to let their enemies fight it out. Let Sevika, Scar and the Jinxers about this.

Hell, let Sevika show up at all after episode 4! Isha was important to her too! Have her and Jinx suggest building a statue for her, like Silco did for Vander, as another notch to help Jinx stand upright.

When Jayce and Mel come back, have them reckon with what Caitlyn did to their city, and have them take some time to forge the place back together.

Let Zaun negotiate with Piltover for their aid! Give them more than just one seat on the council amongst people who already look down on them (although I think Sevika is canny enough to get the most out of it, it's a real consolation price for a group of people willing to abandon their own homies to rally to the defense of yours), and make Ekko a prominent voice here.

Warwick in episode 9 didn't really do much for me. Any of the emotional beats there were already covered in episode 6. Not sure what to do with him instead, though. Maybe make Vi and Jinx protect others from him more explicitly?

By emphasising the Piltover/Zaun conflict more, you can have Vi be more conflicted about where she falls on that divide.

Ambessa also lobbies to get Zaun on board, maybe pulls some Renni shenanigans again. Actually get me invested in that grand climax.

Same goes for Viktor, honestly. Maybe give his conversation with Mel and Jayce a bit more weight. His turn to Ambessa and Singed's side is a bit abrupt (and also very much caused by Jayce killing him, so his moral high ground in that conversation is a bit weird).

Don't make Jayce talk shit about Viktor's terminal illness, goddamnit. Heimerdinger's whole arc was about how corrosive that attitude was, and the conclusion of it was that you can't sit down on your laurels because change will keep happening with or without you. I think that makes for a much more compelling argument against Viktor's philosophy at this point.

No notes on Singed. What a ledge.

Overall, I think the show needed a bit more breathing room to build up to the level the climax was operating on. It left a bit too much of what I cared about behind to get there, and adding an act could've been a way to alleviate some of that.

[panickedscribbles]

I've been thinking about Star Wars discourse lately, and I think a lot of the reason so much of the fandom is constant back and forth arguments is because a lot of the time, two characters can be right simultaneously while also disagreeing completely with each other.

Take the whole "Too old, he is" thing.

On one hand, obviously wrong. Anakin is nine, he's at most a few years behind, and textually managed to catch up pretty well. Like, if Palpatine and the Sith Plan weren't constantly messing him up, there is every possibility that Anakin could have become a well adjusted Jedi. Nine is by no means too old to learn a skill.

On the other hand, the council demonstrates perfectly in that scene that they are completely unequipped to deal with a nine year old who hasn't been raised in their culture, especially one from a heavily traumatized background. The pop-quiz they ask him would be perfectly acceptable for a nine-year-old youngling, but Anakin literally just walked in. They are giving an end-of-year exam to a kid who has never even seen a school. And they assume this is fine, because that's just what you do with nine-year-olds.

More to the point, they are completely failing to take into account the previous nine years of his life. They ask a kid, who up until all of about 18 hours ago had been enslaved since birth, to be open and honest about his emotions, in a room full of complete strangers, most of whom answer to "Master"! They have somehow engineered a situation so psychologically damaging that Palpatine is taking notes in the corner, entirely without realizing. When the council says they shouldn't take him in, they are one hundred percent right. Nine is WAY too old when you've spent that time as a slave, and are being entrusted into the care of people who have never had to raise a nine year old who wasn't raised like they were.

Or how about Anakin not being made a master. Was he right to insist he get the title, or was the council.

Well, Anakin should be made a master, you see, because,

He's one of the main Generals fighting and coordinating the war

And he's one of their most successful warriors. Like, he's the guy they call in whenever they need an impossible mission completed

He's more or less the face of the war effort, as "The Hero Without Fear"

As an ex-slave, obtaining the title of Master would be a huge psychological weight lifted off his shoulders.

Since they're making him part of the council for espionage purposes, making him a master as well serves as better cover

Giving him more reason to stay loyal to the Jedi after they just asked him to betray the trust of one of his oldest and closest friends wouldn't be the worst idea

Like, if ever there was a reason to give someone a promotion, those are some pretty good ones.

However, on the opposite side of the issue, literally none of that has any bearing on "Mastery" as the Jedi define it. Being a Jedi Master is all about mastery over oneself, having a deep understanding of the force, and a certain level of inner peace.

You'll notice that at no point does being really good at large-scale violence, being well known for being really good at large-scale violence, or wanting it a lot factor into being made a Jedi Master. Everything Anakin is good at, Everything Palpatine, and the war, and the council have pushed Anakin into being good at, do nothing to bring him any closer to Mastery, and in fact often push him further away from it.

In both of these examples, you can make a very compelling argument in either direction. Hell, you can make a compelling argument in both directions at the same time. And I think that's really neat.

[felassan]

Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 3. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two]

Ran out of characters or something in post 2. :)

User: "I LOVE the line "a raw, strangling fear, struck somewhere deep past the heart". It's beautiful and it resonates with me since I myself struggle with anxiety. Now for the questions! 1) Can you talk more about the banter between Emmrich and Harding after we start romancing him? What is her motivation behind it? Is she critical of their relationship or is she worried about Emmrich? 2) I love the argument Rook and Emmrich have before Tearstone Island, it gives nice depth to their relationship. But what did Emmrich think he would accomplish with that conversation? Did he want to break up with Rook because he thought it would be easier for him if something happened to Rook? 3) Not a question but I love Hezenkoss. Such a dedicated hater lol. -- Sylvia Feketekuty: "That was one of the first lines where I started to feel I had a handle on his voice in the first draft, so that means a lot to hear. (And thank you for noting the team effort, I got a lot of great feeback from the other writers and the editors on Emmrich. He wouldn't be as good without them.) On to questions: 1) My personal take: I think Harding is worried because she's very perceptively noticed how hard Emmrich's fallen for Rook, and that he's a man of large emotions. (And because they become pretty good friends over the course of the game.) 2) I think Emmrich let his anxieties run away with him, afraid that this romance wasn't, couldn't possibly be the One True Love he so wanted, and that's how his fear expressed itself. (Did he WANT to break up? No, but he was bracing himself in case Rook did think it was only a fling and so on and so forth, they should get it out in the open, and so on.) 3) Thank you! I loved writing her. She will always be a hater until her (un)dying day."" [source, two, three, four, five, six] -- John Epler: "someday we'll get the Hezenkoss/Anaris reluctant team-up the world deserves" [source] -- Sylvia: "Somehow, in the realm of pure imagination, they're already trying to strangle each other." [source] -- User: "Very important question- would Anaris finger gun? (Finger crossbow?)" -- John: "as a man defined primarily by his tremendous insecurities Anaris also takes himself incredibly seriously and unconsciously mirrors Elgar'nan, an elf he both loathes and desperately wishes he were so the real question is, would Elgar'nan finger gun?" [source]

User: "On my 1st run I thought some choices felt like the 'bad' ones and avoided them - Lich Emmerich, Harding's Anger, Qunari Taash etc. But on my 2nd run I was so pleasantly surprised to see that it wasn't the case! None of the companion choices feel right or wrong, just different, and that's fantastic." / Sylvia: "Thanks! We tried to make either choice compelling, to have something for different players either way. So I'm so glad to hear that." [source]

User, on Manfred winning a character award: "Congrats Manfred we knew you had it in you!" / Sylvia: "He did it! My little skeleton pal did it! (Especial thanks to the animators and voice actor, Matt Mercer, because like 90% of his personality lives in those gangly limbs and his hissing)" [source]

User: "I just wanted to say that Emmerich and Josephine are so interesting and well-written" / Sylvia: "I feel very lucky I got to bring them into DA, with teams that went for them 100%." [source]

User: "I enjoyed Emmrich's addendum to the codex about Templars in Nevarra: are they primarily there as backup if something goes profoundly wrong? Would they ever get someone who just wants to help down in the Necropolis, pretty please? (also <3 Vorgoth, they're great)" / Sylvia: ""are they primarily there as backup if something goes profoundly wrong?" That was my own take. You don't NOT want Templars, in case some ritual gets disrupted in an utterly disastrous fashion. But other times...the Mortalitasi flex their clout. "Would they ever get someone who just wants to help down in the Necropolis, pretty please?" Some Watchers might not be immune to flattery. I think a few templars could be all right under some circumstances, but that they'd be assigned a mage. (A bit of a reverse of the southern mage-templar pairs.) "(also <3 Vorgoth, they're great)" Thank you! I was so pumped when I saw the final art for them, everything I'd dreamed. (And their voice actor, Brent Mukai, was amazing.)" [source, two, three]

User: "I wanted to ask you what you think nevarran wedding attire might look like? or if you’ve considered it? asking for science." / Sylvia: "Geeze, that's a good question. I imagine the couple would exchange some custom-made grave gold pieces to mark the occasion, given how important it is in Nevarra. But other than that, you should let your imagination run wild." [source]

User: "Is seeing Josephine as Asexual or part of the Ace Spectrum a valid interpretation of her character?" / Sylvia: "Totally, if that's how you want to see the character and relationship. (My policy is generally that if it's not directly contradicted in the game, you can take that kind of thing as a valid read of the character.)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'll say this (spoiler free): there's a scene in "Walking the Graves" where I felt Emmrich's voice finally click for me on the first draft, so that one's special to me." [source]

User: "I remembered some questions I had about Emmrich.. Can he play any instruments? I always invision him playing a pipe organ or maybe violin! If not, are there any he would like to learn? 😊 Also, I was curious, can he ice skate? out on that frozen Nevarran lake in winter" / Sylvia: "Those are interesting questions. Because they're something I never considered or wrote, there's no real canon there yet. I see Emmrich as more an appreciator of music than a musician, but can't rule it out. As for ice-skating, I'm not even sure we've shown that in Thedas. I think Emmrich would enjoy it though. UPDATE: a friend reminded me about this tidbit from World of Thedas 2: "Ice skating – during the winter in Nevarra, people often skate on the frozen over Minanter river." So it's canon now. Emmrich ice-skates. He instantly manifests a scarf when doing so. (I fall on my sword for forgetting this.)" [source, two, three]

User: "about Josephine: what would her ideal/dream wedding be? I was tickled when I read about that in her letter to her Inquisitor I just have to know" / Sylvia: "what a delightful question in turn! I think she'd want a big, flower-filled, no-holds barred wedding at her family's estate. All her relatives, friends she made in the Inquisition, the Inquisitor's relatives (if they have any/keep in touch.) She'd begin planning 16 months in advance." [source]

Sylvia: "Aw thank you! (On behalf of me, and the rest of the team, so many people worked so hard on our eccentric necromancer man.)" [source]

Sylvia: "The Mourn Watch and Emmrich are a bit eccentric, but I really wanted their reverence for the dead (and the living) to feel genuine." [source]

User: "As someone who himself gets awful pangs about the thought of death and nothingness, it was really refreshing to see a character have those same thoughts as me, especially as he also happens to be a Necromancer who is around death daily." / Sylvia: "You're welcome, and thanks for the kind words. It's a familiar thing for me too, so I really wanted to talk about it. I suspect it's far more common than we might think." [source]

User: "My HOF was a spirit healer, very kind & very curious, & for years I've considered how that special connection to spirits might lend itself to an interest in Thedan necromancy & puzzling out where spirits & souls begin & end. Emmrich, Manfred/Curiosity and the wisps gave me so much to think about!" / Sylvia: "Thank you so much! And that's interesting about your HOF. They may've found some kindred spirits if they ever ventured further north." [source]

User: "No questions other than thank you and the team for Emmrich and Nevarra / The Mourn Watch. Seeing death treated with such kindness, empathy and as beautiful renewal rather than grim end is so refreshing and personal to me, it was a great experience to have!" / Sylvia: "That's one of the things I really wanted to express in Emmrich's arc, so I'm so glad you felt that way." [source]

User: "I feel that my Rook would want to learn more about the Mourn Watch after saving the world." / Sylvia: "Emmrich and the Watchers would love that. Emmrich probably has like, five lectures he could rattle off without preparation for your Rook already, haha." [source]

User: "do you have any favorite tidbits about Audric or Myrna that you can share?" / Sylvia: "As for tidbits, hrm. I did post something on what Audric's up to these days. Nothing surprising, but he's doing well! And I never wrote it in-game, so it lives in the hazy world of "only canon in my head": while Emmrich doesn't come from nobility, Myrna does-the Van Markham branch. She had the finest education, even before the Watchers. She doesn't play it up much, though. Her real passion's her work. And the theater. (I did a small bit about her love of theater here [link or see Post Two]. I think she's a regular attendee.)" [source, two, three]

Sylvia: "I also really wanted to explore more of the Necropolis ever since I first read about it. I'm very lucky the team and I finally got to show everyone the crypts..." [source]

User: "he stories, the worldbuilding, the characters, the locations, I loved it all so much I played my MW Rook twice" / Sylvia: "Nice. The Mourn Watch appreciates your studious interest in the hallowed art of necromancy." [source]

Sylvia: "thank you on behalf of the whole team, as you've surmised there were a lot of people bringing him to life. (Especial props to Nick Borraine, his VA, who's wonderful in the role.)" [source]

Sylvia: "It always makes me happy when people mention the short stories, and glad you enjoyed meeting (and perhaps romancing...) Emmrich." [source]

Sylvia, on Vorgoth: "I'm afraid I deliberately left our cloak-shrouded Watcher a mystery. But I'll say this: I'm sure they'd show your Rook in that picture their art collection, an honor Vorgoth bestows only on those they like or trust." [source]

User: "does the watch have any rules in regards to courtship/marriage between fellow watchers? An does Emmrich lecture at the Necropolis or at the College of Magi in Cumberland?" / Sylvia: "1) I actually got into that a little here [link or see Post Two]. Short story, it's not forbidden for mages within Circles to court or marry, so no particular rules there I think. 2) That is a very good question. Full disclosure, I am answering on the fly with what I think makes most sense. I can see Emmrich doing a bit of both in his younger days. But as he grew older, more specialized in his field, and had more MW responsibilities, he probably worked more out of the Necropolis. (And prefers it anyhow.) By the time DAV starts, it's probably been years since he was in Cumberland." [source, two, three]

User: "Thank you for your moving portrayal of thanatophobia. While most people have some fear of death, it was amazing to see the thanatophobic panic attacks etc portrayed so accurately." / Sylvia: "Thanks - they're not an unfamiliar phenomenon to me, I wanted Emmrich to try to get across that helplessness and wretched terror. (I suspect more people are affected by them than we commonly talk about.)" [source]

User: "whoever decided “DA liches are immortal protectors and not always evil?” Chef’s kiss. It’s all I’ve ever wanted!" / Sylvia: "Thanks again! It was in Emmrich's first draft. The other writers and editors gave me good feeback on lichdom and the philosophy behind it especially" [source]

User: "I wonder, did you prefer writing for either lich Emmrich or mortal? I would imagine it's a bit different." / Sylvia: "I wouldn't say I had a favorite, but it was fun to try to figure out what approach to take in scenes that had split lich/mortal lines. I didn't want Emmrich to be unrecognizable as a lich, but I did want him to occasionally be a little different, slowly absorbing what he'd become. We see him at the start of this new stage of his existence, so I think even by the end of Veilguard he's still just at the very start of adjusting to, and exploring, what he is now. I liked giving him that wonder!" [source, two]

Sylvia: "The Memorial Gardens were the heart of the Necropolis to me, the level artists and level designer and our audio team worked so much magic there. (And the lighting team! First time I saw it properly lit I think I clapped.)" [source]

User: "Also wanted to know if you wrote Josephine’s letter to Inquisitor if romanced?" / Sylvia: "I did write that letter, thanks! It was a joy to return to Josephine, even in a codex sent to her dearest Inquisitor." [source]

Sylvia on where Emmrich sleeps: "As to his sleeping arrangements, I gave a tantalizing (non) answer here [[link] or see [Post Two]]. (Though I think he'd prefer a proper bed, whatever form it takes. Emmrich's too old to be sleeping on cots like a student anymore.)" [source]

Sylvia: "So glad the team and I got to crack open the ancient doors of the Grand Necopolis, I've been curious about it too ever since reading about it eons ago. (And very glad you're liking MW Rook, I really wanted things to feel different when chatting with Emmrich as a Watcher yourself!)" [source]

User: "I enjoyed Johanna IMMENSELY and she is most definitely my favourite villain of all time now, so thank you for her as well!" / Sylvia: "She was a treat to write. (And Hezenkoss would 100% applaud you on your fine judgement and obvious taste.)" [source]

Sylvia on Emmrich's fear: "I'm not unfamiliar with that fear either, and it means a great deal to hear getting to know Emmrich helped you out even a little. (And happy to hear you dug Manfred!)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'm especially glad you liked the battle theme. Our music director instantly got the tone of Emmrich's arc, he and the audio team spun off so many great tracks from that core theme." [source]

User on Emmrich: "He's a brilliant character and everyone involved in his creation should be very proud!" / Sylvia: "There were a lot of people working on him, I was lucky so many people got onboard right away with our professor of necromancy. And I loved writing him chatting with Bellara, the mentor/student relationship was fun to hash out with her writer." [source]

User: "(1/2) Hello Sylvia! Like everyone else, I love Emmrich, but I also wanted to say thank you for your work in DAI. Josie was my first romance in DA and I love her a lot. My question had to do with her codex entry in Veilguard for a romanced Inquisitor: (2/2) Her letter in Veilguard implies she hasn't married yet, 10 years later. Josie is so image-conscious in how she conducts herself, so I was surprised she would put off marriage for that long as the first born noble of her house. Curious what the idea behind it was if you can share." / Sylvia: "Thank you! I'm honored to hear Josepine was your first DA romance. Re: marriage, you're right, that is a big time gap. I basically didn't want to surprise returning players with a marriage that had already happened to their Inquisitor offscreen. I'm sure Josephine has kept busy with world affairs, and so has the Inquisitor, which isn't a bad reason it's taken so long. But I thought it'd be more engaging for players to imagine the proposal, how they'd react, what the wedding would be like, as something good happening to them in the future." [source, two]

User: "I wanted to ask about banter I saw online; why does Taash say Emmrich smells like potash? Isn't that a bad smell, like rotten eggs? He doesn't strike me as a smelly person outside of being around the dead. Maybe Trick would know too" / Trick Weekes: "IIRC, I based it on residual scents that would come from chemicals -- can't remember whether it was what you'd get from working with embalming liquids or something used to style hair. That said, Taash comments on scents non-adaari can't detect, so it's not like he smells bad to normal people." [source] / Sylvia: "Chiming in late, but what Trick said. Taash has an incredible sense of smell, but they're detecting the tiny residuals. (Which is why poor Taash can smell that burial Emmrich helped with, even though he scrubbed down thoroughly afterwards. Gotta keep hygienic!)" [source]

User: "I wish more games had Romances like this, he was just simply perfect. [Emmrich] believably cares for Rook." / Sylvia: "I'm glad that part felt heartfelt, it was one of the cores of his romance for me." [source]

User: "What inspired you to want to go into writing for games? Or just writing in general?" / Sylvia: "I've played games since I was about 5 years old and that's what really did it. I fell in love at once with these cool, weird little worlds you could visit as someone else. As for writing in general, it feels goofy (or ominous) to call it a Calling, but it's just something I've always enjoyed doing. It's also probably what I'm best at, which means I'm unfathomably lucky I ended up at BioWare. I don't think I would've been happy until I was doing game writing somewhere, somehow!" [source, two]

User: "I have two questions about his and Johanna's childhood. 1. How and when did he and her(johanna) meet? 2. What was the story between him and her back then? Sorry if it's too long a question. Thank you! Oh I'm so sorry, how could I forget another important question😭😓 3. How tall do you think he is👀 He's almost as tall as Taash!" / Sylvia: "I have not forgotten the other two questions, I'll get to them later (it's just getting late here) but this one's a little easier. I THINK he's about 6 foot 2 inches without his boots, so about 6 foot 3 with them on. (A character artist would have to confirm or deny if I'm remembering right.)" [source]

Sylvia on her time at BioWare: "So I gt a 5 year award statue that looked like a glass disc, and then we swapped over the to the BioWare Character award statues so I got Wrex as my 10th one. (I think I remember people who'd been around earlier than me with those clocks on their desks!)" [source]

[dimalry]

My SJM- based opinions that nobody asked for, but I‘m sharing anyway.

I made a lot of critical points that may trigger some people…

- Manorian sucks. They had potential until they became canon, and SJM turned Dorian into another shadow daddy. Dorian dominating Manon is a joke—it's just ridiculous. Also, Dorian should be shorter than Manon.

- Dorian and Sorscha are cute together. RIP, though...

- Chaol is one of the best male characters in the SJM universe.

- Chaolryne is the healthiest and one of the best ships in all of her book series.

- Sam’s death WRECKED me.

- Kaltain deserved better.

- I think I like Rowan with long hair better.

- The Assassin’s Blade and ToD are severely underrated. KoA wasn’t that great.

- I hate the spy theory with a burning passion for both Elain and Gwyn, especially Elain. Maybe it’s because I have other plans for them, but I just don’t see either of them as spies. Let’s be honest here—the only reason most people support the spy theory is because of Azriel, not because they genuinely think Elain and Gwyn are suited for the job.

- Azriel is far from being the best spymaster. I’d say he’s very bad at his job, and Rhys makes it worse. 😭🙏

- The High Lady title is overrated. The position of a ruler isn’t some internship that any 14-year-old can apply for. → Nesta or Elain as High Lady of Dusk? Elain as High Lady of Day or Spring? Gwyn as High Lady of Summer? Emerie as High Lady of Dawn? The only female characters I want to see rule are Viviane and Cresseida. Headcanons are cool and fun, but some of y’all treat them like facts.

- I’m not a big fan of High Lady Feyre anymore. I see her as more of a neutral party than a ruler of a specific court—or better said, a city.

- I love the Inner Circle, but I’d hate to be their friend, and I don’t think they’d enjoy being my friends either. I’d rather hang out with the Valkyries and Elain.

- I love the Valkyries, but I’m just annoyed that Nesta was given a sword and armor like most of SJM’s female characters. I fear that Elain might be the next target and I hate it.

- Nesta made the right decision in choosing her safety and comfort (sitting on that rock instead of training) over Cassian’s already-bad reputation. It wasn’t one of her prideful moments like people think so.

- Amren should’ve stayed dead. She contributes nothing to the story after ACOWAR. All she does is b*tch, whine, and moan.

- Vamren doesn’t really make sense. Amren doesn’t strike me as straight or as someone who would even pursues a relationship. It seems like Varian was just thrown at her.

- Justice for Jurian!

- Rhys does NOT need to be superior in every way. It’s okay for him to lack power in certain areas and actually be flawed. I came to that conclusion when I worked on Rhys’s character for my storytelling—it makes him a more compelling character. Tamlin also doesn’t need to suck in every way possible.

- I’m fairly confident that Gwynriel and Elucien are endgame, but I don’t care enough to try to convince people of it, nor will I be upset if they’re not endgame. SJM builds up great potential and then wastes it, so I’m not sure if an announced endgame is a good thing. You either write a good story or don’t bother at all. I won’t accept mediocrity anymore.

- Case in point: ACOSF Nessian sucked. Their love story consists of repeated sex and unnecessary arguments—bleh. Potential wasted.

- I feel nothing for Sarion or Elriel (though there’s one thing I don’t like about them, which is thankfully still just a headcanon), Emorie… and probably more ships that I can’t think of rn. I don’t like nor dislike them—they’re just there.

- I love Helion x LoA’s tragic love story, but I don’t want them together. At least, not so soon after Beron’s death. His existence isn’t the only obstacle between them. There are a lot of unresolved feelings, resentment, and trauma built up over the years. It’s really not that easy.

- Neither SJM nor the fans are aware of how long 500+ years truly is.

- Sarah’s right—Ruhn and Lidia’s wedding was corny and unnecessary.

- I loved Ruhnlidia in HOSAB. They were kind of boring in HOFAS. Then I realized that I just love DayNight more than Ruhnlidia.

- The only girl I like to see Tharion with is Hypaxia. I think their banter is cute. I know she’s a lesbian, but based on how boring SJM writes her queer ships, Hypaxia x Celestina was only bound to be unremarkable.

- Tharion was intriguing until he got his own POV. I really don’t want to feel the same about Azriel when his book comes out.

- Hunt deserves better, but he needs to give up that foot fetish.

- The only interesting bonus chapter that came with HOSAF was the Ember x Randall chapter. To be honest, a lot of bonus chapters SJM writes are so unnecessary and boring.

- The crossover should’ve never happened. It feels like a corny Marvel dream SJM had. The only good thing that came out of it was Ember being a mother hen to Nesta.

- I really don’t care about Bryce’s friendship with Nesta and Azriel.

- I’m not a fan of the headcanon that Bryce and the Valkyries would be friends, even though it makes sense.

- Bryciel gives me the ick. I saw a post that mentioned how it would be a one-night stand followed by no contact afterward, and I couldn’t agree more. I feel like they’d get annoyed with each other pretty fast. I’m sorry to anyone who ships it, but their personalities don’t mesh well...

- The torture Ruhn, Hunt, and Baxian suffered under those weirdo angels wasn’t even that bad. I shouldn’t have had high expectations.

- Baxian is a good boy, but I don’t like his mate.

- Cormac is cool. Rip.

- HOFAS was bad. I enjoyed it at first, especially the whole deal with the Viper Queen, but I got bored over time, and I couldn’t keep up with the plots anymore. HOEAB is the best book in the series. HOSAB was fine.

- All villains (except Maeve and Arobynn) are so cartoonish and corny.

I have more opinions, but that’s enough for today. I just wanted to share some of my thoughts on these books (and some theories/headcanons), and I’d love to hear your opinions!

I’ve also made the decision that I won’t read another SJM book ever again after ACOTAR ends. Until then, I’ll support my local library or download the upcoming ACOTAR books in PDF instead of giving her my money. That’s how you actually separate the art from the artist, rather than just saying it. 🥰

[anontheghost]

So... What is the deal with Blitz's and Moxxie's upbringing?

Let's start by saying the obvious: Blitz’s and Moxxie’s families are almost exact mirrors to each other: They both have terrible, greedy fathers who just enjoy making their lives miserable and amazing dead mothers who we know nothing about except their cause of death and how much they are missed by their sons. 

The only significant distinctions are that Moxxie's story is splattered with glossy mafia paint and that his mother was drowned while he was still a very young child. On the other hand, Blitz's mother, Tilla, died when he was a teenager and was burned to death. The rest? Pretty much the same.

However, the similarities between their backstories are not really the problem; after all, in real life, we can find people who lived through similar traumas and that is a pretty interesting aspect to explore in fantastical stories as well. 

Many other shows have done it incredibly well (Bojack Horseman) but Helluva Boss failed in that department. 

The very interesting family dynamics were only bought at the surface level, not explored in any meaningful way except to give the characters “cheap trauma moments” that could potentially get ruined by either the insertion of out of place comedy or never mentioned again. 

How am I supposed to treat Crimson’s abuse of Moxxie as something serious when the minute before dildos popped out the walls for a joke? How did Blitz’s guilt over the fire and his mother’s death truly affect his relationships—romantic or otherwise? Was it all just a narrative plot to drag the Stolitz charade for as many episodes as possible? Heck, we do not even see Blitz and Mooixe interact more about their shared trauma! Or about how much they missed their mothers.

It is a little depressing because, despite knowing nothing about Moxxie and Blitz's mothers, we, the viewer, are expected to care about them and see their significance. Instead we are left with a million questions that will probably never have an answer. 

Were they really good parents or are their sons only remembering the good parts of their relationship because they are dead? 

How did they truly influence their kids? Did Moxxie’s love for musical theater come from his mother? Did Blitz’s fascination for horses be because of Tilla or was it someone else?

How was their relationship with their husbands and why did they stay even after the marriage went south? What brought them together in the first place? Because, in all honesty, both couples just don't seem compatible in any way, that one just can help but ask how did everything worked.

Sadly, we can only speculate. 

So, without further due, these are my speculations. Part of the great rewrite that I am doing of the series. Because sometimes terrible writing decisions just move my creative juices in the right direction. 

Tilla and Cash Buckzo.  “I do love you, as much as I am capable of loving anyone, which is never enough.”

What would have happened if Princess Carolyn and Bojack Horseman ignored all the red flags in their relationship and chose to get married anyway? That wouldn’t have been good, but that is exactly what happened to Tilla and Cash Buckzo—the result was a messy marriage where love could not overcome their different views on life and incompatible personalities.

So... why did they stay in a marriage that was not working? Simple, a divorce would mean financial ruin for both of them.

Let me explain. 

(Worldbuilding note: How marriage functions and how people in Hell generally view it is one aspect of the Hellaverse that truly baffles me. To avoid confusion, each ring in this revision will have its own set of marital norms and perspectives.)

(In the Greed Ring, marriage is nothing more than another business transaction and is treated as such. Two individuals may absolutely hate each other, but if the marriage will benefit them economically, then they will go through with it.)

The sole compelling argument for Cash and Tilla's marriage was that it was the wisest course of action to maintain and save their respective livelihoods. Imps are not permitted to own companies (as I stated in the Stolitz Non-Romance rewrite.) and in the Greed Ring, Mammon owns ALL of the entertainment industry (circuses included) and he will not hesitate to shut down a circus if it is not bringing the profit.

The small circuses Cash and Tilla were supervising were on the brink of bankrupsy, so what better solution than to marry each other and combine their assets? It will give them more time to survive.

In hindsight, their plan worked perfectly; Tilla and Cash were able to build up themselves financially, and using their combined business talents, they were able to expand their new big renovated circus and turn in a profit that would keep Mammon off their backs. 

They were great business partners, but as a couple, they lacked a lot. 

They did occasionally have tender moments, but they were squandered by arguments, lengthy silences, and extremely uncomfortable dinners. At one point, they even began sleeping in different beds, just to avoid fighting. Everybody who knew them could see that they were just not good for each other and could barely tolerate the other presence.

This begs the question: How did they manage to have Blitz and Barbie?

The decision to have a kid was straightforward and, like their marriage, based on business. They wanted a successor to take over their responsibilities when they died, as it was something now needed as the circus grew. So one night, they decided to get drunk and just get it over with.

But, to the surprise of themselves and everyone else, Tilla and Cash were their best selves throughout the pregnancy. 

During those four months that the pregnancy lasted, Cash and Tilla acted like a happy couple, anxiously waiting for the arrival of their beloved baby. They no longer fought; they were just too busy happily imagining a future where the three of them would be happy while preparing for their child.

Maybe everything would be okay; their relationship could only get better from now on, right? Once their beautiful little girl arrives, they will be a complete family of three with no intentions of adding more. 

Yikes.

In their defence, there are few medical facilities available to imps, and when they attended the controls, the physicians informed them that they would only be having one child, Barbie.

Their budget and plans were severely ruined by Blitz's unexpected arrival because they were only ready to provide full care for one baby, not two. If Mammon kept the majority of the profits, how would they be able to buy two of everything? 

They would endure a long period of hardship and didn’t they enter this marriage to prevent just that?!

Tilla, being the mother and the one who gave birth, accepted this change, promising to love both children equally; sadly, Cash didn’t.

It didn’t take too long before they started fighting again, even if it was in front of their kids. As you can imagine, growing up with parents who fought even for the most minimal of problems leaves a long-lasting impression on a child and how they will handle their own relationships in the future. 

To this day, Barbie still has problems telling her girlfriends when something is wrong or is upsetting her. On the other hand, Blitz gets overwhelmed when he notices things going south in a relationship and leaves it all together. 

Things didn’t really improve much as the twins grew up. 

Sure, the family had their relative moments of peace, but Cash only paid real love and attention to Barbie, being the child he really wanted while completely ignoring Blitz. Tilla, upset about this but knowing that Cash won’t change, tried to give more attention to her son, accidentally ignoring her daughter’s needs.

Yes, Tilla was not a “perfect, angelic mother," canon portrayed her as. If anything, she was a little bit overbearing when it came to Blitz, as she felt she needed to make up for his father’s abandonment. She genuinely believed that Barbie didn’t need her as much, and the girl liked to spend more time with her father anyway, who needed to train her to take over the circus.

At this point, their family was divided into two separate families that just happened to live in the same house: one consisted of a kind but overprotective mother and her son; the other, a strict but understanding father and his daughter/heir. The only point in which Tilla and Cash interacted was when they worked on the circus, or when they were fighting for the most minimal things. 

Their family dynamic was mostly like that... until Tilla died.

Blitz remembers only the good moments he spent with her, looking at her actions and life with rose-colored glasses of love. For him, Tilla was the perfect mother who basically could do no wrong. 

However, if you ask Barbie, she’ll say that while she is sad that her mother passed away, she is unable to truly feel devastated since she never knew the woman well enough. Barbie is even a bit resentful for the times Tilla chose to spend time with Blitz instead of her.

And with Cash... How would you think Bojack would react if PC died before him? 

Now… what about Moxxie’s family?

Crimson and Belia (Name I am giving Moxxie’s mom)

"You better grow up to be something great, to make up for all the damage you done."

One particular thing that I noticed about Crimson is how young he looks despite being Moxxie’s dad. If I knew nothing about Helluva Boss and someone showed me a picture of those two, I would 100% believe they are siblings, not father and son.

While we can attribute this to Vivzie's inability to draw older men, why not play with this?

Let's set up the stage.

When Moxxie entered the picture, Crimson and Belia were just seventeen years old and not even dating. However, I suppose that when you are a careless teenager, the consequences of forgetting the condom don't truly hit you until something goes wrong.

As one may expect, Crimson was not happy with the news and was even more angry when Belia told him that she wanted to keep the baby and sustained her ground no matter how many times Crimson told her to get rid of the pregnancy. Why not? They were both fucking teenagers, just fooling around and he had no intentions of becoming a father, at least not this young! What was truly stopping her?

Nobody truly knows why Belia chose to keep her son to this day. 

When alive, she would tell you without a doubt that she loved her child from the first moment and couldn't bear to let him go, even in the face of less than perfect circumstances. But Moxxie hasn't believed that version of the story in a very long time. 

Moxxie now thinks that the main reason why Belia had him was because she didn't want to endure the awful and harsh conditions of an Imp Health Center. Due to the horrible way the doctors treated the imp patients, lack of medicine and equipment, most imps avoided those places like the plage.

Unfortunately, sick imps had no other choice but to go to the centers for treatment. Because if an imp even dares to step a hoof on the more well equipped hospitals in Sloth or Lust, they would be immediately kicked out no matter the emergency.

For more serious issues, wealthy imps (like Crimson's family) would hire a private physician. However, Belia was aware that Crimson would never spend that kind of money on her. 

Or maybe Belia didn’t want to give Crimson the satisfaction of getting out of his responsibilities. 

When Crimson's own father learned about the, at that point, already advanced pregancy, he forced Crimson and Belia to get married. Given the Knowlastname family's significant power in Greed's imp neighborhoods, Crimson's status as an unmarried young father would be viewed as a shameful scandal.

Belia only consented to the marriage because she had nowhere else to go. When her parents found out that their seventeen-year-old daughter was expecting, they were so disappointed that they disinherited and prohibited her from ever returning home.

(Later, when I rewrite Exes and Oh's, I will go into more detail about what Crimson’s family does in the Greed Ring. They are still involved in “less than legal” practices and loan sharking, but is a little bit different than in canon since now I based the Greed Ring in the entertainment industry.)

Of course, as one may expect, things in that marriage went south real fast. 

Every time Crimson looked at Moxxie and Belia, he saw nothing but the two demons who took away his carefree teenhood together with the respect of his father, and with each passing year, he just became more and more cruel. At one point, he simply started physically abusing his wife, who always put herself as a buffer between Moxxie and Crimson.

If Belia dared to raise her voice against her husband, Crimson would merely tell her that the opportunity to leave him went away the minute she decided to bring “that brat” into hell without his permission. Now she was just reaping what she sowed.

Being physically and mentally abused by her husband (who, as a bonus, also turned everyone in the household against her) took a toll on Belia’s mental health. She still wanted to be the best mother she could be, but how can you raise a child in an environment where everybody sees them as the enemy? When your mind makes your body so heavy that getting out of bed becomes an impossible task?

More than once, Belia considered taking her son and moving back to Wrath. But then, to where? Her parents didn’t want to see her; she lost contact with her friends, and since she never finished school, she had no hireable qualities. How would she support herself and Mooxie if she decides to leave? Being a single imp mother in hell is not easy!

It was impossible! At this point, she just needed to endure. 

She will not let Crimson win; she will not let that man break her and Moxxie. While Crimson was definitely stronger than her, putting on a smile after a beating that sent Crimson into a frustrated frenzy was all she needed to feel she had won, even if her body stated otherwise.

There were also the times she and Moxxie went on hikes together, pretending that they were going on a grand adventure as far away from Crimson as possible. Being happy when Crimson didn’t want them to was the little act of rebellion she needed to stay sane.

However, Belia’s breaking point came after Moxxie’s seventh birthday, just a few months after Crimson’s father died, when her “beloved” husband brought home another pregnant imp. 

Belia was no idiot; she knew that her husband had been cheating on her for years, but she never said anything because she didn’t care enough to do it. So, Crimson had a side piece? big deal, she stopped loving him a long time ago. 

However, it was too much to bear to watch Crimson, a guy she believed to be utterly cruel, be a loving and caring partner to this imp and be so thrilled about the birth of their cherished child.

I mean, when you witness the same man who repeatedly denigrated your son, cursed and beat you for being pregnant, joyfully decorating a nursery while choosing baby names and spoiling his new partner, whom he never raised his voice at, it can and will break something in you. 

Ultimately, what could be worse? Accepting that your partner will never change? Or realizing that you were never worth the positive change they could bring about?

What did she do wrong?

Moxxie still doesn’t know what happened to his mom; what is certain is that one day he woke up and she was not there. While part of him is sure that Crimson killed her so he could marry his new partner, there is a part of him, small but loud, that tells him that Belia abandoned him at the mercy of his father. 

Why would she not? Moxxie knows that he looks a lot like Crimson, so it was possible that at some point, his poor mother couldn’t look at him anymore without remembering her abuser. He is also familiar with the sad reality that, if Belia tried escaping with him, the possibilities of re-doing her life with a kid on her toe would have been very slim.

Not to mention impossible.

After his mother disappeared, Moxxie became a ghost in his own house. Apart from giving orders and degrading him, Crimson was more focused on his new family and new children to “waste energy” in a son he never wanted. While Moxxie’s step-parent was not physically violent, their constant degrading of Belia and their attempts to erase all trace of her existence really put Moxxie on edge.

Sadly, he couldn’t say anything because the first and only time Mooxie tried to go against their wishes, Crimson put a stop to that real fast. 

Moxxie had to see firsthand how Crimson was a true, loving father to his stepsiblings. He listened to them constantly, never yelled at them, and never struck them—things he never did with his first kid. He also made sure to teach them how their big brother was nothing but a failure and to stay clear of him since “wimpyness” could be contagious.

Moxxie wishes he could know them better.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o00

And this is all for today. I will give more information about Mooxie’s family (as well as his relationship with Chaz) when I rewrite Exes and Oh’s. Remember that these are mostly my first draft thoughts and can and probably will be changed for the final product. 

I hope you enjoy! I love when you comment!

[britney-j-christ]

Oh man, Curly really had no good options, huh?

I see a lot of people jumping to "Curly should have shot Jimmy", which is fine to say because he still should get to shoot Jimmy, but not a compelling argument.

Unless this is even more dystopian of a universe than it seems (Ala the villain being capitalism, not The State Shooting You Without Trial In Space style) there's no legal grounds to do that. That's vigilante justice and while it would solve a part of the Safety Concern Jimmy causes, it leads to too many problems on earth.

Also, you cannot just casually shoot a coworker or 1/5th of the locals. Daisuke and Swansea would have *very reasonable concerns* if their captain just shot someone, even if it was explained. And I don't think either would be down to do a cover up about it. And if they did...

Daisuke would Crack in seconds under interrogation or scrutiny.

We're also talking about Captain Curly pre, uh... "character developement" as it were, being able to see Jimmy's abusive nature first hand now that he's under his control. There's a pattern for trying very, very hard to see the good in Jimmy and enabling him. He'd never be in this position as copilot if Curly hadn't been there, trying to pull Jimmy out of whatever trouble he was at back on Earth. Curly is a big picture guy who doesn't see the dead pixel; he sees Jimmy climbing up and out of the muck with him and he ignores the red flags or, possibly, even prior offenses?

Captain Curly can be seen *trying* to be a good Captain, not unlike the way Jimmy as Captain is also "trying" to be a good Captain(for selfish ego driven and guilt-avoidant reasons). It really is a goal they share. Both of them fail at it, but it is both their motivations in those roles. Even stressed and overworked, jumping to killing his best friend three months into a year long voyage isn't rational.

So how about we downgrade to more reasonable option; jailing. Except the places where one can be locked in are the hold full of valuable unknown cargo, so a non option if they want to get paid (they desperately do), and the medical bay, which is much more viable if they could a) get that set up in a way that didn't jeprodise the health of everyone and b) didn't have a huge human sized vent that might kill you if you go through it. I understand why neither were chosen.

So, how about the cryopods? Seems pretty viable. Much like murdering Jimmy, you'd have to get everyone on board for this. So, confronting Anya's rapist in front of Daisuke and Swansea and hope they can sway them both in favor of Lawful Detainment.

It's not impossible. I think, if they tried, it would have worked in terms of grouping up together- if they could do it without Jimmy getting wind of it and doing something drastic beforehand.

But then there's no copilot. This is such a major issue for an eight month voyage where we see that the ship will see a problem approximately like 2-3 minutes before it happens and requires corrections. Curly cannot do this job for that long. No one else is appropriately trained. Swansea is busy, Daisuke is not reliable enough to handle this, and Anya... could probably do it tbh I have complete faith in her but that's a lot to put on her shoulders to not get paid appropriately for, just for her to be *safe* from Jimmy.

I struggle to blame Curly for the choice he did go with. I don't see any good options, especially without knowing what's going to happen. It's already a huge jump to go from Best Friend to Rapist; expecting Jimmy to go down to Murderer is a big leap. It seems like he thought he had eight months to work with Anya, to figure out what to do. "Talking with Jimmy" could have been anything from Boys Club protection racketing to clinical setting of boundaries for likely the first time in their relationship to a full on confrontation. We don't know. We only get to see the death spiral that came out of it after.

It's pretty clear that Curly failed as a captain to protect everyone, but the scenario was hopeless to begin with. The choices he made before they got on the ship doomed them: trusting and supporting Jimmy was the mistake and it happened well before they got on the freighter.

And in every single scenario, I find it leads back to Pony Express being the ones at fault. Every bit of the ship they are trapped in exists to funnel more money into a dying beast of a company at the crews expense. I think Curly and maybe Anya both thought they had 8 months to figure out what would happen off the boat. A looming unavoidable threat of consequences. Everything to do with getting the company involved would likely drive Anya and or Curly broke; they say straight up they fine the crew for problems arising. That it's flat out the captains duty to handle it and then get charged by the company $$$ about it. They will double the amount of responsibility back onto the Captain and crew. Imagine working a year in isolated space and getting NOTHING for it? Imagine slashing thenrest of the crews wages.

Curly wasn't able to predict what Jimmy would have done. I think his plan was to handle things Off Board. Too late in multiple ways, but I do think he would have genuinely back up Anya in however they go forwards once they've landed.

The option he chose didn't deal with the real problem though. It feels like he tried to problem solve to deal with the consequences and not the issue at hand; the safety of Anya, his crewmember. It's how he failed as a captain.

I'm proud of him rushing headlong unto danger to try and save them all. God. What a vicious cruelty to deny Curly the one thing he does deserve credit for.

Anyways I'm redressing him like a mummy so he's nice and cozy for his 20 year sleep. Poor guy tried to intervene, badly, into something that needed to be prevented instead by the company and by foresight he didn't have about a dangerous, narcissistic best friend. Doomed from the beginning because of your character flaws and unwinnable scenarios. You're such a good little horror character; if feel like he's a good parable about putting safety first. Thanks for your follies bro I hope it has impacted my personal decision making for the better so I don't become you if I'm in your position.