#i have very little presence in this fandom

[originalaccountname]

Endlessly fascinated with the contrast between the (obviously) iconic Corruption Chuuya laugh and the fact that, for almost all of its use time, Chuuya remains neutral to focus/determined during Corruption:

there are actually only 2 panels where he's laughing, notably only after he's defeated his foe, before Dazai steps in:

If you watch the Dead Apple Corruption scene, Chuuya never laughs maniacally, remaining focused the entire time (as he was focused on finding Dazai instead of destroying everything around).

On other side, in Storm Bringer, we see Verlaine laugh while under Brutalization, in the middle of the action when he's already started decimating his enemies (with little resistance). His laugh is described as inhuman and compared to various powerful sounds of destruction.

Chuuya, for his part, smiles his wicked grins when the battle is at its peak with the sharing of blows, but otherwise is only described as howling and yelling (much like he was doing in Dead Apple).

I cannot argue how iconic the mad-with-power laughter of Corruption is, but I find it very interesting how we, the fandom as a whole, have fixated on such a small part of it to the point of assuming the laughter is a constant presence.

[myokk]

HIIIIIII this is your secret valentines 🥰. Just wanted to say I’m a massive fan of your work and you helped me get into HL. I’ve been a silent follower for AGES.

anyways- enough of that- what’s some cute things about Seb and My Wife™️’s relationship? Like- going through an M&M bag and only picking out idk green ones bc they’re their partners favourite. Or thinking about them whenever they see a colour.

HELLO SECRET VALENTINE♥️♥️♥️♥️

Omg when I find out who you are…🤭🫶 I CANT BELIEVE I AM PART OF WHAT GOT YOU INTO THIS FANDOM😭😭 I am just a humble girl with no chill..😆♥️♥️♥️

Pretend this is a drawing of you and your wife Eloise🥰🥰 SEBASTIAN WHO????😒

ANYWAYS onto your question🫶🫶

Eloise LOVES reading & she’s gotten Sebastian into reading muggle literature. She always laughs at him though bc before they met he considered himself an avid reader but all he was reading was magical non-fiction😆 (SO BORING🥱 WHERE ARE THE BRUTAL CHARACTER STUDIES…THE ADVENTURE…THE ROMANCE ???????) and now they have CRAZY long discussions on Dumas, Dostoyevsky, Shakespeare. She always loves hearing his perspective bc he considers things in a way she NEVER would♥️ (in happy ending land I consider them to be big patrons of the arts in the future)

He ALWAYS saves a slice of lemon tart (Eloise’s favorite food, which Sebastian figured out just by observation 🤭) if he sees that it during meals🫶 and, another food-related thing: at breakfast they work in tandem, Eloise stirring some honey into her oatmeal as she hands the cinnamon to Sebastian, and he’s always reaching across to grab some cherries for her🫶

The two of them just very quickly found themselves comforted and comfortable in each others’ presence, something that they had never experienced before.

If you’ve read my oneshots that are Eloise but not named (😆) (I’ve expanded a bit on her personality in a way I can’t yet with my angst fic) you know she is VERY quick to be flustered but she HATES IT & never wants to show emotions if she can help it (unless of course she is getting her revenge😇). Sebastian LOVES this part of her though, AND he loves the fact that he’s the only one that can truly get her to open up and see her for who she really is.

Sebastián smells like cinnamon in my own little headcanon & it’s because he’s OBSESSED with it…adds it to his coffee, tea, oats, toast, WHATEVER. So there’s always a faint cinnamon scent clinging to him and his clothes and the smell starts to bring Eloise a lot of comfort once she associates it with him. Before, she wasn’t such a big fan of cinnamon but now?🤞💘🤭

I hope these answers make some sense!! My brain is still kind of mushy but I wanted to try my best and answer well🥹♥️♥️ HOPE YOURE HAVING A GREAT DAY !!!!!!!!

[thetomorrowshow]

you could always stay this young

Or, 5 times that Ilphas saw Scott as a boy, and 1 time they saw him as far older than he is.

FEBUWHUMP 2025 DAY 2 - holding back tears

fandom: empires smp

TRUST AU BABEY!! cw: descriptions of injuries, perceived major character death, referenced torture

~

~1~

"Come in," comes the young, wavering voice on the other side of the door.

Ilphas carefully pushes open the door.

There he is.

Prince Scott is sitting behind a desk that seems far too large and mature for him, perching on the edge of the chair. His wings fit awkwardly behind him, and his hair (now cut short, far shorter than Ilphas has ever seen it) is tangled, as if he's been running his hands through it. The button of the high collar of his mourning vestments has been undone, and the cuffs are already trailing threads, a sure sign that the boy has been picking at them.

"The ceremony shall begin soon, my lord," Ilphas tells him, and Prince Scott bites his lip.

"How much longer until I must leave?" he asks quietly, and Ilphas represses a sad sigh.

The prince is not an adult yet, that much is clear.

Prince Scott had his coming-of-age ceremony yesterday, and although he's just reached eighty-two (technically old enough to come of age), he's still a child. He probably won't fully mature to adulthood for another ten years.

And now, forced into adulthood too early, the prince must be ordained king.

"They expect your presence within the hour."

His highness, as Ilphas suspects he's been doing all morning, buries his hands in his hair, staring unseeingly at his desk.

"I don't want to be king," he whispers, and Ilphas feels their heart clench.

The boy is only eighty-two. Queen Isidriel had always referred to him as the princeling, and as inappropriate as that may have been, it is a word that aptly describes the young lord.

And as they're thinking that, Prince Scott's shoulders begin to tremble, as if he is barely holding back tears.

Ilphas surreptitiously pushes the door shut, and finds themself wishing a moment later that they had shut it with themself on the other side. They find emotions difficult at the best of times, especially with one so young. Especially when most of what can be done to comfort children is far above their station.

"With permission, I shall lead you through the schedule of today," Ilphas says after a moment. The prince raises his eyes to meet theirs, redrimmed and exhausted.

"Do you recall the rehearsal that was held last night?"

His highness nods.

"Very good. In one hour, that will occur. Everything will follow according to that, though quite a bit longer."

Once the prince nods again, Ilphas continues.

"Once the crowning has been performed and adjourned, there is very little that will be expected of you for the day. All celebrations will be planned for two years in the future, to allow for the proper mourning period of your parents. You will be needed to sign papers and send out an official decree of kingship, and then there will be a small meal with the traditional breaking of bread. Then you will bid farewell to all those who witnessed the ceremony, before retiring to your quarters for the evening."

"And tomorrow, the funeral," Prince Scott murmurs.

Ilphas nods. "Your days shall be busy, but do not feel anxious. You . . . you are not expected to know how to reign. The death of your father was not anticipated for at least five more centuries, and it is not unreasonable that you have not been adequately instructed."

They don't know how to say that this is absolutely unprecedented. Since the beginning of its life, Rivendell has never had a child ruler. His majesty King Andeloth had only ruled for ninety years, so while many of the palace staff were present for his mother's death and the transition of leadership (Ilphas included), King Andeloth had been five hundred years of age and had essentially already been ruling as the queen's health had declined.

A week ago, King Andeloth and Queen Isidriel had been in full health, as strong as they ever had been, with no threats to the throne and the only marring spot on their rule the death of their younger son three years past. Of course nobody had yet begun to train the prince, when his father would rule for many years to come and he would likely be joined by several siblings, all ready to share the weight of the kingdom should an unexpected death occur.

But five days ago, after a sudden, unknown illness (one of blackened flesh and pulsing red veins, one that the king and queen and many of their ship’s crew had contracted while crossing the ocean, one that had become so dangerous so quickly that the prince found himself quarantined in the summer home in the valley before his parents had even returned), the king and queen had died.

And now, five days after his parents' death, and one day after his coming-of-age, and one day before his parents' funeral, the prince must be crowned king, with no training and barely any preparation.

He's so young. The prince really is just a boy. Everyone knows it—the priest yesterday, while officially declaring his highness an adult, had looked uncomfortable with the words proceeding from his mouth. Those present had seemed unsure. Several elves had glanced around when the priest asked for objections (and objections of a non-serious nature are often brought up by the parents or close friends in a more casual ceremony, but other objections are not unheard of), as if asking for someone to say what they all knew.

But the need for a king was more important than tradition, and no one spoke out.

And as Ilphas examines the prince at his father's desk, they wonder if perhaps it was the wrong choice.

They do not voice such concerns, however. They only wait for the future king to speak.

Finally, his majesty sighs, pushes back the chair, and stands, almost seeming to tremble. "I suppose I have nothing to gain here," he says, casting a glance around the room. "Will I need to meet with anyone beforehand?"

Ilphas's eyes catch on his hair and his sleeves again, then they open the door and usher the prince out.

"There will be an attendant in the anteroom to fix your hair," they say. "And after that, do try not to touch it, or your sleeves."

The prince grimaces, but nods, and the two of them leave the room together.

And Ilphas offers up a silent prayer to Aeor that the boy will take his new role with grace.

~2~

Somehow, Ilphas lost the king.

They had contacted Rivendell to ensure that his majesty arrived safely, only to discover that his majesty had not arrived at all, nor had they requested his return.

And with a sinking feeling, they quickly realized that Lord Smajor had lied about where he was going.

He was gone, with no one the wiser as to his whereabouts.

Under other circumstances, Ilphas likely would have been demoted (or even released) for such a grave error. But as soon as they explain the situation, they can tell that the rest of the council does not blame them whatsoever, and they're fairly certain that Lord Smajor won't insist they step down when he was the one who went and got himself lost in the first place.

Maybe that isn't the correct attitude to have with the king, but he's simply too young.

In Ilphas's eyes, the king is still a boy. It's not even been thirty years since he was crowned, and less than twenty since the point that he likely would have become an adult in a normal situation, and Ilphas cannot see him as anything other than a boy king.

So when Lord Smajor makes contact and informs them that he will be returning after six days of nothing, Ilphas feels more annoyed than relieved. Does he believe that he can just come and go as he likes, sending the palace into a panic over nothing?

Which is quite the attitude that Ilphas brings to the dock when they go to meet his majesty later that afternoon.

The moment Lord Smajor steps off the boat, Ilphas knows something is wrong.

He's holding himself oddly, his shoulders rigid and unmoving, one arm around his waist. His steps are slow and careful, as if expecting to step on a needle at any time. Perhaps most obvious, however, is the simple clothing (certainly his own, though missing layers and embellishments), the sling that holds one of his wings close to his back, and the deep shadows under his eyes.

He looks oddly small, curled in on himself, and Ilphas feels all their irritation melt away as they realize that something very bad has happened to the boy.

Ilphas steps forward—to support the king, perhaps—and freezes when his majesty flinches away.

"We have anxiously awaited your return, my lord," Galidre says uncertainly, bowing.

Lord Smajor waves him off with a quick jerk of his hand. "I'm afraid," he says, and his voice is raspy, damaged— "that I must pay a visit to the infirmary. May we leave now?"

So Ilphas sits across from his majesty in the carriage and watches as the king sits on the edge of his seat and winces with every bump yet holds his head high.

When they arrive in the palace infirmary (and Lord Smajor walks from the carriage into the palace and down the long hall without support, despite his stride growing stiffer with every step), Ilphas quietly sends Galidre away to work on other business and closes the door, glancing around to ensure that the other beds are empty.

When all is done, they stand beside Lord Smajor as he gingerly sits on the bed closest to the door, and they nod to the lead healer (Velien) who approaches.

"Good afternoon, my lord," Velien says, bowing. "How may I assist you?"

Lord Smajor scrunches his eyes shut for a moment, sighs just the slightest bit. "I . . . I sustained a fall from a great height," the king says carefully. "I believe that I broke my wing in this fall."

A fall?

That certainly explains quite a few things—the late return (with a broken wing, he would have had to walk quite a way), the exhaustion, the way he holds himself as he walks—as if he's got several deep bruises that he doesn't wish to agitate.

A fall would make sense, and despite themself, Ilphas feels that irritation poke at them again. Lord Smajor knows how to fly, doesn't he? He's had wings for his entire life, after all. He hasn't fallen in decades.

Velien nods and tugs up xyr sleeves. "It will likely need to be set and immobilized," xe explains, circling around the bed to examine the wing. Lord Smajor's sunken eyes follow every move.

He goes utterly still as xe touches his wing, unwrapping the sling and stretching out the limb. Ilphas watches carefully—the lord doesn't much care for being touched (few elves do), but his face pales beyond its already overly pale complexion and he almost looks ready to bolt, lips trembling and fingers tightly gripping his tunic.

Velien clicks xyr tongue. "There likely is a break, though with your wings, your majesty, it is difficult to tell. I believe it is right here—"

Lord Smajor flinches forward with a noise of pain, and Velien raises xyr eyebrows.

"Yes, right there," xe says. "On a numerical scale from one to ten, how painful would you describe it?"

Lord Smajor takes a slow breath, in and out, and it hurts Ilphas's heart to see him in so much pain, but maybe he oughtn't sneak out like a child and get himself into situations such as this.

"Six, maybe? From the wing?" his majesty offers, looking to Ilphas as though they know the answer.

Velien nods. "All right, then. I believe it is an operation that can be performed while you are awake, but I would recommend imbibing a sleeping draught for our ease."

Again, despite no one touching him, the king flinches forward. "I—if I must," he stutters.

"Very well. Xolineh, would you mind retrieving a sleeping draught for his majesty?"

An elf sitting at a desk near the back of the infirmary nods, turning away to the wall of cupboards.

"Your majesty, if you would please remove your tunic."

Again, Lord Smajor looks to Ilphas.

Does he not wish to undress with others present? It is only themself, Velien, and three other elves in the room. And they will all (save Ilphas) be involved in the operation, so there isn't much point to privacy.

"I don't believe I can," Lord Smajor whispers, and though Ilphas is about to sigh and tell him to get it over with, it isn't an issue, something in the king's face gives them pause.

"My lord?" Ilphas asks after a confused moment. "Is something the matter?"

His majesty swallows. "I believe . . . I am injured in other places, and I . . . I do not think I can raise my arms that high."

Velien looks up sharply at Ilphas.

"Where else are you injured?" asks Ilphas, suddenly fearing the worst. He might have suffered internal damage—there is no one else with royal blood, the king is practically a boy himself so of course he's not had heirs of his own, he snuck out and nearly got himself killed in a childish mistake and how is Ilphas not supposed to be irritated with him while also terrified for the future of Rivendell?

This simply cannot happen again. There is far too much at stake for the only royalty in the empire to go about risking his life.

"My shoulders," the king says, and his voice still sounds so raw. "I have already received medical attention for other injuries."

Medical attention?

Other injuries?

Ilphas finds themself speechless. They can only stand there and watch as Velien takes a knife from xyr pocket and in one slow movement (and the king's flinch away cannot be written off as one of pain this time) slices through the tunic and pulls it down off of his arms.

Oh, dear Aeor.

Ilphas turns away abruptly, pulls the curtains around the bed closed. They aren't even sure what they're looking at, but Lord Smajor's shoulders are covered in bruises and swollen and Ilphas suddenly feels as though maybe some privacy is warranted.

And when they look back, they see just how terrible the king's condition is.

It isn't just his shoulders that are bruised. At least half of his skin is painted purple or brown or yellow, bruises in various stages of healing, particularly dark and plentiful on his stomach. There are some healing cuts as well, cuts that look clean and taken care of, but amidst all the bruises Ilphas can't find it in themself to pay them much attention. Their mind instantly jumps back to internal damage, because those bruises on his majesty's stomach could be indicative of anything.

They look up to catch Velien's eye, see if xe has noticed the danger, and finds xem staring open-mouthed at the lord's back.

Ilphas steps around the king (whose eyes stare at nothing as his mouth moves silently) and looks at whatever it is that has the Head Healer so dismayed.

"Aeor above," whispers Ilphas.

This isn't from a fall.

The king's back is marred with bruises, just as the rest of his body, and lashes, crisscrossing his skin. The lashes, like the other cuts, are partially healed—someone had likely poured a healing potion over them—but still obviously painful judging by the way one has split open, blood dripping from it.

The lashes aren't just on his back, but on his wings as well—in featherless stripes that Ilphas had assumed had been lost in the fall but are clearly matching the marks on his back—and below where his shirt has pooled around his waist the lashes still reach, and Ilphas can barely hope that they don't go down further.

Then Ilphas's gaze catches on his swollen shoulders again, and from there travels down his arms (and that looks like finger-shaped bruises on his forearms) to his wrists, identically red and rubbed raw.

The king did not fall from the heavens.

And if he did, he somehow landed in hell.

"My lord—"

"Tree branches," King Smajor says quickly, turning his head just barely. "I fell in a forest—the branches cut me—"

"My lord," Velien says, voice trembling, "these are not from—"

"Leave us," Ilphas commands, and without another word (but with another glance at the king's back), xe parts the curtains and steps without.

It's quiet for a moment.

And Ilphas notices with a start that Lord Smajor's ribs are so starkly visible that they could count them, and that might explain how small he seems.

Ilphas is reminded of not long ago—half a century, maybe—of when the young lord had ingested a bad plate of food and been committed to the infirmary for a week. For months afterward, Ilphas had watched (without knowing what to do) as the prince had grown thinner and thinner, his face more and more skeletal, as he refused to eat, not trusting the food to be safe for consumption.

They don't remember what it was that helped him to recover, but within a couple of years, he began eating normally again, and Ilphas had breathed a sigh of relief and forgotten it.

His back whipped. His body beaten and starved. Hung by his wrists, possibly, chains dragging them up, putting intense weight on his shoulders and even dislocating them. His voice damaged and raspy, as if he's been screaming. . . .

"My lord," Ilphas says, coming back around to stand before the king. Lord Smajor doesn't look at him, eyes fixed on the floor. "I am afraid that a tree would not be capable of these injuries."

The king doesn't respond, still looking down like a guilty teenager.

He's so young.

Too young to be kidnapped and tortured.

"Who did this to you?"

Lord Smajor shakes his head.

"You've been missing for a week, my lord," Ilphas says. "You may feel . . . unwilling to speak of it, but you must tell someone."

He hasn't stopped shaking his head, his fingers wrapped in the remains of his tunic.

"If we are to bring the villain responsible to—"

"I cannot start a war," the king bursts out, looking up desperately.

Ilphas goes still.

A war?

If he had been kidnapped by a common criminal, identifying them would not be a war-starting issue, no matter the empire that they came from.

But the king's words now not only confirm that he was kidnapped and tortured by someone of another empire, but that it was a prominent member of said empire. Possibly a ruler, or at least approved of by a ruler.

Perhaps Lord Smajor hadn't lied when he'd told Ilphas he was leaving to return to Rivendell, but Ilphas is inclined to believe that he had. The advisors here had never requested his presence, and if he had intended to return directly to Rivendell, he simply would have leapt off the balcony and flown away.

But if someone at the dance had said something, perhaps threatening him or something dear to him if he refused to go with them. . . .

Dear Aeor. The king is hardly more than a child, he doesn't deserve to be kidnapped! He never ought to be placed in situations where he suffers torture, then cannot even persecute the perpetrator for fear of war.

"Is there anywhere else you are injured?" Ilphas asks after a long moment.

Lord Smajor looks away again. "My legs and feet have . . . similar wounds," he says reluctantly. "They should not need more than regular health potion admi—administration. I only need the wing and—and my shoulders examined, I believe."

Ilphas sighs. "There are some offenses that are worth starting a war, sire."

His majesty manages an exhausted, monosyllabic laugh. "There may be one soon enough. I would rather prepare to defend Rivendell from the demon than selfishly go out to war over something so small."

King Smajor has always been wise for his age. A king far more advanced would declare war without a second thought—in fact, if the king's own father had been in this position, Andeloth the Stern would doubtlessly have done so.

Lord Smajor, though essentially a child, has always elected to put the good of others first. When the king had insisted on cutting ties with the Grimlands, Ilphas had barely questioned it, assuming it to be more than a rash decision. And so far, the breaking of the alliance has been fairly beneficial, with the loss of one equaling the gain of four others.

So, though Ilphas disagrees with this decision to withhold the identities of his torturers, they choose to trust that the king knows what he's doing.

So they nod. "You would do well to stay away from trees if they injure you so," they say carefully.

His majesty grimaces. "Believe me, Ilphas, if I could avoid them, I would."

It's someone he interacts with regularly, then. Another ruler, more likely than not.

But Ilphas doesn't ask any more questions. They nod, and call Velien back in, then stand there while Lord Smajor drinks the sleeping draught (which takes him some time, as he seems to be quite upset by the idea despite agreeing to it), and once the king is asleep, Ilphas slips out and informs the rest of the council that his majesty will need ample time to rest in the coming days.

And in the coming days, they watch with pain in their heart as Lord Smajor refuses food again and again and stays up all night, his face growing gaunt and hands shaky, and they pray that someone will help the boy soon before he wastes away.

~3~

This time, everyone knows where his lordship went.

Everyone knows that most, if not all, of the rulers of the lands left this realm for the next. They went to the End, for what purposes Aeor only knows, in the middle of the night and without preparation or warning.

When the king of Rivendell returns that evening, he certainly looks worse for wear. Ilphas follows him all the way to the medical wing, watches on anxious as Velien checks his vitals and patches up some odd tears in his skin (“I fell into the Void,” Lord Smajor confesses, and Ilphas almost gasps at his utter disregard for his own safety). With instructions to keep an eye on how he feels, the king is quickly ushered into meeting after meeting after meeting, each set to discuss the demon and his return, and how they might face the war on the horizon.

He had planned for a war, and he had been right. Hardly more than a child as he is, Lord Smajor has always had impeccable instincts. This is just another example of his youthful wisdom.

His majesty seems distant all day, eyes as far away as the Void he’d fallen into. Which—how on earth does one fall into the Void? His majesty isn’t clumsy, it isn’t like he just . . . stumbled off the edge of the End.

The last time that Lord Smajor claimed to fall, Ilphas had seen through the lie within moments. This time, he doesn’t appear to be hiding anything—he just seems . . . off, as frustratingly vague as such a description is.

He’s tired, as well—it’s fairly obvious. After all, he likely didn’t sleep at all the night before, or not much. He’s been doing better as of late (which Ilphas suspects the Codfather has no small part in), but his majesty still hasn’t been getting as much sleep as he ought to be. Ilphas can’t tear him away from the meetings that last all night—and the meetings are so important that they wouldn’t dare try. Ambassadors from Mezelea, the Undergrove, the Ocean, and Crystal Cliffs all arrive at various points in the night, urgent to meet with the king, and with the looming war there is nothing that Ilphas can do to ensure that his majesty actually gets to close his eyes for a moment.

Then, close to noon the following day, Ilphas glances up and suddenly realizes that Lord Smajor’s face is bare.

How could they not have noticed before now? His majesty has been seen by so many over the past hours, so many who knew of his engagement and now, perhaps, carry the wrong impression of his lordship’s fidelity.

“I—my lord,” they say quickly, interrupting Galidre’s words on labor distribution. “A word?”

Lord Smajor nods to Galidre, who bows and sweeps out of the throne room, taking with him the present attendants. Once alone, Ilphas approaches the throne, keeping their eyes on the floor.

“Your veil,” they say imploringly, clasping their hands in front of them. “My lord—”

“The betrothal is postponed,” Lord Smajor says. “I . . . I should make an announcement. It will continue once the emergency is dealt with.”

Ilphas does not argue, though they very much wish to do so.

Is it wise? Is it wise to end a betrothal, right as the war begins, when alliances and bonds must be made stronger than ever?

“But—”

“My word on this is final,” his majesty says sharply.

So Ilphas bites their tongue and leaves, letting the others re-enter, ready to send out his majesty’s (foolish) announcement of postponement as soon as it comes.

When that’s done, they finally manage to get Lord Smajor to shut himself in his chambers and rest. There’s nothing more that is so pressing it demands his immediate attention, for the moment. He needs to sleep.

If he can manage it.

And Ilphas needs to sleep as well. They clean up their desk with heavy arms, ensuring that the proper papers are in the right places and everything will be relatively easy to locate come the following day, then prepares to leave for their own chambers.

A commotion that echoes up the stairs distracts them as they lock the door to their office, though, and Ilphas allows themself a moment to sigh deeply before heading off down the staircase.

It’s—

It’s the Codfather, though his face is—

Oh, my.

Ilphas has to reassure themself several times that it was not the palace guards who injured the Codfather so, but the trip to the End that so many rulers had embarked upon, only the previous day. That still doesn’t stop them from calling out angrily as the guards stand uncertainly in a semi-circle around the Codfather, preventing him from moving any further into the palace (which he clearly has been trying to do, judging by the anger in his eyes).

“Leave him,” Ilphas calls, nodding sharply to the guards, who looked back in confusion. “A resident of the palace, treated with such disrespect?”

“But—the betrothal. . . .” one of the guards starts uncertainly.

“Postponed, not ended,” Ilphas says icily. “Let him through.”

So they part, and the Codfather, after a moment’s hesitation, nods self-assuredly and strides right past them. “That’s right! You can’t stop me from seeing Scott.”

Internally, Ilphas cringes at the familiarity. Externally, they are emotionless. “His majesty is in his quarters,” they say stiffly to the Codfather.

Though, really, his majesty oughtn’t be disturbed right now. He ought to be resting, not distracted by his youthful little love affair.

There isn’t really anything Ilphas can do about that, though. They’d be better off sleeping now so they can deal with whatever this situation is in the morning.

Aeor help them. They’re going to need it.

~4~

Ilphas hesitates before knocking.

They don't wish to be the one to say this.

But they do knock, and they hear a stuffy "Come in" from the other side.

They push open the door, and there he is at his desk.

He looks devastated already. Must they bring him this news?

Lord Smajor is dressed in black, a simple black robe with a black cloak thrown over the back of his chair. His hair is unbrushed, tangled as if he's been running his hands through it, and the cuffs of his stiff sleeves are trailing threads.

It's a sight so similar to years ago, after the death of the boy prince's parents, that Ilphas can't help but purse their lips and restrain a sad sigh.

"Hello, Ilphas," the king says without looking up, bloodshot eyes fixed on the desk. "How might I be of service on this fine . . . fine day?"

Oh, Aeor.

His lordship isn't in a good state at all.

Which isn't something that Ilphas feels they can blame him for.

Instead of saying what they'd come for, Ilphas steps forward, closes the door behind themself.

"Is there anything I can do, my lord?" they ask gently.

His majesty chews on his bottom lip, squinting his eyes shut.

After a long moment, he sighs.

"I don't want to do this," he whispers.

Ilphas waits.

His majesty sighs again. "My apologies," he says, rubbing his face, before opening his eyes and meeting Ilphas's gaze. "I have been working on the emergency refugee support plan. I should have it finished by tomorrow. My apologies for missing the deadline."

Lord Smajor returns to his work, and, just as they had been those years ago, Ilphas is struck by how unfitting the large desk covered in papers seems to be.

"That is not what I am here to discuss," Ilphas says.

His majesty frowns, glances back up. "What?"

Ilphas truly does not want to bring this up.

The king is only a boy, after all. Too young to experience such heartbreak. Too young to have to lead a war amidst it.

Ilphas steps closer to the desk. "The councils of the court have decided," they say reluctantly. "Your betrothal holds true."

For a moment, Lord Smajor only stares at Ilphas.

Then he blinks rapidly, tears suddenly sparkling on his clumped eyelashes.

"The mourning period will be extended by six months," Ilphas continues. "And you will be expected to adjust your clothing to be as those—"

"I know."

Ilphas falls silent, just watches as the king buries his face in his hands.

They hadn't initially approved of Lord Smajor's betrothal to the Codfather. Their alliance thus far had been short, and their friendship even shorter. The Codfather was hotheaded, rash, and made decisions based on personal opinion rather than measured benefit.

But it had become apparent immediately that his majesty was head-over-heels in love with the Codfather.

It was clear in the way that he spoke about his betrothed, the way he allowed—and even sought out—physical contact from the man, the way he went out of his way to make sure the Codfather had all the comforts that he could.

So Ilphas stopped voicing their objections, and simply let the love blossom. The king was young, after all. He'd lost some of his childhood to sudden responsibility, and though it appeared that a war was soon to start, Ilphas let the king be young.

And perhaps, if this whole ordeal with the Codfather worked out, they wouldn't be out of line for suggesting to the king that he get started on some heirs.

The need for an heir had become even more urgent as Lord Smajor began preparing for this unknown war, which would apparently be waged against the Grimlands and Mythland (though he refused to speak of why, and Ilphas began to have suspicions about the possible perpetrators of the king's recent captivity).

Then, once the demon was released, the war plans (and the wise premonitions of Lord Smajor) all made sense, and Ilphas began to feel quite anxious for an heir.

Not that they anticipated his majesty to perish, but one never knew what would happen. And Ilphas began to wonder if it was perhaps more of the king's divine insight that led to the unexpected betrothal than true love—he had been planning for the war for quite some time, after all. Perhaps the betrothal was part of that planning, beginning the one year process as soon as possible so that he might provide an heir once it was finished.

And now, mere weeks later.

The Codfather is dead, and King Smajor is devastated.

He has a mourning period of a year, and after that he oughtn't rush into anything for propriety's sake, and then another year's worth of betrothal period. . . .

Well. Ilphas isn't exactly hopeful for a bastard child, but perhaps it would be something to think about.

"I don't want to do this," the king whispers again, bringing Ilphas back to the conversation at hand.

How much more can a king so young experience without breaking?

The death of his entire family, forced to rule as a child, suffering torture, the death of his betrothed not long into their betrothal, a war. . . .

"You are not alone," Ilphas says, hoping vaguely that they are not overstepping their station. "I cannot imagine how you feel, sire. However, we are all here to . . . share the burden. If you need . . . anything, do not hesitate to make it known."

His majesty nods slightly, then, with a slight gesture of his hand, dismisses Ilphas.

With a bow, they depart, leaving Lord Smajor in the privacy of his office.

And soon enough, the king emerges, head held high and veil pinned in place.

Perhaps it is only Ilphas who sees it, but the red in his eyes makes the blue shine in ways it hasn't in decades.

~5~

Ilphas can do nothing but watch.

They stand there as Lord fWhip utters vile things and confirms their theories of who might have taken the king captive those months ago.

Yet they stand there and silently urge the king to not rise to the disgusting bait.

And when the light goes dark and the tent flies off and the world is bathed in red (and Ilphas is cast to the ground, the wind blowing ferociously), Ilphas can only watch.

They pick themself up and watch as Lord Smajor fights for his life, as ice bursts from him uncontrollably—and Ilphas had suspected, ever since one week ago when they saw the ice left wherever the king touched, that they might have a legend come to life on their hands.

Did Aeor have to choose the boy?

Then, the unthinkable.

Lord Smajor fails.

He fails, and the demon throws him aside (like he isn't royalty, like he isn't the demon's own brother, like he isn't anything) and declares his reign.

Ilphas will not stand for that. They know for a fact that the elves of Rivendell would rather die than allow such an evil creature rule them.

Ilphas needs to rally the troops (which isn't their job, they aren't the general, they aren't anywhere close to being the leader), but they can only stand there and stare at the crumpled body of their king.

And then that blue hair shifts just the slightest bit, and Lord Smajor lifts his head (for a moment Ilphas has hope, maybe this was part of the plan) to make eye contact with Ilphas.

Ilphas can't restrain the horror that leaps up within them.

The king's face is washed in blood and smeared in grey dirt, his expression twisted in pain, grain-like black grit sticking into a gash on his cheek. His hair is tangled; his mourning clothes are torn and dusty.

But Ilphas meets those surprisingly clear (clear, understanding, pained and despairing and terribly sad but clear) eyes.

The king nods, only slightly.

Oh.

His meaning is obvious. Though willing to fight to the last elf, Ilphas knows with a certainty that such a battle would be fruitless.

Lord Smajor knows so as well.

It is the king's final wish that they surrender, that no unnecessary lives are lost, that the people is not entirely destroyed.

And the king is nothing if not selfless.

So Ilphas blinks back the wetness in their eyes, and nods in return.

The final moment of eye contact that they share with the boy king is long, an eternity of understanding.

Then Ilphas turns away, commands that weapons be lowered, calls for surrender.

And when Xornoth speaks—

"This is your king, and he is dead."

They can do nothing but watch (a tear slips down their cheek) as the boy is killed.

They see the way he doesn't even move with the obvious snap of his wing, he doesn't make a single noise of pain, and they're fairly certain that his soul has departed before he's even thrown from the cliff.

He was so young.

He was only a hundred and nine, expected to save this world and banish the demon in the midst of so much grief and pain.

He was set up for failure from the beginning. How could anyone have expected him to succeed?

Ilphas doesn't dash to the edge of the cliff to try to glimpse the young king's body. They instead kneel in that place, the place where his majesty had first stood his ground, the dirt swept about by his footprints.

There, on the stony ground, is his crown.

Not the one of legend, that had fallen with him, but Lord Smajor's crown, the one of gold with white crystals that had been forged for his crowning. The one that the king had let fall to the ground before the battle began, his shaking hands placing the crown of antlers upon his head.

Ilphas picks up the crown, wipes away a few specks of dirt with their gloved thumb.

The last king of Rivendell, fallen.

And he was only a boy.

~+1~

Ilphas doesn't expect his majesty to be awake, but when they push open the door to the infirmary, he isn't in bed.

He's sitting by the window, staring out into the darkness of night, alone but for the soft noises of an owl somewhere in the distance.

It's been a full day since the king returned. Since he appeared from seemingly nowhere, the also-dead Codfather at his side, and wielded a shining sword against the demon, binding him in an ancient ritual that has likely not been seen on this earth in thousands of years.

Ilphas knows that there will be many songs and stories of the final duel. They had once scoffed at the tales of Alinar's prowess, his larger-than-life stature, his being of fire and command of the heavens.

Now, however, they feel their skepticism drifting apart. After all, Lord Smajor had seemed to literally be engulfed in brilliant white fire as he fought, in some moments seeming as the ancient king himself, miniscule glimmers of change every millisecond.

The moment that Lord Smajor had collapsed to the ground, it was as if the fire went out. The heavenly light illuminating him faded, and everyone had stood still for a long moment—then King Joel of Mezelea had moved forward, gathering Lord Smajor into his arms and carrying him away toward the palace.

Ilphas had followed not far behind, had helped lay out the unconscious king on a bed in the infirmary, had carefully unlaced and removed his worn leather boots and set them on the floor, before allowing a healer to examine him.

The healer hadn't found anything wrong, and eventually Lord Pix of Pixandria had shown up, saying something about magic and ancient bindings and promising that Lord Smajor would wake by the morning.

His majesty had actually woken some time before the morning, and Ilphas saw him not long before dawn, joining the effort of helping the wounded and collecting the bodies.

Somehow, in the darkness of the night, he had still seemed to slightly shine.

Ilphas had been called away from the clean-up as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, to join the council in making decisions about the once-invading armies of the Grimlands. Count fWhip had surrendered immediately after the fall of Xornoth (a little strange, in Ilphas's opinion, seeing as his forces were surely far greater than the ragtag rebellion King Joel had managed to put together), and was now hurriedly departing, leaving it up to the king's council to decide whether to help them or hinder them in their flight.

Discussions of such matters took half the day, and then Ilphas was quickly pulled into another meeting about sending aid to the Codlands (from what they'd heard, though, the Ocean Queen had it well under control), and it's taken until night again to find Lord Smajor and properly speak with him.

He had helped for a good part of the morning, Ilphas was told, in organizing the wounded and setting up extra makeshift infirmaries. Most of the beds had been dragged out under his direction, onto the lawn of the palace so that they might be of easier access for the wounded. It was only when he almost collpased that the healers ushered him back to the nearly-empty-of-furniture infirmary, claiming the last remaining bed as his and commanding him to stay there.

And, as expected (seeing as the infirmary is little more than the king's bedroom at the moment), Lord Smajor is there alone.

He stares out the window, the moon illuminating lines in his face and turning his hair almost silvery.

He looks old. Far older than Ilphas has ever seen him, and far too old to be here, dealing with matters such as the restart of the world.

His left arm is resting on the arm of the chair, not in a sling or missing entirely, as the rumors would have one believe.

Without turning his gaze from the window, Lord Smajor sighs. "Hello, Ilphas," he says, something somber (something ancient) in his tone. "Apologies for not seeking you out earlier. How might I be of service?"

Ilphas doesn't respond, standing by the door, and after a moment, his majesty turns his eyes toward them, his stare piercing and bright. "Have a seat," the king says, nodding toward an extra chair at the side of the room.

Their instinct is to kneel. How can they sit?

Ilphas pulls it over to set it across from the king, then sits there with him.

Lord Smajor smiles, the turn of his lips strained, but Ilphas can't help but feel relieved.

The king has returned.

Once dead, he's here.

He isn't without mark of his apparent death, of course. What had been a gash on his cheek the last time Ilphas saw him (and what a terrible time that was) is now a light brown scar, sure to fade within the year—and there's a pink mark on his chin from the demon kicking him, also likely to fade—and there's a weight to his brow, formed of emotional and physical stress, if Ilphas had to guess.

He's here, though, thin and exhausted but here, and frost curls around his fingertips for a moment then recedes and Ilphas knows at once that his majesty is truly Aeor's Chosen.

"The army of the Grimlands has fled," Ilphas says, realizing that the king has been waiting for him to speak, "and we have a host mobilizing to cast them from the far reaches of the land. Is there anything else you believe should be done?"

The king shrugs. "I have been living in the woods for a month," he says drily. "I'm not sure that I'm aware of our needs."

Living in the woods? In what woods?

Surely wherever the Codfather had been hiding. After all, they had appeared together at the funeral, hadn't they? Perhaps the Codfather had rescued Lord Smajor from his fall, had brought him to a secret location to heal and wait for the moment to return.

Why that moment was the king’s own funeral, Ilphas will never know—though the timing could not have been any later. Only a few minutes more, and the demon would have been crowned king.

Four days after the king's fall (and that's what already elves are calling the cliff, King's Fall), the first day after the armies had returned to Rivendell, Ilphas had hid a dagger in their robe and vowed that if they ever had the opportunity, they would drive it through the heart of Xornoth.

Just a month ago, they had almost wished for Lord Smajor to beget bastard children during his mourning period, as inappropriate as that would be—but they had decided that losing the last remnant of the royal line would be far preferable to allowing the prince-turned-demon to rule.

"Is there anything I ought to be made aware of?" his majesty gently prods, and Ilphas realizes that they've been lost in thought, staring at the king.

"Apologies, sire," they say. "I believe not. Is there anything I may do for you?"

They want to ask how he survived. How he fell, beaten and broken, from the cliff to the rushing river and still survived. They want to ask how long he's known that he was Aeor's Champion. How he managed to return. How he succeeded this time, following such disastrous failure.

But none of those are proper. If the king wishes to explain, he will explain.

He isn't a child, after all.

Lord Smajor turns his gaze back toward the window. "I can no longer use my left arm," he says after a moment. "It was bound to the crystal in the ritual."

So some of the rumors were true, at least. His majesty has essentially lost a limb.

The king is forever changed. Not just because he lost use of his arm, nor because he is Aeor's Chosen.

But war brings grief, and grief takes its toll, and his majesty has had far more than his fair share of grief in his life.

He will never be the same. He will always bear the weight of this war and its consequences. Although the Codfather may yet live, Lord Smajor will never forget how his supposed death felt. He will always remember his own failure.

But Ilphas feels confident that he knows how to move forward. He isn't a child, after all.

There are, however, some things that they can help with.

“Will the betrothal with the Codfather go forward?”

“Yes,” the king says, without hesitation. “As quickly as possible.”

Ilphas nods. “I would advise a week before beginning it again,” they say, and this is exactly what they want. One of his majesty's problems that they can help with. “Time to settle, to ensure that your betrothal wear still serves its purpose. The next item—the church will certainly need construction, however—”

“Ilphas,” the king interrupts quietly, a bit of a smile playing on his lips.

Ilphas pauses, meets his eyes. “Yes, sire?”

“I thought there was nothing I should be made aware of,” he says, and Ilphas once again sees it—the spark of something wise, something ancient in his ice-blue eyes.

“Of course,” says Ilphas, ashamed at their mistake. The king needs rest. “I will—”

“Ilphas.”

“Yes?”

His majesty looks at them for a long moment, and Ilphas refuses to believe that's something fond in his look—

“Go rest,” his majesty says, then, “that's a command. Sleep, at least until morning.”

Ilphas will not argue against the king.

So they stand, and bow—deeper than normal, they haven't bowed so deeply since King Andeloth—and depart, feeling the king's eyes on them all the way out of the infirmary.

Then, just as his majesty commanded, they go to their quarters and rest.

[gentil-minou]

Gosh I need to edit this more before I actually start posting but I'm just so excited so here's a preview of my wangxian OUAT au, featuring wwx as emma, lwj as regina, and ayuan as henry (though are veering far away from both canon in both cases so no need to be familiar with the show to enjoy)

----

The doorbell rings.

He blinks once, then twice. Wei Wuxian isn’t normally one to get visitors, especially at this time of night. He tries to remember if there’s a no-candle policy in his lease his landlord might nag him about when the doorbell rings again.

He scrambles to his feet and stumbles to the door, already preparing an apology for something he probably didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to do and another apology in case he did know. He opens the door and sees….nothing.

Until he hears a quiet cough and looks down to see a little boy.

At first, he thinks maybe he’s a trick-or-treater who got a bit lost, but Wei Wuxian’s building is secured with a key and callbox entry. Plus, although he’s been wandering streets alone since forever, he’s pretty sure a kid this young would have a chaperone with him. He looks behind the kid and doesn’t see anyone else there.

But instead of asking something sensible like where his chaperone may be or even if the kid’s lost, he blurts, “How did you get in?”

The boy tilts his head and replies, “The front door. It wasn’t locked, I just walked in.”

So much for secured entry. But that doesn’t really answer why there is a human child at his door at nearly midnight. There’s definitely a law somewhere that says that’s illegal, probably.

The kid, who can’t be more than ten years old and really should have learned about stranger danger by now, beams up at him, as if technical breaking and entering is something to be proud of. Which, okay, maybe Wei Wuxian is kind of impressed by that.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” the boy asks, his smile so sweet and unassuming that before Wei Wuxian even realizes it, he’s turned to the side and let the boy in.

The kid is wearing a blue puffy coat and carrying a white backpack that has homemade floppy ears made of felt that make it look like a bunny. They bounce up and down as the boy walks inside and slips his shoes off. Wei Wuxian very maturely resists the urge to tug on those floppy bunny ears, though only just.

Shoes off, his socks patterned with fluffy white clouds, the boy turns back around to look up at Wei Wuxian. His entire face beams up at him as if he were a sunflower facing the sun, which wow what an ego-boost. He’s got dimples, little baby dimples that are very cute and look very pinchable but that doesn’t matter because there is a baby in his house! And okay he’s at least ten years old but regardless why is there a whole entire child in his apartment? What is one supposed to do when some random kid shows up at their doorstep and invites themselves in?

“Oh shit uh, wait not shit,” Wei Wuxian stammers. “Shit, sorry. Um. A drink, you want a drink?”

Ask the random child if they want something to drink, apparently. Perfect.

The kid nods, still giving him that doe-eyed look. Wei Wuxian doesn’t have much by way of child-friendly beverage options, but he wasn’t exactly expecting something like this tonight. He settles on milk that looks like it hasn't gone too bad yet. Besides, expired milk builds immunity and character in children, that's how it works, right? He pours a glass for the kid, making sure to give him the cleanest one even though there’s a tiny crack on the surface.

He guides the kid over to the coffee table and hands him the milk. The kid takes the glass and sinks onto the deflated beanbag while Wei Wuxian perches on the edge of the couch. He grabs a can of beer from the six-pack still on the floor beside the table and takes a sip. Wait, is that allowed? Can he drink alcohol in front of children?

The kid doesn’t seem to care. He takes a tentative sip of his milk and makes a very polite face that fails to mask his disgust, before putting the glass down on the table next to the forgotten cupcake. Fair, it’s nice to see him asserting boundaries and all that.

"Okay," Wei Wuxian says, amused despite the situation. "Who are you and why are you in my house at—" he checks his phone for the time"—five minutes to midnight on a Friday night?"

The kid doesn't answer right away. His eyes are still focused on the cupcake, but in a way he probably thinks is sneaky. Wei Wuxian tilts his head to get a better look and sure enough, there’s a furrow between his eyebrows like the kid is trying really hard to ask a difficult question. After a minute, it becomes clear he hasn’t worked out a nice enough way to ask, but it’s a good thing Wei Wuxian knows enough about being a hungry child to recognize one.

He nudges the cupcake over to him and says, "Help yourself." Immediately, the kid grabs the cupcake with all the care in the world, like it’s a priceless artifact and promptly devours it. Wei Wuxian can’t help but smile as he eats. Suddenly the cheap cupcake feels like an excellent choice.

When the kid finishes licking the last bits of frosting and crumbs off his fingers, he sits politely with his hands in his lap and looks longingly toward the kitchen. He’s still too nice to ask forthright, but Wei Wuxian knows better and he isn't a monster.

Wei Wuxian gets up and opens one of the cabinets to look for something that’s probably child-appropriate, pulling out a bag of his least spicy chips. Chips are made of potatoes which are vegetables which means it’s probably not that bad for kids. Either way, the kid takes the bag gratefully and eats the chips with relish, even though they’re definitely way too spicy for someone his age.

“Alright, alright. You’ve been fed. Now tell me, who are you?” he asks again, though he can’t stop the tiniest bit of fondness from creeping into his tone. It’s just that everything this kid does is so cute! He can’t help himself!

The kid stops eating and tries to speak, but what comes out instead are the quietest little coughs Wei Wuxian’s ever heard. He’s been eating these spicy snacks and slowly turning as red as they are, but he’s so polite he hasn’t said a thing about them.

All at once, Wei Wuxian realizes he likes this kid, despite knowing practically nothing about him. It’s strange. He hates the kids the customers at his job will bring sometimes, especially when their parents just let them loose like it's a daycare and not a coffee shop. Wei Wuxian isn’t mean or anything, it’s just that wrangling kids is way above his pay grade. He didn’t even get along with other kids when he was a kid. All the other foster kids stood clear of him pretty much as soon as the social worker told his foster parents he was known for being “emotionally dysregulated” and labeling him a problem child.

But this kid is different from all the others, even though Wei Wuxian can’t quite put his finger on what’s so special about him. He seems like the kind of kid who would politely ask for steamed oat milk and say thank you, then ask his parents to let him give Wei Wuxian the tip. When he finishes, he’d probably throw his trash out without anyone asking and call goodbye to him one last time before he leaves. Even just imagining it makes Wei Wuxian feel wistful for something he’s never really wanted before.

It doesn’t help that this kid’s got what must be the fluffiest hair he's ever seen, and those dimples! It takes all of Wei Wuxian’s self-control to keep himself from pinching those chubby cheeks.

He doesn’t quite succeed and leans forward anyway to ruffle the kid's hair. "Ask for water, you silly,” he says, already standing and heading back to the kitchen.

When he hands him the glass, the kid just looks up at Wei Wuxian with his big, bright brown eyes filled with wonder. He’s looking at Wei Wuxian like he has the answer to everything. Wei Wuxian doesn't, but it's nice to feel like someone thinks he knows what he's doing.

The kid drinks half the glass before clearing his throat and finally answering Wei Wuxian’s question. “I’m Sizhui, but you can call me A-Yuan. Or even Little Radish, if you want! You called me that before.” He says it all in one breath, practically vibrating with energy by the end.

Wei Wuxian pauses in the middle of taking a sip of his beer. He’s not sure why he would ever call anyone a radish, and he’s pretty sure he’s never met this kid before. Does A-Yuan have mistaken him for someone else? Could this kid have some weird memory loss, except one where he gains fake memories instead of losing them? It’s definitely not the strangest thing about this whole situation.

Like all problems Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how to deal with, he decides to ignore that for now and asks, “Okay, A-Yuan then, why are you here?”

“Because,” A-Yuan starts, leaning forward and looking at Wei Wuxian with all the seriousness someone pre-puberty could possibly possess. “I need your help.”

“…Okay…” Wei Wuxian replies. The world must truly be fucked if someone is coming to him for help. He hasn’t had a vegetable in a week, unless pizza actually does count. “What do you need help with?”

He’s expecting the kid to say something normal like “my homework” or “getting to the train station”, you know, normal things a kid would ask a stranger to help him with.

He’s not expecting A-Yuan to respond gravely, “To save the world and everyone we love.”

Wei Wuxian blinks, speechless. A-Yuan doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to speak as he lifts his backpack onto his lap and rummages through its contents. “My family’s in trouble, our family. Everyone we know is, and you’re the only one who can fix it. Look here, see, I’ve got this book, it’s all written here. There’s a curse that’s affecting everyone and we need to break it.”

He plops the book down on the coffee table. It’s not at all what Wei Wuxian expects. It’s hand-bound, with a simple red fabric cover that’s blank except for the title that’s written in Chinese calligraphy. It’s written entirely in Chinese, in fact, completely by hand with the same impeccable calligraphy. Inside are what appear to be a bunch of stories or folktales. There are beautiful gongbi illustrations on every other page, inked in bright colors with an incredible level of detail.

Wei Wuxian can’t help but be impressed. The book is something he would expect to see at a museum or in a period drama, not on his coffee table with its chipped surface and water stains.  

A-Yuan flips to a picture of a man with long hair dressed in black and red robes. He’s playing a flute as shadows dance and twist around his frame. Then tendrils lift high into the sky and block out the sun. He’s standing on a pile of human bones, to really sell the whole villain energy this guy’s got.

A-Yuan points at the guy. “That’s you, you see?”

Wei Wuxian does not see, he’s pretty sure he would have noticed if his body was covered in shadows. Also, he would need way more conditioner for that length of hair.

The kid continues, interpreting Wei Wuxian’s stunned silence as something else entirely. “You’re the only one who can help them, who can save us all.” A-Yuan thrusts the scroll out to Wei Wuxian, who’s too floored to do much more than take it from him. “So, I’m here to bring you back.”

Wei Wuxian has to admit, the guy in the picture does look pretty badass. But it’s still just a drawing, and there’s little to suggest this looks anything like him at all.

He glances up. A-Yuan smile is so bright and excited that Wei Wuxian wishes he could feel his excitement too. The guy in the picture does look super cool, like someone he’d want to dress up as when he was A-Yuan’s age.

But all he feels is concern and confusion. Before, he was actually starting to enjoy spending time with this kid, but something is wrong, though it’s not what A-Yuan thinks. There’s a random kid in his apartment late at night, making up stories. And whether he likes it or not, Wei Wuxian is the adult here. He has to remember that.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and the smile slowly drops from A-Yuan’s face and Wei Wuxian feels like the absolute worst person on the planet for doing that to him. “But I don’t know what this is, or who you are. I want to help, you’ve just gotta give me some actual answers. Where are your parents? Do they know where you are?”

A-Yuan looks down and mumbles, “I was so sure you’d remember if you saw this, if you held it.” He tightens the hands on his knees into fists and looks up at him with a startling conviction. “But that doesn’t matter. I know it, I know who you are. You’re Wei Wuxian. This is you. And you’re the only person who can save us.”

Wei Wuxian rubs his temples and contemplates chugging the remainder of his beer. He holds it in his hand, wishing he’d gotten another pack. “Look, I don’t know how you know my name, maybe you saw it on some mail outside or something, but—"

"You're my dad!” A-Yuan hastily interrupts. “That’s why, that’s how I know!"

Wei Wuxian drops the can. There's a splash of something spilling all over the carpet and he should probably make sure it’s not too bad. He's too busy trying to figure out how he could have a ten-year-old at twenty-five when he was definitely still a virgin at fifteen.

The initial shock slips away, leaving him only more confused. He raises an eyebrow at A-Yuan, willing him to explain.

"Not my real dad," A-Yuan says, rolling his eyes like somehow Wei Wuxian is the one claiming something impossible. "But you're my dad in every way that counts."

Wei Wuxian wishes he hadn't dropped his drink. He'd really like to take a sip of it now. And several more, maybe the rest of the cans, too.

This day needs to end. He should have stayed home and drank his way to oblivion, so he’d have been too far gone to answer the door in the first place.

TBC

[666silco]

This is something I’ve wanted to do since my first one, I have updated my character tierlist from s1 to s2 now that it’s finished! I always think these are fun so I just wanted to post them. As you can see my opinions on many characters changed quite a bit. Also these are in order, even for very minor characters. The “first” one is accurate to the one I made in 2022 when I first watched the show, I just remade it so the tierlists match.

[fluxweeed]

hey. hope this message doesn't bother you. I love you. I love your work. you are one of my favorite fic authors, I am absolutely obsessed with everything you write. reread everything ten times over, drarry or not, fluffy or angsty - even when it absolutely shatters my heart (e.g. for lack of wanting, SUCH a great fic btw i'm so obsessed with it). the four doors? life changing. two to lie and one to listen? engraved into my brain for eternity. what's mine is yours? what a ride holy shit, im VERY normal about it. wrapped? my comfort read. and so it goes.

if I could aggressively smother you with kudos and love I WOULD!!!

awhile ago you said that there's no such thing as "big deals" in fandom and I 100% agree but at the same time you are a big deal TO ME!!! not in the sense of any kind of hierarchy but purely based on the fact that I think you are such a cool person and your writing is amazing and poignant and your presence in fandom makes it so much better. it's been a pleasure following you here on tumblr and just reading your tags and posts.

idk I just think you rule. that's it. thank you for hanging with us. MWAH 💛

ahhhh anon sorry for leaving this message sitting in my inbox for a couple of days but !! i have zero idea how to react to this!! you're so kind!! thank you!! please discard any and all inclinations u have that i am a cool person bc i can assure you i am NOT!!

[dailyfalsesymmetry]

Hi I love your art, feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before…would you happen to be corner-critter who did the Hermitcraft-Empires crossover animatic?

lmao yes yes i am my main is @cornercritter (no hyphen) hi i should probably make an intro post or something one of these days

[thrill-kill-kult]

Ok so my bio says no minors and I also know like I can’t stop y’all from following and I occasionally follow minors without realizing. But basically I just cannot guarantee that the things I post are sfw. I also know kids are online and they will seek shit out no matter how hard you try to keep them away. So basically I don’t excessively care. But if I catch anyone under 18 interacting with an explicit post of mine or trying to DM me I will shut that shit down and block u.

[grennseyelashes]

(committing to the worst possible use of my time) I'm sick of the misogyny i am going to create a Cerseissance on reddit.

[loveanddeepthroat]

Come Home

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Summary - Sylus has headed out to deal with some business, leaving you concerned for him as he doesn’t return when he told you he would. Fluff and a bit of angst. Sylus and MC aren’t yet in a relationship.

Word count - 2k

A/N - Hi! This is my first little one shot for LADS, and I hope you enjoy it. I do accept requests and look forward to writing more for this fandom 🖤

It had been hours since you last heard from him.

You tried to tell yourself that you didn’t need to worry. That he was more than capable and has always returned in one piece. That your worry is wasted on him anyway, considering the fact that you weren’t even supposed to like him.

But you felt sick.

It was almost impossible not to be concerned. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he has always been reachable. You’ve tried his phone so many times that the battery eventually gave up on your futile attempts and went to sleep—which is what you should be doing at this hour. 

Mephisto had accompanied him on his outing, Luke and Kieran staying at the base with you under Sylus’s orders. They didn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that it was currently three hours past the time Sylus had told them he’d be back. They know him better than you do, but their constant reassurance did little to soothe the panic starting to show.

“Please,” you practically beg. “I have this awful feeling that something has happened to him. Please go and look for him.”

Kieran groaned at her, tired of having to repeat himself once more. “We already told you.”

“Boss’s orders are non-negotiable,” Luke chimes in from where he’s lounging in an armchair.

“He’d have our heads as soon as we walked out the door.”

You were becoming more irritated each second by their nonchalant attitude. They didn’t even seem to give a shit, and you weren’t currently in the right mindset to delve into why you gave so much of a shit.

He was a criminal. A man who had such questionable intentions and motives that you didn’t even want to know the bare minimum of what he got up to whenever he headed out alone.

If something had happened to him, however, you wanted names.

As poorly as your acquaintance with him had begun, you found him to be more intriguing with every moment spent in his presence. His likes and dislikes, his attentive nature whenever you’re around, the way he chooses a vinyl record based on the type of mood he’s in—even the way he dresses has you analysing his every six feet and two inches of pure, solid muscle.

He wasn’t bad on the eye, especially when he was looking at you. You couldn’t fully figure it out, but there was a very subtle tenderness to his presence when he was around you. Subtle in a way that didn’t overshadow his ability to be the biggest asshole you’d ever met.

“If you keep pacing like that then I’m going to throw up,” Luke complains.

You shoot him a harsh glare. “If you don’t like it then get out and find your boss,” you grit back.

With an exaggerated huff, he pulls himself out of his seat, stretching his arms over his head. You feel a glimmer of hope, only for it to be shot down almost immediately. “I’ll let you know if I pass by him in my dreams,” he teases, walking out of the lounge and towards his own room.

You wanted to drag him back and push him out of the front door, but the man could probably put you to sleep with a snap of his skilled fingers. Instead, you growl angrily as his chuckles sound from the hallway.

Kieran stood up, too, mimicking his twin with his stretching. He paused for a moment, and you waited for his addition to his brother's teasing.

“He’ll be back,” he assured, surprising you. “If he’s not back by morning, we’ll figure something out. Just go to sleep.”

He doesn’t wait for a response from you as he follows after Luke, both of them turning in for the night. Sleep sounded like pure bliss, but you weren’t going to be able to do so.

You couldn’t even sit down, your legs automatically taking you around every single piece of furniture so many times that you were starting to get dizzy. 

“Please come back,” you chanted quietly to yourself quietly, if only to keep your pacing on track and your mind alert. 

“Please come back. Please come back.”

You weren’t sure how long it had been, but as soon as you heard the front door, you bolted for it on unsteady legs.

He came in quietly, which was completely overshadowed by your crashing into things on your way to get a visual on him. You practically fell through the door that led to the entry hall, where he looked only mildly bewildered and wholly amused.

There were no visual signs of any injury, but light blood splatters dotted across his white shirt, indicating an altercation. Mephisto sat happily on his shoulder, cawing as soon as he laid his mysterious little red eyes on you. The damn bird was never too happy whenever you were around.

Sylus raised an eyebrow at you. “Expecting someone?” 

That asshole.

He dropped off the face of the earth for hours, and had the audacity to greet you with sarcasm. 

Before your brain could warn you about the threat of putting your hands on him, you sprang forward, striking his chest with the palm of your hand. Then again. And again.

It was pathetically weak from your exhaustion, and he didn’t so much as blink as you assaulted his blood-spattered shirt. Mephisto, however, took to fighting back immediately, pecking at your hands and screeching.

Sylus shooed him away quickly, and the mechanical crow reluctantly took his leave. He proceeded to just stand there as his winged companion flew away, entirely unbothered by your outburst.

Your movements were quickly faltering, the already feeble slaps to his torso becoming far and few between. Still, he did not move. Did not speak. He was the most feared man in the N109 Zone, and he was letting you lash out on him.

Your hand finally stopped on the lapel of his coat, gripping it for a second to catch your breath. He waited for you to finally take a step back, your arms crossing over your chest immediately so you could fully close in on yourself. You were certain that your little outburst was going to bring some repercussions.

Unable to fight it, your bottom lip started to tremble. You had been walking around that lounge for so long that you had convinced yourself he was not coming back. That the wrong person had finally found him and gotten the better of him.

And you just know what he would’ve said if you indulged him in that speculation. What a silly little thought, sweetie.

He closed the space between you, your head automatically dropping to avoid his crimson gaze. You couldn’t bear it, the anticipation of what he was going to do. Your ass was likely headed back to Linkon on foot.

Warm fingers curled beneath your chin, lifting your gaze back up to his. He was towering over you, but you strangely didn’t feel intimidated. All you could feel was his warmth, and your wave of emotions crashing into their withering barrier.

His face gave nothing away as he studied you, still holding your trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you finished?”

He didn’t ask it sarcastically. He was giving you an opening. If you weren’t, he’d allow you to resume until you got it all out of your system.

But you were done, your arms feeling like jelly to the point that crossing them was taking a big effort from you. You nod, feeling wetness pooling in your eyes. This all felt ridiculous. He didn’t owe you phone calls or explanations, you both barely considered each other friends. 

The surprisingly soft pad of his thumb brushed gently across your shaking lip, his eyes following the movement. “I’m sorry.”

In any other circumstance, those two words would have shocked you enough to make you fall over. But you were a little too far on the delusional side of exhaustion, your body running on the fumes of your panic.

Your eyes flicker away, the wetness tipping over the edge and dripping off of your lashes. He turned your drifting head back to him to lock eyes with you again. He never did like it when you broke his gaze.

“Things got a bit out of hand,” he explained quietly, not needing an explanation for why you were so upset. “You shouldn’t worry.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie, earning an amused chuckle from him.

He brushed his knuckle across your cheek to rid you of your tears. “No? Why else would a kitten get her claws out, then? Did Luke and Kieran forget to feed you?”

You scoffed at his teasing, following his lead back into the ease of your strange companionship. “They’re terrible babysitters,” you say, sniffling away the last of your upset. 

He smirked, moving his hand to cup the back of your neck. He pulled you towards him, embracing you gently with a deep inhale. You almost swore he was smelling your hair, but you shut that thought down. It was far too complicated for such a tired mind to dwell over.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve both embraced, but this instance did feel quite different. It felt comforting, rather than nerve wracking. Nobody embraces a man like Sylus without at least a modicum of fear beneath the surface.

“You could have called,” you whispered. “Or…or at least answered my calls.”

He sighed, the blow of breath tickling your hairline. “There isn’t a good signal where I went tonight,” he explains. “I should have mentioned that. I didn’t want to call once I did have service in case you were sleeping. I apologise.”

An overwhelming warmth filled your chest, different to the one emanating off of his body. You look up at him, lifting a hand to his forehead. He humours you by allowing it, his eyes trained on yours as you felt the cool skin beneath the hair falling over his face.

“Are you coming down with something? You’ve apologised to me twice now,” you say, half serious.

He didn’t laugh or tease, his face slipping back into that easy nonchalant expression. “I assure you, I’m not coming down with anything. I could ask you the same thing, though. Since when did you become a worrier, kitten?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. It was something you yourself had to figure out. Caring for him wasn’t on your bingo cards when you first met. If anything, the very first day you met, you’d have been relieved if he hadn’t returned.

“Don’t get used to it,” you murmur, his smirk returning at your half-assed response.

“I’ll try, but I do get attached,” he whispers, tucking your hair behind your ear. He looks as though he’s contemplating something, and it takes a moment before he speaks again. “I’ll get us some better communication devices. Something you can carry around that I can alert you on.”

A slight sense of guilt washed over you. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to be concerned about my insecurities, I shouldn’t be keeping tabs on you.”

Sylus shook his head, his mind already made up. He taps a finger against your temple. “My concern about what goes on in there is for me to deal with. If some better technology eases your troubles, then it eases mine too.”

There it was. That side of him that kept you so very intrigued and made you feel a sense of…home? He often used words that didn’t m quite mean the same as his intentions, but you could see it in him.

He cares.

He rubs a firm hand up and down your back before turning you around, lightly pushing you away from the front door.

“It’s about time we got some sleep,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

You let him guide you through the halls, his lips dropping to your ear as he whispered again.

“Feel free to monitor me.”

[whokilledsamara]

hii!! I saw you write for homicipher so i was wondering if you could write some dark/yandere sfw & nsfw headcanons for mr scarletella 🥹 thank you so much & take ur time!!

MR. SCARLETELLA HC {N/SFW}

a Mr. Scarletella {homicipher} x reader n/sfw hc list.

{thank you for your support and nice words! :3}

warnings! : stalking, non-con, dub-con, hardcore, marking, slight gore, rough sex, violence, rough fingering, biting, cunnilingus, blowjobs, smut, murder mention, somno

{an : i didnt quite get what you meant when you said "dark" so hopefully this is what you meant. this is really hardcore. to the soft hearted people and people who cant handle ACTUAL freaky stuff, i wouldnt recommend reading this. there is a small section underneath the regular nsfw hc with a cw on it, so if you cant handle certain topics, there is still an nsfw section without it. he is my favorite character from homicipher ommggg hes so hot. id give him my name HAPPILY.}

SFW HC

sfw relationship/meeting him hcs

when you first meet him alone, he is very unexpected. his presence and constant facial expression is unnerving to say the least, but as long as you can manage that you will be fine.

if you end up "accepting" him, the relationship would be very weird.

he would be a wonderful partner despite the obvious other reasons, but dont think he wont be watching you constantly.

he will bring you daily gifts, consisting of anything he can find that he thinks you will like.

as for touch, he will let you touch him. usually he wouldnt let anyone even accidentally touch him, as he would teleport away, but one you are in a relationship with him, most boundaries he had before are gone.

he is rather fond of holding you. whether that be in his coat {for some reason} or just in general.

in Japanese culture {from my research, i am NOT Japanese!!} holding an umbrella with someone is a sign of love and acceptance. therefore he always likes you to hold it with him.

he isnt one of those "down-lo" kind of people. he makes it known everywhere that you are his.

he will do whatever it takes to please you. you are literally his princess/prince. even if that includes killing someone {he does it anyways}

if he catches anyone staring at you, or even remotely close to you, he will either teleport you away {if you are friends with the person} or kill them on the spot.

no matter how much he seems to be emotionless, anything involving you in pain or discomfort, it will flip a switch in him.

he has to be near you always. whether you know it or not, he will be there.

he hasnt quite grasped the concept of kissing or "romantic" things, but whatever you do he goes along with it. he rather enjoys hand holding or pressing his face into your neck.

he is the delulu type {this whole fandom knows it} and anything you do he will take as flirting. dont deny it though, hes too obsessed to care

he has a big thing for the height difference. he is a little over 8 feet tall, and feels a need to protect you at any cost.

any cost.

NSFW HC

what its like to have sex with him.

starting off, this man is a BEAST during sex.

he is a quick learner, and whether he is using his hands, mouth, or any part of his body, he will find those spots that makes you squirm.

one of his favorite things is you riding his thigh in public. say he was talking with Mr. Silvair, and happened to be sitting down. he would want you on his thigh "discreetly" getting off. bonus points if you cum.

he wouldnt be opposed to a threesome, but he has to trust the other person. a rare occasion.

anything you want to do, he will immediately comply. need him to go down on you? hes on his knees. even in public. need his fingers inside of you? absolutely. need his dick? against the wall you go.

he has a big dick, and luckily he knows it. he wont force everything inside at first, but eventually he will. you can take it. he thinks

he loves your body, and he makes sure you know it. even in his strange language, you can understand the things he is saying because he is touching you while he is doing it.

he makes little to no noise during sex, but not because he isnt enjoying it. he LOVES sex with you, but he prefers to listen to your noises. he would have it on repeat if he could.

you could look like anything and he would still find you to be the most attractive person on earth {or his earth, whatever}

for afab, he isnt one of those guys who has a hard time finding your clit. in fact, he doesnt even have to look. immediately his fingers will be circling that little nub that he loves so much.

he is a very dominating person, but it probably wouldnt be hard for him to let you dominate him. i say let because in no situation do you actually have control.

his fingering sessions are borderline violent, the pads of his fingers hitting that perfect spot with every curl.

cw! its about to get very dark and possibly triggering! viewer discretion is advised!

if you are one of those people who get off on your man killing for you, then he is the man. he will torture people in front of you as you touch yourself.

his sex isnt even borderline violent, it IS violent. if hes angry especially, he doesnt care if he hurts you.

afab, he will bruise your cervix and make you bleed. his tip hits so hard with his brutal thrusts that you will.

on certain occasions, {tw!!!} he will force himself on you. while it is rare, r...pe can happen, so be careful and dont piss him off.

he doesnt need sleep, so if hes horny enough then he will fuck you while you're sleeping. if you explicitly ask him not to, then he will just jerk himself off over your sleeping form.

dont expect to walk away from a rough fucking WITHOUT marks all over you. he makes it a mission to bite, claw, tear, any part he can. he wants you covered in blood, it gets him off faster.

will probably brand you with something

if you have a trauma kink he WILL use it to his advantage.

thats all bye bye!!! :3

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[oceanwithouthermoon]

belated add-on but i dont even understand why im STILL getting hate on here when i toned down my "controversial" (aka literally just harmless mildly unpopular opinions about anime characters) posts MONTHS ago after having a legitimate breakdown over the way people were treating me on here ☠️

so very sorry for um... *checks notes* having an opinion about anime characters that you disagreed with a few months ago

i think its weird that i have to make this disclaimer but the internet is crazy so wtvr,, anyway,,

if i say i dont like something, that doesnt mean "that thing is bad and nobody should post it.."

i swear literally every time i even mention that i dislike something, people will go "wow does that mean u fucking hate me cuz i post that thing? ur a fucking stupid bitch and all ur opinions r wrong" LIKE ?? er.. no. just because i say i dont like certain characterizations of certain characters (the saiki k fandom is CRAZY about this cuz i can state an opinion on literally any character and a group of people will still go 'well only we're allowed to post our opinions about them because we're always right!1!1!'), or certain ship tropes (mentioned my hatred of toxic yaoi maybe once or twice on here months ago and people STILL get mad at me as if i said toxic yaoi lovers r evil or something), or certain ships, or WHATEVER, does not mean that i HATE the people who are posting them or that i think they shouldnt post them at all, NO, im just posting about my personal tastes on my personal blog and it would be extremely weird and hypocritical if i decided that i was the ONLY person that was allowed to do that,,

i think the only reason people assume that is because there are a lot of other people on here who ARE like that, and a lot of people toe the line between posting that they dont like something and posting that they think everyone who likes that thing is stupid, annoying, and wrong,, so i guess all i can say is, sorry for whatever made you make these assumptions but they arent true about me so plz leave me alone ʘ‿ʘ ur doing the same thing to me that ur accusing me of but i didnt do it in the first place so ur just actively being a dick for no reason

[griffonsgrove]

omg hello!! I saw you post those vox headcanons and wow I was literally kicking my feet and giggling LOL. I also saw you take requests right now! (at least that’s what it said in your rules) and I wanted to request something : D

could I request general alastor headcanons with a GN! Reader please ? :D

Thank you!

General Dating Headcanons | Alastor

a/n: Of course my dear!! I love how Alastor is portrayed in the series, he’s easily one of my favorite characters! I’ve been wanting to do these for quite a bit, so thank you for the request!

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Wordcount: 1991

Cw: Hazbin Spoilers, minor violence, mentions of death, murder

(PLATONIC):

Ah so you managed to capture the attention of the infamous Radio Demon? You should be honored he even considers you worth his time! Not most demons have that luxury, they never live long enough to see.

Al strikes me as the kind of guy who knows everyone, he’s very observant and has eyes everywhere (his shadow friends extend throughout the entirety of the pride ring). He’s got connections in just about anything. He’s bound to have at least seen you once.

That being said, he views other sinners as inferior to him, if you don't have any power, he doesn't really see you as much of a threat (let’s be honest even if you did, he still wouldn't feel threatened)

He’s quite intrigued when he sees a frail little thing like you walk through the hotel doors. You're here on your own free will, seeking redemption? Oh, this will be quite entertaining.

You’re well aware of who he is, having been in hell for quite some time, even before his 7 yearlong disappearance, you knew to be wary in his presence.

It often left you being timid or skittish around him at first.

The deer demon had a knack for popping up at the most inconvenient of times, out of nowhere it seems (perks of being able to shadow travel). He would scare the daylights out of you nearly every time. Whether it was intentional or not, it always got a good laugh out of him.

And that smile…He was always smiling, you can't ever recall a moment where he wasn't, not even a falter. It's definitely an intimidation tactic you think. After all, you're never fully dressed without one!~

Despite this, he’s a charmer. He has this flare about him that oozes confidence whenever he speaks with you, to anyone really. He’s able to talk his way into and out of anything. One of the many perks of being a showman. Alastor is witty, charming and entertaining to say the least. Life is never dull with him around.

And if you happen to be from the same time period?? It’ll only want him to be around you even more! Finally, someone he can relate to in this cesspool.

This man is quite the chatterbox. He looooves to reminisce about the good ol’ days, always talking about how things were in his radio days. He could talk for literal hours and not break a sweat. You’ll often have to politely interject when he rambles on for too long, not that he minds.

Did I mention he can cook too?? Really well, surprisingly. He claims he learned from his dearest mother. He had to put a name to her famous Jambalaya recipe! When you tried it for the first time your socks were nearly blown right off from how much cayenne pepper he put into it. He likes a little spice.

He's!! Always!! Humming!! The man loves to sing, he often finds himself absentmindedly humming old tunes from the 20’s as he goes about his day. Whether he’s out for a stroll, enjoying a nice cup of tea, or running around the hotel, he’s humming.

This has been stated before, but Alastor is not big on physical touch from others unless he's the one initiating it. There have been many times where he’s pulled you into a little dance or twirl while he explains something. It never fails to surprise you each time.

He’ll often use his microphone staff to push or touch something, more specifically someone. He doesn't like to touch sinners that often, God knows where they’ve been. You’ve seen him whack Angel upside the head with it before, the spider tried getting a little too close for comfort. But for you he’ll make an exception.

Very well groomed!! He puts a lot of effort into his appearance, and cares about how he projects himself to the public eye. His hair is always neatly styled to perfection, shoes shined, and is always dressed to the nines. I mean did you see how mad he got when Pentious ripped a part of his coat off?

As the two of you begin to spend some more time together, you find yourself often having little meetups, the both of you would chat, share a cup of tea and just enjoy each other’s company. He liked to sit on the patio, he had a little table, and everything set up for you two.

Alastor makes sure to keep an eye on you regularly. He may have his shadow sneak around and stalk you while you're out. He’ll use the excuse that ‘Hell is a dangerous place!’, He can't have some low-life sinner trying to harm you, that would make him a terrible friend!

Undeniably has a soft spot for you that he’ll never admit aloud, he genuinely enjoys your company and likes having someone around that will humor him and listen to his stories. Grandpa.

Overall, Al is quite a good friend to have, you feel like you can confide in him at any point, he’s surprisingly a wonderful listener. The more time you spend together only strengthens your little friendship. Even to the point where you both will grow to have a mutual respect for each other. He initially scared you at first, given his reputation, but underneath all the ruthless chaos is a true gentleman.

(ROMANTIC):

My man is sooo conflicted at first, He’ll spend hours in his den thinking about his feelings. (We’ve all seen the inside of his room, literally half of it is a swamp). The scenery can only soothe him so much as he contemplates on what to do.

This is probably where you will begin to less and less of him for a time being as he works out his inner turmoil.

But, once he finally comes to terms with these undeniable feelings, he decides to confront you privately, away from any prying eyes. Ahem Angel…

Very old-fashioned, this is where he will properly ask to court you. 

You’ll never know this but he was actually kind of nervous, he was worried you’d reject his offer, but imagine to his surprise when you said yes!! He kind of felt giddy.

Congratulations! You now have a cannibalistic deer overlord as your boyfriend

He’s such a gentleman, I literally cannot say it enough, the man was raised right and he respects you! 

You literally never have to open a door with him around. He holds your chair out for you, always walks on the outer side of the sidewalk, pays for every meal and is constantly giving you compliments left and right. And they say chivalry is dead.

Alastor loves to gift flowers to you. Every few weeks or so he’ll give you a new bouquet. They're different each time, some have a meaning while others he simply thought you’d enjoy. You have a special place in your room where you keep them.

Now that you’re in a relationship, the two of you are basically joined at the hip. Wherever you are, Alastor is not far behind. He doesn't want to admit it but the overlord is kind of clingy. He doesn't like being too far from you.

If there’s ever a reason he has to be away from you, he’ll often have a few of his little imp dolls watch after you. You always thought they were cute little fellas anyways.

The both of you aren't exactly private about your relationship, but at the same time you’re not screaming it out from the rooftops either. Alastor is well aware of the dangers you could possibly face due to his status. He’s made a lot of enemies in his time, and doesn't want to see you get hurt on his behalf.

That being said though, no demon in their right mind would try to threaten you.

God forbid they touch you either. They’d be ripped in half before they could even get another word out. 

He's fiercely protective over you. He tries to play it off as nonchalantly as possible, but you know he cares about you immensely, it’s rather sweet really.

Now about physical affection. Things will go very slowly in the beginning, as said before he's fine with things as long as he's the one initiating it. If you two are out for a stroll you’ll have your arm gently looped with his as you walk down the chipped sidewalks. You’ll have to be extremely patient with him, he’s not used to this “love” and “affection”

If you’re ever having a bad day however, he’ll slip out of his comfort zone for you, and allow you to hold onto him for as long as you please, in the privacy of your own room of course.

One of his favorite things to do with you, is to slow dance. There's something so intimate and special about it. It could be late into the evening, when everyone else had gone to their respective rooms for the night, If you listen closely though, you’ll hear the soft hum of music coming from Alastor’s den, he has you in his arms, the both of you gently sway in a slow waltz across the room to the quiet love songs emitting from his radio. It’s here that you truly savor these private moments with him.

Speaking of music, Al loves to sing to you. Oftentimes it may be a ballad or love song, and if you join in with him? He’ll fall for you even more. 

Cooking! He loves to whip up all his favorite dishes just for you, oftentimes you’ll help him in the kitchen, even if it’s the smallest thing. It's become an annual thing you two like to do together. He makes sure that you get only the best meat that this side of hell can provide.

He’ll often call you a mix of different pet names, here's a few of his favorites: Cher, Darling, Beloved, Dearest, Love, Mon Amour, Doll

Which btw on the topic of meat, Al is canonically a cannibal, he’ll often eat demon meat in his meals, and will have you try it at least once.

Admittedly has gotten slightly jealous of his own shadow. The mischievous thing was always trying to steal your attention away from him, oftentimes it would work, you would always give in and humor him, saying that ‘Even his shadow needed some loving too!’. With a strained smile, Alastor shoots a glare at the inky mass of himself, who just looks at him with a smug grin.

Will have you meet Rosie at least once. She’s one of his other closest friends, and a real sweetheart. At first she comes off as really scary and intimidating. but the more you get to know her, and she's for certain that you wont hurt her friend, she’s much more friendlier. 

You two actually bond together somewhat, having little chats about Alastor occasionally, or about her business.

It’s safe to say that this man would kill hundreds if not thousands for you. You have him wrapped around your little finger. If you ever have someone bothering you, they might as well already be dead, because this man will hunt them down like prey. And eat them too.

Honestly, Alastor as a lover is nothing short of wholesome. He’s so attentive and caring when it comes to you. Which is so refreshing to see, especially coming from one of hell’s most feared overlords. Things will most likely start of slow, but if you’re patient with him, all the hard work will be rewarded tenfold. He had initially thought the Princess of Hell’s Hotel was one of the biggest jokes of the century, but what he wasn't expecting was you to be one of the best things to come out of it. You both were cast down to suffer an eternal damnation in hell, but at least now you can endure it together <3.

[maidenvault]

During my last rewatch of the prequels I was actually shocked by how much I've misremembered or decontextualized certain moments in my mind because of how they're often talked about in fandom as showing the Jedi as too arrogant, too bureaucratic, generally just burying their heads in the sand while everything goes bad etc. So I'm gonna try to address every individual scene that typically gets brought up to argue that this is an actual theme in Lucas's portrayal of the Order.

The Council doesn't take Qui-Gon's account of meeting a Sith seriously.

Mace and Ki Adi Mundi do both express doubt this guy could be a Sith. (Understandably! Historically they've never known Sith to be able to hide their existence, and for them to have survived totally in secret for a thousand years is a pretty wild thing for Qui-Gon to be so sure of.)

BUT Yoda admits that the dark side is hard to see, and Mace assures Qui-Gon they'll do everything to find out the identity of the attacker. Later he's ordered to go back to Naboo and try to draw out Maul to discover more. Qui-Gon accepts this and doesn't ask for backup. Why should he? He held his own against Maul before, and Maul's probably not gonna show himself again to face a ton of Jedi. They end up missing the chance to learn who trained Maul because of how things go down, but Qui-Gon's death isn't the result of the Council mishandling the situation.

At the funeral, Yoda says the presence of one Sith means there's another out there. They know they've got to be on guard now and will be, but they've got no more leads for now.

2. Qui-Gon's not here to free slaves.

There's this idea that slavery existing on Tatooine shows the Order is apparently too tied up doing shady things for self-interested politicians (footage not found) to help the people who really need it. But Padme's shocked to know the Skywalkers are slaves for a reason. The truth is there isn't a lot of slavery in the galaxy at this time because the Jedi have helped keep it that way for centuries only by working with the Republic. In TCW we see that Zygerrian slavers have a particular hatred of Jedi because they're literally The Anti Slavery People and did so much of the work to crack down on their trade. But Tatooine is controlled by the Hutts and they simply don't have the resources to start a war with them.

(And honestly, it's crazy how people talk like Qui-Gon's a monster for honestly and apologetically telling Anakin no, that's not why he's here. This is a child he's already indebted to and who has a hero-worshipping idea of Jedi, it would be fucked up for him not to be clear about how he can't help him and his mom.)

3. They doubt Dooku could be behind the assassination attempt.

This I understand shows the Jedi to be a little naive. But they knew Dooku as a good man, and at this point he and his followers are still putting on a show of wanting to secede for idealistic reasons (and a few of them, manipulated by Dooku, actually do have good intentions). Only later do the Jedi learn they're illegally building an army before they've even officially left the Republic and clearly have no interest in the peaceful resolution Padme's been advocating for. And they only find this out because they have Obi-Wan investigate the assassin and this very quickly leads him to Dooku.

4. "Arrogance, yes. A trait more and more common among Jedi. Even the older, more experienced ones."

In context, this line from Yoda is clearly not meant to be taken so seriously. Obi-Wan says he fears Anakin is too arrogant, and this is Yoda's light-hearted way of telling him not to be so hard on him. Part of training a Padawan is learning to trust them so they can grow, and Obi-Wan perhaps needs the reminder that he isn't done learning himself.

Of course Yoda saying this could be partly motivated by them having been caught off guard before by the existence of Darth Maul and the dark side clouding their awareness, as we're told repeatedly throughout the PT they know is a problem. But it's kind of contradictory to take this as confirmation that this is a serious fatal flaw of theirs. If someone acknowledges their own arrogance then they're aware of their ability to be wrong, which means they can't actually be that arrogant. If truly meant in a general sense and not just as a gentle reproof of Obi-Wan, it's a pretty self-deprecating comment coming from Yoda.

5. "If an item does not appear in our records, it does not exist."

Chief Librarian Jocasta Nu gives this haughty response to Obi-Wan looking for Kamino, a system that's not in the Jedi Archives. So being so overly confident in the infallible knowledge of the Jedi, he takes her word for it and totally drops this lead.

Except no, he goes to someone older and wiser to figure out what this actually means. And he and Yoda are forced to conclude that the unthinkable - a trusted person among them somehow had reason to erase information from the archive - must nonetheless be what happened. This is honestly an exception that proves the rule: Kamino, and we can assume only Kamino, is missing from the archive only because it was removed, which is so suspicious it just shows he must be on the right track to discovering something. Jocasta is kind of snooty about it but theirs obviously is supposed to be one of the most accurate and complete databases in the galaxy.

6. Obi-Wan doesn't believe what Dooku tells him about the Senate.

For one thing, in this conversation Dooku's lying about basically everything but this. And I can't ever stress enough that Palpatine is a threat unlike anything the Jedi have ever dealt with before, who's already taken control of so much before they even know they're fighting anything, so the idea that a Sith is controlling the Senate would be really hard for anyone to believe.

Still, we know Obi-Wan reports this to the Council anyway. But it's a vague statement and they still don't have any information to act on. Palpatine soon has them very busy putting out fires in the war, and naturally fighting the Separatists who are led by Sith seems the best way for them to get to the bottom of what exactly is going on with the dark side. And they do finally turn their attention to how power-hungry Palpatine is getting once the war is nearly over and they've got the bandwidth for it, and think about what they might have to do if he's the threat to their democracy they fear, but of course he's too many steps ahead of them all the time.

---

So basically, what we see the Jedi being so guilty of in these examples are thought crimes. When confronted with the crazy explanation that happens to be true, their instinctive reaction is "No, I don't think that's possible." And then they do their due diligence to uncover as much of the truth as they can anyway. And Yoda, the Grand Master of them all, is often the first to admit that their first assumptions could be wrong. But Palpatine wouldn't be a good villain if his moves were predictable and he couldn't get an advantage over the good guys - that's just how storytelling works sometimes and it's not that deep.

It honestly felt stupid typing so much of this out because it's 90% just describing what actually happens in these scenes. But I guess it's a lot to ask that people actually carefully watch the films they discuss. 😒

[binomech]

some opinions on fanfic trends for Disco Elysium on AO3 for the past 2-ish years; i address racism, ableism, jean and kim tropes, accesorization of harry and the way the game themes appear to have warped.

some of you may know i've been reading every fic published on the disco AO3 tag chronologically since 2019 for a little over a year and jotting down some trends (not a proper statistical study, just some tracking of when certain tropes are introduced and when and how they reproduce because i like observing that kind of thing.) there's been an uptick in trans(masc) Kim and Jean character studies since late 2022-early 2023, among many others, but these ones were like overwhelmingly prolific once they were introduced.

harry, kim and jean are overwhelmingly the characters with most fanworks in the tag. and having read a little over 4k works it turns out that people engage in a very distinct way with them for the most part that tracks with the growth of the trans Kim and Jean character studies as a trend.

the disco elysium fandom's english-language writers are, according to my cursory snooping, overwhelmingly trans, some flavor of gay, white and from north america and western europe. given personal anecdotes, i also suspect they are upper middle class (though not as statistically huge as the previous things) and struggle with mental health. in the past decade or so a lot of fanworks have followed a trend of exploration focused on catharsis and personal relatability.

now, kim and harry appear so much in the text with so much detail that there's plenty of personal details to pull from to write them, where as jean's total presence in the game (rarely achieved in one run but i'm taking into account all his mentions and lines) is smaller so it follows that people need to fill in some gaps and there's more characterization freedom. jean is white, younger than both harry and kim, canonically depressed, non-canonically confirmed by his character player an amphetamine addict but presented as a functional person during the game, and covers a very specific narrative hinge that i understand as relevant: he's a bridge between pre-Martinaise Harry and his Martinaise self.

he's objectively a very comfortable character to play with because he's mostly a blank slate except for his relation to Harry and his vitriolic grief towards him. so logistically i understand why people who struggle with mental health, are white, are anywhere between 17 and 35, are functional and able-bodied and may or may not have a complicated relationship with a close person who struggles with addiction or other health issues might go "YES, GOOD CATHARSIS NARRATIVE FOR ME". but the sheer amount of works that value Relatability over engaging with the characters or the themes has resulted in a very strong ripple. which leads to trans kim.

the game paints a deep and vivid image of kim, both from within harry's own perspectives and the objective things he says out loud. he's a walking contradiction, he's alienated from his body and selfhood, he beat himself into submission to stay alive. he's a walking reminder of his assasinated communist parents, the people who killed them paid his salary, his body (racialized, disabled) is both a hindrance to his assimilation and a tangible proof that he could have belonged somewhere but doesn't, that no matter what he does it will be considered first. so he watches his words, his movements, his appearance. so he partakes in hypermasculinity. he's canonically gay, mixed race, diasporic seolite, and disabled. and somehow, the only one of this that is recurringly explored in most fanworks is his homosexuality, usually in the form of being a guiding figure to harry or as a Fellow Gay Cop to jean, or eyes, or someone else.

now, we have the trans kim trope. my opinion on the trope isn't relevant to the point i'm trying to make, but i will say i think transmasc kim is something i enjoy in theory, i think it's a worthy exploration that works very well with the hauntings of embodiment and perception that exist in kim's canon self. but it's very jarring when all of these tales of gay trans kim refuse to engage with race, or with physical disability. like, after you've read 800 trans kim fics you start noticing how solid that avoidance is, how big the elephant in the room is, and i can't help but think that, coupled with the explorations of Jean, the issue is: the white ablebodied writer is unwilling to engage with race and disability.

my charitable reading of this is that the white ablebodied writer doesn't want to write about what they don't know, they don't want to overstep. my neutral reading of this is that the white ablebodied writer doesn't consider how sexuality and gender's material realities are tied to race and ablebodiedness in the real world because they are the Default Categories and it didn't occur to them that kim's experience of them might overlap. my least charitable reading of this without directly falling into the assumption of ill intent is that the white ablebodied writer is uncomfortable with the idea of the fact that their experience of gender and sexuality isn't universal and it's not as emotionally cathartic to think about how they might be racist and ableist because they put on horse blinders and they're trying to write things they like, and understanding this is unpleasant and doesn't belong in their feel-good hobbies.

people love to talk about kim's body without acknowledging the way asian masculinity and femininity exist in relation to whiteness when it's harry or jean in the room. people love to talk about kim's body without engaging with the power relations that exist in many disabled people's sexuality.

the tropes' strength lies in the relatability factor (very high) and the willingness of both author and audience to engage with the canon material for the characters they are writing (very low). and so you end up with a lot of jean character studies about his feelings towards harry (when everyone but kim in the game also knows both harries, but jean is prioritized consistently) and a lot of character studies about kim (that ignore most of the lived experiences of him because they're directly tied to his and his parents' race and alienation that are not particularly cathartic for the white author and reader)

one of the big themes of the game, if not the biggest, is failure. specifically it asks the player to think about what to do when you have failed and you know there are no blank slates, and asks you to empathize not only with harry, whose every thought you're privy to, but to everyone you talk to that has the same rich landscape beyond your brief interaction. when relatability is prioritized in fanworks, this question falls apart, the purpose becomes to find ways in which these characters are like you (the author, the reader) so you can afford them the level of humanity needed to feel emotions about them.

harry's tropification follows four large trends: self-loathing, aggressive addict, psychic omniscient prophet, overwhelmingly emotional and adoring puppy. some authors sometimes are capable of depicting both, usually as if they are unrelated and it's a harry-esque contradiction, but it's truly baffling how rare it is to find stories that engage with all of them or with multiple of them as inextricably bound together like canon material does. harry needs to be relatably lovable (heartbroken, self-loathing, fixable by love, fixable by the universe, capable of change that gets exponentially better) or relatably hateable (physically and emotionally abusive, manipulative, unreasonably needy).

most fics in the relatable lovability fall on the kim/harry ship, most fics in the relatable hateability fall on the jean/harry ship. here's where it ties into the big tropes for kim and jean: the fanworks about a game that asks a question about failure and questioning certainty become stories about inevitability.

jean's vitriol in the game comes from the same place as harry's self loathing: a visceral response to decades of failure. they're not objective truths (i'm thinking about the mirror reveal being intended as a way to make the viewer realize harry isn't a reliable narrator at all, but especially about himself: you see a regular guy, conventionally handsome but clearly in pain and growing old and sick. he calls himself horrible shit, however).

playing up jean's part as the Bridge is comfortable because it allows the player to separate Harry's failures from their agency as a player (something that greatly drives the point of the game home, emotionally speaking -- you're not that different from Harry. Harry's not that different from anyone else he meets. the irreversible failures exist for all of us, as do the chances to try again.) if jean is right in resenting harry, and moreover, he's objectively describing harry's behavior, harry's failures become logical and inevitable consequences of his Way of Being. if Harry calls kim a slur, or threatens children, or scares civilians, that's just because that's how Harry is (according to Jean and Harry's own brain), so the possibility that one of your tries might be meaningfully good becomes... less weighty. it's a fluke, and you'll fail again, so don't get your hopes up. it's almost an excuse to believe that there's nothing new under the sun and going back to old habits is inevitable, but the conclusion becomes "so nothing i do really matters" instead of "it's hard and painful to try again when you've failed so many times before. what does this say about the person who tries?". and in that way jean is an interesting character because understanding why he resents harry for being able to try more freely than him without the weight of memory is important to the theme. what has to click to start climbing out of the grave? can anyone do it? will i ever do it? why now, and why not when i tried to pull him out?

and similarly, when we write about kim, we have to confront what makes him who he is and not another generic character to write, and the fact of the matter is that being a cop, being visibly of seolite heritage, having PTSD, having a visual impairment on record that interferes with his cophood, his cophood being the only identity he appears to have had a choice over, how he treats harry because he's a cop vs. other harry parallels who aren't, how he treats harry whether harry respects him or not... they're important. and trans kim could be a way to approach these themes but it's currently existing in a vacuum of authorial catharsis, and the refusal to address the real politics that give emotional weight to disco elysium is becoming a worrying, overwhelming trend. i urge you all to think about these things a little.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Feels Like Home

Fandom: Marvel (Mob Boss AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: Bucky's world is filled with a lot of blood, death, and danger. But when he's with you, everything is filled with love, light, and gentleness. It's a feeling he didn't know he craved until he met you.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky at home was a stark contrast to how he was out on the streets of Brooklyn. To the outside world, he was James Barnes, the fearsome head of the Barnes Family, the leading crime family in Brooklyn. But when it was just you and him, in your dingy apartment, he was your Bucky Bear, a soft man who loved to cuddle, cook you dinner, and watch rom-coms with you.

That's the Bucky you'd always see as soon as he was in your presence.

Right now though, he isn't your Bucky Bear. He's James Barnes and he's got death on his mind. In the shadows of the alleyway, you can see how he's pointing his gun at the man in front of him.

"You've given me excuse after excuse, Dalton. I'm sick of it. Where's my money?" he grips the man by the caller of his shirt, and pulls him in closer, the barrel of the gun staring him in the face.

"Buck," Sam murmurs Bucky's name.

You watch as Bucky looks to Sam and when Sam nods in your direction, Bucky follows. His eyes widen, "Sweetheart." He immediately pockets his gun and rush over to you.

"What're you doing out so late at night?"

Your dog, Taffy, jumps at Bucky's legs when he gets close. Bucky leans down and scratches the corgi behind her ears, "Hiya, girl."

"She had a lot of energy when I got home from work. So I figured a walk around the block would be good for her." Your eyes dart to Sam and the man in the alleyway, "Is everything okay?"

Bucky looks over his shoulder and then back at you, "Yeah. Just...business." He wraps a protective arm around you, leading you away from the alley, "Wait here. I'll walk Taffy with you and we have dinner."

He moves to pull away but you grip at his wrist, "Bucky, it's fine. I can walk the neighborhood by myself. Go handle business or whatever."

Bucky continues to walk back, "Stay there." At his command, Taffy immediately sits and he chuckles, "At least she listens to me."

When he heads back to Sam and the unknown man, they exchange a few words you can't hear. The man looks at you and that pisses Bucky off.

"Don't you fucking look at her," he says, forcibly turns the man's head to look away from you.

After some low words exchanged, Bucky walks away from them, with Sam dragging the man to the other end of the alley where a car waits.

"C'mon, baby," Bucky murmurs, his arm wrapping around your waist. Taffy is happy to continue her walk, as she prances a short distance ahead of you and Bucky.

There's a weird tension between you as you walk Taffy around the block and eventually back to your apartment. You shed your jacket and shoes, unleashing Taffy, and going straight to the kitchen.

Bucky follows you, leaning against the kitchen counter, "You okay?"

You nod, "Mhm. Sorry, I just-I forget sometimes that you're..you know."

"I see."

"I've never seen that side of you, so it was a little...jarring."

"Do you...want to break up?"

You look at him with wide eyes, "What? No! Do you?"

"No, but I told you who I was from the very beginning, baby. If what I do ever puts you off, I'll completely understand if you don't want anything to do with me."

You shake your head, "Bucky, that's not it. I still want to be with you. I just forgot who you are outside of here. I forgot that's actually who you are."

It was Bucky's turn to shake his head, "Nah, baby. That's not who I am. That's who I had to become in order to survive. But here?" he points to the apartment, "This is who I really am."

You hum, "So you're really a big lovey dovey teddy bear that loves to be the little spoon, cook me dinner, and cry at rom-coms?" Bucky playfully rolls his eyes at your teasing and you continue, "Okay, really though. Does anyone else know this side of you?"

He shrugs, "Not really because I never felt super comfortable to be myself until I met you."

You scoff, "Sap."

"Only for you," he leans in and pecks your lips, "You sure you're okay? Are we okay?"

"Yeah. We're good."

Bucky pulls you in, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. You nuzzle your face into him, letting his scent encompass you.

You felt at home.