#i'm a mess but i'm the mess that you wanted • study

[callmeizukunotdeku]

The worst part, of course, is why they notice.

It's because Robin got in over his head during patrol and Red Hood broke his no-kill streak.

Bruce's rules snapped back into place, just as taut as before.

Jason pulls back. He doesn't visit anymore and then Alfred's giving him the cold shoulder too. Dick is insisting that he get over himself.

"What was it that made you accept him? What made you okay with him before, B?"

"I...just got some good advice before."

"From who?"

Quietly, he admitted, "Tim."

The name jolted Dick, as he realized that his brother had slipped his mind.

He couldn't remember the last time he talked to Tim.

He couldn't remember the last time he thought about him.

"Call him," Dick said, "and put him on speaker."

If Bruce had taken Tim's advice just once--taken it and implemented it long term--then that was more than he'd ever done for Dick.

Bruce took out his phone.

It rang and rang and then--

"This number is not available."

Bruce furrowed his brow and muttered, "No, that can't be right. This is his contact..."

He messed around on his phone for another minute before calling again, and--

"This number is not available."

Dick swallowed, and thought, bitter and hopefully, that maybe Tim blocked Bruce, before remembering that they didn't want any more problems. Their family couldn't handle going back to the way they were before Bruce came back.

Dick couldn't handle a return to the way things were.

He'd break under the pressure. He knew he would.

Dick called Tim, but--

"This number is not available."

He didn't get a response.

"Try his secretary?" Dick suggested and Bruce called Tam.

And again, the phone rang and rang and--

"You're speaking to Miss Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, how can I help you?"

You could have heard a pin drop in the room.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Bruce."

"And Dick," he added, "hi, Tam, how've'ya been?"

"Busy," she said, with some amount of humor in her voice, "Tim wasn't kidding when he said this job was grueling. I still wanted it though, and he thought I was the best person for it, so...here we are, I guess. Why are you calling, though? Y'all never call."

"Um," Dick started, not trusting Bruce to form a proper answer, "we were wondering how Tim was doing. We couldn't get ahold of him."

"Oh," she said, voice flatter than it was before, "yeah, he has a new number. I'll tell him you're trying to get in touch with him--"

"Give us the number," Bruce said.

It was silent on the other side of the line before there was a brief beep.

Tam hung up.

Bruce tried her number again, but it went straight to voicemail.

Dick was in the middle of trying to figure out a reasonable plan when Bruce called out, "Clark."

The man was there not a moment later, "Bruce. What do you need?"

"Where's Tim?"

"Ivy, I presume. Why do you ask."

"What's he doing with Pam?"

Clark gave him a confused look. "Who?"

"Pamela Isley? Poison Ivy?"

"He's...I meant to say that he's in Ivy Town. He's been attending university there for a few months now. Kon visits him often--brings him back to the farm, sometimes. Ma loves him--says he's a natural baker but Tim just always argues that it's because he's studying chemistry and--I'm sorry," he cut himself off, "why are you asking?"

Again, it was quiet for a moment before Dick said, "We were just trying to get ahold of him."

"Ah," Clark nodded, "his number changed again, didn't it? Do you want his new one?"

"No," Dick said at the same time that Bruce said, "Yes."

Dick glared at him, "No. We'll wait for him to call us."

Bruce comes back from the dead and wants to make things better. Bruce comes back from the dead and Tim was the one who brought him back, so it's obviously Tim who'll know best how to help him reconnect with everyone.

It's Tim who should give him advice on how to bond with Dick. Dick has always been his idol, after all. Tim would know best how to bring him back, and he does. He gives good advice and the two of them begin to get closer.

So Bruce asks about Jason, too. Asks about how to bring his son back into the fold and Tim wished for a brief and brutal moment that it weren't so obvious who the favorite was.

Tim told Bruce to give Jason his space, to loosen his rules, and make it clear that no matter what the Red Hood did, no matter what the Batman believed in, Jason was always welcome. Bruce would always want him.

It worked. Bruce wasn't surprised. Tim was a special sort of bitter.

Bruce asked again for Damian and Tim had to push down his anger. "That boy tried to kill me," Tim wanted to say. "I hate him and I want you to hate him too so that I can remember a time when we had something in common," Tim didn't say, but he got close.

He instead told Bruce how Damian liked art and animals and loved hearing stories of the wonders of Batman.

He told Bruce just how much Damian loved being Robin. Told Bruce to tell Damian what a good Robin he was.

God bless or maybe damn him, but he did and it worked and Tim wanted to start screaming and clawing at something because that would have never worked if Tim tried it and it wouldn't have stopped Damian from cutting his line--something Bruce did not and would never know about.

Bruce asked about Babs. How should he make sure she knew that she was a part of the family? They they loved her and not just for the work she did?

He asked about Steph. How should he make sure she knew that she was more important than his rules and that, if something else should go wrong, she didn't need to run away?

He asked about Duke. He never got the chance to get to know him before leaving--not as well as he wanted to, at least. How should he let him know that he was just as much a son as everyone else? That, whether or not his parents woke up, he'd always be welcome?

He asked about Cass. How should he show her that he loves her even though he has nothing to teach her? How can he convey how much he cares about her, his first daughter?

Bruce gets brought back from time and he makes things better. He brings his family back together by following Tim's advice.

And Tim?

Tim brings his dad back from the dead and Bruce changes, becomes a better father.

Bruce changes, but not everything can.

That, Tim thinks, is why Bruce never calls Tim his son.

[berritart]

thinking abt phone sex with abbyyyy #plz

abby could hear your hitched breathing through the phone, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

you were a mess, and she wish she could see how you were right now. the bottom hem of your nightgown held high up by your teeth, your fingers tracing over your clit through your panties. it was definitely a sight.

"need you abby..." you whined through the phone, wanting nothing more than to have your girlfriend between your legs. it was definitely ovulation time for you. you're usually horny but you would always handle it yourself. you never got to the point where you would have to call your girlfriend to get off, especially this early in the morning. it was only 10 am.

"what do you need me to do baby?" she asked, closing her journal. she got up from her desk and got in bed. she wanted all her attention on you, deciding to cut her study session short.

"just talk to me." you slip your hand under your panties, your cold fingers causing you to whimper in your phone. your noises were fucking with abby already. she wishes she was tongue deep in your cunt right now, making her girl feel good. unfortunately the snow gotten worse overnight and the roads unsafe to drive on. the weather was keeping a barrier between you two.

"what's going on in that pretty little head of yours right now?" abby whispers, unbuttoning her jeans. she began playing with the waistband of her boxers, craving a response from you. she waited, only hearing whines full of need. "c'mon baby tell me."

"t-thinking about your fingers..." you draw circles against your clit, jolting from the contact. "how thick they a-are..." you could literally hear abby grinning on the other side of the phone, enjoying every second of your phone call.

abby felt the warmth in the pit of her stomach get worse. she was so close to becoming the state you're in but it's all about you right now. she could hold off for a bit longer but her sweet thing can't. "and what else angel?" you mewl at the pet name, plus the feeling of your finger slipping inside your pussy. it was too much to handle, your teeth basically chewing off your bottom lip. you needed your girlfriend bad.

you lean the phone against your ear, your hand now groping on your tits through the fabric. "mmm... 'n h-how they reach all the right spots..." you gasp, your pointer and thumb pinching your sensitive nipple. "s'much better than mines."

"you wanna know what i'm thinking?" abby says lowly as she palms herself through her boxers. "'m s-so close baby." you borderline wail, your movements getting sloppier and sloppier. "im thinking about having that pretty pussy rocking back and forth on my tongue." abby's hand picks up the pace, her mouth holding back a whimper. "then when she's ready, when i think she's ready, i'll fuck her nice and slow on my strap. how's that sound sweet girl?"

"s-so so good- fuckfuckfuck i'm cumming." your fingers curl in your sopping cunt before pulling out. your climax washes over you violently, your moans and abby's name being suffocated by your pillow.

"there we go...good girl." abby praises, pulling her hand from her boxers and jeans. you try and catch your breath, hard breathing traveling through to the other line. "miss you so bad abby..."

abby checks the state outside, the sun slowly but surely coming out to melt the thick inches of snow. it was definitely going to take a while for all the snow to melt but for abby? at this rate?

"don't worry baby i'll be there soon."

[five-rivers]

An anonymous asker requested a fic where Danny was eaten and reborn. Hope you enjoy. :3

.

In the Infinite Realms, the closest thing to death was rebirth. There were, after all, very few things that could die twice, and they could not die permanently.

That being said, there were many ways to be reborn. By forgetting one's past, like those who drank from the Lethe. By being exalted into something higher. By being reduced to something lesser. By changing, as the butterfly in its cocoon, or a larva fed on honey. By the force of one's own awakening power, or by the manipulations of another. By curses. By blessings. By incautious wishes. By consumption.

In the Far Frozen, there was a great dragon. An ice wyrm. It sported elegant horns, proud antlers, a flowing mane, and sharp teeth. Ice like diamonds gleamed from its hide, nestled within fur and feathers both. Its wings and legs were small, compared to its great length, but it had many of them, all of them tipped with talons of ice. It brought clouds and snow in its wake, and, when it was angry, blizzards and thundersnow.

Some stories claimed that it could, if it chose, take the form of a noble-featured man or woman, and speak on things like science and poetry with the ease of one who had studied those disciplines for lifetimes. Others framed the dragon as a monstrosity, a violent beast made for destruction. Still others had it as a simple force of nature, born of the Realms.

Every one hundred years, the fiercest warriors of the Far Frozen would hunt it - an endeavor that might last years in and of itself - carve its meat from its bones, mount the antlers, and feast. Then, they would place those bones on a frozen river and bury them in snow, so that it would reform, gathering that snow and ice and turning it into flesh.

That hunt would begin soon. The dragon had been spotted, and each of its antlers had the requisite one hundred points.

Danny, flying to the Far Frozen because he'd caught a cold that was messing with his powers, knew none of this. Most of the time, he got over colds within a day or so, if he caught anything at all. He was worried that this was some kind of ghost sickness.

But he wasn't thinking about that right now, even as he passed over the floating icebergs that made up the Far Frozen's borders, because he had more immediate problems.

"Whelp!" shouted Skulker from somewhere behind him.

"Ghost boy!" trilled Technus, from not much further behind that.

They'd started chasing him about half an hour ago, and they were persistent. Whenever he thought he'd lost them, they'd found him again within minutes. One of them must have picked up a reliable tracking tool, because they weren't this competent on their own, usually.

Well, Technus might have been. That ghost knew how to think out of the box.

Danny could probably beat them, even with them working together, but he didn’t want to fight. He wasn't in Amity Park, where he had to if he didn't want the city in ruins, and with his powers acting up--

A missile streaked by him and he banked, knowing that wasn't a miss. Sure enough, it exploded ahead of him, knocking him out of the sky and into an iceberg.

"Ha! Soon, I will have your pelt at the foot of my bed!"

"And my plans for WORLD DOMINATION will be unopposed!"

"Oh my God," said Danny, shoving them both back with a wave of snow. "Just because I'm not there downstairs mean people will just let you take over the world! It's like all the times you've attacked me in social studies means nothing to you!"

A net dropped on Danny. Then, it shocked him.

"How do you like my new drone--"

It was like a dam breaking. Danny's control was already frayed thin, and he was always weak against electricity. He screamed, and that scream turned into a frost-touched wail, ice growing into huge crystals around him. He didn't stop wailing so much as he ran out of energy, dropping to the ground, his vision wavering and his transformation rings flickering around him.

No. No, no, no. If he lost consciousness and his transformation both, he'd... Well, he didn't know if he'd freeze to death, but he didn't want to test it. He forced the transformation rings away and his ghost form seemed to... settle, somehow. He slid down to rest among the bases of the enormous ice crystals he'd made and closed his eyes. He'd worry about that... later.

Danny regained consciousness to the feeling of something - someone? - shaking him. No, someone rolling him over. And rolling him over again. He grumbled, not sure why Jazz was so insistent he wake up and less sure why his bed suddenly felt like the floor of a meat locker.

Something cold caught on the collar of his suit, and then there was a ripping sound. Danny flailed himself awake, losing most of the upper half of his suit to the dragon's claws. Then, he froze, trying to process what he was seeing.

That. That was a dragon. A huge dragon.

Unlike what many of Danny's enemies thought, he wasn't an idiot and he knew when to run from a fight he couldn't win. He made the snap decision to turn human and phase through the iceberg so he could get away.

But, when he called for them, his transformation rings didn't come.

Danny's transformation required power. Energy. Usually, when he approached the lower threshold of that energy, his body would flip him back to the lower energy state of 'human.' But he'd resisted that instinctual, automatic flip, this time. If he were not in the Ghost Zone, he would likely be having trouble staying both visible and solid.

He didn't know that, of course. This situation had only been made possible by a combination of poor sleep, illness, his growing ice powers, and incredibly poor luck.

When the dragon resumed its attempt to peel him with its claws, Danny decided to go with plan B: scream for help. However, he only managed a pitiful rasp. He'd wailed too long and too hard and, well, he was sick. Losing one's voice wasn't exactly an unusual symptom of a cold.

Plan C was fight, but that went about as well as Danny had thought it would. That was to say, it didn't. But he had to do something, and he wasn't going to just let the dragon eat him, which had to be what was going on here, right?

It pinned him down and dragged off the rest off what remained of his suit by the boots. Then, it immediately went to work on Danny's t-shirt, pants, and underthings, which were made of far less sturdy material and shredded easily.

Even for a cold core ghost, being naked in the snow like this wasn't pleasant. It was less pleasant when the dragon started licking him. Danny wriggled and squirmed, anything to get out from under the dragon's claws and away from its tongue, but it was through and careful, seeming to want to get every single part of him.

The tongue was wider than Danny was tall and covered with large, knobbly bumps that slid across Danny's skin like ice. It was wet. It dripped with thick, clinging saliva that smelled faintly floral. It stuck to Danny, making his skin feel slimy and tingly everywhere it touched, like some of his parents' more gooey weapons. Whatever it was, it wasn't made mostly of water.

Then, when Danny was completely covered from head to toe, the dragon let go and breathed on him.

The saliva on Danny's skin froze instantly into a hard, clear layer. His cold core - still developing and often forced to be in much warmer environments than it liked - thrilled at the effect, much to Danny's general discomfort and displeasure.

The dragon flipped Danny over and breathed again, making sure that side of him was also frozen. Then, it started licking him again. All over.

Only once three layers of saliva-ice had been deposited did the dragon open its lips wide and close them around Danny.

The dragon was large enough to hold Danny in its mouth easily, trapped between soft tongue and rigid roof. It turned him over several times, and Danny could feel the ice around him continue to build. The tongue licked and touched and almost played with him. And then, it swallowed, pressing him back into the dragon's throat.

So. Danny had been swallowed before. Not when he was also immobilized and so weak, but it had happened. Most ghosts that tried to eat him, he had found, were not actually designed to eat things. Not in the way that living things ate things. Their throats and 'stomachs' were little more than voids, with little structure.

The fact that this wasn't like that, that the dragon's throat was seemingly made of strong, constricting muscle that pushed him down with rippling squeezes was... concerning. The ripples were slow, but steady, and the pressure of each of them was immense. Danny could feel it through the ice.

It was... not soothing, exactly. Being eaten wasn't soothing. But it was sort of like being hugged by something very large, and being held still... being worn from being sick... being in the dark... It was a regular motion, and one that conspired with the temperature to be very physically comfortable.

(If his cold was caused by something like being too hot, Danny was going to throw a fit.)

And then, with little warning, Danny was extruded into a larger pocket of flesh. He dropped a few feet, then hit something liquid and glowing. He sank down into it and floated for a few minutes.

Then, the folds of flesh around him - the dragon's stomach? - contracted and the liquid began to drain.

Once it was empty, the temperature in the dragon's stomach warmed just enough for the layer of ice on Danny's skin to start to slough off... And to take with it a layer of Danny's skin.

In ghost form, Danny was just as plastic as any other ghost, and his skin reformed quickly over his ectoplasmic muscle. It prickled.

But, now that he wasn't frozen solid, Danny was in a position to actually try to escape. He tried to call energy to his hands, but his powers still weren't responding. He tried to kick and punch his way into at least giving the dragon indigestion, but the walls of the stomach absorbed all the attacks. Then he tried to scratch and bite, but the skin was too tough. Before he could try a different method of attack, the walls of the stomach contracted again, forcing him into a fetal position.

And the stomach started to fill up with liquid again.

Now that he was no longer encased in ice, Danny could tell that the liquid was thick, viscous, blue, and far, far below the freezing temperature of water. It made his new skin feel fragile, delicate, almost... crispy. It was freezing, he realized, it, and the layer of muscle immediately under it, trapping him in this position even as the liquid rose and the stomach relaxed and cooled, freezing a thicker layer around him.

Then, the liquid drained away and the stomach contracted again. And Danny lost another layer of ectoplasm, his body morphing to accommodate the loss. This time, he could also detect a pervasive, low-pitched, vibrating hum all around him. The dragon's core, maybe? Even as Danny started to struggle again, the liquid returned and the stomach relaxed.

And it happened again. And again. And again. Each time, Danny lost more of his substance and his struggles became weaker and weaker, until they stopped entirely, his resistance exhausted. He was still half-human, and he needed sleep more than most other ghosts, but even without that, continually reforming himself so that he wasn't just raw meat was tiring, and the hum of the dragon's core had taken on a distinctly hypnotic cadence.

Danny's body's automatic repairs started to grow... lazier, for lack of a better word. Sloppier. Details were left out. Shapes were smoothed over and made simpler.

And then, just when Danny was starting to nod off, the stomach spasmed and pushed Danny - and the stomach liquid he was marinating in - off into a separate, spherical chamber. It was small enough that even Danny's much reduced form felt cramped.

There was a tickle, near his abdomen, and Danny blearily looked down, through the distortion of the liquid, to see a spiderweb-thin line connecting his navel to the outside of the sphere. As he watched, it grew thicker and thicker, and he could feel his remaining strength flowing out of him along its length.

He should break it.

He couldn't make himself move.

He closed his eyes. So. He'd really been eaten. Successfully. This was, he thought, a really annoying way to go.

.

"Hold," said Frostbite, raising his hand. The dragon was nestled in a hollow in the ice far below them, curled in on itself over and over. It seemed to be sleeping, making this the ideal time to attack. Yet, there was something off. Something different from the usual hunt, from the many times Frostbite had seen the dragon before. Then, he spotted it. "We must stop the hunt."

"But Chief--!" protested Sleetfall, the youngest of the tribe's hunters.

"Hush," said Snowdrift. "Listen."

"Look," said Frostbite. "Do you see what it holds between its foreclaws?"

"Ah," said Snowdrift. "Yes. I see."

"What?" asked Sleetfall. "All I see is a ball of ice."

"Ah, you were not yet an adult when this last happened," said Frostbite. Even though Sleetfall was both young and eager, it had been long enough since they come of age that sometimes Frostbite forgot. "It is not a ball of ice. Or, it not only a ball of ice. That is an egg. Someone has been eaten and waits to be reborn within. We must respect the great dragon's role in their rebirth."

He could see in Sleetfall's eyes. They did not want to stop the hunt, the first with such storied prey. But the youth's shoulders slumped and they nodded. "But, Chief, who even would it have eaten? None of the tribe have been missing."

"I have my thoughts," said Frostbite. There were very few visitors to the Far Frozen. "But, come, do not be so grim. A dragon child is cause enough for celebration, even if they do not join the tribe." He patted Sleetfall on the back. "Think about what you could teach them."

Sleetfall brightened. It was well enough. Even if it was Phantom in that egg, he would have much to learn and much to relearn. A rebirth was, after all, still a birth.

[partfae]

Sauron, Galadriel, & Tolkien's Theology of Repentance - Part One

Summary: Character meta analysis on Sauron (and Galadriel, through the lens of Sauron). Based on both Silmarillion & RoP canon. 3.5k words. Discussion of Catholic theology involved. Blanket TW for discussion of violence, manipulation, etc., because Sauron. Spoilers for S1 & S2 and the Silmarillion, of course. The tragedy of Sauron is that he gets offered so many legitimate chances at redemption and forgiveness, and he denies them every single time. But we know he wants absolution, because that’s what he sees Galadriel as: his chance to bind himself back to the light, to be Mairon again, to heal the pain that he caused and that was caused to him under Morgoth. But because he has such a warped view of himself and his actions, he dismisses genuine extensions of compassion, forgiveness, and care as simultaneously beneath him and too good for him. And yet, he still pursues redemption, but through none of the channels offered to him.

In The Rings of Power, he’s given the explicit instruction to change for the good in the village after he’s reborn. He’s given the chance leave his past behind and work meaningfully in Númenor. He’s given the chance to redeem himself by Galadriel's offer of friendship (or love, depending on your interpretation). In the Silmarillion, he's even given the chance by Eönwë himself, and comes close to leaving Morgoth behind completely!

Let's look at this passage from Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age (emphasis mine):

When Thangorodrim was broken and Morgoth overthrown, Sauron put on his fair hue again and did obeisance to Eönwë the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds. And some hold that this was not at first falsely done, but that Sauron in truth repented, if only out of fear, being dismayed by the fall of Morgoth and the great wrath of the Lords of the West. But it was not in the power of Eönwë to pardon those of his own order, and he commanded Sauron to return to Aman and there receive the judgement of Manwë. Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation to receive from the Valar a sentence, it might be, of long servitude in proof of his good faith; for under Morgoth his power had been great. Therefore when Eönwë departed he hid himself in Middle-earth; and he fell back into evil, for the bonds that Morgoth had laid upon him were very strong.

This passage is clear that Eönwë is willing to pardon Sauron--he simply did not posses the power to do so. But when Sauron was told he must appeal directly Manwë, he gave up entirely and skulked back to Middle-earth. There are a few ways to read this:

1. He was not wholly repentant

Sauron simply wanted the protection of a new master in the absence of Melkor. i.e., he was rather fickle and simply wanted to be on whatever the "winning" side was. This is supported by the text literally saying that at least some of his obeisance was completely false, and that he only made a point of feeling bad about anything once his master had been chucked into the Void and his armies and strongholds were being destroyed (Thangorodrim). In this reading, perhaps Eönwë saw Sauron's treachery and referred him to Manwë knowing that it would be a test of his true intent. However, while a valid interpretation, I believe this to be the less holistic of the two.

2. He was truly repentant

Sauron did truly feel badly and "abjured all his evil deeds," but he was unwilling/unable to humble himself after being so fundamentally broken by Melkor and developing an insatiable power lust (hey, he isn't defined in the narrative by lust and pride for nothing).

Earlier in this same chapter, Tolkien wrote that Sauron could "...deceive all but the most wary." This is in the specific context of his physical shapeshifting. But, I would argue that this can also be tied to his lies. Tolkien has a specific ethic of beauty, where physical perfection is equated with moral goodness. Sauron completely inverts what is otherwise a hard and fast rule within Tolkien's writings by being the character most frequently described as "fair"--seven times to Lúthien's six, and she was the most beautiful woman to have ever lived!

(Side note: I have another post on Tolkien & beauty in the works where I'll get more into this idea)

Why does this matter? Even though this interaction with Eönwë takes place in the First Age, Sauron could at this point be in the demonic form Mirdania describes in the forge. And, I am inclined to believe that Eönwë, as the head Maiar and herald of Manwë, would be a pretty wary guy, and thus able to sense any of Sauron's trickery. I read this to mean that Eönwë looked at Sauron and saw his potential to be Mairon again, either in absence of his evil form or in spite of it.

Because Sauron is incredibly beautiful. And even if it is a disguise of the true, depreciated form of his spiritual essence, he presented himself to Eönwë at his most beautiful. He wanted, even in his act of repentance, to make himself more favorable in Eönwë's eyes. To show up as Mairon (who was likely close friends with Eönwë before everything went down, since they are considered to be two of the most powerful Maia and would have worked closely together).

But I don't think this was all manipulation on Sauron's end. I agree with the scholars mentioned in the text who believed that Sauron was truly repentant--which is why Eönwë even bothered referring him to Manwë instead of kicking him into the Void with Melkor.

And this is the tragedy: Sauron is told exactly how to repent, and believes fundamentally that it is an impossible path for him. And yet, he still longs so intrinsically for it! He was, under Aulë, a Maia of precision, perfection, and order. Under Morgoth, he feels disordered, dis-regulated. He needs to correct the fundamental imbalance within him, so why does he flee Eönwë?

It comes back to Sauron's pride.

If he follows through with this path of reconciliation, there is no way he can hide or pretend his actions away. If he cannot trick his fellow Maiar, he certainly cannot trick the Valar. And he cannot stand the idea of submitting himself back under their rule, especially now that he has tasted power. This is a pride wound; it is why the idea of confessing to Manwë would be humiliating to him as opposed to just upsetting/uncomfortable.

Again, the pivotal moment: he is told how to make amends for crimes and determines that he cannot do it. So he returns to Middle-earth and stews in his own self-hated and self-pity for a few years. In that time, he consciously or subconsciously latches onto Eönwë's offer--forgiveness from penance. It is the way forward. And if he cannot earn penance at Manwë's hand, he will do it on his own.

The Prodigal Son

This is where we have to talk about the Catholic roots of Tolkien's work for a moment. The scene where Sauron approaches Eönwë mirrors the biblical parable of the prodigal son. In this story, a man abandons his family, spends all his money, and falls into ruin. But when he recognizes his failings and returns to his father to get help, he is welcomed back into the family without question--in other words, he is forgiven and restored to his former position.

17 But when he [the prodigal son] came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’” 20 So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. - Luke 15:11-32, NRSV CE (emphasis mine)

The parallel is clear; Mairon, the repentant Maia, returns home with hopes of reconciliation. He is prescribed the same task that the prodigal son offered to his father: he must be bound in servitude to his father/creator in order to pay off his debts. This is a deliberate allusion from Tolkien. The story of the prodigal son models the path of reconciliation that Eönwë describes. Tolkien seems to be drawing a line in the sand with this: Sauron is unwilling to do the work required by the Valar for repentance, so he is unable to receive the grace of a warm welcome back into the fold of the Ainur. Since he did not humble himself, he has to be told to do it. And he does not want to! He wants to be loved, but he also wants his power--evidence, in a way, of how his character was fundamentally altered in his time with Morgoth.

His pride--and his fear--cut him off from the potential of grace. He does not know for certain that Manwë would subject him to servitude (though I would argue that it's textually evident that it is a custom), but this assumption leads him to flee, which allows him to slip back into his old ways.

He wants to be Mairon (admirable) again, not Sauron (abhorrent). He wants to be accepted and loved, but not punished. He wants the benefits of reconciliation without the work he would have to do to earn it or the shame he would feel as he did. It's pride, but it's also deep shame--the flip side of his extreme ego is an implicit self-hatred, one that we can see in the subtext of how he speaks about himself and about his time with Morgoth.

Even the language Tolkien uses is heavily shame-coded, especially in a Catholic context; Mairon did not go willingly, he was "seduced." He admits to Celebrimbor that he was "tortured by a god". It becomes exceedingly clear through both text and on-screen canon that Sauron was routinely broken and abused for centuries. This has fundamentally damaged his self-perception, which is ultimately what leads him to "[fall] back into evil"--whether due to pride or shame, he hides, perhaps because he consciously or subconsciously does not believe that he deserves forgiveness, no matter how much he craves it.

Naked in the Garden

His flight back to Middle-earth after meeting Eönwë is reminiscent of another biblical scene, where Adam and Eve, after committing the first sin, hide from God in shame and fear (emphasis mine):

7 Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked...9 But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?” 10 He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” -Genesis 7-10, NRSV CE

The image of nakedness is, here, one of vulnerability, and Tolkien establishes that Sauron fears that which he cannot control. He needs the Rings under his power. He needs his armies and his enemies under his watchful eye. He is petrified of letting his power slip away (possibly due to never wanting to feel powerless in the hands of a Vala, fallen or not, again).

The biblical allusion here hearkens back to the fear Tolkien describes Sauron as feeling regarding his return to the Ainur. In the religious system Tolkien has established, which is likely inspired by his own religious beliefs, Sauron has sinned, and must make penance. But he is afraid of God/Manwë, and does not want to "let go" of his sin. In other words, he is not truly repentant. This reflects the Catholic sacrament of confession, which requires self-reflection and resolve to never commit the sin again.

Instead of shame driving him to contrition, it drives him to isolation.

But he still wants forgiveness. So, in his years of hiding in Middle-earth, he decides to earn it himself. His own way.

Enter the Rings.

Sauron wants to perfect the wrong he wreaked so that he can both earn his way back into the Ainur and keep his power. But what he does not realize is that this does not work. Eönwë is clear that he must forsake his true temptation--absolute power--through penance by submission. Yet Sauron in his pride thinks he can have it all. Sauron is a very carefully controlled villain, and the only times he snaps or makes significant mistakes are when his inflated self-perception is challenged, revealing the self-loathing and/or self-pity underneath. The best example of this is when he kills Celebrimbor prematurely, and cries afterwards. Why? Because Celebrimbor was right about him, and he hates it. He hates knowing that he is nothing more than the Morgoth's shadow, because Morgoth was his master as much as he was his tormentor. As Sauron puts it, his relationship with Morgoth was often defined by pain as a test to see "whose will was the mightier":

This image carries more shame, both in its implicit sexual connotations and in the simple power dynamic of it. Sauron, even though misguided, is rallying against Morgoth. He wants to break what Morgoth has created and build something new, something better, something apart from his old master entirely. But Celebrimbor confronts him with reality: he has not created something new, and perfect, and special, as he so wanted to--he can only act in imitation, not in generation. And when he got close with the Rings, it cost him everything. It's almost like he wants the power of a Vala, and loathes that he cannot attain it.

And this is why he becomes so singularly obsessed with Galadriel.

She’s his foil. They both crave power and adoration, but in the end of things, she does not fold under his temptation. She turns down everything she has ever wanted for the greater good and for the sake of her own soul. Sauron looks at Galadriel and perceives that she would have succeeded at Eönwë's test because she is willing and able to humble herself. This maddens him to the point of both desiring her and desiring to break her.

She learns that she is easily tempted and becomes strong enough to handle it (through a lot of tough love from Elrond & co.). She has to learn how to do it, but she is able to.

She grows from someone who resisted and rejected authority to someone who is trusted as an authority because of her ability to wield it wisely (see: Gil-galad allowing her to answer for him in 2x08).

In other words, she earns the trust, love, and support of her community. Sauron has to force his to comply—it is an illusion of love.

His possessive obsession with her also stems from her fairness. She was the object of her uncle Fëanor's obsessive desire for creation as well. Her hair was the inspiration of the Silmarils (see: The History of Galadriel and Celeborn; The Shibboleth of Fëanor - source with page #s here), which Morgoth desired more than anything to possess.

Sauron, wanting to spite his master, wants one better--to own that which inspired the Silmarils, to own the image of fairness (and thus of moral good) completely. This is why he wants to bind himself to her. This is why he needs her. He sees Galadriel as his mechanism of repentance, and his last triumph over Morgoth. Winning her is his salvation as much as it is proving that his will is the mightier. It is his way of dominating Morgoth. This starts, I think, as a genuine effort at proving himself to the Valar, but quickly consumes him entirely. He is overcome with the desire for revenge, just as Galadriel was at the beginning of the First Age.

And he sees this in her. Sees their similarities. Sees that she, too, is angry and lonely and so afraid of losing her power. And he leverages that to befriend her. This is where it gets ambiguous and you can read RoP as either painting the image of Sauron being earnest but completely misguided in his proposal, or you can see it as him being entirely manipulative.

I think the truth of that scene probably falls somewhere in the middle; just like when he presents himself to Eönwë, he is sincere in his desire, but only knows how to present it in an inherently contriving way. He does want to bind her to him, so he tries to only reveal to her the good aspect of that desire (and also of his desire for power, which he allows her to see because he believes that it is good and also because she understands it), and not the ugly underside of his internal struggle against Morgoth, the Valar, and himself.

And I do think, in his own way, he cared about her. Galadriel consistently shows kindness and compassion to him. In S1, they grow to know each other's minds and souls, and she considers him a close friend. He finds comfort in this, that someone could see the blackness of his heart and care for him anyway. He thought, in his isolation, that he lost that chance when he fled back to Middle-earth. And here is the very picture of the light itself telling him that she supports him, that she sees the good in him, that she wants to help him set the world to rights! Of course he is infatuated by this. Of course he also wants to use it. He is Sauron.

But Galadriel succeeds where he fails, so he stops playing nice and tries to forcibly drag her down with him. First, by baiting her with the image of the man she cared deeply for:

Then, by reminding her of all she is losing by rejecting him:

And she is still strong enough to say no. And not just to say no, but to shut the door completely. To look in the face of everything she has desired for centuries and turn it down, understanding that it will ruin her. Yes, she hesitates. Yes, she still wants it (wants him). But she wins the day by holding fast to the light that Sauron wishes so badly to bind himself to.

Because she has lost everything--her brother, her husband, the station as commander, the trust of her high king and best friend--and earns it back only through her resistance of her greatest temptation. It is a struggle, it is painful, it nearly kills her--but she does it. She wins the test that Sauron could not even bear to face.

In their headlong, self-sacrificial tendencies, they are the same. Both view themselves as fundamentally stronger/better than their peers while also being deeply lonely due to their self-imposed isolation (Galadriel's laser-focused hunt for revenge, Sauron's exile in Middle-earth). But to Galadriel, the light is more important than her pride.

For Sauron, the light is his source of pride. He desires it more than anything, but condemns himself to never being able to touch it due to his rejection of Eönwë's offer. Paradoxically, he tries to grasp at it through Galadriel, the living silmaril, and succeeds only in darkening her. We learn from Gil-galad in 2x08 that his crown piercing her flesh in an act of brutal domination nearly strips her soul from her and pitches it into the unseen world. In this, Sauron is saying: If I cannot have you, I will force you to need me. I will break you into loving me.

He says this to Celebrimbor as well. He no longer knows how to love properly. He only knows how to inflict pain until this object of his obessive desire needs him--just like how his immortal spirit was broken into submission by Morgoth. And isn't this revealing of his own sense of self? He refuses to suffer the path of light, but willingly suffers the maddening path of darkness because it is a comfortable, familiar suffering. One, he tells Celebrimbor, he even grew to enjoy (2x08). As the path of the Rings drive him madder and madder, his desire for the light (Galadriel) and the return of his power (Celebrimbor) become further disordered and corrupted until they culminate in him destroying them--and his chance at earning/owning them--entirely.

And this is Sauron's ultimate point of no return (which we will hopefully see in S3 🤞). The razing of Eregion and slaying of Celebrimbor were acts of petty rage he committed when his pride was injured. This was the final nail in the coffin. Galadriel, in her rejection of him, ruins what he sees as his true chance for redemption.

Galadriel, now stepping into the role of Eönwë, re-opens the invitation: "Heal yourself!" (2x08). But in rage and shame and stubborn pride, he turns it down again. I believe this is where his desire to heal Middle-earth shifts fundamentally into desire to dominate Middle-earth. He always wanted to rule, but now he wants to own.

[luca-street-chris-deacon-rp]

"I'm pretty sure we could order in if we get hungry because I've got a feeling that I'm going to be so distracted later." Smiling as he spoke, his gaze soft and longingly studying Wren, and there were always a dozen new reasons every day why he was crazy about her. He was in love with her, and he hadn't felt like this in a long time. "A quiet night sounds perfect to me." Shuddering at the touch of her breath against his ear and the way she whispered was driving him crazy. "As Luca would say.....it's only a rule break if you get caught." Chuckling to himself as he leaned in and stole a quick kiss before standing up. "But I'm getting out of here before we break that rule and I don't want to mess up your desk. I'll be back soon." And then he disappeared down the corridor and Luca arrived a few minutes later to check in on Wren.

Luca had always viewed Wren as a sister, and he knew Annie's explosion earlier had hurt both of them and it was damaging to Annie herself as he knocked on the door frame of the open office door. "Hey, you want some coffee? And I'm just checking in with you to make sure you're cool after earlier."

Considering it for all of two seconds, he shrugged innocently with a calm smile. "I'm pretty sure that going back to yours sounds way better than a noisy, stuffy restaurant." In agreement as they seemed to gravitate closer to one another. "I could cook some Mexican if you're on the Margarita's because you're so much more talented than I am when it comes to drinks. But memorable sounds perfect."

[letsmcfreackingloseit]

So yes I have OF COURSE read @naffeclipse new fic Apex Polarity and yes, I AM OBSESSED!

So I decided to make a little comic of how I think their "first encounter" might have looked like from Eclipse's perspective.

I can't help but think about how alien and scary we most look to him (especially if there is a history of fasco hunting polar sirens in the past). With all that gear we look like emotionless beings, just observing and uncaring of this ice world. But then when y/n shows up and probably exudes this joy and wonder for his world + shows respect for the creatures and the environment??? Mmh yeah, I can see Eclipse falling for y/n, especially considering how alone he might be...

So yes, that's what I have for today! If you want to read the fic I'll link it right here. I can't recommend it enough, but as always, read the tags so you know what you're getting into! And lastly I also want to @themeeplord beacuse Eclipse's design is basically their design in my style (god I love their design so much, their character/creature designs are the BEST) so all the credit goes to them! Polar!Y/N is my design thou! ;P

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go read the two latest chapters-

YIPPEE!!!

[rocksanddeadflowers]

Kvasir messes me up so so so fucking much you guys. Like I understand the vikings had a different approach to death and yada yada so forth whatever arguments you wanna make they're reasonable but still it. I just.

You mean this beloved man, known for his wisdom and poem and song, and who went around helping people with his wisdom and poem and song and was dearly beloved by the gods just. You guys he was straight up murdered and his blood stolen for magic fucking mead. There's no revenge for his murder or anything it's just that Odin saved his mead.

"Folk declares that every skald (poet) has a drop of Kvasir's blood in him. ... because a world without it's poets would be too dreadful a place to image."

Messed up or not, he lives on in poets, storytellers, and songwriters alike- all those with the understanding of the power of word, the wisdom to yield it.

In The Bifrost Incident it's still the same. His blood pumping and fueling the machine, running through arcane glyphs. He's always just been used for his blood, and even more irony drawn from it likely being Odin gaining the most use from his blood.

And yet, no matter how miniscule it may seem, Kvasir still lives on in his universe there too, in poets and songwriters and storytellers- somehow, The Mechanisms carry a piece of him in their travels ever since his death and Yddrasil's fall, just as you and I may have his blood in our veins.

[vulturevanity]

I feel like SV girlies haven't seriously considered "codependent mutually obsessive JuliNemo" yet and that's a shame, really. I've seen a lot of wholesome ChampionRank (really cute but a rehash of every wholesome yuri I've ever seen, not much original content here and that's okay) and one-sided obsessive yandere!Nemona ChampionRank (REALLY do not like the villainization of Nemona's neurodivergence but eh, you can do whatever you want forever) but not as much "these two get on like a house on fire. and boy, it's dry season" ChampionRank.

Where is "battle-hungry socially starved trainwrecks who have no one but each other" JuliNemo. Where is "oh god these two exacerbate each others issues into the stratosphere and this can only end in disaster but I can't look away" JuliNemo. Where is "bringing out the worst in each other and scaring the hoes" JuliNemo. Where is "you two are perfect for each other. Never change, just never involve anyone else in any of this" JuliNemo. There's so much potential here. Toxic codependent yuri save me

[which-qsmp-egg-would]

Áfonya, Poll, and Tequilla are having a sleepover! I wonder what they're getting into?

@semifontos

[kyouka-supremacy]

Failed a social interaction 0 injured 1 killed (me)

[dragonairice]

Question for people who use pronouns that aren't he / she /they

[queenlucythevaliant]

A Liturgy of Surviving

Scarlett always wanted to be like her mother, and maybe in another world she could have been. If the war never happened, she could have grown softer instead of sharper. She could have curbed her temper, married well, and been received in respectable homes all her days. Maybe, if it hadn’t been for the war, Scarlett O’Hara could have lived out her days in genteel artifice, just like Ellen before her.

Maybe. Maybe not. If you asked her, Scarlett would say that the question was irrelevant. “God’s nightgown!” she would exclaim. “Don’t ask me what could have been. The war happened and that’s that.”

          I won’t think about that now.  

The day after Scarlett’s world ended, she swore an oath that she would never be hungry again. 

She woke in pain. Her muscles ached and her joints creaked. She was nineteen, but she felt like she had a hundred years weighing her body down. Morning light slanted through the window and her head ached with the moonshine liquor that she’d downed the night before. From another room, she heard an infant crying. 

She passed through the dining room without eating, pausing only briefly beside her grief-ravaged father. She found Pork on the porch shelling nuts. The sun was up. Scarlett O'Hara drew herself tall and began to marshal her troops. 

Melly and her sisters were still infirm, so they were useless for now. Mammy could tend them, and Pork and Prissy were to round up the livestock. Dilcey to Macintosh, herself to Twelve Oaks; perhaps they’d find food. Yes, I know. I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Now get going. 

Those days as the war staggered to its end were some of the longest of her life. In between them, Scarlett would collapse into bed and rub the welts on her feet with clumsy fingers. Sometimes she’d picture Ellen and all her gentle admonitions to kindness and refinement, and she’d say aloud to the walls, “What happened to me? What am I doing?”

She didn’t dwell on the question, but somehow, she always knew the answer. “I’m doing what I must,” she would answer herself. “I’m surviving.”

People didn’t talk back to Scarlett anymore. They were all afraid of her sharp tongue, of the new person who walked in her body. This Scarlett bullied and cajoled until everyone obeyed her, and inevitably her orders were to work. She was all edges; any softness that she’d once possessed had been sanded away splitting rails and picking cotton. Good, she thought. Let them fear me, if it keeps us all standing. 

          I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

Scarlett was sixteen when the war began: sixteen in green muslin, fearless and unencumbered. She had her mother’s slim waist and her father’s square jaw, but her clear green eyes were her own.

She was sixteen when she married Charles Hamilton and lost him, seventeen when she bore his child and draped herself in black crepe. She got Melly and Wade in the bargain, but she didn’t want either of them. She wanted Ashley. She wanted to dance! She wanted, she wanted. She wanted Scarlett O’Hara back. 

At nineteen years old, Scarlett survived the destruction of her whole world. She could have cried for the loss of her girlhood, for her old self long gone with the soft hands and dancing slippers, but what good would it have done? Curled up in her childhood bed at Tara, Scarlett didn’t cry. Instead, she folded in on herself, knees tucked up to her chest, and tried not to feel her muscles aching. She would have to get up again tomorrow, no matter how badly her shoulders still hurt.

She had strong shoulders, Scarlett O’Hara. That was maybe the most important thing about her. At any time, at any age, her shoulders could bear whatever they were given. “I’m surviving,” she would say each morning when she rose. A stranger’s freckled face greeted her in the mirror, but Scarlett only squared her small thin shoulders, breathed in, took one step and then another.

          Tomorrow, when I can stand it.

Calluses form like this: repeated pressure or friction is applied to the skin, most often of the hand or the foot. The outer layer, which is made of dead cells, begins to be retained rather than flaking off normally. The dead cells accumulate, forming hard layers sometimes hundreds of cells thick. 

They form like this: you use your skin. The shell of hardness around it slowly thickens. 

          I can stand anything now. 

The day after Rhett left, Scarlett packed up Wade and Ella and she once again drove the long road home to Tara. She pushed her way past Suellen at the threshold, exchanged brief pleasantries with Will, and then fell into her old bed as she’d done so many times before.

The next morning found Scarlett basking in the slanting yellow light that struck the porch from the east. Her eyes were fixed on the fields beyond and there was a devilish look on her face. 

When Rhett came back—and he would come back, he had promised he would—he would find her here at Tara, where she was strongest. “He liked when I was strong,” Scarlett said to herself. That was something she’d always known, for all that she’d been blind to the true dimensions of it.

Day after day, Scarlett rose and moved through Tara’s halls. She ate her breakfasts in the place where she’d faced down the Yankee army, sorted through figures where she’d once debated with Melanie over whether they ought to risk sending Pork out on the horse to look for food. Twenty times a day, she walked past the place at the base of the stairs where she’d shot her deserter dead. Here, in these halls, she had made her greatest stands.

She’d stood more rigidly then, threadbare and starving and uncertain. She’d come to the end of herself, only to find that she had wells of strength hidden deeper than she knew. Her hands were calloused and dirty. What else could she do?

          I’ll never be hungry again.

It’s easy to view Scarlett as hard and amoral. Even those closest to her would not have contested that characterization. Perhaps Melly would have argued, but then, Melly always saw the good in everyone. Scarlett killed and she stole and she schemed and she cheated, and she did it all in cold blood. What a selfish, conniving bitch, you might say.

It’s easy to forget Scarlett’s compassion. When she beat that poor horse to keep it trudging the long road home to Tara, she regretted hurting a tired animal. Her concern for Melanie, her friendship for Will Benteen, her joy when Rhett made her laugh: these were all true and genuine.

Didn’t Scarlett love her father and mother? Didn’t she grieve to see her friends and neighbors ruined by war? Scarlett O’Hara risked her life to save Charlie’s sword for Wade to inherit, and she built her mills for him and Ella both.

None of this negates the ruthless things she did in the name of survival, but it does begin to explain them. Scarlett made herself hard when hard was what she needed to be. She determined to live without reservation, without softness and with little kindness. Rhett called her cruel, and maybe he was right. But Melly also called her sacrificial and devoted, and maybe she was right too. 

          No, nor any of my kin.

On that road home to Tara, Scarlett once said, “If the horse is dead, I will curse God and die too.” Someone in the Bible had done just that—cursed God and died. Scarlett remembered feeling like that person, a despair of Biblical magnitude.

But the horse was alive, and so Scarlett did not die. Later, she thanked God that her knees still had the strength to support her, that her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. Scarlett was not Job’s wife, nor even Job himself. She was Rahab, who escaped the destruction of Jericho, who saved her whole household and survived.

“What a fast trick,” said the Old Guard when she stole Frank Kennedy away from Suellen. No, Scarlett could never be Job. She was Jacob, the trickster and supplanter.

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load.

Scarlett was easily provoked into courage; that was one of the first things that Rhett learned about her. A few insults, a pointed comment, and Scarlett lifted her chin and flounced off to prove just how brave she could be. She shed her crepe years early, and to Halifax with anyone who objected.

Rhett did that same thing to her on the awful day that Atlanta burned. He insulted her and laughed at her, and when Scarlett spat, “I’m not afraid,” it was true. Her hands, which had moments ago been shaking too badly to hold anything, were steady now, and anger had crowded all the fear out of her voice.

Rhett kept needling her all the way out of the city, until they reached the Rough and Ready where he left her. The banter kept her sharp. As long as her eyes were flashing in indignation, she hardly noticed the fire.

Even after Rhett left, his jabs stayed with her. “What would Rhett say if he knew I couldn’t do this?” spurred her back into action more times than she would ever admit. It was a petty kind of courage, and it felt smaller than the great, soaring motivation that came with thoughts of Tara, of the O’Hara name and Irish pride and red earth, but sometimes petty courage was enough to bridge the gap between strength and exhaustion.

He gave her something to hold onto, something to ground her, and even Rhett only halfway understood what that meant. I want you at your best, he never told her, but he pulled her into it by taffeta ribbons and witticisms. As the years rolled by, she rose to meet him. They swapped sharp words and insults, him always claiming to know her and her shouting, “You don’t know half!”

One day on the jostling ride out to her mills, Scarlett told Rhett about the fire that the Yankees set in Tara’s kitchen. “I’m not afraid of fire anymore,” she declared with something like pride, and Rhett remembered goading her past the flames the night Atlanta burned. “I beat it out with my skirts, and then Melly had to beat me out when my back caught,” she went on. “Now I’m not afraid of anything but hunger.”

I don’t want you to fear anything in all the world, Rhett didn’t say. Once they were married, he laughed at her appetite and teased her, “Don’t scrape the plate, Scarlett. I’m sure there’s more in the kitchen.”

           No matter, ‘twill never be light.  

After the war, Rhett had his millions. Ashley had his honor. Melly had the Association for the Beatification of the Graves of Our Glorious Dead. Scarlett held a ball of red clay in her fist and whispered, “I have this.”

Her father built Tara from nothing and he loved those acres like they could love him back. He had come to Georgia a poor immigrant boy and he had won that red earth. Whatever Gerald could do, his daughter could do too: of this she was certain. This land, this firm red clay on which she stood, was both her battlefield and her prize; her birthright and her hallowed ground. She gripped it tight with all the passion of a lover. She longed for its rolling fields on cold nights in Atlanta, sleeping beside Frank Kennedy.

“Yes, I have this,” and she let the dirt run between her fingers and lodge beneath her nails. Melly had Ashley and Ashley his senseless honor. Scarlett had Tara.

          I’ve still got this.

When she rode out in her buggy with her lap robe pulled up to her bosom, Scarlett heard how people whispered. She felt indignant about it the first time, and the second time she worried what Ellen would have thought. The third time, she decided not to care.

She still complained to Rhett about the whispering as he was holding the reins one afternoon. He didn’t laugh at her, just looked sideways from the road with his dark eyes and nodded like he understood. “Be different and be damned!” Rhett said, and his tone was like a soldier who’d heard the bugle. It was so strange, how Scarlett could tell him all the worst things about her and he would always answer back like they were medals instead of secret shames. 

Most of the city was in mourning, but Scarlett wore colors. She pilfered the store’s inventory in search of bright green, washed and mended her curtain dress as many times as it would stand, and when the money came she wore gowns of emerald, blush, indigo, and scarlet. Let them stare, she thought. See if I care.

At twenty-two, Scarlett rode up to Pittypat’s in the evenings, long after Frank had come home from the store, and she felt condemned. To the well-bred folks of Atlanta, she was as bad as a Scallawag. But sometimes, when she was alone, Scarlett ran her hands beneath the lap robe and hoped that Rhett was wrong about children and grandchildren, that the child she was carrying would understand one day. I hope you’re nothing like Frank, she thought. I hope you have shoulders like mine.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

“It’s no use, Scarlett. You can’t scrub out the past,” said Rhett when at last he came to Tara. “You can’t take back the last ten years, no matter how you’ve come — to appreciate my charms.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Scarlett snapped. “There’s never any going back. Not ever. But Rhett—” she reached for his hand. “I love you, and at last we understand each other. We can build something out of that.”

They argued about it until Rhett left again, fuming and bitter, his Panama hat pulled low over his face. Scarlett made an unannounced visit to Charleston the next month. “I was thinking,” she suggested, “That we might sell the Peachtree Street house.”

Scarlett knew all the words for making men love her, so long as she understood what it was that they wanted. The Tarleton twins had wanted merry excitement; Charles had wanted to feel important and Frank had wanted to feel like a strong, successful man. Ashley had wanted someone braver and better than he was, and he’d found it in Melanie without having to risk himself on Scarlett. Scarlett had never understood what it was Rhett wanted, but she did now. Why, it’s always been my love he wants! So Scarlett spoke the right words, and this time she meant them.

“You were right when you said that we’re alike. Only—you’ve always known about me, whereas I’m just starting to know you. Will you tell me about that knife fight in California again? About the sail boat you won at cards?”

“You know those stories,” clipped Rhett. “You don’t need to hear them again.” So Scarlett went downstairs and pried the stories out of his mother instead.

The house on Peachtree Street sold within the month, snatched up by some Carpetbagger who wanted it for a hotel. Rhett traveled to Mexico, and returned to find Scarlett back at Tara preparing for spring planting.

“What do the women wear in Mexico?” she asked him, leaning on the porch railing in the slanting light. “What is your favorite place you’ve ever traveled?”

Rhett indulged her in brief, but then abruptly he chuckled and shook his head. “I know what you’re doing, you little minx.”

“Yes,” said Scarlett. “Of course you do.”

           Tomorrow, oh tomorrow!

The clay soil of Georgia is red from iron oxides. It’s red the way rust is red, the way blood is red. If a blister splits open and your blood falls on the ground, that iron-red soil will just swallow it up. You can bleed and bleed, and the stuff in your blood will always be one with the stuff of the soil.

When cotton and vegetables sprout from the ground, it’s easy to believe they grew from your very own blood, and that your own sweat and tears watered them.

           Never look back.  

“We women were soldiers too,” Melanie said once. Scarlett didn’t respect her yet—at least, not consistently—but this might have been one of the moments where she first looked at Melly and thought not that her heart was soft and timid, but that it was a sword.

“We never expected to be – or at least I didn’t.” She looked around the circle of ladies, at India and Fanny, until her eyes came to rest on Scarlett at last. “We were children then. We all imagined the world far simpler than it was.”

Melly, India, Fanny, Scarlett. These women had all been girls together. They knew one another at seven, twelve, fifteen, swaddled in silks and trying to seem more grown-up than their playmates. They’d competed for beaus and Scarlett had mostly won, except where Ashley Wilkes was concerned. They had lived through the war together. Now, Scarlett sat among them on Melly’s front porch and tried to remember if she’d ever in her life felt like one of them.

For Christmas, Melanie gave Scarlett a small book of poetry. Scarlett never read it, except for the one verse which Melly had marked with a green ribbon. She bit back the urge to sigh when she undid the wrapping, but Melly pointed out the bookmark and said, “This one made me think of you, dear.”

Scarlett didn’t like to think of it now, but once she’d been sixteen in green muslin, confident that dimples and a clear complexion were the only weapons she’d ever need. She had been a child, but that child had not died when Atlanta burned. The belle of Clayton County was not in the grave with all the boys who’d never come riding home from war. Scarlett was alive. She was right here.

“What is a dead girl but a shadowy ghost/ Or a dead man's voice but a distant and vain affirmation/Like dream words most? / Therefore I will not speak of the undying glory of women. / I will say you were young and straight and your skin fair/ And you stood in the door and the sun was a shadow of leaves on your shoulders/ And a leaf on your hair—"

Scarlett came home from her mills in the gray evening and she made her way back to the Wilkes’s ramshackle front porch. She left her buggy feeling condemned and she sat with the other ladies feeling alienated, but all the same she couldn’t bring herself not to go. The war was over, and these were the survivors. They were through fighting, hung up on glory, but Scarlett still hadn’t holstered her guns. 

“We were soldiers,” said Melanie, and in her heart Scarlett added, “Some of us still are.”

           I won’t let them lick me.

Supposing that Ashley had married her. Perhaps the sight of her in green makes him brave enough to shed his veneer of honor and say, “Yes, you’re right, I can’t live without you.” It’s a minor scandal when he casts Melanie off in her favor, but not for long. The war is beginning and besides, good men have made themselves fools for Scarlett O’Hara before. By the time the soldiers march away, the scandal is all but forgotten in favor of the fine figure they cut as they embrace at the depot: Ashley so brave in his uniform, his young wife radiant as she clutches him.

Ashley sends her long, meandering letters full of philosophical musings. Scarlett reads them uncomprehending and sends back missives full of I love yous. She kisses them when she mails them, sometimes with a Hail Mary for her husband’s safety.

Rhett doesn’t notice this Scarlett at Twelve Oaks, and so he’s caught off guard when he hears the young Mrs. Wilkes say something blunt and scathing at the Bazaar. He chuckles to himself in delight and later he asks her to dance, and of course Scarlett simpers and agrees, and it’s a merry night. But Rhett doesn’t come back to Atlanta for the rest of the war.

This Scarlett leaves for Macon with the rest of the women when the Yankees come to Atlanta; after all, she has no Melly to keep her in the city during the siege. She takes Ashley’s child with her, and it’s in Macon that he finds her after the war. He waxes poetic about the Old Days, the Horrors of War and Götterdämmerungs and the like. He looks at her with sad, tired eyes and Scarlett says yes, I heard you the first time. But what are we going to do?

Twelve Oaks is razed. They go to Tara. Ashley tries his hand at farming, but it’s Scarlett who manages to pick and plant and organize while Ashley’s fumbling attempts at working with his hands yield scant success. His heart isn’t in it, which infuriates Scarlett. C’mon, get up and fight! She looks into the tired face of the man she loved so ruinously at sixteen and wonders what she ever thought was so noble about him.

When taxes come due there’s no way to pay. What’s more, Ashley doesn’t even try. It’s here that Scarlett breaks with her husband. Between Ashley and Tara, it’s Tara every time.

So Scarlett bullies her husband into calling old debts in from a few impoverished friends and when that isn’t enough, she goes to see the tax assessor dressed in green velvet and makes some very personal insinuations about Mr. Jonas Wilkerson. From there, Scarlett bullies her one-time-beloved and does as she pleases, and Ashley has to live with the fact that it’s his wife who provides for the family. In every world, it is Scarlett O’Hara who keeps Ashley Wilkes alive after the war.

His pride lays down in the dirt and dies. Scarlett Wilkes shakes her head bitterly and plants more seed in her red, red earth.   

Supposing Scarlett could have imagined all this. What do you think she would say? Perhaps in her youth she would have cherished the idea, but the hard-eyed Scarlett who emerged after the war would have only leveled her small shoulders and said, “What does it matter what would have happened? I’ll think about it later.”

           There but for a lot of gumption am I.

The day after Bonnie died, Scarlett called for the buggy and went to her store. Rhett took this as proof that Scarlett had never really loved the little girl, that she was devoid of maternal affection as he’d always suspected, but Scarlett was grieving in her own way. She threw out two uncut bolts of blue velvet: expensive fabric over which she’d have upbraided a clerk to hell and back if he’d wasted even a few inches. 

It was true that Scarlett had never wanted any of her children when she’d carried them. She had not felt joy or love or any of the feelings that other women described when first she saw them. What she did feel, in the moments after Dr. Meade placed each child in her arms, was a fierce surge of protectiveness. She was certain that she would work and sacrifice and even die for her children, if need be. They were her blood, her flesh, her kin.

Scarlett had hated pregnancy each time it happened to her. She hated feeling large and lumbering, hated the way that her tiny waist bloated and grew until even her modified dresses didn’t fit right. She hated the inconvenience of morning sickness, the limitations on what she could do, the necessity of seclusion as delivery drew near. It was nine months of hardship and frustration capped off with many long minutes of excruciating pain. 

Bonnie had died in an instant. She’d been flying towards the hurdle and then, half a breath later, she’d been gone. Standing in the back of the store with two bolts of blue velvet before her, Scarlett swallowed back tears that Rhett would never see. It wasn’t right that a child who’d taken her so much time and effort to bring into the world could be gone from it so quickly. 

When she returned to the house a few hours later, Rhett had locked himself in the bedroom with Bonnie’s tiny body. Scarlett paused for a moment outside the door, but then she squared her shoulders and kept walking. 

          Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. 

Scarlett had a habit of humming “My Old Kentucky Home” while she worked. Splitting wood, planting and picking cotton, driving between her mills, keeping the books—even sewing. The song was a thoughtless thing, an instinctual thing. She hummed it the same way a person might worry lips between teeth or tear at nails. 

She repeated the words again and again until her heart pulsed to their rhythm. Just a few more days for to tote the weary load. I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I can stand it. Tomorrow, tomorrow. No matter, ‘twill never be light. I’ll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my kin. I’ll never be hungry again. They were a mantra: something to hold onto when the whole breadth of her world had narrowed to a single point. A refrain. A liturgy of surviving.

          Just a few more steps

Rhett loved Scarlett and it was terrifying. He feared that she would treat him like one of her country beaus: a lovely toy to play with and to tear to ribbons when she was done. He was afraid, so he hid his heart behind his impressive poker face and said “I want you” instead of “I love you.” He called her “pet” instead of “sweetheart.”

Scarlett loved Rhett and it was slow. He brought her bonnets and bonbons and Scarlett thought, “Why, it’s almost like I was in love with him!” He came to help her the day Atlanta burned, and Scarlett thought that she’d like to stay in his arms forever. When he chauffeured her to the mills, she thought that he was the only person in the world to whom she could tell the truth.

"You never told me you loved me, you know," Scarlett said the next time she visited Charleston. "I never knew. That's not to say you were wrong about me - about what I would have done if you had said something. But you should have been brave enough to risk it all the same."

Rhett closed his eyes for a moment and his mask slipped away. It was doing that more and more these days.

"But I did tell you — once."

"I think I would have remembered that," said Scarlett, pursing her lips.

"Ah. ‘It is far off; and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants.’ I suppose my humble confession was the least of your worries that day."

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. "What?"

"The day Atlanta burned, my dear."

After a long moment, Scarlett gave a little gasp which turned into a sigh as it ended. "Oh. That's right, you did then, didn't you?" She shook her head. "Rhett, I do believe you have the worst timing of any person I know."

          As God is my witness

The day she married Charles, she wore Ellen’s cream-colored silk gown, aired out in a hurry from the chest where it had been sitting since the O’Haras married back in 1846. She couldn’t breathe for how tight her laces were —sixteen inches, like Ellen’s waist was when the dress was purchased— and perhaps that was a good thing. Scarlett was light-headed throughout the ceremony and she scarcely remembered it afterwards. 

The day she decided to have Frank, it was raining hard. Scarlett left the jail in sodden velvet and was grateful for the drops falling on her cheeks to disguise the tears. It was sunny the day of the wedding, but she scarcely noticed that. Afterwards, when she thought of marrying Frank, Scarlett would always remember the rain. 

There was a fine mist over everything the day she got Rhett back for good. Scarlett was wearing her work clothes when he came riding up to Tara; she’d been walking the cotton fields that day, overseeing the progress of the crop. They were both a little damp when he kissed her.

           I’ll never be hungry again.

O’Haras and Robillards had always known how to dig their nails in, and by God, Scarlett was both. Her namesakes had long ago fought for their own plots of Irish earth; had survived and died and been hanged fighting to hold onto it. All Scarlett’s forebears, her folk, had left crescent-moon imprints on all that was theirs when it was finally pried from her hands. Scarlett gripped her little ball of clay and felt her nails dig into the heels of her hands.

She was her father’s hot-tempered daughter, but she had her mother’s steel-hewn spine. All the years of her life, she never saw Ellen Robillard O’Hara rest her back against a chair.  When Scarlett’s own time came, she held herself every bit as straight as her mother: she didn’t rest or lean, just stood and stood.

Maybe this is what she was always made for. Her green eyes weren’t for charming young men, they were for seeing dresses in curtains. Her hands were never supposed to be soft; they were meant for digging in the red dirt. Even her lips—Rhett was wrong, they weren’t meant for kissing. Scarlett’s lips were as sharp as the words that she spoke when she wasn’t afraid what anyone thought. They were meant to draw blood.

She had been sharp all her life, even when her edges were carefully concealed in layers of satin. Scarlett was not made to be soft; her core held no gentleness. She could not pretend otherwise. All she could do was stand straight, and hold up her tired old shoulders like they were the strongest thing in the world.

           I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

One day, at the Butler home in Charleston, Rhett taught Scarlett how to play poker, and subsequently how to cheat. They were still playing hours later, counting cards and hiding them in sleeves and making all kinds of ridiculous bets on losing hands. Just as she was taking off her right earbob to call, the thought rose to Scarlett’s mind unbidden: “What on earth are we doing here?” And just as quickly, there was the answer. “We’re living.”

At the end of this most recent road home, weary and damp from running through the fog, Scarlett found her way back into Rhett’s arms. In the evenings she listened to his stories and witticisms, and late at night she listened to the sound of his breathing. I will not speak of undying glory, she thought. Rhett was still here, and so was she. They were both still here.

Scarlett took off her left earbob too, for good measure. “I’ll raise you,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this hand.” There was still an ace hidden up her sleeve, but if Rhett noticed it he didn’t say anything. 

They survived together. They built something new. There is always profit to be made in building things, and these two were nothing if not industrious.

           After all, tomorrow is another day.

[charliethemanticore]

please tell me about sayer and bernard roth, and do not pretend to be normal about it 🩷

okay okay okay, anon I am giving you a little kiss on the forehead. I am gonna be going back through my notes so if this takes a hot minute, that’s why.

Update: This is… getting very long so I’m going to do this in sections. Your introduction lies below the readmore. Because I’ve hit 850 words. It really needs an edit. I am not doing that. Have fun. There will be another installment later.

So. Corsets (and Why We're So Weird About Them)

So, a few things need to be established here to understand the roots of modern anti-corset rhetoric. I will be dealing with sexism, ableism, and likely touching on racism within the medical field during the 19th century. If you’re anything like me, you will be angry by the end of this, just hopefully at some guys who have been dead a really long time, and not me. I’m just some guy who is three arbitrary credits off having a degree in History (with High Distinctions, btw. I’m very proud of my disabled ass for my current 6.0 on our 7-point scale)

France, America, and the UK in the 19th century were very Christian in the 19th century. The research I’ve done mostly focused on these countries, however I did briefly dabble in German history because the medical dress reform movement more or less started there, but more on that later.

As many of you know, it is a fairly standard belief in (many denominations of) Christianity* that if you do something Wrong™ then you will be Punished™ with misfortune. During this period, if someone was ill then they had Done Something To Deserve It™. This meant that, often, your physical condition was treated as a shorthand for your moral standing.

* For the purposes of this discussion, Catholicism is included under the “Christianity” blanket, I know many Catholics disagree with that categorization, but I am not writing “Christians and Catholics” fifty times

The medical field was professionalized to a recognizable degree in the 19th century. A lot of that professionalization resulted in super fucked up ideas about gender, race, and disability. The professionalization of medicine was parallel to the rise in global eugenics movement. This will probably surprise no-one but needs to be stated, nonetheless.

Many disabilities are more frequently observed in Women* than Men*. Scoliosis, which was the focus of my research for my major work, was one of these conditions. It followed, therefore, that women were doing something Bad™ that men weren’t** and the easiest options were exercise and corsetry. Now, doctors genuinely believed that women were more delicate and susceptible to disease and injury (both to the physical and spiritual being). For the most part, many doctors did NOT want women to be doing as much exercise as they were recommending for men. So corsets were Public Enemy #1

* I’m nonbinary, I know that the binary is bullshit and biology is weird soup, but I am using the terms applicable to the medical understanding and discussion of the period, it’s just easier when referring to primary texts.

** Many men did actually wear corsets. I want one of the advertisements as a tattoo. They’re great.

Right. So now that we have the basic facts outlined, onward. I will include a reference list below. I might put some of my recommended reading in a google drive or smth if anyone wants that.

So. First of all we should probably talk about what a corset is. “Oh by Charlie I know what a corset is” shush. Maybe you do. Maybe you know what a modern corset is. This is my ted talk and I will be as obsessive about my definitions as I like.

For the purposes of SEO algorithms, a corset is a generic term that could refer to bodies, stays, corselets, true corsets, and anything you can find on google when searching for a fast fashion corset top. A generic term that can be applied wantonly for a thousand different garments from the 16th century to today is not very helpful.

When I say “Corset” I mean a garment that began to evolve from stays in the 1820s and had established itself as the popular foundational garment by the 1840s and remained so until the 1920s. For simplicities sake, a corset is a “rigid bodice” supported by vertical boning (Usually baleen/whalebone. Sometimes steel, sometimes reed, sometimes cording)(1). Its primary function was to support the bust, but they also formed the foundation of popular fashions (2).

Corsets work by distributing weight of the bust (and also clothing) across the entire torso, supported by resting on the hips (think of the difference between cradling a toddler – or a heavy box - and sitting them on your hip)(2). They also formed a smooth surface so that clothing could be tight to the body while limiting wrinkling but, more importantly, IT STOPPED WAISTBANDS NEEDING TO DIG INTO THE BODY TO STAY UP. They could be tight to the body, but the corset would not allow them to dig into the body. They were (USUALLY) custom made to the individual and (USUALLY) only worn to the tightness comfortable for the level of activity for the individual. (I will talk about exceptions later). Tight lacing wasn’t hugely common. Usually the drastic shape was achieved through optical illusion and padding (Bust improvers, bustles, bum pads) (3)(4). If you make the hips and bust appear larger, the waist will naturally appear smaller, regardless of actual measurements.

God this is going to be so long I haven’t even got to the Bernards. Okay so this might have to be in installments.

REFERENCES

1 Steele, Valerie. Encyclopedia of Clothing and Fashion. Kindle ed. Charles Schribner’s Sons, 2005, p. 290

2 Waugh, Norah, and Judith Dolan. Corsets and Crinolines. Abingdon, Oxon; New York, Ny, Routledge, 2018, p. 75.

3 Kunzle, David. Fashion and Fetishism: Corsets, Tight-Lacing and Other Forms of Body Sculpture. Sutton Publishing, 2004, p. 89.

4 Steele, Valerie. Fashion and Eroticism: Ideals of Feminine Beauty from the Victorian Era to the Jazz Age. Oxford University Press, 1985, pp. 62-63

[linalilia]

[meet the prisoners!] prisoner 005: sanada kei

the background is so bright and i am so sorry

THIS MAN. OH GOD THIS MAN. it was so hard to draw him for some reason. anyway, as i said, prisoner 005 is going to be one of the most insane and dangerous characters and his mv is. um. it's a lot. you'll see what i mean by that.

(check out my masterlist if you want to see other prisoners' profiles!)

Warnings: suggestive themes, unhealthy relationships (again), mentions of injuries/physical abuse, implications of kidnapping, UH.. that's probably it?

General info:

Name: Sanada Kei (真田圭) (his last name means "true" and "rice field" and his first name means "gemstone")

Age: 25 y/o

Gender: Male

Status: Prisoner 005

Birthday: August 20 (Leo)

Height: 177 cm (haha he's 1 cm shorter than Naomi)

Blood type: B

Image color: #FF4089

Occupation: Photographer

Personality: Kei is.. quite an interesting individual with a very "unique" personality. At first he just seems like a guy who will flirt with almost anyone and doesn't know how personal space works, but as you get to know him better, you start to realize that he's much more dangerous than you thought. It should be mentioned that Kei is actually not the most romantic kind of guy, he always gets straight to the point and even though he might say a cheesy pickup line or two, he will say what he wants from you almost immediately and he will make sure it's impossible for you to say no to him. However, even though he talks so much about "mature topics", this guy is a lot more childish than he looks like and he often gets mad at people for very stupid reasons. His mood swings are so unpredictable that even the bravest people find them terrifying, especially considering that he's not afraid of getting violent and he doesn't care about the whole "prisoners can't hurt guards" rule. And if he's not allowed to hurt the guards, then.. maybe he should simply try making the prisoners suffer instead. Also, if you listen to him more carefully, you can notice that Kei is actually a huge liar. And he's not even that good at lying. He can lie about his hair actually being green even though you can clearly see that it's red and he doesn't mean it in a "oh, green is actually my natural hair color" way. Most of the time he lies to make himself look more sympathetic and he's more than okay with manipulating the guards and other prisoners so that they think he's better than he really is. And the worst thing is that him lying so often actually makes his mvs.. a bit hard to watch, because it seems like he genuinely believes his own lies. According to Guard 001, Kei also loves to make people believe that he's the victim and not somebody else and he will do anything to make people trust him.

MV info:

Which canon Milgram song he would cover: .. he would actually sing After Pain. I am not kidding. LISTEN IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE TO ME as I said, Kei wants people to feel bad for him, he wants to be their poor little meow meow, so I can definitely imagine him singing a song like After Pain so that people can go "oh no.. 🥺🥺 he had to go through so much.. 😔😔 he's innocent fr!!" And those lyrics actually fit him a lot, I really want to talk about it more, but it would be a huge spoiler, so.. just think about the "But I guess some of it is my fault, maybe it's okay as it is" and ""I'm sorry" won't reach anyone" parts while you read his MV description >:3 Also I just really want him to do the "Let's meet up inside the pain" part because it would sound so good with his voice and it actually describes his crime really well, haha.. Also I just thought it would be funny because the song is called "After Pain" and he's a huge sadist so..

Which DECO*27 song he would cover: Look me in the eye and tell me he would cover anything other than Vampire.

If he could cover a song by a different Vocaloid producer, which one would it be: Party Junkie by Satsuki ga Tenkomori.

His MV description:

His MV would have very bright neon colors, but they would become darker in certain parts and his song would sound like something you could hear in a club, it would be fun and catchy.. until you actually check the lyrics and 1) you realize that the lyrics have obvious sexual subtext and 2) you suddenly remember that this guy is a murderer.

We can see a room that looks a lot like something you could see in a Tear Drop MV and a bright pink couch with five women in revealing outfits sitting on it, but we can't see their faces. Kei walks closer to the couch and pulls out his camera to take a photo, but the scenery suddenly changes and now he's taking a photo of his friends who are about to go and have fun at the club. The music starts playing and all guys are smiling, including Kei, who enters the club with them. Their girlfriends join them as well and we can see that all guys here have a girlfriend.. except Kei. Kei is still laughing and smiling with everyone, but the colors are darker now and we can see that Kei actually finds this party boring and he even looks.. disgusted with his friends and their girlfriends? The lyrics mention how tired he really is and that he wishes to just forget everything, but then Kei puts his pink sunglasses on and everything goes back to being bright and colorful again. He's still pretending to have fun, but now we can clearly see that his emotions are fake.

But then, Kei notices someone and his eyes start sparkling and even when he takes off his sunglasses, he still looks like he really is in love. He leaves his friends and tries to follow that stranger and as he does, he touches one of the drinks and it becomes the same color as his image color. That stranger starts running away from him, but Kei still refuses to leave them alone and everything around him becomes brighter and brighter. Kei finally succeeds and when he grabs that person's hand, he looks at the stranger with a wide smile on his face and whispers "I caught you~".

We go back to that pink room from the beginning and now the song sounds a bit calmer, but the lyrics are more messed up now and Kei's voice sounds like he's slowly losing his mind. We can't see that stranger, but we can see Kei taking more photos and his "model" is most likely that person he caught. There's a lot of photos on the walls and while some of them are actually beautiful and they don't look that suspicious, for example, some of them are pictures of flowers, animals, Kei's friends, etc, most of them look like they have blood stains on them, though the blood is the same color as Kei's image color, just like that drink from earlier. Some of them also have something written on them and when you look closer, it says "You're not allowed to see this~". Kei puts another photo on the wall and when he walks away, it becomes stained with blood as well. He suddenly hugs the stranger and we still can't see them that clearly, but Kei looks genuinely happy this time. If you look closer, you can see that this person's arms and legs are bandaged and they have bandaids on their face and you also can notice that same drink on the table.

Kei grabs his phone and checks the time. He sighs and it looks like he doesn't want to go, but he still smiles at his.. lover? Muse? Victim? He takes their hand and kisses it and promises that he won't let "someone" hurt them because no one can hurt them as bad as he can. We can see Kei knocking on the door and it looks like his friends are having a party and he couldn't miss it even though he didn't want to go. One of his friends opens the door and smiles at first, but then he looks at the person standing next to Kei and screams. Kei just puts his pink sunglasses back on, comes inside with that person and closes the door.

His Trailer 1 Voicelines:

"Hiii, Sanada Kei here~ So you two are the guards, right? Hehe, you are so adorable. Please take good care of me~ I'm sure you will understand why I committed my "crime". You're not like my friends who left me after they found out I'm a little.. "different" from them.. Wait a second, are you.. Ei-"

"You're the only person who knows how hard it is to be.. well, me. Hey, can I come closer? I just think your eyes are beautiful, that's all. Hehe, you truly are the only person in this world who can inspire me."

Trivia:

Yes, he's wearing those sunglasses from Tear Drop. When I first came up with Kei's design, I knew that I want him to wear sunglasses and then I was like "haha, what if i turn it into a Tear Drop reference". But now it's not just a reference, but an important part of his character, but I'll leave that to you to figure out >:3

Speaking of Tear Drop, I actually thought of making him cover this song, but for some reason I just can't imagine him singing it? Like his voice just wouldn't fit.. Also it feels a little too obvious and I think After Pain describes his crime better and fits him more.

His murder isn't his only crime and he had done many, many bad things before he ended up in Milgram. His number of victims is a secret.

There's a reason why Prisoner 005 and Guard 001 have the same last name and it's because they're brothers. However, Eiji won't go easy on Kei just because it's his brother, in fact, he wants him to be voted guilty more than all the other prisoners.

He truly believes that he will get an innocent verdict even though his own brother wants him dead because "he's sure there are other people who won't let him get a guilty verdict simply because he's too hot".

He's especially close with Prisoner 003 and Prisoner 006 and it seems that he's not just trying to become friends with them, he actually wants their relationship to be deeper than that. Yes, with both of them. And when I said that Shun has a very toxic relationship dynamic with someone, I meant him.

He sees himself as a "dad friend" because he's the oldest male prisoner even though he's not much older than most prisoners here. Also almost all prisoners agree that he's too irresponsible to be their "dad".

Even though it might seem that Kei is another "yandere" character (heart motifs in his design, themes of obsession, etc), he's not exactly that, at least he's definitely not the romantic kind of yandere and not even a platonic one, like Aimi. Maybe him trying to make himself look like someone who was so loyal to his lover (if that person even was his lover) that he was basically obsessed with them is just another lie?

[teaandinanity]

This is SO interesting, my Dark Urge character in BG3 sometimes just.... does not have the moderate and sane options that my blank slate one did. I definitely feel like this ought to be a second playthrough NG+ kind of thing but also I’m having so much fun with him that I do not WANT to finish my other playthrough first. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[fatelcved]

what kind of warmth are you?

comfort jacket

you're gentle, thoughtful in your kindness, and very careful when you're helping others. your warmth is obvious only to some──  but to them, it is life-saving. you don't think of your warmth as much. really, it feels like the least you can do. but you are providing something that no one else can. there are people out there that will not be helped by reckless optimism. but you see love as a risk, and when you take it, you will heal others ( and yourself ) in ways you didn't see as possible. you do not believe that people are good. really, you don't believe that you are good. they can be. you have been. no one is better than you at offering warmth to people who are difficult to love. i am asking you to offer that same warmth to yourself. even when you think you don't deserve it. especially when you think you don't deserve it.

tagged by: @espectres thank you peach <3<3<3 tagging: everyone who sees this bc i dunno who's done it already!!