#just to have like. a somewhat dignified death.

[seraphim-soulmate]

Jan 26th, 2025 - autistic burnout

I had a period of really quite high energy for a couple months after I moved into my new place in August. And despite things still not being perfect or amazing in my life, I suddenly felt like I had interests and wanted to do things instead of being obligated to do them. and I was so so fearful the entire time that that was going to just be a fleeting moment, and eventually the reality of my life would all come crashing back down around me.

And the shit part? It has. I am in burnout now bcs I reached a point where that was no longer sustainable. And I saw all the red flags and moments where I should have put myself and my needs first but didn't (bcs it was the holiday period and then I had to prep for my mom's birthday). And now I'm exhausted and sad and apathetic and numb and crying daily again. And it fucking sucks so bad to have that fear confirmed? That like, nothing nice or good will last. That my mental health just can't be stable or high energy. But it was only confirmed bcs I ignored all the warning signs telling me to calm the fuck down, stop seeing people so much and just stop doing so much!!! I suppose I thought if I just kept on doing it, it would just become my new normal? As if I didn't have multiple conditions that include chronic fatigue and shit. Oh not to mention I've been eating gluten again, so that's definitely not helping anything.

so now I'm struggling again to leave my room to go eat bcs I might run into a roommate and I feel like shit bcs I still haven't gotten the piece of furniture I need to organize and put all my shit away that's just sitting in a huge corner of the living room which is convincing me that my roommates hate me for it bcs I don't like seeing all of those bags either!!! but I want to make the right choice when I'm buying this expensive piece of furniture since I have to pay to get it delivered since I don't have a car so getting the same exact stupid Ikea furniture second-hand is off the table for me. And then once I get this piece of furniture delivered, I have to get it up the stairs and build it and right now? that sounds excruciating and exhausting.

[fandom-susceptible]

So I've been thinking about where The Dragon Prince left things after Season 7, especially since they had to wrap it up so quickly and it doesn't look like they're likely to get full ten seasons.

I'm still very unsettled by Terry. I know he had his whole "Zuko here" moment and "redemption arc", but it rings hollow for me for a guy who spent the previous several seasons totally cool with a genocide against his own people as long as it was Claudia doing it. I super don't buy his shock and dismay at Claudia trying to kill the illusion of her mother after what he himself did to Ibis. I want to know where he came from and why he's okay with Dark Magic, just so long as it's not Aaravos.

Which is only loosely tied into a thought I wanna dwell on more, but is somewhat important background information for my thought process.

So at the end of Season 7, Soren, Corvus, Pyrrah, and Terry take off looking for King Harrow in the body of Pip the songbird. They wouldn't even know to look except that Runaan confirmed that King Harrow didn't fight back at the assassination, and instead just squawked, and Corvus put the pieces together.

Ezran is still struggling to forgive Runaan for his part in Harrow's death, which I think actually adds to his depth of character. He's no longer an innocent child - the "true soul", "death of innocence" theme from this season was strong, and Ezran is the peak example of it. He must find a way to balance his ideals with the pain that far more adult figures have been struggling with for years. Callum made a good point bringing up that he forgave Zubeia, and we didn't get to see Ezran's response, but imo his reaction to Callum's betrayal sort of fills in the blanks. It was Zubeia's mate and son that she thought were dead. I can see how that would make more sense for a kid like Ezran, who grew up with very strong familial bonds and values, than Runaan and the other assassins carrying out revenge for someone else when they have no personal grudge of their own.

Anyways. Consider.

Pip/Harrow's been missing for three years now. That bird could be anywhere on either side of the continent by now, though he is living with the mind of a king. He's also nowhere near Katolis, or Ezran would have found him already, from going to talk to "Pip" and finding that the bird is carrying an entirely different soul.

So imagine, in that time lapse in the final episode, Soren and Corvus come back and confess that they haven't found anything of worth. The last maybe-sighting of Pip was from some soldiers in Viren's army who thought they saw the bird following them into the Sunfire plains in Xadia. It's been two years, and they don't know.

So Rayla says she knows someone who might be able to help. The best tracker in Xadia. He can find anyone on the Xadian side of the border, and anyone he's ever tried to find in the Human Kingdoms too. He's diligent and has only ever missed one target. If anyone can track down King Harrow, it's him . . . but Ez isn't going to like it.

Runaan.

And at first Ezran doesn't. But Rayla makes a point, and Corvus and Soren aren't having any luck on their own or with Terry (if he's even relevant, tbh, if I write it he probably won't be because i am still disturbedd by that guy). So he agrees - with conditions, of course.

Runaan is hesitant when he's told the news, and when Ezran asks him why, he just delicately points out that a king in the body of a bird is also a bird with none of the instincts of a bird, and may not have survived regardless of the war, unless he's learned how to feed himself and managed to avoid all possible predators for three years straight.

Ezran acknowledges it, tells him that's something he's . . . preparing for. But Corvus gets to make the call that they've searched too much and Harrow is likely dead. Not Runaan.

So the terms are agreed to and Runaan ends up going on a road trip with Soren and Corvus. Please imagine the comedic value of dignified older assassin in the midst of a major cultural deconstruction trying to do serious business with Soren. Especially Soren and Corvus. And the flip side - imagine Soren and Corvus seeing what Xadia is like towards Moonshadow elves, especially ones of Runaan's description (tall, menacing, leader, broken horn, homosexual - am I talking about Runaan or Kim'dael). Possibly featuring an appearance from the surviving Dragonguard, and Runaan's reaction to Hendyr specifically, the Skywing elf who KNEW Tiadrin and Lain stayed to protect the egg and chose not to save it or to clear their names.

[zuzu-draws]

I was thinking about how much Gege emphasizes Yuuji's death from the beginning of the manga.

First with Wasuke's words when he asks his grandson not to die alone like him. Then there's that obsession of Yuuji's to have a dignified death and not die in vain. It's also very curious how just before Sukuna takes over Megumi's body, Yuuji is thinking about how he is ready to die alongside Sukuna when they are executed. Not to mention the words Yuuki tells Choso, about how he should live for Yuuji, because if he dies, Yuuji would be left all alone... And well, Choso is already dead and Yuuji has no one left.

I think it's very likely that he will decide to die together with Sukuna, because you have to remember that despite everything, Yuuji still feels guilty for what happened in Shibuya and maybe he's looking to redeem himself with his sacrifice.

And Gege also overemphasizes that for Sukuna love has no value and that he has always been very lonely. Neither Kashimo, nor Yorozu nor Uraume and neither Gojo have been able to teach him what love is, perhaps it is because the person destined to do so is... Yuuji?

oml reading this made me emotional again, i agree so much!! And yeah, at this point, there really is no one left to answer Sukuna's love confusion but Yuuji ;_; I still wonder how Yuuji's going to do that though.

For Yuuji to truly grasp the situation at hand, for him to "save" Sukuna, he'll have to understand him first. To do that, he'll need to know his past.

The fact that Gege made his domain related to touching the soul and spirit itself,,, is just so wonderful to me. Because this links Yuuji to Sukuna in a very delicate, somewhat sensitive manner, in a manner Sukuna has no defence against. In trying to save Megumi, could Yuuji accidentally sync himself to Sukuna's soul? would that propel him into the memories stored deep within Sukuna's soul, thrown completely off guard? Is Sukuna going to let his memories be read? Or would he even care? Will he use his experiences as a justification for upholding his current ideology against Yuuji? and How would Yuuji react to them being related to each other? Would this solidify Yuuji's belief that in putting down Sukuna, he'll have to perish along with him?

So that they both could get a new start, in another life? Where perhaps the inclusion of one other person could prevent Sukuna's downward spiral into utter destruction?

That perhaps the love of that person, could save him from the his Loneliness?

This just has too many possibilities and i'm just clutching at my heart at the moment, i sincerely HOPE Gege doesn't fumble this wonderful opportunity to help develop Sukuna as a character further.

Clearly, it makes sense why the first chapter of JJK is titled as "Ryomen Sukuna", this story is about Sukuna and Yuuji, right from the very start.

[sylvies-chen]

episode 4 of house of the dragon… oh I’m in TEARS

meleys was a dragon with some of the most loyal riders out there. alyssa brought viserys and daemon on her back as newborns. rhaenys refused to leave dangerous spaces without her. and when rhaenys told meleys to attack, meleys complies knowing full well it was a death sentence because she loves and trusts rhaenys that much.

and here’s the thing: you see aegon and sunfyre have somewhat of a sweet moment before battle. there’s a relationship there that honestly could have been nearly as loyal as that of meleys and rhaenys. but aegon is so hypersensitive and relentless that after this he will go on to push sunfyre into things before either of them have healed and things which defy the very magic dragons were born from (kinslaying). that paired with aegon’s lack of high valyrian fluency makes for a complete lack of understanding of why targaryens have dragons and of the bonds which have made their house so worthy for so many years. it just spits in the face of their house, as does the moment immediatelt after where aemond nearly commits his second act of kinslaying in less than a couple months. again, it’s a complete carnal sin and fails to present a united front which feels disgraceful to the targaryen name.

and so part of why it’s so heartbreaking to watch meleys and rhaenys die is because those two just get it and losing them feels like the tradition and honour of house targaryen dies a little bit with them in that moment.

I hope eve best knows we love her to bits and she just delivered such a powerful, magical, and dignified performance 🥹✊🏻

[1000sunnygo]

Saw someone trying to claim that cora secretly resented his birth dad (too lazy to correctly spell the man’s name) and like nah dude. That’s the main reason he ran away. He still loved his dad and never blamed him. Because I think despite everything he saw his dad as good hearted and correct, just painfully naiive. I sometimes wonder if doflamingo ever truly hated their dad. Resents the hell out of him, hated his actions, blames him for his childhood miseries and stone cold in his murder. But their dad was never presented in a hatable way, at least from my reading.

Agreed, Homing wasn't presented in a hateable way. Oda designed him as an elegant-looking fellow in spite of being a regular Tenryubito and that says enough. The Donquixote couple were the only Celestial Dragons who couldn't be brainwashed into becoming egocentric psychopaths even though they were born and raised at Mariejeoise, they owe some respect.

The criticisms of Homing's personality comes from our own judgement of his character and not from canon narration, shoutout to @eroguron0nsense for this meta summarizing his flaws. Frankly speaking, I think Homing was doomed to die. Being killed by his own son just adds a layer of irony, it wasn't a dignifying way to go.

As for Rosi, he clearly held a high opinion of his father:

"How was such a monster born in the family of such kind hearted mother and father? I don't get it. He's not a human."

.

In fact, I doubt Rosi ever pondered about his father's naivety at all. There's no point in digging the faults of a humble father who died long ago, considering that a greater evil (still) existed in their bloodline who inflicted much bigger pain in his childhood. Rosi's most severe loss in his childhood was his parent's deaths, not the lavish life at Mariejeoise.

Point to note is that a six year old's cognitive development is still underway, a ten y/o on old on the other hand, has evolved a lot. Rosi wasn't be able to judge his parent's character the same way his brother could. I've wondered, if Rosi were around Doffy's age, would he be influenced by Doffy's ideas a lot more, like most younger siblings? Probably not, since Rosi's thought process is fundamentally different from Doffy's. He's hotheaded and impulsive, but he's not vengeful. Rosi enlisted as a marine to save civilians in spite of being poorly treated as a child, and knowing that they'd hate him if they knew about his bloodline. I can't imagine Law or Doffy doing the same. Rosi is a humanitarian who held a deep sense of justice (passed from Sengoku and kindhearted parents) - that neither of those two had.

Having a bit of thought experiment, if Law as a child were in Doffy's position, I can see him resenting his father - not for losing the family status but for endangering his family's life (and the death of his mother). But I don't think he would've been manipulated by bad adults into killing his father. I see Rosi's driving force his morality (returned to his brother to stop him to save the civilians), Doffy's is self importance (would throw away anyone for his own cause), and Law's is love (extreme protectiveness of those he loves). No matter what, Law wouldn't be risking the safety (and sanity) of his younger sister.

Back on track... does Doffy truly hate his father?

Yes, he does.. in a complex way. Doffy still considers Homing's actions to be the source of his miseries. But I believe "family" means something profound to Doffy. Regardless of what happened or how much he hates him, Homing is HIS father, and that by default means he's a human of a higher value.

Doffy made this particular way of execution, to shoot with his flintlock, somewhat ritualistic and specific for those he deems as his family. As he said in chapter 769, he sees it as a form of redemption.

"But, I shall forgive you! The same way I forgave my real father and brother: with death!!"

He doesn't want to hate them, so he 'punishes' them and forgives them, which in his self centered mind is a form of entitlement.

The answer got a lot bigger than I expected shdhd thanks for reading my rambling though o7

[ruiniel]

Another Way - XI

Summary: what if someone in the 21st century stumbled upon this stranger during a turbulent storm, narrowly avoiding running them over, and what’s more they can’t understand a word coming out of their mouth.

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Rating: Mature / 18+ only

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, References to Depression, First Meetings, character-meets-world, Near Death Experiences, References to loss, Grief/Mourning, Fantasy, POV Second Person, Language Barrier, Violence, Portal Fantasy, Isekai, Slow burn, References to canon, Rewriting show canon, Because why not, POV Alucard, POV original character, More tags to be added

Also on ao3

Part I

AN: The full part. Had to kick myself to finish this and repost, but here it is. No huge developments for now but the next update won't take as long.

XI.

You’re both silent exiting the car, walking to your building, stepping inside the elevator. Your mind’s running in circles, but there’s nothing you can think of saying to him now; and Adrian staring at his feet with an expression similar to the one you first saw during that damn storm isn’t helping much. 

Once he follows you inside the apartment, you throw the car keys onto the table, then clear your throat. It’s late. “So, anyway … I seem to keep saying this. Welcome back… again.”

He turns to you, silent, staring, his agitation having diminished somewhat during the car ride, and you’re still wondering what the heck you’re doing.

Possibly the worst time to go with a gut feeling your mind begins anew, but looking at this person, at the stiff and dignified way he holds himself despite the washed-up, bedraggled appearance… no, something is … there’s something different to him, and it’s not the unreal perfection to his features or the fact that he knows no language you can decipher.

Adrian looks briefly to the floor, then back at you, watching as you near him against your better sense, handing him the agenda. 

“Look, like I said …” you sigh. “I might’ve… acted…too rashly.” Then, remembering he doesn’t get it, you take out your phone and type it in, translate.

He discards his coat and then glances at the translation. His weary eyes stare into yours for a long while, and a knot forms in your throat, and you don’t even realize when he’s begun scribbling a swift reply.

“… why did you come seeking for me?” 

“Oh man, I’m too tired for this.” You look away, sigh again, shoulders slumping; but you can’t avoid it, not when the question persists in his eyes. 

Scratching your head, you tap onto the screen: “I don’t know.”

You’re gifted with an arch look of bemusement, then a shake of the head as he writes.

 “I do not want pity.”

Ugh. “Stubborn much? Of course you are…” you mutter, tapping furiously: “You’re not getting any. But what you are getting is some time off the streets to learn the language. Unless you insist on leaving, in which case…” you show him the door, a gesture anyone would understand, you think. “Okay?” you ask, annoyance fueled by exhaustion creeping up.

Adrian stares, then points at your phone; you decline to go on. “Okay?” you repeat, finger tapping against your previous words.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his other hand balling into a fist at his side; finally, he gives a slight nod.

“Good, now that’s settled… huh, I see you’ve lost your bag,” you point out. His rucksack is gone. 

Adrian looks regretful, and a crease forms between his brows, followed by a slight shudder.

“You know what, it’s late, we should probably turn in.” The use of “we” in some semblance of unity after having withdrawn from social life for so long surprises you.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” you show him the translation.

“Yes,” he says, in English. “Tomorrow.”

You trudge towards your room, too drained after the evening’s running around session to even marvel at the new word he’s used that you comprehend. “… just don’t kill me in my sleep,” you mumble, then point at the couch, hoping he’ll understand because you are not turning to explain. Best you can do is slouch over to the bedroom, shut the door, and face plant onto the bed with a groan.

Quiet… it was all so… quiet, before he showed up.

…and lonely, that voice inside keens, as your eyes close on the framed photograph of your family.

~~

You awaken, as often happens, in the middle of the night, a restless heartbeat in your chest and half-formed memories fading from your mind, leaving behind painful residue. Rubbing at your face, you stare at the silvery beam of light patterning your bed with a ghostly window frame, then rise and groggily make your way out of the room through the dark.

Carefully you tread as to not rouse your guest-become-flatmate, Mrs. Hawke’s eyerolls coming to mind when you’ll eventually have to reveal someone new is staying here. 

Once you’ve reached the balcony, the cold tiles beneath your soles serve as an awakening and you stare at the skies, a rising wind lashing at your face, imbued with filth and freshness alike. Sitting down on one of two cushions placed here for the occasional stargazing hopes from before, you notice you’d mechanically grabbed and are now holding the framed photograph of your parents.

“I wish you were here… you’d know what to do. But now,” you close your eyes, throat constricting in that familiar way as you cradle the photograph in your arms, forehead pressing to your risen knees. “I feel so… lost… I don’t know how to get out of this… how to… look at the things I’ve done lately…” the words come choked, rising like moths fraying in the stillness. It’s in these moments you always liked the city best, with its roar subsided, and slowly you raise your head, staring ahead. 

No direction, no aim. Will it always be this way? You’d gone to a specialist, you’d gotten medication allowing you to function through the worst of it, but…

“But…” your finger touches beloved faces, trapped in lifeless glass. 

The fluttering of a curtain in the corner of your eye has you gazing up, at the dark figure standing there and staring ahead, at the vastness of stone and sky, before looking down at you.

In the half-hidden moonlight… he does look… like a painting, you think, sleepily. 

“Can’t rest, huh?” you ask when Adrian turns to you, meeting not your eyes, but settling his attention on the object in your lap. “Can’t say I’m surprised, considering what you’ve been through,” you say as he slowly descends by your side. 

He’s gaping at the framed photo, appearing utterly rapt, a sliver of that familiar confusion on his face. 

“Oh, this?” you say, handing it to him. “That’s me, when I was a kid, and those are my parents. I mean, used to be my…” you can’t continue. Have you ever spoken to anyone about this before? You can’t remember. It was such a blur; people, condolences, friends you barely reach out to nowadays. People again, carrying on with their lives. The crippling inner-cold, the half-daze of the immediate after, the realization that nothing will ever be the same.

Why now, of all times? You shouldn’t be doing this before a stranger, let alone him, and …

You watch as Adrian runs his fingers over the image, appearing in awe and saying something. 

“Wh— it’s too late for the whole translation gig, so we’ll just have to make do…” you say, at which point he looks at you again. He frowns, and before you know it, a strip of cloth is pressed to your tear-stained cheek.

“No,” he says—again, in English.

Meeting his eyes, you see an understanding transcending words. Are his irises… aglow? No, a trick of moonlight. You catch the cloth just as his hand falls away. “Thanks…” But, oddly enough, that single tear, or something else, has caused a shudder within, a behemoth of anger and futility and despair that has more tears falling before you can stop them. You crumble in your place again, pressing the material to your face. “I’m… sorry, this is pitiful.” You look away, savagely rubbing at the evidence on your skin, then stare at your knees. “I’m going to get a grip, I just need a… a moment.”

It’s then you notice the piece of cloth is a torn strip of clothing, and when you gaze at Adrian again, staring at you, you notice the dirt clinging to those borrowed jeans, the torn sleeve of the one shirt you’d given him. Despite your state, you shake your head. “Got to get you some more clothes, looks like.”

He raises an eyebrow, stares back at the photo, then at you. Adrian looks at his own hands; no, rather, at the rings adorning one.

His eyes widen, long lashes fluttering rapidly, and he seems to suddenly be someplace else: like in the beginning, when nothing made sense. 

You take the photo from his lax grip, placing a slow hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

As startled out of a trance, Adrian meets your eyes, his loose hair shielding half his face.

A painting, and a masterful one.

You stare at the photo again. Might as well talk. You need to; even if it’s lost on him. “It was a car crash. On one night, one stormy night not unlike the one we ‘met’, I lost them both. Funny how life can change in an eye-blink, huh?” you press the cloth to your cheek, though the gesture itself has caused this overflowing tide, and you don’t know why.

Adrian sighs, glancing briefly at you before rising slowly, staring out into the world, expressionless and still. He says something in his own language, then looks down at you.

The regret on his face is new to you, revealing a wordless pain you’ll never forget; nor can you hold his stare for long, not now. Hugging your knees tighter to your chest, you rest your forehead against them with a sigh. “Go rest,” a mumble leaves your lips. “I’m fine, these states come and go… come and… go…”

It’s not until a persistent sun ray warms your cheek that you open your eyes again, rising to sit in your own bed, alone in your room, the framed photograph set by your side.

~~

“Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?” Arvan asks, throwing the report aside before leaning forward with his palms flat on his desk, staring at the two harried officers before him.

“S-sir, I know what I saw—Hikaru here can corroborate. Once he was there, and then… and then a flash of red, like neon lighting, and he was… he was gone.”

Arvan grits his teeth. Of all the outrageous excuses he’s received over the years, this one tops the pyramid. “Judging by this,” he holds up the report again, “a tall man in a long coat was assaulting some local lowlife. But the same grown man vanished in a blur of color when you intervened.”

“Yes sir,” the officer concludes, looking Trent in the eye with a conviction that might have been scary, had he not been in this business for so long. Maybe I’ve been working them all too hard. Shit. 

Hari leans back against a cabinet on the side, arms crossed, listening and pondering. “Grant, tell him about the bag.”

Arvan glances between the two as the officer who’d been speaking starts, recalling something. “Right,” he says, looking to his partner, officer Hikaru, now presenting an old, well-used rucksack. “The contents were really nothing but a shirt with a curious cut, freshly cleaned. Still, it had stains on it. Took it for testing.”

“Good,” says Arvan, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Sir,” officer Grant continues, “We know what we saw.”

“Right. Right. Did you track down the lowlife? The only witness? The one who got assaulted by this so-called ghost?”

“Not yet,” officer Hikaru grimaces. 

“Look,” Arvan sighs, “Why don’t the two of you take a leave of absence? Have some time off, relax. Everyone’s up their necks in work with this potential serial killer case, but you two seem to need it. Hari, you take over. Keep the case open for now.”

“Sir!” Both officers cry at the same time, but one look from Arvan and they mellow down, nodding in acceptance.

“If anything shows up, we’ll call on you.”

“But—”

“Dismissed.”

The two glance at each other, clearly unhappy about it, but Arvan’s not taking chances. He needs everyone on the force at their best now more than ever, not wilding about some mystical vision in an alley. 

Hari looks after them as the door to the office closes, then back at the commissioner.

“Did the results come in on that button of yours?” asks Arvan, taking a sip of his precinct coffee. Awful stuff. 

“They’re on your desk.”

“Talk to me.” The commissioner picks up a printed report. 

“It is rather strange. They did detect blood on the object.”

“That’s… expected. Good.”

“... but it couldn’t be matched to anything we have in the database.”

Arvan makes an exasperated sound.

“... however,” Hari hesitates, ponderously as he’s prone to do. “I had the find taken to forensics for radiocarbon dating.”

“And you did that because…”

“A suspicion,” the detective murmurs, running a hand through his dark curls.

“Ah. Great.” Damn Hari, but he’s gotta hear this one. Hari’s conjectures lead to cracks in a case, more often than not.

“Do you know how old that coat button is, commissioner?” Hari crosses his arms.

Arvan sighs. It feels like the only thing he’s been able to do lately. “Assuming you’re about to enlighten me, Hari.”

“The gold gilded object was dated from around… the 1400s.”

Arvan raises his eyebrows so high they disappear beneath his hairline. Hari smiles. “So then. An art thief, and a murderer?”

“... it would seem so, but I can’t figure out the link yet. The people we’ve called in for questioning so far haven’t heard or seen anything unusual to help, either. The only highlight was hearing the howling of a wolf during the time span the crimes were committed.”

“Hari, please get to the point. My coffee is out, and it’s 3AM.” 

“There are no wolves recorded in the area. Or shouldn’t be.”

Arvan looks Hari in the eye. “You and I both know that level of gore does not result from a wild animal attack.”

“Indeed.” Hari rubs at his chin. “We’ll carry on.”

Arvan rises and turns to stare out the window, cursing his luck. “I want to be there when you bring the rest in for questioning.”

“Yes, sir.”

~~

Come morning, padding your way into the kitchen, you see Adrian, already up, again scribbling at the kitchen table with a slight frown on his face. He looks as though he hasn’t slept at all, really, but then he always looks that way, ever since you’ve dragged him off that road.

“Hey.”

He raises his head, a small nod and a smile in acknowledgement. 

 “I… sorry about last night, um, thanks for…”

Adrian suddenly rises, apparently too preoccupied to notice your discomfort—good. Instead, he shows you something written in that stylish cursive of his.

Your tongue curls, your sleepy eyes narrowing at the words. “The Recuyell… of the Historyes of Troye…? What’s… this?” It sounds familiar, somewhere buried in years of study, forgotten papers and sleepless nights.

He points at your laptop. “To… learn.”

Again, English from him sounds like the strangest thing, but also… comforting, in a way.  

“... all right, I’ll search it up for you, just…” you yawn, “give me a minute to make myself some coffee.” You pause, showing him the container you’re opening. “Coffee?”

Confusion. How are you used to this by now? “... Okay, I’ll make one for you too. By the way, today you’re coming with me.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow at that, looking down as you near, reach and tug at his torn apparel. 

“Clothes, Adrian. You need something that doesn’t make you look like you’ve just gotten out of a bar fight.”

He seems less… lost… maybe it’s just me. You recall the other night, the way he stared at that photograph, the flicker in his gaze of something you’re acquainted with: a sense, a piece of knowledge just out of reach. Half-memories, dispersing in a fog; gone like the black spots in the corner of one’s eye.

“... clothes,” he mouths the word, frowning and rubbing the material between his fingers, a dawning of understanding when he looks at you again.

Half a smile twitches on your face as you turn, heading over to the counter. “This’ll be interesting.”

Part XII

Taglist: @hornyf0ckers @the-keep-under-gresit @pencildrawer12

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[b-dubs-valdubs]

the amazing supercool @bogusbyron and i have just finished collaborating on a fic :3!!!!!!! check it out on ao3, or under the cut!!!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56217544

Title: Valvert Kiss Proposition That I Got Far Too Carried Away With, or, awesomecool collab

Word Count: 2,575

Relationships: Javert/Valjean

Tags: Canon Era, On The Barricade, Choking, (non sexual but you can read it however you like), Rough Kissing, Homoeroticism, Hate Kissing, is that a thing?, Javert Was Probably Into That, Valjean Is Conflicted, Brick-Adjacent Dialogue, Musical-Adjacent Events, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, i guess

Summary: When emotions are running high at the Barricade, people ahve a tendency to lash out mindlessly.

~~~

Javert made no move to acknowledge the sound of the door opening behind him — he had not the last few times, and he would not this time, either. The students frequently came and went, picking up the supplies they had stashed in the tavern, not acknowledging their prisoner. Occasionally he could feel a glare burning into the back of his head, but most of the time he knew they were far too distracted with the matters outside to worry themselves with the old spy they had tied to the table.

It was the same when he heard several of them file in and begin discussing their plans and revising what resources they still had left; the integrity of their barricades across the city, with the rebellion still lighting the streets with musket-fire and smoke, like a thick bonfire.

Javert listened. He knew he would not be likely to make it out alive, but what else had he to do in the meantime? If, by some gargantuan miracle, he did escape, the information might be useful; so he listened.

There wasn’t much to be said, but it sounded like Javert should not hold out much hope. It was likely he would be shot in the coming days after the barricade fell.

Twenty-six men was all they had, with eight surplus muskets. He almost felt sorry for their meagre effort, maybe even somewhat impressed — but they were his jailors and would be his executors, he had only disdain to spare them.

In fact, they discussed his execution, and it seemed he was to be put down like a dog. He had hoped his death would have been more dignified, but at heart he had expected this from the beginning, and he had accepted it. He closed his eyes and took a quiet breath.

It hitched when he heard the voice of Jean Valjean from the crowd. Blood rushed to his ears, the world around him beginning to spin — he kept his eyes shut tight. When his hearing returned, he heard Valjean make a request. To blow out that man’s brains myself.

It was then that Javert lifted his head and looked over, and saw the man standing amidst the group of students, looking expectantly at their commander.

“I think that would be fitting,” Javert said, solemn and level.

The commander, Enjolras, allowed it. Valjean took his place at the end of the table with a pistol in hand as the sound of trumpets pealed through the air outside. Everyone stood to attention, as they had planned.

A boy’s voice which was vaguely familiar cried out from on the barricade, and they all rushed from the room at Enjolras’ command. “You’re no better off than I am. I’ll be seeing you soon!” Javert called out.

Now, he found himself alone with Jean Valjean, who made quick work of untying him from the table and gestured for him to stand, to which Javert obeyed. Javert wore an unpleasant expression, the kind that creased his nose in a smile which more resembled a sneer, his steely eyes fixed on the other man as he stood up straight for the first time since his capture, vertebrae cracking slightly at the motion.

Valjean did not return such an expression, or any at all, only took Javert by martingale at his chest and tugged roughly, thus beginning their slow trek outside and across the barricade. Valjean took quick glances at the students, all stood at the ready atop their wooden battlements, muskets in hand. They reached a spot where it was low enough to be clambered over, where Valjean did not let go of the other man’s bindings as he awkwardly clambered over it, before following him shortly.

Once they were far enough into the alleyway as to not be seen by the schoolboys, Valjean halted suddenly. Javert stumbled a little but otherwise kept quiet, still smirking in the bare face of death. Valjean laid his palm flat against Javert’s chest, pushing him up against the nearby brick wall, watching as Javert rested the back of his head against it as if resigning himself to his fate: the resolute, stony inspector forced to yield and yet still triumphant in that he was right — that Jean Valjean would take his life in an act of brutal revenge and let him bleed out at the foot of the wall amongst the grot, that Valjean was still the violent convict he had always known. His face remained perfectly neutral, eyeing Valjean with an expression that sought to bore into his mind, a slight smirk playing upon his lips. He was still yet a sentinel, and knew that even in death — as brutal and undignified as one could be — he would remain righteous, the star hanging over the wretched to judge and condemn.

Valjean saw him; regarded him coolly. He watched how Javert was still under his gaze, yet had a form of energy about him, like a pot of water about to boil over.

“Go on,” Javert hissed, baring his fangs in a grimace, “Take your revenge - you’ve been hungering for this since Toulon. I know it.”

Not an ounce of expression was betrayed as Valjean reached for the pocket-knife on his person, the glint of the blade catching the dying moonlight in its cold, silver sheen.

In any man, the sight of the blade — of a knife such as this one — could only promise a drawn-out, painful death; it was to have your throat slit, choking and hacking on blood as it overwhelms the air in your lungs, forcing it out through your mouths in little gasps, and be left until the blood loss takes hold and brings you into the embrace of the Reaper. Javert was apparently not such a man to quiver at that notion. He only grinned more fiercely, his thin lip stretching over his gums in a snarl of victory.

“Ah, of course,” he gloated, goading Valjean, puffing out his chest, bound as he was, “A knife for a cut-throat criminal. It’s more fitting.”

Valjean’s palm pressed firmer against Javert’s chest, as if he were a lion pinning his prey in place on the ground. His brown eyes, the hue of intoxicating nectar, caught Javert’s own — superseding the coldness in Javert’s own gaze. Under his gaze, Javert seemed to retreat somewhat, leaning back against the wall; he held this distant contact as his chest expanded into the soft pressure of Valjean’s palm, inspiring a breath unusually slow and deep. As quickly as it had intensified, the pressure then released, and Valjean retreated a step.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Javert obeyed, flashing a self-satisfied expression at Valjean as he did so. Valjean paid him no heed, reaching for Javert’s bound wrists and watching as the serrated knife-edge sawed through the bonds.

As the fraying ropes fell away, with their proximity Valjean noticed the muscles in Javert’s back tensing, and could hear the sharp intake of breath. Both men remained still.

Eventually, Valjean spoke the three words that had been told to him only as lies; ”You are free.”

Javert turned back to regard him. Gone was his smug expression, replaced only with fearful awe and trepidation. “I don’t understand,” he uttered, scarcely above a whisper, like one might murmur to themselves, entranced.

“Clear out,” Valjean muttered, his face close to Javert’s as if conspiring amongst themselves. At this distance, he could feel every faltered breath of Javert’s fan out over his upper lip, huffing from his nose sporadically.

A flash of rage crossed Javert’s face. “Take care, Valjean!” he exclaimed, paying no heed to the established noise level, his tone teetering on the edge of hysterical.

Valjean gripped the noose around Javert’s neck, pulling him closer until their noses almost touched — able to see each twitch of Javert’s eyelid as he held Valjean’s impassive gaze, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. Valjean studied him (acutely aware that Javert could hear each tremble of his lungs as he struggled to calm his breathing) only to slip the loop of rope over his head, freeing him of that as well, before reiterating: “Clear out of here, you are free.”

An unreadable expression crossed Javert’s face before the tiger pounced at Valjean, fisting his paws into Valjean’s shirt. “I know you, Jean Valjean. I am warning you: you attempt to exchange my freedom for yours? There will be no such transaction with me. I am not you — I cannot be bought with promises of freedom, I will not steal my life unlawfully such as you have done, I will never be you, Jean Valjean. Do you understand me, Jean Valjean? I know you — yes! — I know you, I can see your motives plain. You plan to buy me — well! Javert cannot be bought. You will still answer to the Law for what you have done, do you hear me, 24601?” He spat those numbers like he was spitting grit from his bread.

With a slight flicker across his eyes, Valjean lashed forward with his large hands and they found their way around Javert’s thick neck, the force of the attack knocking him backwards and his back collided with the wall once more. Javert spluttered, his eyes wide and crazed, as he clawed Valjean's arms before settling their clasp on his wrists. For a moment Valjean worried that he had seriously hurt Javert when a glassy sort of look waned over his eyes, before fixing themselves back to glare at Valjean. His scowl became a look of submission, clearly realising the strength Valjean held over him as he felt the flexing muscle of the arms he was clutching onto for dear life.

When Javert’s knees began buckling clumsily from underneath him, Valjean knew he had the upper hand. He had the upper hand from the start, Javert had been his prisoner, at his mercy, his life in his hand - but that is exactly what Javert had wanted, and he had been determined to keep it that way. Though he huffed under Valjean’s grasp at his throat, it was not tight enough to be a serious threat. The look in Javert’s eye told him he knew it. Valjean meant only to intimidate.

For a moment, before he spoke again, he watched the scene in front of him with a kind of awe; their faces were still close, now almost level with each other, Javert’s ragged and desperate breaths disturbed the loose hairs that had fallen into Valjean’s face in the tousle. Javert’s eyes, which were often squinted in that haunting leer of his, bulged from his head as the skin around them flushed. Valjean let his eyes wander to a trail of spit which had broken from his lips and ran down his chin.

If their situation were not so dire, Valjean might have pushed closer. He blinked hard, choosing not to get distracted at this moment. Instead, he uttered; “You’re wrong, Javert. I am only a man. Nothing more, nothing less. It is not my right to end your life.”

Javert continued to stare at Valjean with that oddly open gaze, his mouth falling open in little gasps and grunts. Then, the grip around his throat lessened, and he found himself being relinquished. He teetered on unsteady legs for a moment, falling into the weight of Valjean’s chest as his knees refused to support his weight.

That strange, glassy expression was still worn even as Valjean righted him again, holding him under the arms until Javert could stand on steady footing again.

“If I make it out of here alive,” Valjean sighed, feeling as if his next words could overturn his very life, “I reside at number seven, Rue de l��Homme Armé, under the name of Fauchelevent.”

The very confession was like a seal, like the coffin lid closing over the living corpse of Jean Valjean. His life would be no more; all that mattered was Cosette’s happiness, and after he had rescued her true love, he would have no space in her life — her happiness would no longer be dependent on him after today. It was for the best. It was the love that she deserved, rather than that of an old convict.

He nailed his own coffin door shut, blocking each hole with a strange form of grief, allowing no air for his escape.

His lungs could hardly intake breath as he regarded Javert; it would not be the last time.

“Go.”

For a moment, Javert did not move, still hunched slightly and breathing deeply, his heavy arms hanging at his side. His gaze was fixed on Valjean’s, his icy blue eyes piercing him with a contempt which shuddered and faltered like the decaying foundation of a building. Then, as his chest expanded with an inhale, he stiffened, letting the military posture return. His slack jaw snapped shut and set, his brow furrowed and he scowled. He said nothing. He stared at the space above Valjean’s head rather than at him.

Valjean found that Javert’s hands had suddenly made their way to the sides of his head, and before he could have asked about it, thought about it or even looked at the other man to read his expression: his face was far too close to have done so, and felt the heat of another mouth on his, rough lips on rough lips, almost bowled over by the force at which Javert had launched himself at Valjean.

He couldn’t help the shocked noise that escaped him. Javert was kissing him, roughly, though it was hardly a kiss, all teeth and lips, no tongue like passionate lovers shared in their private rendezvous. It was more like a predatorial bite.

What surprised Valjean most is the fact he found he didn’t really want to pull back from the embrace at all.

Javert gripped the other man’s head tightly from either side, fingers digging into his hair, the heel of his palm pressing uncomfortably against his cheekbone. It was harsh. It wasn’t affectionate by any means, perhaps desperate. But the tear that fell from Javert’s eye onto Valjean’s cheek did not go unnoticed.

It was over as soon as it had happened, like it had never happened at all. Javert shoved Valjean’s shoulder fiercely as he turned on his heel without a backward glance.

Valjean stood, in stunned silence, watching Javert’s figure retreat through the alley and turn the corner, out of sight. With shaking hands, he brought two fingers to his face to touch gently upon his lips, still slightly slick with spit. His breath hitched, as if enchanted, and stuttered out, breathing over his fingers that still remained pressed against his lips, passing a chill over the wet spot left by Javert’s own mouth.

Valjean shuddered, wiping it away with the back of his hand resolutely, before hefting the musket aloft and firing into the air.

He wondered if Javert had heard the bang that had resounded as he made his way back to the tavern.

“It is done,” he announced.

Yet it did not feel finished: not for Valjean, nor Javert, as Valjean’s thoughts could only fixate on the tingling sensation he still found on his lower lip where Javert’s teeth had collided, frowning to himself slightly.

His mind fell back to the alleyway, when he watched Javert writhe under his hand. He was thankful for the call of the students from the barricades as the National Guard began an attack once more.

[anthurak]

Okay so, thematically speaking, the reason why I think they'll use the Staff instead of Ascension for Summer is because the Hound, while smart, did not have the faculties needed to actually take ascension, and as shown with Alyx, dying in the Ever After just means you end up as a ghost forever instead of ascending, so the Staff is just about the only way they'll be able to de-Grimmify Summer.

(This is also why I'm thinking Summer being saved would mean Penny coming back for Round 3, or vice versa, given Penny's aforementioned thematic parallels with the Grimmified SEW's. If a dignified death is the closest to a happy ending Penny will ever achieve, then they'll have no choice but to mercy kill Summer. It's just a matter of whether Penny's return or Summer's rescue would come first.)

On somewhat a related note (given how my last two asks were combined), I'm also thinking Cinder's ascension would mark a good point to close out the penultimate Volume on, that way the Final Volume would have time to develop her next incarnation alongside Team RWBY, since they'd kind of have to flesh out her new identity.

Regarding Summer, I think the assumption that you’re making is that Grimm!Summer is going to be just like the Hound. And I really doubt that’s what we’re going to see.

Largely because I think Grimm!Summer simply being a raving, mindless monster would not be nearly as interesting, nor hit nearly as hard emotionally, as if she was fully cognizant.

As I’ve gone into in other posts, I think Summer is in fact fully cognizant and self-aware after having essentially become the SAME kind of Light/Dark hybrid that Salem is after a dip in the darkness pools. Though at the same time completely psychologically broken by Salem into being her willing follower. And that the Hound, the other hybrids and even Cinder herself have been part of Salem’s research and experiments into trying to replicate what happened to Summer, and herself.

Again, I think this would hit WAY harder than Summer just being a mindless monster. I mean just imagine Ruby, Yang, Raven, Qrow, etc. expecting a Grimm!Summer to be some raving monster just like the Hound… only for some mysterious armored humanoid grimm to unmask herself to reveal Summer, who ISN’T mindless and straight up says she’s serving Salem WILLINGLY.

For one, this allows Grimm!Summer to be an actual CHARACTER instead of just a big scary monster. It lets Summer be an actual VILLAIN who can have conversations and debates with Ruby, Yang and the rest of her family, rather than just spouting creepy disjointed phrases.

Most importantly, it allows Summer to be a proper antagonist and foil to RUBY. An actual character to properly represent and embody Ruby’s self-destructive hero-complex taken to its inevitable conclusion. A way for Ruby to confront and battle, both physically AND ideologically, this part of herself she struggles so much with.

Finally, it allows Summer to be saved not through esoteric magic, but through Ruby and Yang and Raven and the rest of her family getting through all the pain and trauma she’s suffered and convincing Summer to come back to them. And for Ruby in particular, to save who essentially represent a broken version of herself.

Which in turn, going back to your point, means that Summer is actually fully cognizant and able to attempt ascension herself.

Regarding Cinder, I do more or less agree with you on that. Particularly if we end up getting another volume or two after Salem’s defeat to deal with the Gods. It would certainly be good to have some actual time to explore and flesh out Cinder’s new identity.

[haleigh-sloth]

I know I asked this a while ago and I’m sorry to bring it up again but I’m still having trouble understanding AFO’s backstory literarily. I don’t know why Hori would give us a backstory that shows he is just as traumatized as the League if not more and then not do anything with it. Plus the way the fans interpreted it was that AFO was just born evil. I’m not sure why Hori felt the need to write this if he wasn’t going to treat AFO like a human being the same as the rest of the characters, and make it so he had zero knowledge of right and wrong same as Tenko, if he didn’t want there to be some sort of humanity there. Any guesses? I’m genuinely at a loss here.

This is a tough one, and it's understandable to feel conflicted over it.

I think the most important thing to remember is that the manga isn't over yet, AFO isn't really gone yet, and the vestiges aren't super mega confirmed gone for good yet, AND assuming they're not gone yet, they're all in the same place as AFO at this very moment.

I think Yoichi's words describe the complexity behind AFO perfectly:

He kept Yoichi alive, however, he viewed Yoichi as his property, something he was entitled to. There is definitely nuanced feeling behind that, I mean they're brothers and the ONLY constant they had their whole lives was each other. That goes for AFO too, Yoichi was the only certain thing he had. So yeah, there is some form of twisted love there, but AFO's upbringing led to that somewhat understandable/normal feeling turning into something way beyond what we would consider acceptable lmao. And I think the thing with AFO that separates him from the other villains is the lack of compassion for others that Yoichi points out. Even though I wouldn’t call the LOV’s actions compassionate toward….anyone, even if the intent is buried deep in there, they still feel for other people and are incredibly sensitive to others. It influenced their behaviors. AFO is not phased by others.

My personal guess is that AFO will disappear by the end of the manga in the vestige, but in a more refined/dignified way than the way he did in the real world. His pathetic and dramatic death after facing Bakugo kinda made it obvious he will have another exit that will look much differently. There is no point in repeating what we already saw, so I wouldn't expect it to be anything like him having a break down. Also Bakugo won't be involved since he's not in the vestige realm, so it'll be different.

I'm thinking like....closer to Nana/Kotaro except not really any love/forgiveness/sorrow involved, more just like....idk how to describe it, but some sort of peace where he and Yoichi say good bye for good together.

I can't help but think that Bakugo kind of carried out what the 2nd user couldn't (hence the visual similarity and him reminding AFO of Kudou) and then Yoichi will carry out what he needs to by finishing him off for good and disappearing with him.

This also all hinges on my assumption that OFA is going bye-bye, which I'm in hope of so I'm biased lol.

I don't think AFO is there to thwart the themes of the story. I think he's a humanized villain whose actions and influence have far surpassed his lifespan and it's just time for him to get some form of clarity and then go.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Beautiful Blood -- Sadistic Vampire Whumper Keeping Human Pets part 5

TW: violence, blood drinking, intimate Vampire whump, death, forced servitude

He awoke the next morning with a panicked jolt at the solid knock on the door, snapping out of the nightmare he'd been trapped in. His heart hammered with adrenaline, and he was disoriented for a minute before the memories came flooding back. He blinked sleepily and looked around the room.

So... not a dream. He was really here, in a vampire's mansion. There was another knock, and Asher slid out of bed, trudging over and opening the door.

"Yikes... you look terrible. Didn't sleep well, I take it?" Callum noted, seeing the bags under Asher's eyes and his messy hair that was tangled from subconsciously tossing and turning for hours.

Asher just shook his head grimly as Callum stepped into his room.

The servant wrung his hands together. "We should get you looking at least somewhat presentable before I give you the tour, in case we run into Nyx. She doesn't like her pets to look anything less than dignified most days," he said, and briskly strode to the bathroom, opening an elegantly decorated drawer and fishing out a hairbrush that he offered to Asher.

"This is a good start," he teased lightly, hoping to ease Asher's nerves.

Asher reluctantly accepted the brush and used it to fix his chaotic hairstyle, before Callum finally led him out of the bedroom and into the heart of the mansion.

There was a lot more activity now, Asher noticed, as several human servants bustled around, looking to be in a hurry. All of them wore identical shock collars.

"What's going on?" Asher asked curiously.

"Nyx is hosting a large party soon," Callum answered. "It's our job to prepare for it. She's inviting some vampire friends over to this mansion." His expression suddenly darkened.

"It's a dangerous time for us 'fragile humans', though. Nyx likes to indulge herself in all the social activities -- which can distract her from keeping her friends away from us. They are known to attack and feed on servants they catch alone when Nyx isn't looking, and Nyx doesn't care enough to keep track of them. After all, we're her pets. We're disposable. To other vampires, we make for some interesting entertainment. And sometimes Nyx will even intentionally bring out some of her least favorite servants solely so that her friends can play with them as party favors."

Asher's stomach churned at the thought of his throat being ripped out by another vampire, or worse crimes taking place...

"--But usually it's easy to blend in and hide," Callum answered, seeing the fright on his face. "And we are both Nyx's favorites, so we're protected. She won't let anyone kill us. It's mostly the other servants that have to be careful around her friends."

Asher didn't find that to be particularly reassuring.

"This is the kitchen," Callum announced as they reached a giant cooking area. After that he gave Asher a thorough tour of the rest of the mansion, and had just finished it when Asher asked something.

"Are you -- we -- ever allowed time outside?" He blurted.

Callum looked at him sympathetically. "Rarely, only if Nyx really trusts you, and even then she prefers to personally supervise us if she lets us outside. I know what you're thinking... and you shouldn't even bother trying to escape. Believe me... I've tried. It always ends badly." His face twisted, and he averted his gaze, changing the subject. "Uh... so... now that the tour's over, Nyx wanted me to... escort you to her dwelling. Presumably to... you know."

Asher shivered, vividly remembering the feeling of sharp teeth piercing his flesh, the excruciating agony he had been in. But what choice did he have? That was the bargain he'd made -- his blood for her hospitality.

Callum lightly put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze as he steered him to where Nyx's personal quarters were. The whole way Asher's gut twisted violently with dread, nauseating. Each step was a battle as every instinct told him to run, even if he knew it was pointless. Eventually, they reached the room, and Callum knocked on the door before opening it, ushering Asher inside.

Nyx was already waiting for them with a positively vulpine smile on her face as she sat on the couch in the back, the same one she'd been in yesterday, only this time there were no humans tending to her. Her eyes locked onto Asher with that unsettling intensity like before, and she cocked her head to one side.

"I hope you enjoyed the tour," she drawled in a honeyed voice. "I live in such a wonderful place, don't you agree?"

Asher was rooted to the spot with fear, feeling his heartbeat quicken with adrenaline. Then he felt Callum urgently nudge his arm with his own, and he got the hint.

"Y-Yes!" Asher blurted, his voice coming out a little shaky. "Your mansion is... nice." He swallowed hard, his throat dry and rough as sandpaper as he shifted anxiously on his feet.

Nyx's smile broadened at his blatant fear, she always enjoyed these games, bringing out a person's weaknesses. Knowing how much someone feared her.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it eventually," she chuckled darkly. "Now, be good and come here." Nyx patted the couch next to her, beckoning for Asher to sit so she could feed, her cold silver eyes watching him closely, watching for any slight misstep, any hint of resistance she could fault him for.

Asher hesitated, then forced his trembling legs to move forward. Every step closer was its own kind of agony, knowing what awaited him. He came and sat obediently on the couch next to the deadly vampire, his eyes wide with fear as he kept his distance.

"Leave us," Nyx ordered as she waved a dismissive hand at Callum, who quickly disappeared. Somehow it was even more terrifying now that Asher was alone with Nyx, completely at her mercy and victim to her will. He clenched his fists at his side, desperately trying to hide his shakiness.

"Aww, don't be shy, come closer," Nyx teased, and Asher shuddered as he forced himself to move closer to her. He was highly aware of the shock collar on his neck, the feeling of his own skittering pulse beating against the metal band.

Nyx's eyes glittered with delighted amusement, and she reached out to him, tracing a cold finger along the skin of his neck, right above the thin metal collar. It made Asher flinch as she leaned in toward him, angling her head toward his vulnerable throat. It took every ounce of Asher's willpower not to scream and run as he forced himself to stay still, his breath hitching.

"Mmm... perfect," Nyx murmured. Then she roughly grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him close, her breath hot on his skin as she tilted his head to the side. Then, without another word, her fangs sank in -- carefully, more delicate than before as she started pulling blood out. It was so fast Asher barely had time to register the movement before the blasting pain hit him, stealing his breath.

A sharp cry escaped him, that turned into a surprised yelp as Nyx suddenly shoved him onto his back on the couch, her teeth still locked in his neck as she let out a low, possessive growl. She grabbed his wrists and pressed them cruelly into the couch with a crushing grip, pinning them in place and limiting his futile struggles, moreso for the fun of it. He was helpless anyway. The excessive show of force was unnecessary, but oh so delightful.

Nyx was right on top of him, her body pressing into his as he laid beneath her, unable to do anything but breathe hard through gritted teeth, desperately waiting for the pain to end as she drank slowly, sensually, savoring every second.

Asher knew that fighting was useless, she was too strong, even as his body instinctively writhed under her. He groaned as her fangs sank deeper, feeling his body rapidly weaken as she drank, draining his energy. His breathing grew ragged and panting. The world was spinning... nauseating, as the blood was pulled from him until his face was pale.

The edges of his vision started to dim, a tingling sensation spreading through his body. He let out a choked gasp when Nyx finally took her fangs out, licking blood from her lips as she grinned wolfishly down at him, still pinned helplessly beneath her.

Nyx watched the skin heal over again, the color returning to Asher's face as his regenerative gift worked to replenish the blood that was lost. She could watch that all day. It was just so unbelievably fascinating! She would have liked to slice into Asher's skin more often with a blade, simply to watch the process repeat itself over and over again. But alas, she had a party to plan later that would occupy her time.

Going to the auction and buying Asher had turned out to be the best decision she'd ever made. Having a walking bloodbag that never grew too weak, that always healed itself, was the greatest prize of all. She had a nasty habit sometimes of getting too carried away during a feeding, and accidentally killing a few of her servants every so often. But this regenerative was far more resilient.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[cryptidclaw]

I find it hilarious that you had the chance to make mapleshade a complex character but instead you her more “redeemable” which she isn’t redeemable you just made her morally correct. Like no one is going to say she’s was in the wrong for killing the people that caused the death of her and her literally KITS!

Like stop pretending that’s she’s redeemable. She’s not. Anyone with an amount of empathy is not going to think she’s a evil witch. like what’s there to redeem? No like seriously?

And all the other female characters in this au are either little goody two-shoes or a Side bitch to the male characters. (Leopard and Ivy)

That’s all.

Uh ? huh????

Idk if i even want to dignify this with a response bec this is stupid but ig I will???

First off, why are u getting so heated over fantasy cats? if you dont like my au, just block me I dont give a shit.

Second, this is my au and I do what I want.

Third, since when have the female characters in this au been "goody two shoes" or "side bitches" ???? like what the fuck are you on about??? Leopard is her own person who makes her own decisions, Ivy doesn't hang out with any guys?? except for Hawkfrost Ig?? but like thats her evil dad and that also happens in canon???

Squirrelflight and Leafpool are both in-depth characters that Im obsessed with??? uhhh idk who else you could be talking about????

If anything I am actively trying to make the female characters more complex than in canon. so ... i dont understand what you are saying.

Onto talking about ur Maple claims. I dont fully understand what you are getting at? Are you saying that she was already redeemable (because she absolutely wasn't) or are you saying that she cant be redeemable (bec that's fair)?

I do somewhat regret using the term "redeemable" for RoC Maple, bec Im more so trying to give her a gray character characterization. She is in many ways still a horrible person. she is still a serial killer and enjoys haunting and tormenting people, even if those cats "deserve" it doesnt meant that its okay to do that. She is filled with hate, and anger and she is never able to free herself from that. So, ya she's not a goody two shoes she kills and tortures people.

HOWEVER, her backstory and motivation gives her the potential to be far more "good side" leaning. I feel like it really works for the themes of RoC for her to be on the side of the main characters rather than the villains. Her being a vengeful spirit that guides those she relates to and sees her kits in makes since, and really works for the au, especially since I am exploring how the Stars aren't all perfect and good, and the Dark Forest isnt pure evil.

Also I would like to point out that a LOT of people think that Mapleshade is an "evil witch" and despise her so ... ya.

[canarydarity]

at another place in time, II

(Or, I wrote that one small limited life session 1 ficlet from Tango's pov and went "what if I just write a whole series of vignettes from Tangos pov as the season comes out, one for each session," and now have to do that by law. so. welcome to session 2's chosen tango reminiscing vignette)

[part I]

____________________________________________

He stood on the outskirts and watched everyone gather around, and Tango thought, well this is different; maybe it was the rule changes—their timers all counted down, but 19 hours was still more promising than not. It felt wrong to quantify their lives this way, hard to connect that number to the idea of the amount of time he had left to live; right now, it felt arbitrary. Tango was sure that would change as the numbers got lower. Their actions were still dictated by color, but yellow could now attack green and—

Yeah, that was probably it. The first free-to-fight was beginning to act, and this bloodthirsty crew wanted to watch it happen. That didn’t mean Tango wasn’t a little thrown off by the sight of everyone gathered around, a crude ring marked out on the ground. They all cursed the games when they ended, took time to recover from the violence they witnessed—but they forgot that it was violence they cheered for whilst they were playing; or, maybe they didn’t, and that was the problem; the part they struggled to absolve. 

Maybe it was why they all signed up again and again. 

He tuned out Bdubs explaining his rules, focused instead on searching who had shown up. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, he just thought he should take the opportunity to get a closer look at the teams that had formed while he had the chance. 

Tango had somehow ended up directly across the ring from the rest of TIES, Etho finishing up flattening out a somewhat-decent circular border, Impulse standing behind Skizz, acting every bit in his corner, patting him on the back and giving all the encouragement a good coach would. 

Scar was whispering to Cleo who had a hand to her forehead as if she were warding off a headache; Martyn and Scott looked properly judgemental and above all that was going on—surely they were too dignified for a fight so unrefined. He couldn’t see Pearl or Bigb, but last he’d heard they’d been taking their role as nosy neighbors far too seriously—if they were here, he was sure they were out of sight, giggling and whispering back and forth. 

He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, but that just left—

“We’re all standing so close?”

He couldn't help the speed at which he turned his head, he really couldn’t. Tango logically knew Jimmy’s landing on this side of the circle was due to the direction of Bad Boy Mansion, but he’d take what he could get. Joel was further away, picking fights where he could and riling up Bdubs from behind and Martyn from the side. Tango hadn’t spotted Grian yet. Speaking of taking chances…

“Well, if anyone gets too close we’ll just punch ‘em.” He held his breath, but it didn’t take longer than a second for Jimmy to turn his head in Tango’s direction. He was already smiling by the time they made eye contact; Jimmy had a lotta smiles—this was the kind that predated his laugh. Tango decided to take that as a challenge. 

“Yeah, we’ll punch ‘em back in!” Jimmy said. “Just like in the movies.”

Tango nodded, “that’s right!”

“Keep fighting!” Jimmy added in a false voice he probably thought was gruff.

“Get in there and die!” Tango threw back; cruelty that was funny because it wasn’t real, the joke being that this was unlike their true temperament—settings-and-death-game be damned. 

Jimmy got it, he tilted his head back and—what success, because there it was—he laughed. Tango smiled wider and stared maybe just a little; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the sound. 

Such as with all things bright and lovely, there was a moment where that feeling—that light and feathered thing—threatened to break out of the cage in Tango’s chest, and he had to look down to wrestle it back under control. When looked back up, across the circle Etho’s eyes were heavy on his. He calmly slid his gaze to Jimmy and then back to Tango. 

Tango cleared his throat. Yup, that did the trick. He shuffled his feet, leaned his weight more to the right, and the distance it put between himself and that laugh was quantifiable in a way Tango felt much more than the numbers in his peripheral. 

Grain had shown up anyway, and the bad boys gravitated towards each other with an ease Tango reminded himself he wasn’t jealous of. He tried to tune back into the event, but the excitement had kind of dulled. 

“BDUBS! It’s you and me brother,” Skizz said, axe leveled in Bdubs’ direction. In a blink, Tango saw a different Skizz standing before him, weaponless and bare, my brothers left me to die. He didn’t dwell. Like he said, it was in a blink—one second there, the next gone; literally—he had the timer to prove it. 

“Yeah right It’s you and me, you want revenge? Here I am, on a silver platter!” Bdubs held his arms out wide, sword in one hand and shield in the other—the cockiest come at me that he could offer. He never knew when to quit, did he? Tango hoped Skizz put him on his ass. 

If not yet a harsh reminder of the time that he has left, the timer served the annoying purpose of counting the kind of seconds that ticked by in boredom. Every painstaking block in a build, every step he took on a long journey, every taunt Bdubs and Skizz sent back and forth that couldn’t be called anything but stalling; all of it cataloged and kept track of—it was the worst reminder that time doesn’t fly in the world (yet).

Tango was sure he’d change his mind about that later, but for now, he suppressed a groan and snuck another glance to the left. 

Grian was offering weak cheers and ripping a loaf of bread to shreds then tossing the pieces around like confetti—or rice at a wedding. The area surrounding their little group was littered with crumbs and chunks of the stuff, and Tango watched as it attracted a chicken, pecking at the ground near Jimmy's feet. When it ran out of readily available food, it started picking at his shoelaces, and Jimmy tried shooing it away with little success; every step back he took, the chicken followed. Tango laughed under his breath as he watched Jimmy wave his hands at the bird again and then look around frantically hoping no one had noticed. 

The crowd suddenly shouted in unison, calls of disappointment and boos radiating all over; the group mentality was also new—Tango knew that wouldn’t last either; once the fight ended, so would their new-found camaraderie. He turned back, but he’d missed whatever it was that had caused the outburst. 

In the quick moment of silence that had followed, Scott said, “Skizz, did you eat an apple?” 

Skizz was the only yellow name amongst them—the only one licensed to kill—and yet, Scott's question charged the crowd and made them every bit the audience above the colosseum, a thumbs down all that was needed to determine his friend's fate.  

Skizz gulped, “maybe…”

The booing began again in earnest, and Tango had never before been so glad for the rules that Grian set. 

“That’s nearly a cheat there!” Jimmy called out. He was an easy target, which Tango knew meant he was always fine-tuned to the things that might warrant being teased—cheating was one of them. A chance to put attention on someone else was always welcome. 

Skizz spun in the bad boy's direction, “how is that a cheat?” Grian raised an eyebrow at the display, but he said nothing; he only liked to play admin when he chose to, not when others thought he should—especially if it was solely for their own benefit. “There’s no rule about not eating golden apples!” 

Tango saw Jimmy’s eyes alight with it at the same time as he felt his own; accidentally or not, they made eye contact. Skizz was technically right, there were no rules about not eating golden apples—at least, not anymore. But he hadn’t been in double life. 

Tango remembered when there were. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night to a knock on their door, answering Jimmy’s worried Tango… by telling him to stay where he was. There’d been no one there, but there had been a golden apple sitting on their porch—someone's idea of some kind of joke that neither of them had found funny. 

He’d been so mad…it wasn’t until halfway through shoving his feet into his boots that he’d heard Jimmy call his name for what he was later told was the third time. 

What are you gonna walk around in the dark ‘til you find who put that there?

He had been willing to if that’s what it took. Somewhere deep down logically he’d known—just like Jimmy did—that he wasn’t going to find whoever had left it, but it wasn’t really about that. He thinks he gets it, now, that it’d been about proving something. 

Maybe if he’d done it then Jimmy wouldn’t have flushed and looked away today. 

Tango was vaguely aware that the rest of the group had moved on around him, that he and Jimmy were really the only ones who’d hesitated at the mention of the apple at all. 

He should’ve gone out anyway, walked around until the sun started coming up—hell, he should’ve started knocking on doors; at least that way, he wouldn’t have had to lay back down and have the conversation he hadn’t stopped thinking about since. 

He’d known there was something coming, and he’d waited Jimmy out patiently to hear the slow drawl of;

If it weren’t against the rules, would you…

It is against the rules, Tango had replied. The wrong answer, he thinks now. But he hadn’t known why they’d been having such a conversation; it was against the rules. Tango would tell Jimmy he was sure as many times as he needed, but he wasn’t going to allow for the kind of negative feedback loop that Jimmy used to punish himself.

But if it weren’t—

No. He hadn’t needed to see Jimmy’s eyes to know that he didn’t believe him. 

He wished he could tell Jimmy that believe it or not his answer still hasn’t changed. 

“Fights over.”

“Hmm?” Tango turned toward Etho—now apparently standing in front of him—but he didn’t quite make it all the way. The scene had changed around them; sometime in his musings, people had started clearing out. The once rowdy crowd had begun to disperse, blood spilled and attention span exhausted. 

“Fights over,” Etho repeated. 

Tango blinked. “Who won?”

But his friend just let out a small huff and started in the direction of home. Tango looked down and kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He spared only a glance to the left where the bad boys were heading back towards their own base, donning leather jackets that must be sweltering in the day's heat. He couldn’t hear them, but he could tell Joel was arguing with Jimmy over something from here, watched as Joel reached around and smacked Jimmy on the back of the head, Grian moseying along beside them not caring to intervene. He sighed. 

Tango turned after Etho.

[wildlife4life]

Temptation Tuesday

Tagged by the wonderful @heartbeatdiaz and @prince-buck-diaz

I have some, but fortunately my focus has been on my NFL Buck fic. My brain is still chaotic though, so here is what has popped into it.

House of Dragon/GOT of sorts: Buckley's are like Targaryen's and Diaz is the Starks. Buck ends up marry Diaz's sister to insure the alliance between the houses but ends up having a secret relationship with Eddie. And yes Buck has a Dragon that he brings Eddie along to ride on. There will no incest in this!

Ghost AU: Both Eddie and Buck are ghost at a mini mansion in L.A. Eddie died just after world war I from the Spanish flu, was dressed in his uniform before dying, so that he may have a dignified death bed. Buck is the most recent death, he was working a medical call at the house and shocked by lightening during a dry storm. Bobby, Athena, Hen, and Ravi are all ghost too. Maddie buys the house with the money from Doug's death and her brother's will. She feels closer to Buck by doing so. Her and Chimney are married, and Chimney comes up with the bright idea to turn the place into a Bed and Breakfast. Ravi has the power to move objects and is the one that accidentally somewhat kills Maddie after she trips over a vase he pushes over, giving her the power to see the ghost. Christopher is Eddie's great great great (idk how many greats) grandson, who is named after Eddie's own Christopher and comes to visit at some point.

Buck is one of those sea lion trainers for the zoo or aquarium. Eddie and Chris visit a lot, Eddie becomes obsessed with him kind of and Buck notices his frequent visitors, even giving Christopher and Eddie a behind the scenes look, including meeting his sea lions and feeding them.

Tagging (no pressure!): @thewolvesof1998 @bekkachaos @monsterrae1 @alyxmastershipper @shortsighted-owl @thekristen999 @lizzybizzyzzz @cowboy-buddie @911onabc @911-on-abc

[hundredsspoons]

Death tw under cut

So my aunt unfortunately passed away a few days ago. Everyone thought she had like 5 years left, but she got sick the other day and the hospice staff (she was there for pain management NOT hospice) literally told her it was useless etc. None of us know what medical information they were basing this on, because the last cat scan we had gotten before that was not that critical. The problem at that moment was that her blood pressure has dropped unexpectedly. My aunt was talking to people about her long-term (5 years) plan just the day before, so she was NOT aware of how bad things were and was NOT planning on dying so soon, but the staff on the phone told my mother that clearly her sister had been hiding information from her. My mom is a nurse practitioner with a phd, and she was sitting next to a trained doctor at the time, and they both were telling the staff (on the phone) how easy it is to fix blood pressure if you go to the hospital, but the staff was just like "no no it's her underlying condition" idk if they had the new cat scan, which we got like 2 days after her death, and did reveal that basically her cancer had doubled in size in 2 weeks. If they knew that, it might have made sense. But why would the hospice house have access to medical information before the patient and her husband? Why wouldn't they give that information to the husband to explain their position? Then my aunt decided (after the hospice house said the ambulance would take 2 hours to come from a hospital that was 5 minutes away by car and that it was a useless situation) that she would rather have a dignified death. Understandable, but we all feel like she was pressured into this decision by a strangely-eager hospice house, a lack of medical information, and the fact that she was drugged out of her gourd because she was in so much pain. So then she was given more and more morphine (which is a medicine that drops blood pressure!!) until she passed away. She had a husband and a 2-year-old child. Everyone is miserable and, frankly, furious.

Me and my mom live in America, while her sister lived in England, so there's not too much to do aside from text other family members. My mother is deeply devastated. I should say that I'm doing alright (I didn't know my aunt very well, though she seemed like a lovely person).

On a somewhat lighter note, I've been trying to comfort my mother and she mentioned yesterday how much she liked a special type of milkshake when she was a child in South Africa, so I tried to recreate it today when she came home from work. I was melting the chocolate bars for the drizzle, and she walked in. Holding a milkshake from mcdonalds. We just stood there staring at each other like 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️. You may or may not remember, but I had tried to make her a meal the other week, but she was too stressed out about the mess to enjoy it. This time she just shook her head and said, "....We're really not good at this." 😂😭 She asked if we can make the milkshake tomorrow lol.

[tavina-writes]

Tav, sorry for asking, but, Liu Ying's hair turns out white from grief. Does the same happen to Huang Yaoshi, after his wife's death??? Or is he just getting old?

sjkjg omg no worries Mar.

Liu Ying's hair does turn white out of grief! (in a single night even! talk about dramaticism.)

Huang Yaoshi on the other hand, is not mentioned to have had his hair color change because of grief over Feng Heng's death. We doooon't actually know his age strictly in the books (though he should also be the youngest of all of the Five Greats, with Wang Chongyang being the oldest) but he is at least 50-60 or thereabouts.

The book doesn't actually really mention his hair color! We have these clues about his appearance and mannerisms from Chapter 13 of LOCH where he first appears during MCF's fight with OYK before the incidents at Lu Manor on Lake Tai:

Ouyang Ke saw her alarmed expression and cursed secretly, “ What a brilliant blind bitch!” Fanning himself gently, he stood up and summoned his internal energy. He was about to strike out at Mei Chaofeng when he saw another person coming from the cliff. He hurriedly took back his strike and studied that person. He saw that the man was slim and tall; he was wearing a green robe and part of his hair was bound with a squared cloth. He looked like any cultured person but Ouyang Ke was unable to see his face clearly. The amazing thing however, was that Ouyang Ke was unable to hear any footsteps or breathing coming from that man. Even a highly skilled person like Mei Chaofeng would inevitably make some light noises when she walked but this person was walking casually, as if his body were floating, forming a somewhat ghostly image. It seemed as if nothing could cause him to make any noise while moving. That person glanced at Ouyang Ke before standing behind Mei Chaofeng. Ouyang Ke studied his face in detail and gasped unexpectedly. That person had a very weird face, besides a pair of eyes glancing around, the rest of his face was like a dead person’s. The skin of his face was stiff, it was not ugly but neither was it charming.

From Legend of the Condor Heroes, Chapter 13: "The Cripple of Lake Tai"

From this we can gather that HYS is tall, thin, wears green and has incredible qinggong. (Also the description of his hairstyle and the square cloth should be describing him wearing a futou. Which was the scholar gentry hairstyle accessory for men of this time period.)

This is corroborated by his first description when he shows up again in Chapter 14:

That person was tall and rather thin; wearing a dark green robe. His countenance was pale and expressionless. Other than his rolling eyes, the rest of his face was stiff like a wooden statue. He stood still and stiff like a standing corpse. As soon as everybody saw this person, a chill crept on their backs. They immediately turned their gaze away from this person, did not dare to look at his face anymore; their hearts thumping.

From Legend of the Condor Heroes, Chapter 14: "The Master of Peach Blossom Island"

HYS is tall, thin, ghostly, and terrifying!

The strange man let his left arm in Huang Rong’s embrace and lifted his right hand to slowly take off a thin mask from his face. He was wearing a genuine skin mask; no wonder his face was emotionless like that of a corpse. His true complexion was clear and good-looking, with a hint of sadness yet bore an aura of dignity around him; resembling the image of a deity.

From Legend of the Condor Heroes, Chapter 14: "The Master of Peach Blossom Island"

Except Mr. Jin Yong claims he's a total babe when the human skin mask is off lmao. Clear skin, good looking, with a hint of sadness, yet dignified, resembling a god, etc etc.

If you've read this far, you may be wondering: why does Michael Miu as HYS have a bleached hair wig then? Why did they make that design choice?

Well, for that I think their inspiration was based on Kenneth Tsang's iconic HYS look from the 1983 production, especially since Michael Miu played Yang Kang in 1983.

1983 Legend of the Condor Heroes: Huang Yaoshi (Kenneth Tsang) and Huang Rong (Barbara Yung). The only thing missing from the 2017 Huangs was NOT ENOUGH HUGS. (And not enough HYS going insane and screaming and crying, but I get it, Michael had a vibe and he was sticking to it.)

Michael Miu as Huang Yaoshi in LOCH 2017

Also Michael is much much hotter with his bleached wig. Turns the dilf persona up approximately 500% so. There we have it!

[mywifeleftme]

322: Rival Boys // Animal Instincts

Animal Instincts Rival Boys 2014, Tiny Records (Bandcamp)

Rival Boys were an Ontario indie rock band active in Toronto from the late ‘00s to the mid ‘10s. They were a three-piece comprising sibling vocalists Lee and Graeme Rose (on bass/violin and guitar, respectively) and drummer Sam Sholdice, with a sound somewhat like Vancouverites Mother Mother on a blue day. (Whom, as an aside, I have discovered are now way more popular thanks to TikTok than they ever were at the time—they have 8.3 million listeners a month on Spotify, which is like… 38 times more than the New Pornographers.) Both Roses affect a mewl somewhere between Violent Femmes’ Gordon Gano and Sarah McLachlan, with Lee’s more powerful bellow usually taking the lead. In conjunction with the cold mountain violin that periodically sweeps the floorboards, it gives their otherwise youthful affect a nostalgic somberness. They were emphatically a rock band though, capable of kicking up a surly crunch: they didn’t have the dance rhythms of the Metric/Land of Talk acolytes who were all over CBC Radio 2 (the national public alternative music station) at the time, preferring to lope along like the Pixies.

Rival Boys were no longer a going concern by the time I moved to Toronto in 2017; I discovered them when I found a CD of their 2009 EP Life of Worry in the basement of an Ottawa house I shared with a friend who’d known somebody in the band back in high school. It was the first time I can remember coming across a group remotely in my social radius that struck me as unequivocally good. I listened to that five-song EP to death for a few years, and I still think they really nailed their sound with it; as a result, I had kind of a chilly response to their 2014 farewell Animal Instincts when I found it at a punk flea market. They’d shed just a touch of the raw-boned vulnerability that had made their loose, imagistic lyrics cling like a thin flannel against a harsh wind; a bit less bite to the guitar; a hair less heedless urgency to the vocals. The serviceable cover of Wolf Parade’s “I’ll Believe in Anything” seemed on the nose; the new rendition of EP highlight “Construction Work” didn’t make my heart stagger around like the original.

But listening to it now, I think Animal Instincts’ real sin was just not being the record I’d fallen in love with. Life of Worry is special, but there’s plenty to like on the LP. Opener “Fortune” edges the hell out of the listener before finally giving us some of Lee in full thunder; “Young and Old” is a showcase for the close harmonies, wet-eyed violin, and martial drumming that were Rival Boys’ most distinctive element; “Don’t Bloom” gives us a little of everything Lee does well, flowing from a distracted, introverted croon to a high wail that arcs like a flaming arrow at a Viking funeral. On this listen anyway, even the new version of “Construction Work” is doing it for me. There’s a nice closure to the fact that it was both among the first and last things they cut: the original with its blazing, desolate frustration sweeping into a folk reel outro that feels like transcendence; the revision more brittle, reserved, like people on the cusp of leaving adolescence behind giving it one last go, the quieter outro never quite taking off but settling into a low, churchy organ drone. It feels like a dignified goodbye.

Which the record in fact was, although it may not have been clear at the time. Graeme dropped out of the music scene altogether; Lee was quiet for a few years, but soldiers on with the very good Ace of Wands; I’m not sure what Sam’s up to these days. Time moves on—it’s 15 years since the EP, 10 now since the LP. I’m sure for the band members and their fans it feels like barely half that time, like finding a book you set down just the other day covered in dust and all your friends so old all the sudden! If ‘00s indie music can be said to have been about anything, it was surely about digging deeper into the experience of being alive, celebrating the wild joy of it while you can, making something of that. Rival Boys surely made something, and it’s nice to have something physical of it to keep.

322/365